#with the same expression. in every portrait of him ever

[historyartthings]

Description of the primary documents:

Image 9/document 1:

a book of hours. Thomas Becket's name is erased from the calendar of saint's days

Image 10/document 2:

Cromwell's arms in the book of heralds after his fall. 'X's show where they've been crossed out

Image 21/document 3:

'questions to be axid of thomas cromell'

in henry viii's hand, the heading to a list of questions regarding the Cleves marriage

Image 26/document 4:

Cromwell's letter to the king from the tower

Image 28/document 5:

His parliamentary attainder

[monotonesmile]

Damian Wayne Headcanons

————————————————————————————————

[General Headcanons:]

Damian knows a lot of languages so he can and will use them to confuse his siblings (and once on Bruce. Note: This did not work, Bruce started speaking the same language.) in arguments. He will fully switch to a completely different dialect in the middle of a sentence, he’ll go from English to fluent Latin.

Damian definitely isn’t a touchy-feely person or a praising man, so he usually expresses himself through quality time or acts of service. He does care, he’s just had the aspect of “showing emotions is weakness” so beaten into him that he’s just doing everything subconsciously.

I feel like Damian does take time out of his day to actually hang out with his siblings, whether by (begrudgingly) going out with Dick or hanging out with Jason in one of the many libraries in the manor in silence. He does want to be around his siblings, he just won’t admit it as stated before.

Damian is always happy whenever he gets to have authentic food from where he was raised before arriving at Wayne Manor, it makes him smile a bit when Alfred makes it for him, even if it has to be changed a little due to his vegetarianism.

Damian, as Robin, is both a strike first, ask questions later type but also a strategist at the same time. Nobody understands how.

[Romantic Headcanons:]

When it comes down to romantic relationships though, he will definitely not be any different in the first few months of dating, he’ll be cold and blunt as ever but there is a hint of softness to everything he does, plus you’ll find honestly beautiful portraits and drawings in your bag or room at times.

After a few months of dating he’ll let you actually hold his hand in public, although he definitely doesn’t look happy about it (he’s happy, he just has a resting bitch face).

Damian definitely doesn’t tell you about his night life as Robin for a long while, he’s afraid you’d look at him differently and be scared off by it. It takes him probably more than a year, maybe even two, to actually tell you of his secret identity, and even longer to tell you about his true past with the League of Assassins for the same reasons he was afraid to tell you about his life as Robin.

He absolutely has petnames for you in different languages.

If his multitude of pets love you, you’ve just become absolute wife/husband/spouse material in his eyes, especially if you also love animals.

Damian is low key really sweet towards his partner, but it really doesn’t look like that from an outside perspective, from someone else’s POV, Damian looks uninterested and cold towards you, but you can see the small things, the way his thumb runs across your knuckles as you hold hands and how he is keeping his eyes on you.

Damian would be hella embarrassed if you traced any of his scars, it is absolutely one of the best ways to get him to shut up or blush brighter than a tomato.

Damian likes listening to your heartbeat, it’s like he’s reminding himself that you’re real and actually with him. He’s afraid of losing the people he loves and cares for so he does certain things to remind himself that it’s all real.

To leave off on a soft note, Damian’s kisses are always soft and sweet, like he’s savoring every moment of it, he always involuntarily smiles into kisses as well.

[siriuslovebot]

˖ ࣪⭑˖ ࣪𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 ➸ 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒏˖ ࣪⭑ ˖ ࣪

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑺 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑬𝑫: more remus x mouse please!!! i adore them!!

𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺: mentions of insecurity, post full moon remus is a little snappy, the nickname 'mouse', insomnia, crying (this is all quite lighthearted i promise)

𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀: after remus snaps at the reader one day, some insecurities in their relationship come up.

𝑨/𝑵: hi loves! after the massive outpouring of love i had on mouse, i received this request and knew i absolutely had to write more of remus & mouse. this is written in the same universe, so to speak, but can be read as a standalone if you like. this one isn't nearly as long as the last, but it's just a little something that i wanted to write. if you'd like to see more of this pairing, just let me know and i would be happy to oblige!! as far as the warnings go, there's no real angst or anything just some insecurity on the reader's part. if that bothers you then please skip this one! as always, i hope you enjoy!

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻: 1.9k 𓂃♡₊⭑

·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺

a slot of light slips through the curtains across the room, the faint moonlight shining directly over your eyes. a tiny huff leaves your lips as you flip the other way; sleep has escaped you for the past hour. you’d awoken, heart pounding, from a nightmare, and have been awake ever since. it’s a wonder you haven’t woken marlene or lily with your quiet grumbling and frustrated sighs. 

you curl into your bed, entangling your body in the duvet as you stare at the wall of your dorm. your eyes trace the cracks in the stone, the dim light illuminating their details just enough to distract you. you attempt to count them, hoping maybe it will help lull you to sleep. after what feels like hours, you give up. another annoyed grunt leaves your lips as you flop onto your back to stare at the canopy above your bed.

the problem is: you’ve been suffering from this insomnia for the past week now. ever since the last full moon, you’ve been worried sick. of course you’re used to dealing with remus’s touchy moods around the full moon; you’ve seen how short he can get with other people, how he becomes quieter and more reserved, how he sleeps more than usual. still, he’d never been that way with you, even when he was clearly at the end of his rope mentally and emotionally.

earlier in the week, you’d been excited to share the lesson he missed that morning in care of magical creatures. professor kettleburn covered mokes, displaying their remarkable ability to shrink themselves to near invisibility. it wasn’t unusual for remus to ask you what he missed in class– so you thought it’d be fine to volunteer the information. unfortunately, it seemed he was still on edge after his latest transformation.

you’d taken a seat on the end of his bed, placing a hand on his leg. you greeted him softly, knowing how exhausted he usually felt. he laid there, arm covering his eyes, and said nothing. you took this as an opportunity to begin speaking. there was no response from him for a moment, before he moved his arm, blinking his bleary eyes as he barely sat up.

a sickly-looking expression occupied his features. his sleeve rose a bit and you noticed another fresh wound.

“can you please just… leave me alone?” he said, voice cold, before collapsing back onto the bed. he shook your hand away from his leg and curled into himself.

“are you okay, rem?”

“go. away.” his words were punctuated sharply, turning almost venomous. you flinched, your entire morale crumbling to dust beneath the weight of his words. 

your stomach churned, and you cleared your throat. “o–okay,” you mumbled. you were out of his dorm in a flash, your feet carrying you as fast as possible downstairs.

“hey, y/n–” sirius tried to catch your sleeve, but you pushed past him, out of the portrait hole without a word. the tears were brimming already, your throat tightening as you made every effort to get as far away from everyone as possible. you hated how much it could upset you; remus was not mean, and you knew that. he would never hurt your feelings on purpose, and you knew better than to bother him when he wasn’t feeling well. still, it stung. 

even worse, you weren’t brave enough to bring it up when he finally returned to classes as normal. as he sat down beside you at breakfast, you wondered if he even remembered it at all. he greeted you amicably and bumped his knee against yours as he settled into his seat. but he didn’t wrap his hand around yours like normal. he wasn’t leaning in to whisper his witty remarks while the others were distracted. remus is not an obviously affectionate man in the first place, but you have grown used to him showing his fondness for you in quiet ways. brushing your hair behind your ear, carrying your books to class, holding doors open for you. 

now, moping in your bed, you feel even worse about everything. since that morning, you worried that you annoyed him to the point that he didn’t want you anymore. maybe he just preferred you as a friend. that idea hurt even more. blinking, you try to push the thought out of your head. alas, you are nothing if not an overthinker, and the pestering thought will not go away. your one remedy is exactly the person you don’t want to face. 

you realise you are in a predicament; being so obstinate, you don’t want to scurry off to remus’s dorm and pour your heart out after feeling so slighted. on the other hand, you’re afraid that your newfound relationship could fizzle out right beneath your nose. you’ve always heard that communication is key, but revealing your anxieties to remus feels too vulnerable. almost foolish. 

ultimately, you decide to choke down your pride. the floor is cold beneath your feet as you slip out of bed. you force your limbs to move across the room, tip-toeing to the door. you wince as a stirring noise comes from across the room, then the sound of marlene’s hoarse voice.

“y/n? y’okay?” her words are slurred with sleep, muffled by her pillow.

“fine, marls. go back to sleep.”

she does just that, her breathing falling back into its steady rhythm. you slip through the small gap in the door, padding downstairs as quietly as possible. 

by the time your feet hit the stairs up to the boys dormitories, you’re starting to question your decision. it’s stupid, you think. there’s no way remus would snub you on purpose; surely he would just up and say it if he was no longer interested… right? 

it takes every ounce of willpower in your body to force yourself up the stairs. you take them one at a time, breathing deeply to ease the growing anticipation. it’s a wonder no one can hear your pulse quickening, your shaky breaths. standing at the door, you stare at it for a second. you can turn around this second and pretend you were never there. but wouldn’t it only make things worse?

a second passes, and you raise your hand to knock. you stop yourself. it would be rude to knock at this hour; you’d wake all four of the boys slumbering peacefully inside. instead, you hope not to wake anyone as you gently push the door open, peering inside. four forms occupy their beds, their silhouettes rising and falling gently with each breath. the light from outside the window barely illuminates the room enough for you to creep around the mess on the floor. you grit your teeth as one of them mumbles in their sleep; your eyes find james’s form, rolling over lazily in bed. he’s still sleeping, thankfully.

you step over a pile of books on the way to remus’s bed, and try not to startle him. it seems you already have, as his sleepy voice comes muffled from his bed.

“y/n? is something wrong?” 

the sound of him calling you y/n sends a pang through you. as much as you complained about being called ‘mouse,’ it made you feel special whenever remus used your childish nickname. 

“can’t sleep,” you mumble stupidly, your knee bumping into the edge of his bed. “sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“of course y’did,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “y’weren’t coming in here just to stare at me…” he turns over, his bleary eyes finding yours in the darkness. he lifts the duvet, scooting over to make a spot for you. you climb onto the bed, but hesitate before laying beside him.

“what’s wrong?” he reaches for you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist. his thumb traces the inside of your wrist, gentle against the skin. he doesn’t tug you down, which you would appreciate if it weren’t for the full view he was getting of your upset face. 

“are you mad at me?” this whisper is quieter than the last one, if possible. your eyes shine with tears, and remus’s face falls into a heavy frown. 

“what are you talking about, m’little mouse?” 

your heart seems as if it’s going to explode for a second; you force your gaze away from his face. you can’t stand to watch the way his brows pull together, the way his lips drag down into a frown, the concern softening his warm eyes. a lump the size of the castle has grown in your throat, and you want to hide your face more than anything. 

“i just–well, after the last full moon, it just… seemed like you didn’t want to see me anymore. i know it’s a lot to deal with, and i shouldn’t have bothered you–”

“hey,” remus cuts you off, his voice soft. little choking breaths and sobs are interrupting your words, and tears cloud your vision to the point that you can barely see him in the darkness. “you never bother me. c’mere…” he sits up, pulling you into his embrace. he’s warm, his scent enveloping you in a blanket of comfort. it’s astounding just how much he’s soothed you already, your crying quickly calming to dull hiccoughs. 

“so you’re not mad?” you breathe, your face tucked into his neck.

he laughs quietly. the sound is barely audible, but you feel the rumble of his chest. “no, mouse.” his lips press against your temple, and you melt into him. you close your eyes, feeling more restful than you have in days. “‘m sorry i was short with you.” he holds you close, cradling your head as you finish calming down.

“can i stay here with you?” you ask, after what feels like forever. you look up at him hopefully, face flushing at the adoring look in his eyes. 

“‘course y’can,” he says, moving over even though there’s plenty of room for you already. “poor mouse, you look exhausted.” he brushes your hair out of your face, and you nod weakly.

“i haven’t slept properly for days,” you mutter, tucking yourself into his side as you settle beneath the duvet. one of your hands slips under the hem of his shirt, his skin warm against yours. 

“i wish you would’ve said something sooner.”

“i know. i just–” you huff “--i was embarrassed. i didn’t want to scare you off.”

there’s his laugh again, sweet and sleepy. your stomach does a flip.

“oh, it’d be hard to scare me off after i saw you turn into a mouse–”

“rem!” you say, voice sharp despite the quiet. his stomach rumbles with light laughter, and you shake your head.

“okay, sorry,” he says, grinning. “let’s not wake the guys up. think sirius’ll have my head for disturbing his beauty sleep.”

you mumble your agreement, closing your eyes. it’s about time you got at least a few hours of good sleep. the room is quiet for a second, just slow breathing.

then, from james’s corner of the room: “what about my beauty sleep, moony?” 

there’s an eruption of giggles from your bed, and you bury your face into remus’s neck to stifle the sound. 

“sorry, prongs,” remus says, sheepish.

“yeah, yeah, you old sap. go to sleep, or i’m recounting this whole thing to sirius in the morning.”

“oh, please don’t,” you plead quietly.

there’s a grumble from across the room. then, “what are you gits up blabbering about?” it’s sirius, his voice gruff.

“nothing, pads,” says james. “going to sleep.”

you say nothing, cheeks burning as you settle down, curling against remus’s frame. sleep finally finds you, sweeping you off into a dreamless slumber.

[yumeka-sxf]

Thoughts on Spy x Family: Family Portrait

I finally got around to reading the SxF light novel, Family Portrait...and I mean "finally" because it's literally been sitting in my shelf since it was first released in English back in December of last year! I was distracted by Code White and the SxF video game which came out around the same time, but even long after that, I was having trouble getting motivated to read it. For some reason, experiencing SxF in novel format instead of in anime/manga just didn't appeal to me, plus the fact that it's not written by Endo himself (these weird preferences of mine are also why I'm not into reading fanfics either). Don't get me wrong, in general I love reading stories in prose form too, but for a series like SxF that already has such an established visual identity, it doesn't feel as "authentic" to me if that makes any sense. But I did want to read it eventually, since it is an official part of SxF media and Endo did the illustrations and does acknowledge the book (he wrote a nice afterword at the end). So I finally sat down and read it in sections over the course of this week! I'll share my brief thoughts on each of the contained stories:

Novel Mission 1

Since this was the first story in the book, it took me a while to get used to experiencing the world of SxF in novel form. There were some things I felt would have been better conveyed in anime/manga, for example, one of the very first gags about Yor misinterpreting Anya's nature class as some sort of hardcore outdoor survival trip. As I was reading that part I was like "I get the joke, but it would have been funnier if I actually saw these images and the characters' expressions with Endo's comedic illustrations." It was also a bit jarring to hear the characters thoughts and feelings from third-person narration, but I got used to it. As for the story itself, it was Damianya focused, something I'm not particularly into, but I don't mind it either. I liked the rare, soft Damian moments, and the thing with the squirrel eating Anya's peanut trail was funny. I also liked the scene at the beginning where Loid and Yor feed Bond together while Anya watches.

Novel Mission 2

Oddly, this was my favorite of the stories! Of all the characters, I think the author nailed Yuri's unhinged thoughts the best - as I was reading, I couldn't help but hear every cringe thought in his voice, which is a good sign of how well the author gets the character! I actually chuckled at a few parts too, both from his insane Yor-obsessed and anti-Loid musings, as well as from his banter with Anya. The police interrogation scene was great and would be even better if it ever gets animated! I also found it interesting that this story has the first instance where we find out what Yuri thinks about Bond (that he's fat and useless - rude!) Also his first time hearing about Franky apparently...makes we wonder if Endo will make him feel the same way if these things ever come up in the manga.

Novel Mission 3

I liked this story a lot too! I think it worked the best in novel format out of all of them, probably because it was more focused on drama and emotions than comedy. It's ironic that the two official SxF stories that feature the deeper side of Franky's character - this one and the omake chapter from volume 13 - are both not even part of the main canon! Alessa would have definitely accepted Franky's job as an informant, but he felt that someone like her should only be surrounded by "beautiful things." The poor man really needs to see that inner beauty matters too, and he has that! I also think he should have swallowed his pride and told Loid the real reason why he wanted the disguise...not that it would have changed the outcome. Poor Franky.

Novel Mission 4

This was a cute Forger-focused story, but like the first one, I felt it had parts that would have been more effective in anime/manga form, for example, "hair monster" Yor and whatever hideous painting Felix ended up making! But despite that, it was still funny and cute. Though I do think the author went a tad overboard with Yor's flustered antics...they just kept going and going, lol. Also, like the movie, we have another scenario of Loid getting flung into the air by Yor but landing gracefully on his feet (though this instance was much tamer since she wasn't drunk and only pushed him instead of hit him). Again, maybe I would have appreciated the humor in this story better if I saw it in anime/manga with Endo's hilarious designs and expressions, but for what it was, it was enjoyable enough.

Short Novel

This extra short story would be perfect as a reintroduction story for a future anime season...maybe one day!

-----

Overall, the Family Portrait novel is a nice addition to the Spy x Family universe. Even though I feel the humor in the series is most effective in illustrated form, it's still nice to have more stories in the canon, especially ones that show new sides to the characters, like the Franky and Yuri stories. Like the movie, it's debatable if this novel should be considered true canon or not, but personally, I don't find anything in it that contradicts canon, at least not yet. So yeah, definitely check out the novel if you haven't already! 😁

[leighsartworks216]

My Sunshine

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Part 2 Here: Tumblr link - AO3 link

This is probably definitely ooc but I needed to get it out of my brain anyway. I also have not seen any actual gameplay (aside from the romance scenes) so this won't be 100% canon compliant

For @niermortem bc I need you to read this and suffer (affectionate)

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, grief/mourning, blood, injury, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3,146

Masterlist

AO3

You raised your goblet of wine in the air, smiling blindingly bright at your best friend. "To another case solved, and another criminal behind bars!"

He laughed and clinked his goblet with yours. The red liquid sloshed against the edge, almost spilling into yours. You each drank deeply.

"You make that toast after every trial," he bemoaned, but a stray chuckle ruined his disapproval. "It's a minor court for minor offenses - It's not like I locked up a serial killer."

You huffed and nudged his shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short! What you do is incredible, Astarion. It's so rare for an elf as young as you to get appointed as a magistrate. That's worth celebrating."

He hummed, smirk dancing across his face. "You're younger than me, my dear, and from what I've heard you're doing just as well." He gestured around the room.

The light of the fireplace cast odd shadows of your figures against the wall. Between the flickering shapes, Astarion could see the several paintings hung up on the wall. Portraits, landscapes - all formed with careful brush strokes and intense patience. It was no mean feat. He'd grown up alongside you, witnessed your struggles with charcoal and accuracy. He'd even posed for a few so you could study anatomy and shadow. Pride swelled in his chest thinking of those shaky, rough sketches and seeing the confident, soft strokes that composed the paintings.

You avoided looking, staring into the fire. For the briefest moment, he wanted to smooth out the crease in your brow and remove the frown from your face. Instead he gripped his goblet tighter and took another drink.

"I wish I could be as proud of them as you are, my sunshine. But when I look at them, all I see are mistakes."

He sighed quietly. "Your parents still don't approve, then?"

"They approve my profession - finally - but they think my execution is lackluster. I paint like a human."

"You paint like a god, darling."

“Ah,” you chuckled, “is the praise being turned back on me now?"

He smiled and raised his goblet. "A toast to the greatest artist Baldur's Gate has ever seen and will ever see again."

After a moment's hesitation, you raised your glass and knocked it against his. He threw back the last remaining contents, a drop of red falling from the corner of his mouth and down his neck. He finished off the rich alcohol with a contented sigh.

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed. You leaned back on your hand to look up at the old thing. It was a gift in lieu of payment, handmade, from its gears to its wooden casing. It chimed 11 times in all. Astarion sighed.

"One last drink for the road." You offered him the last of the wine in your goblet, and he drained it easily. “We can finish the rest tomorrow.”

“Mm, and what will we be celebrating tomorrow?”

“Anything and everything.”

He smiled fondly. What gods could have been kind enough to create you?

He rose to his knees and held your cheeks in both hands. “I look forward to it.” You closed your eyes as he planted a kiss on your forehead. It was almost a ritual, after so many years of doing it. Once he pulled away, you rose to your own knees, held his face the same way, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Stay safe on your way back.” You pulled away to look him straight in the eye, an exaggerated expression of seriousness on your face. “If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t have anybody to absolve me in court.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be fine, my dear.”

“You’d better.”

-

You stared numbly at the headstone. Your eyes scanned the words over and over and over again. You could recite it if you wanted to.

'Astarion Ancunin 229 - 268 DR'

He was only 39. He was just a child. A child buried 6 feet under your boots, hidden away, wrapped in sheets and sealed in a wooden coffin. Thirty-nine. He was only thirty-nine.

The sun was beginning to set. There was not a cloud in the sky. No chance for rain. The only water that fell were tears, and yours had long since dried up. Everyone else left hours ago. They'd touched your shoulder, shared in your grief, promised to pray for you and Astarion. If you were perhaps a bit more naive, a bit more desperate, you would have pleaded to the gods to bring him back, no matter the cost.

You inhaled shakily and tilted your head back. The sky was so beautiful; a vibrant array of orange and yellow and blue. You cursed it, for your best friend would never get to share in its beauty with you ever again.

When you looked back down, you forced your eyes not to trace the carved stone any more. It wasn't safe at night. If you looked again, you'd never make it back home.

A hint of white in the corner of your eye stole your attention. A flower. Its petals curled back and around, almost touching itself. Blue and yellow mixed within its center, but the very tips of its petals were bright white.

Your feet felt like lead as you moved toward it. Deep prints were left behind at the end of the dirt mound. Your legs were stiff and creaky from standing so long.

When you reached down to pluck the flower, you stopped. Hand outstretched toward its stem. You'd be killing it to mourn your friend. And in an hour, it will be droopy and wilted, dying on top of the grave. But if you left it, come two days from now, it would be closed and dried up anyway.

Your frown dug creases into your skin. Lines around your mouth and between your brows. You never realized before how quickly beautiful things die. The lines smoothed slightly when you brushed the delicate petal with your fingers. It was as soft as his hair had been.

"Look after him for me," you croaked, voice raw and unused. It cracked when you whispered desperately, "Please."

You rubbed your eyes as you backed away. The burn of tears stung the back of your eyes, but no water was produced. And you needed to get out of here. It hurt too much to stay.

You allowed yourself one last glance at the grave, before you turned and left. Your home never felt so cold, so uninviting, and so empty.

-

You’d never been much further than the city’s limits before, yet here you were. Lost, infected, confused. The blood on your hands terrified you, but if you hadn’t fought, you would be dead. A voice in the back of your mind haunted you with memories. Unbidden, you often recalled tidbits of your life 200 years ago. This time it reminded you of Astarion, flipping knives and sneaking up on you for a laugh. He would have been much more suited to this awful situation than you were.

Your hand fell to your pocket, pressing against a hidden journal tucked safely away. You would be lost without it. It’s all that’s kept you sane all these long years.

A shock of white hair up ahead caught your attention. A man, searching down a hill, beckoning. “Hurry,” he urged in a whisper, “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.” He kept his back to you, but something in the way he spoke seemed familiar. Or maybe you were just so tired. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

You flinched, frowning at the way he said ‘killed’. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. Perhaps it sounded too confrontational. Perhaps it was the dark turn his voice took. But you swallowed down the discomfort. You weren’t going to abandon someone in need.

“I can.”

You stepped forward, ready to grab at your dagger. It was quiet. The soft rustle of dry shrubs was all you could hear. You stepped a little further.

A loud squeal made you jump out of your skin as a frightened boar ran from the grass. You stumbled backward. Before you could trip yourself up, a rough arm wrapped behind your neck and dragged you down to the ground. A knife pointed at your throat.

On pure instinct, you grabbed at the blade. It dug into your palm and fingers, but you couldn’t let go. You could feel the man applying pressure to keep it at your neck. If you let go… You shuddered to think what could happen.

“Shh. Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.” Deep crimson eyes stared into yours, contrasted by the pure white of his hair and the smirk toying his lips. He looked oddly familiar, too. Had you passed him somewhere before? No, you would remember a man like him. “Now, I saw you on the ship. Didn’t I? Nod.”

The command has you nodding with no hesitation.

“Splendid,” he purred. His voice turned serious then. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

“I haven’t done anything,” you grit out. Blood trailed down your wrist and stained the cuff of your sleeve. His eyes flickered toward it for a moment. “They took me prisoner, too!”

“Don’t lie to me! I- Argh!”

Behind your eyes the tadpole squirms. It’s jarring and uncomfortable, and so are the images that come with it. Dark city streets seen through someone else’s eyes. They scan every passerby, studying them. But just as you urge to see more, it’s gone. All you’re left with is the sensation of fear.

The man grunts again. “What was that?” he demands. He pushed the knife even closer to your neck, despite your best efforts to keep it away. “What’s going on?!”

The fear from the memory quickly intermingled with your own terror. Your heart thumped in your ears. The words came tumbling out of you before you knew what you were saying. “Please, please just put the knife away and we can figure this out.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Calculating. And then the pressure faded and you could let go of the dagger. His arm let go of you, and he watched as you scampered away one-handed and struggled to your feet. He stood defensively, keeping his hold on the knife.

“You’re… not one of them.” You could feel his eyes searching you up and down. “They took you, just the same as me. And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards.” He laughed weakly. “Apologies.”

You cradled your hand to your chest with a frown. Nobody would blame you if you shouted insults, left him to deal with this on his own, took care of your own issues. But you couldn’t. “Apology accepted,” you sighed.

He smiled. It felt plastered on, like an actor’s during a play. “I’m out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The last of his words was drowned out. Your heart raced, flooding your ears as a tidal wave of emotions swirled in your chest. That name. In all your years, you only knew one elf with that name. What were the chances of another carrying the same one?

Slim to none.

But it can’t be him. He died.

It has to be him. It has to.

“Darling?” He chuckled nervously, waving a hand in front of you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If you weren’t so dazed, maybe you would have laughed. But you just stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Your eyes burned. A lump crawled up your throat and you weren’t sure if it was bile or a sob.

“You died,” you finally gasped out. It was only a whisper, but Astarion’s ears picked it up as if you’d shouted it out. His grin faltered, entire aura of confidence and sexuality falling with those two words alone. “You died… My sunshine.”

Astarion stepped back, holding his dagger up as a warning. It still dripped with your blood. His face was dark. You’d never seen it as gravely serious as this. “Who are you? How do you- How do you know that?”

Your old name - the name you had as a child - lingers in the air. He stares at you with eyes hopeful and distrusting. There is a war in his mind. You can see it in the way his dagger wavers in his hold. How he looks you up and down, studies your face. He’d grabbed you, even made you bleed - you weren’t just a fucked up figment of his imagination. But he still couldn’t fathom it.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“I don’t care how! Just prove it!” The shout is broken and desperate.

You fumbled. Everything you knew about him fled your brain in an instant. You searched for memories in the dirt, in the dry bushes, in the curls of his hair…

Cursing, he watched as you ripped a book from your pocket. Even though you’d grabbed it with your uninjured hand, blood stained the leather binding. You held it out to him.

“These are sketches I have made every day for two hundred years.” You stepped forward, urging him to take it. “All of them are of you.”

A part of him didn’t want to listen. It wanted him to remain unaware and oblivious for the rest of his godsdamned life. The mere idea of the truth - of his past being exposed to this corrupted thing he’s become - terrified him. How easy it would be to run away. To hide away forever.

But he would never be free. Always a slave to the burning questions. Forever wondering just who you were, and if you were telling the truth.

He reaches past his knife and takes the journal. With use of his leg as an aid, he’s able to remove the string tying it shut and flip open the book.

On each page is his face. Several of them. Smiling, laughing, pouting, focused, and a thousand more expressions. After 200 years, he doesn’t quite remember what he looks like. He couldn’t recall if his hair had always been white, nor the shade of his eyes. But tucked away is a crude sketch, not of his face, but of yours. It looks like a child closed their eyes and scribbled. At the bottom of the page, in what is undoubtedly his handwriting, is his signature.

You watch desperately as he puts his knife away. He’ll have to clean it later, but he isn’t thinking about it now. Both hands freed, he flips through each page. At the beginning, the portraits are unrefined and rough. The lines are sketchy and smudged, as though someone had tried wiping away their mistakes. With each page, they get better. The lines become confident and smooth. Even further still, the style is almost elegant, but the face has become unfocused. The eyes begin losing form. The mouth feels off on the face. On one, the face has been erased and redone several times over; so much so the paper has begun crumbling. The last drawing held little resemblance to him anymore. This one was freshly done. The lines were sketchy once more, uncertain. The only recognizable features were his ears and the curls of his hair. Even the shape of his face was lost to time.

“After you… After I buried you, I…” You take a shaky breath, fighting back tears. “I didn’t want to forget you. So I sketched you, every day. I thought I’d always remember that damn smile of yours, but… I didn’t. Little by little, you were stolen from my memories, until all I had left was a vague impression of who you were, what we did together. Even looking at the old sketches couldn’t bring it back. But I kept trying.”

Astarion’s face is the epitome of sorrow when he looks up at last. There are deep set creases around his mouth and eyes, aging him - an odd concept for an elf. He looks so lost. “Where did you go?”

You frowned, and Astarion wished he could smooth out the crease between your brows. How could he forget your face? After all Cazador did to him, made him do, how could he forget you?

“After you buried me,” he clarified.

“I couldn’t bear to stay. I sold all my paintings and I left. I didn’t get very far.” You chuckled weakly. “Just stayed with my parents.”

His face lights up. “What name are you going by now?”

“Tav.”

“Tav,” he repeats. The name is different in his mouth. Not good or bad, simply there. New. He wishes he could have been there when you chose it.

You took a deep breath. It was time to ask the big question, the one burning a hole in your chest. “How are you alive?”

The corner of his lip twitches up, somewhere between amused and dismayed. “It’s a rather long story, my dear.”

“I’ve waited 200 years to hear it.”

He chuckles at that. It’s genuine, but a sour note still lingers. He closes your journal, deftly ties the strings, and saunters to stand in front of you. The intoxicating scent of your blood drives him mad. It’s so close, but he could never forgive himself if he told you the truth and you ran away. Truthfully, after so long, he wasn’t sure how you’d react. But it still felt too heavy an admission.

He slips the book back into your pocket. With both hands, he reaches to cup your face, but he stops. The motion feels wrong. He wants so desperately to hold you again. You even lean toward his palm. The tip of your pointed ear brushes his fingers. But he can’t. His hands fall back to his sides, and he plasters a smile on once more.

“Come on, darling. Let’s get you cleaned up before you attract something.”

You nod and follow alongside him as he begins leading you toward water. The bleeding has mostly stopped by now. The cut still stings, exposed to the air. But the pain feels distant. It hardly matters when the man you’ve spent two hundred years mourning is alive and with you again. And he’s changed - there is no way to deny it. His hair, his eyes, even the way he spoke had more of a lilting tune to it than it once did. But he’s here. He’s real.

“For the record,” you begin, stepping close enough to brush arms as you walked, “it’s good to see you again, my sunshine.”

And, oh, if that didn’t make him feel alive once more.

[the-kr8tor]

Katy…. For the 1 year anniversary

Garlic cloves and 💧

Vampire hobie and some angst

Vampire hobie and a human where other vampires find out hes in love with a human (maybe they cause him to purposely goes mad, to where he will attack and be the cause for rs death. Possibly?)

Then when he snaps out of it, he realize what hes done. To the person he fell in love with (can totally see him trying to make R into a vampire while sobbing choking out apologies while trying to get them back) 😭

I dont know i thought youd like this possibly, you have full control over the ending or how anything goes or could go. Some of its just a small ideas to give your brain maybe to help give you ideas for how you want to go. But i know you love angst and you are amazing at it

First thing i requested for your Apothecary. Do whatever you want with this idea. Just knew itd give a lot of angst potential for our favorite punk

Hehehhehe vampire! Hobie angst 👀 thank you for requesting, bestie!!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, vampire AU, Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Blood coats his tongue like a thin film of gore and death. It sticks to his fangs, red dripping off his unhinged maw where his fellow immortals’ crimson flows out like your own blood spilling from the numerous bites marring your precious skin. Skin he used to hold and love, skin that is now littered with specks of rubies as if a constellation of stars has touched you in your dying breath.

He heaves in place, adrenaline coursing through his veins like the raging rapids. Sharp claws still red and dripping, rage filled eyes roaming around the violence he did not start but had to finish.

Hobie never thought that he'd be betrayed by his immortal kind that he has spent centuries with. Vampires they used to call friends, even family. He never thought that being called upon by a trusted friend would result in you lying in your own pool of blood in the same house he left you, in the same dress he last saw you in, in the same floors he danced on with you holding on to him as he glides you around the home he once built for you.

Home, it doesn't look like it now. The oak walls that you've painstakingly painted that resemble tree branches stretching across the abode like a warm embrace are now coated in every shade of red. Numerous portraits of your life with him now lay scattered by his feet, glass crunching under his footsteps like dry autumn leaves. The pretty candles that you always light on the same hour every night are nothing but wax melted upon the ashen skin of fellow vampires. His hands are coated in the same ashes, grey amidst dark red, dark red among his skin, skin that he thought he has washed away from a millennia of sin— skin that he thought was worthy of your sacred touch.

As he walks closer to your limp body, his eyes bore into the river of red left in your wake. His expression is akin to an empty, apocalyptic look— dangerous, yet, a tragedy lies underneath his wine red eyes. He's starting to hate his eyes now that you lay in a pool of the same colour. You used to tell him that his eyes were like the purest of crimson, similar to a stirling ruby no king or emperor could ever possess. With your words he vowed to keep you close to him until your skin has etched into his own, until his own ribs rip apart to embrace you and take you into his very being. Now that he gingerly holds you close to his chest, he should've done that to protect you better, now it's too late as you gasp, fending off death itself from taking your soul before you could say goodbye.

Your eyes no longer show the light he once admired, light akin to the sun that would burn and turn him into ash— but he could not stop looking at them, even if it could possibly be his demise, because it'll be worth it to feel the righteous sun kiss his skin once again.

“‘m sorry,” Hobie cried as his tears from his own blood dripped down across your cold cheeks. “I can still fix this.” With a shaky inhale, he feels mortal when your freezing hand taps his long dead heart. You don't speak nor blink at him. He wishes you could but with your life seeping out of you, it's impossible for you to do so. He feels it, how your life is being drained from the numerous bites along your body. He also wishes he doesn't feel you slip away. “Please, l–let me bring you back.”

With your last strength, you curl your lips to a soft, weak smile. Hand weakly gripping his shirt, mouth mouthing the words— “not your fault.”

Hobie chokes on a sob, shaking his head, he cannot, will not let you go. You're the only person who truly knows him, the only person who has seen the real him that he hasn't shown to anyone since he was turned. He loves you, and he'll continue to love you until his dying breath, whenever that may be. Ten years from now, twenty, a hundred— he'd love you until he steps out of the shadows and back into the light of the sun that reminds him of your eyes.

He feels your heart slow down, the blood rushing out of your veins are like drums in his ears. Opening his jaw, fangs in full show, you let out your very last mortal breath.

But he's too late, you have no blood left, drained until the last drop. No spark of life left to be brought back to earth with. Without a flicker of light, there's no embers to set fire to. Yet, he still tries in despair. Teeth sinking into you, a hungry bear to a corpse of a rabbit, he bites and sips into nothingness. Not even a glimmer, a hope lighting a fire in you brought by the kiss of death— nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you back to life. He cries, sobs wracking his body, a hurricane of emotions flooding through him that he has never felt in his immortal life until now.

Calling your name, he cradles your cold body, hand behind your head, lips upon your neck. He doesn't bite this time, he knows better. But if it does work, will you hate him for it?

The door creaks open, a familiar face he just saw a few hours ago enters the sheer violence Hobie left in his vengeance. His face contorts into sorrow but it quickly turns contorts to disappointment.

“You should've listened.” He utters, mouth dripping with venomous words. “Was she worth it? Breaking our law?”

Hobie slowly glances at the man without leaving your side. His once pure ruby eyes have turned into a flurry of bright red fury. “She was.” His claws dig into your lifeless body, lips shaking from sheer anger.

“I still cannot understand you.” He scoffs, “and you even tried to turn her. You're a fucking disgrace.”

Hobie slowly brings you back down, carefully laying you and closing your lifeless eyes. He looks at the man, someone he used to call a friend, someone he once trusted. Vampire blood and ash coats his very being, staining his soul, but they don't compare to your blood on his hands.

“Then I'll make you understand.” With a pounce, Hobie will drench his hands in more ichor until it's enough for him.

[charliedawn]

Hi Charlie. I was wondering why the Hannibal family doesn't have anything about Hannibal Jr's mother? Imagine someone (Kevin, for example) accidentally found a photo of her and he was curious to know who it was. How would Hannibal Jr feel about her? Does Hannibal Sr still love her? Maybe Hannibal Sr there are drawings where he depicted her, or maybe she used to sculpt from clay or make wax figures and has one left as a keepsake? How would they all react if she came to visit them? It would be interesting to read

Hannibal Sr. : "…Do I still love her ? I do not think I have ever loved any human being the way I loved my…Clarice."

Hannibal Jr. : "I have always known who my mother was. When I was 5, my father painted her from memory and hung her portrait in our great hall—so I would never forget her. He talked about her every night until I knew everything about her—everything to her very scent. My father made sure to honour her the way she ought to be. Every year, we go to her tomb and put some flowers down on her cherished grave. She was beautiful. And my father adored her in a way I never quite understood until I met…Will. In some way, my father and I seem to share the same…taste…when it comes to our companions. They knew who we were, but they never feared us the way the world does…Unfortunately, Hannibals are not allowed happiness. We are cursed. And in some way, I think my mother knew that…and yet, she chose my father. She chose me."

The portrait of Hannibal Jr.'s mother, Clarice Starling, hung in the Lecter family's great hall like an enigma—her beauty preserved through Hannibal Sr.'s memory and brushstrokes, as vivid and haunting as the day it was painted. Every detail was imbued with reverence and sorrow, from the delicate lines of her face to the depth in her eyes, as if she were looking out, eternally watching over them.

Morgan was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with a quiet reverence as he studied the portrait. He seemed captivated, as if he were in the presence of something sacred. "She’s…stunning," he murmured, his usual stoic expression softening. There was a hint of wonder in his voice, mingling with something deeper—perhaps a respect for the woman who had left such an indelible mark on both his father and his uncle. "It’s strange," he continued, "to think that she once stood where we are. That she was loved so deeply, so permanently." He fell silent, his gaze lingering on her image, trying to absorb the traces of her presence that remained within the family.

Peter, unable to keep his emotions hidden, felt his eyes sting as he looked upon her face. There was a warmth to her expression, a kindness that made his heart ache. "She looks gentle…like she understood," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I wish I could have known her, or…at least seen how happy she made them. She seems like someone who…could bring peace." He glanced at Hannibal Jr., his expression one of quiet yearning. For Peter, Clarice represented a love and acceptance he feared he would never find—an ideal almost too precious to exist in their dark, twisted world.

Kevin, always a bit defiant, couldn’t help but approach the portrait with a mix of admiration and a flicker of challenge. He studied her features with a critical eye, as if trying to understand what made her worthy of such devotion from the Lecter men. "She was brave to love him," he finally declared. "To stand beside father, knowing what he was. That’s rare." There was a hint of jealousy in his voice, as if he resented the bond she had formed with his father, a bond that somehow defined his family even in her absence. "I wonder…if she would have loved us too. Me, Peter and Morgan…" he muttered, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on her serene expression.

Hannibal Jr. turned toward Kevin, his usually composed face softening as he took in his nephew’s words. "She would have loved you," he said, voice quiet yet filled with conviction. "Perhaps not in the same way she loved our father, but with her own kind of warmth. She was…generous. She had a way of finding beauty in places most would fear to look. I believe that, given the chance, she would have seen that beauty in each of you as well." He paused, a rare smile gracing his lips, almost tender. "In some ways, you carry her spirit more than you realize."

Hannibal Sr. stepped forward, his presence commanding as he regarded his grandchildren, his gaze settling on Kevin. "Clarice was indeed brave," he said, his voice carrying a quiet reverence that was rare to hear from him. "She chose to see beyond the man I was, and in doing so, she chose a life that held both darkness and devotion. It was not a choice she made lightly, but one she embraced fully." He paused, his intense gaze unwavering. "Had she known you, I have no doubt she would have loved you. She would have seen the strength in your passion, Kevin, the compassion in Peter’s heart, and the ambition in Morgan’s mind. Each of you would have been cherished, just as you are cherished now."

Kevin’s expression softened as he listened, his resentment replaced by a solemn appreciation. Hannibal Sr. laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. "Do not resent the bond we had; rather, honor it by embracing the bond we now share. You are each her legacy as much as you are mine."

For a brief moment, the great hall seemed to hold a sense of peace, as if Clarice’s spirit had indeed found a place in each of them, uniting them in a bond that transcended time, love, and even loss. Clarice had died, but her spirit remained in the Hannibal legacy forever.

[l0standn0tf0und]

(I'll be honest, I don't really remember what the book says about this. And it’s also important to note that canon and fanon got mixed up in my head so much, so I can`t separate them)

But!

Just hear me out! Ok? It could be painful but anyway

Think about how Sirius came to Grimmauld Place for the first time since Azkaban. Firstly, he didn’t just come there after 12 years in prison. He came there for the first time since he was 16! But that's not the point.

The portrait of Walburga! I'm sure Sirius spoke to her!

Walburga couldn't just remain silent when she saw Sirius. She screamed at him, how he dared to come there, tried to kick him out of the Grimmauld. So Sirius immediately ordered Kreacher to cover the portrait. He tried to remove her from the wall… many and many times, but it was unsuccessful. So he had to accept that his mother would continue to grumble from under the cloth. Every time Sirius passed by, she continued to mutter, sometimes scream, and insult her own son. She called him a disgrace to the family, a blood traitor and said that he was not her son, not Black, and had no right to be here, she wished him death a lot of times. Walburga wanted to get him, to hurt him, and Sirius knew it. He knew he should ignore her. He tried, tried very hard to ignore insults from the woman who gave him life. It happened that several times he stopped in front of the covered portrait, but after a second, he gathered his strength and kept walking. But at one particular moment, something broke inside of Sirius. He furiously pulled the cloth off the portrait.

Just think about that conversation, if you can call it a conversation, that happened next.

Please, I'm begging, someone write extremely angsty and heartbreaking fanfic about it.

And also a few things that, in my opinion, happened then:

No matter how emotionally Walburga had screamed before, but the moment Sirius tore off the cloth, shouting “enough!” his mother sat there calmly with the coldest expression on her face, and the first thing she said was: “I’m not surprised that you betrayed Potters. You've been a wimp since childhood". And it was the moment they both new it, she got him, it was the point of no return.

It also seems to me that Walburga would blame Sirius for the death of his brother. Not because she thought so. Because she was hurt by the loss of Regulus, and she wanted to hurt Sirius the same way.

When Remus entered the Grimmauld Place that day, the first thing he heard was Walburga`s grating voice, resonating through the house in insults. She kept exclaiming all those awful things about family betrayal, Regulus`s death, and Potters, she even mentioned Remus. The next thing he found was Sirius on the floor in the very corner of the room, in complete darkness, because Sirius got used to this after 12 years. To the darkness and cold floor. Sirius sat there looking as miserable as never before. He was hugging his knees and rocking back and forth paranoidly. His eyes were red, tears were streaming down his cheeks, and all Sirius could say was a quiet and repeated "enough" mixed with sobs.

And also think if there was a portrait of Regulus in the house and if Sirius ever spoke to him.

this pics was created by Ai. I couldn't choose which one is better, that's it

[jhugas]

‘I OWE HER MY LIFE’- Jeon Jungkook

Masterlist

✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

Genre: angst, fluff

Pairing: comforting, idol!Jungkook X sad, 8th member!F!Reader

Summary: You love Bts and Army, but you don’t think you’re made for this lifestyle. So you’ve been considering leaving the group. But how will Jungkook, the one that loves you the most, react?

Warnings/tags: mention of sasaengs, and death threats (only mentions, no details), reader feels depressed, Jungkook is extremely attached, Jungkook comforts you, sad Jungkook, crying, hugs and a lovely Jungkook.

Word count: ~1,2k

✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

It’s been a long time you’ve been in BTS, the biggest band in the world… maybe around 5 years? You’ve had tours, fan meetings, collaborations, invitations… but also had death threats, sasaengs, people ringing at your door, and harassing you in the streets.

You’re a strong woman. Very strong. But you had limits, and limits got crossed over. This wasn’t the life you wanted; you just wanted some money to help your family. But now, you have the money without your family. You had to leave them from a young age, and with so much work and pressure, your relations with them got damaged. You believe that they won’t come back no matter what. But then, what was all of that for? Working so hard day and night since you’re 13, for nothing but money and fame.

Realizing how much better your life would’ve been without fame… tears form in your eyes. You love Bts, and you love Army, but maybe you weren’t made for this.

‘They‘ll understand. They love me too’

you reassured yourself, scared of expressing the decision you’re considering more and more; leaving Bts. Leaving the cameras, fame, and infinite money for an easier life. You try to imagine how Bts will react…

Namjoon, the one that you grew up with, that made you who you are today, comforted you every needed time and that considered you as his own sister.

Jin, that considered you as his very own daughter, bringing you to school and cooking for you.

Yoongi and Hoseok, bringing you to your bed when you fell asleep on the couch and went to the school reunions for parents.

Taehyung and Jimin being your closest friends you ever had, your big brothers, teasing you and bickering each other all the time. But always being there for each other.

And Jungkook that… loved you deeply. Very deeply. More than anyone else.

He always gave you lovely gifts, like portraits, drawings and paintings of you, and even tried sculpting you. Once, he gave you an album full of pictures he took himself of you, to prove you you were beautiful at your most insecure time. He gave you letters all the time, and was the type to write “Jungkook, you’re not so secret admirer :) ” as a signature. And always gave you the best Netflix and chill nights. Buying popcorns, letting you chose the movie, buying channels just for you, making his bedroom cozy with cute lights and more.

You were hung up on his walls. Said you were his love, passion and happiness as a person. And said he’d be your guardian angel the day he leaves.

“I’m not scared of dying because I know we’ll never really be too far from each other. In our next life, we’ll meet again, and love each other like we always did.” he said…

Tears roll down your cheek. How are you going to tell him? Will he get mad? Sad? Tons of questions go through your head as you blow your nose and throw the tissue. Will he hate you? Understand you? Does he feel the same thing? You blow your nose once again and throw the tissue. Suddenly, the door opens.

‘Y/n!! Why are you crying?!’

Jungkook comes in running and gets in front of you making sure to close the door behind him. He looks at you with worried eyes as you wipe away your tears, acting like nothing happened.

‘Y/n Im not joking! Please baby, tell me what’s wrong. You can talk to me you know it.’

He whispers the last part, taking care to not frighten you and to make you feel safe, protected. As you look at him in the eyes, you sitting on the edge of the bed and him crouching down to talk to you, he cups your face in his big hands, gets closer and kisses your forehead.

‘Jungkook… I… I’m not sure what to feel about being in Bts anymore… I’m scared, and lost… It’s not like I really want to leave but it feels like it’s the only way out…’

You look down, scared of how he’ll react. He’ll think you’re a traitor, you think…

There’s a silence. A long one. You wouldn’t be able to tell how long it was nor if it was uncomfortable or not. But it felt like hours. You hear him taking a deep breath in before saying in a weak voice:

‘Y/n… you can’t be real. You’re not thinking about leaving Bts right? You’re joking?’

He asks, sounding like he was about to cry. You slowly nod, making him understand that yes, you were indeed, considering it.

‘What’s wrong? What made you think about this? Y/n Im ready to do anything for you. Anything! Tell me what do you need I’ll do it! I’ll give it to you!’

He sounds desperate. You finally look back at him, tears still rolling down your cheeks but he gently wipes them away with his thumb. He gets on the bed and hugs you tight. His chest moving irregularly, strongly. And his arms holding you extremely close to him.

‘Im just… I’m tired! I’m tired of everything. I’ve tried having breaks, I really did! But nothing have worked…I’m exhausted Jungkook…I really am… and I’m sorry…’

You say. Your nose gets even redder. You almost can’t see due to the amount of tears your shining eyes are holding.

‘Put the blame on me. Put all of your worries in me. Give me all of your stress, fears, pressure. I’ll take it. I gladly will.’

He gets back.

‘Give me all of your pain. I know you’re suffering so put it all on me. Please.’

He yells in a whisper. He doesn’t want to scare you and he meant everything he said. He’s ready to do anything for you, even if it meant dying, or getting tortured till the end of his days.

You saved him and always comforted him when he wasn’t feeling good. So that’s what he told himself: ‘I owe her my life’. From the moment he realized how important you are to him, he knew he’d dedicate his whole life to you. There wasn’t any point in doing anything without you. And in fact, you were his whole life. He always did the most for you. He hugs you again…

‘It’ll be all right… I’m here… I’m right here.’

He whispers onto your neck, slightly laying a few kisses on it. You hold tight onto his hair and let your body rest in his strong arms. Tired from crying so much, you fell asleep. He laid you down on the bed, changed your clothes for pajamas, and stayed beside you. He spent the whole night cuddling you and whispering good things in your ear such as ‘you’re strong’, ‘you can do it’, or ‘I’m right here’.

He let you sleep as much as you needed and instead of not leaving until you wake up, he decided to make your favorite breakfast then decorated and cleaned the whole apartment.

He was right. It’ll be all right, he’s here…

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you liked it please like or reblog ^^

@dolliecat @icyllic ^^

[preppyacademy]

The Contract of Submission: Eric Lin’s Path to the Preppy Academy

Eric Lin nervously looked around as he entered the Admission Service of the Preppy Academy, a slight apprehension in his eyes. He wasn’t alone in this austere room. Other students were waiting for their turn, each displaying expressions of resignation or anxiety. The room, with its cold walls and rigid portraits, exuded discipline and authority. What struck Eric the most was the stark contrast between these young men, all impeccably dressed, and himself, still awkward in the outfit he wore.

He nervously tugged at the collar of his checkered shirt, adjusting his sweater vest. His mother had insisted he wear this outfit, adding a red and black striped bow tie to make a good impression. For Eric, it wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was the complete opposite of what he usually wore: t-shirts and jeans. Today, however, his mother had taken charge, eager to show that he was ready to conform to the academy’s demands. He knew he would have to get used to this type of clothing, because after signing the contract, there would be no alternative. That thought weighed heavily on him.

At that moment, an additional pressure settled on his shoulders. His family had made it clear that if he refused to attend the Preppy Academy, he could forget about accessing the family’s wealth in the future. If he ever wanted to benefit from the inheritance and maintain his comfortable lifestyle, he had to submit to the academy’s rules. The decision wasn’t really his, and that made the situation even more oppressive.

At the back of the room, Monsieur Shelton, the monitor in charge of admissions, stood up from behind his desk. His attire, a strange but impeccable mix of a houndstooth jacket, checkered shirt, and a red and black striped bow tie, exuded a form of rigid extravagance, typical of the academy. His gaze was strict, calculating, as if he was already scrutinizing every thought in Eric’s head.

Monsieur Shelton, in a measured but authoritative voice:

Eric Lin, you are here to finalize your admission to the Preppy Academy. But before you sign this contract, understand what it implies.

Eric, uncomfortable in his outfit, timidly nodded. The family pressure echoed in his mind. He had to sign this contract, not just for himself, but to secure his future within his family. He had too much to lose if he refused. Behind him, the other young men were waiting for their turn, each knowing they would soon undergo the same ritual of relinquishing control.

Monsieur Shelton, holding the contract in front of him:

By signing here, you renounce your personal rights, your freedom, and your free will. Your life will be governed by the academy and its strict rules. Every decision will be made for you, and every aspect of your existence will be directed according to the values of discipline, submission, and adherence to dress codes.

Eric’s heart raced. He glanced at his reflection in a nearby window, his image in a checkered shirt and bow tie contrasting with the teenager in jeans he had been until today. After this signature, this kind of outfit would become his new normal, and there would be no escape. No more t-shirts, no more jeans. He would have to get used to this new lifestyle if he wanted to retain access to the family fortune.

Monsieur Shelton, noticing a slight hesitation, added in a more severe tone:

Once you sign, you will have no choice. Every day, you will have to conform to the academy’s expectations. Your family is counting on you, aren’t they? You know that what you do here will determine your future outside the academy as well. Is that clear?

Eric, with a slight hesitation:

Yes… Sir, it’s clear.

Shelton, seeing that Eric was still weighing the gravity of his decision, placed the contract in front of him, sliding it across the desk with a fluid motion.

Monsieur Shelton, calmly:

Then sign. Show them that you are ready.

Eric took the pen Shelton handed him. His hands trembled slightly as he brought the pen to the paper. He knew that his signature would change everything, that he would no longer have control over his life here, but he had no choice. With a quick gesture, he signed: Eric Lin.

The contract signed, Monsieur Shelton swiftly took the document, a slight smile forming on his rigid face.

Monsieur Shelton, in a satisfied tone:

It’s done. You now belong to the academy. From this moment on, you give up all control over your life. Follow the monitors—they will escort you to your first day.

Eric felt a chill run down his spine as two monitors, already in position, approached him. They flanked him, gesturing for him to move forward. As he walked toward the door, his heart sank. His mother had always pushed him toward the academy, constantly repeating that it was for his own good, but now he understood that it was much more than that. His place in the family depended on his behavior here. If he failed, he would lose more than just his freedom—he would also lose the inheritance, the security of his future.

He cast one last glance at the line of students waiting, all ready to sign the same contract, to relinquish the same rights. He felt like a voluntary prisoner, trapped by his family’s expectations, expectations that dictated his fate. As he crossed the doors, one thought crossed his mind: there was no turning back.

[soft-and-bitter]

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

The Cure & The Cause

Mafia!Steve x Captive!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Notes/warning(s): some sexual content, coercion, Steve is sweet but a little psycho, no plot just vibes. Reader’s been kidnapped by Steve and is being held captive for a bit before story begins. Part of the same universe that Failed Bargaining belongs to.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

When the car rolls up to the curb and a member of Steve’s unit opens the door, Sharon exits first before it’s your turn. You’ve barely stepped out of the black Range Rover before several bodyguards usher you towards the entrance of the multi-storied boutique, but the small stretch of sidewalk you cross is simply not enough for you to attempt an escape. Figures.

You’ve only ever gone shopping for a wedding dress once, when you had accompanied your best friend in search of hers. But with the costs of her traditional wedding adding up quickly, Lisa had been forced to make some concessions where her dress was concerned. Her final choice was still lovely, in the end, though admittedly it wasn’t perfect in every capacity that she’d envisioned.

As soon as you step foot into the bridal boutique, you realize right away that whatever financial concerns Lisa had during her own wedding planning, Sharon will not have. Money is, quite frankly, the least of her worries. For starters, Sharon is one of Steve’s highest-ranking, and she’s getting married to Sam, so it’s no surprise that all the stops have been pulled out. This upscale boutique is apparently one of many salons she has in mind to visit, but already it’s proving to be the most impressive. 

“We have the whole place to ourselves,” Sharon mentions with uncharacteristic giddiness, just as you and the rest of the group settle into plush white sofas. You thought that that in itself spoke to Steve’s influence and wealth, but when the senior manager in her stylish black dress and six-inch heels pops open a bottle of Dom Perignon circa 1996, you’re left wondering how much of Steve’s largesse these people are truly hoping for. 

Together with the champagne, the store’s personnel offer you and the others an assortment of French pastries while Sharon gets into her first dress. A collection of them has already been set aside for her based on previous consultations, but today is when she gets to try them on. You’re already reaching for your second flute when you think that for just a second, you want to imagine that this is all a normal picture, that these women you’re here with—Sharon, Nat, Wanda and Sarah—are in fact your girlfriends, rather than accomplices to your captivity. That without him present, you might just be able to subscribe to the illusion. Combined with the right amount of ridiculously expensive champagne, it’s more than possible. 

This scares you more than you want to admit. Mostly because you’re stuck realizing how lonely you’ve been up to this point, even before Steve decided to take you, but also how your perception of your captivity is beginning to morph into something less depraved, a jagged picture where the edges are becoming dulled. 

You swallow down another bit of champagne in response, and then a little bit more; the next thing you know, time is flying by and your reaction at every dress Sharon steps out in gets more expressive, louder. Somewhere along the way you even end up in Nat’s lap, arms flung over her shoulder, the both of you choking on laughter at a snide comment Sharon’s made about the gown that Wanda—yes, her—has chosen to try on. It’s the very portrait of idealized friendship, of closeness and devotion and support. Of course you want to believe all this, even if only for a minute.

“It looks like you ladies have gone through most of the champagne I sent,” says a low, timbrous voice that slices through the racket of laughter and loud talk.

You, together with everyone else, process Steve’s sudden presence in the salon at the same moment, only your reaction is nowhere near as positive. Amongst the wild cheers and drunken shrieks that the other women let out, you merely stare at him with your mouth agape, blinking at the sight of him in the doorway, Bucky lingering not so far behind. Rather than disappointment, your brain can only process how fucking handsome this man is, how the top of his head nearly grazes the lintel as he enters, every step full of confidence. You’re completely out of his league, your brain foggily reminds you, though you know that—just like you know what’s beneath the gray suit he’s wearing, the one tailored to perfection. 

More treacherous thoughts, you realize, just like most of them today.  

“It feels like I’ve stepped into a party,” Steve says, rounding a sofa to enter the fray. His blue eyes cut to you, take in your place on Nat’s lap and the way you’re holding on to her, but he says nothing. 

“That’s because it is a party,” Sharon insists, a little too loudly, the tendrils of her hair dancing along the sides of her face. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We were driving through the district and I thought I’d drop in,” he says, still hovering over them. Bucky’s leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his body and a look of mild amusement on his face, but he doesn’t attempt to intrude any further.

With his hands poised on his hips, Steve looks over at Wanda standing before the wall-to-wall mirrors. “Last time I checked, you’re not getting married. What’s happening here?” 

“Nobody says you have to be a bride to try on a pretty dress,” Nat explains beneath you, one arm still loosely wrapped around your waist. “Sharon needed a breather, actually, so we’ve decided to take turns modeling now. Right, babe?” 

She knocks a shoulder against one of yours.

When Steve swivels his head to look down at the both of you, there’s a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “In that case, it’s your turn,” he commands, eyes fixed squarely on you. “Now that I think about it, I'm curious to know how you’d look in a wedding dress. And you want to please me, don’t you?”

You blink at him, letting his words wash over you. You remain sitting on Nat’s lap, even though you’re still not sure how you ended up there in the first place, and you can’t quite believe that Steve’s here too, but reality is starting to sink back in, your little fantasy cracking at the edges. These women around you aren’t your friends, and this isn’t some typical shopping excursion at a designer bridal house.  

When you respond, you’re only vaguely aware how much the champagne you’ve been knocking back has emboldened you. His champagne, no less.

“Forget it,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t want to.”

You think you may be imagining it, but the room suddenly feels quieter. Steve, though, is still looking down at you, his face still set in a calm expression.

“Find a dress, sweetheart, or I’ll choose one and get you into it myself.” He sinks into the plush sofa adjacent to yours, the sole occupant. “Knowing your tastes, you won’t like what I have in mind for you.”

You know that Steve’s not messing around, because he’s made good on a similar threat before. Worst of all, none of the women around you dissent on your behalf, not even Nat, sitting so close to you. You should feel betrayed by their silence, but it’s partly your fault you helped craft the illusion you so badly wanted to believe in. 

“Come on beautiful, let’s go find you something,” Nat says gently, nudging you to stand. Maybe it’s the hurt you’re feeling, but this time around you don’t object as you follow a sales consultant, Nat trailing close behind. You pass by Bucky as you leave the private room; he throws you a look akin to mild sympathy before he joins the rest.

“My god, look at you,” he breathes, slowly rising from the plush white sofa. “My sweet, sweet girl, all dressed up to get married.”

You’d chosen a dress that made you think of a suit of armor. But by the way Steve studies you, his gaze sharp enough to pierce through any material, you just feel vulnerable. Exposed. Ironic, because your first and final choice felt the most conservative compared to all the dresses that Sharon and the others had come out in. Nat had coaxed you into wearing a veil, too, completing the whole look. 

The champagne keeps your fiery spirit afloat, your tongue looser than normal. “I'm never getting married,” you say.

Steve lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Never?"

"Never," you parrot.

“Well that's too bad, 'cause that won't be a decision you get to make. Now come here.”

You think about ignoring him for a second, just turn right back where you’d shuffled from as your own quiet brand of fuck you. But there’s a look of expectancy on his face, and at his full height, Steve isn’t one to spar with. 

His hands are already on your waist when you turn to the expanse of mirrors. You weren’t wrong when you deemed this dress less eye-catching than the others, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less lovely. 

“What do you think?” he asks. You can feel his fingers playing with the veil that waterfalls behind you, the way his knuckles ghost along your back.

“It's . . . fine, I guess,” you say, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, I think it’s more than fine,” he insists. “Stunning, in fact. Should I buy it?”

He doesn’t mean it, you convince yourself, but it’s not enough to clamp down on the panic rising within you. Didn’t he just hear what you’d said a second earlier?

Until now, Steve has never mentioned marriage or anything of the like. But since when did you know how his mind worked? You wouldn’t be here if you did. 

“Well?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I can’t wear white to another bride’s wedding,”

Steve chuckles as he gently draws back the veil and your hair away, sweeping both over your left shoulder. “In that case, you can wear it at home, just for me. And you’ll make sure not to wear anything underneath, won’t you?”

Goosebumps dance along your skin. His hands on your waist have you trapped in place, body pressed against his. To your alarm, you feel him hardening against your back, a threat and a promise.

" I liked it more when it was on the rack," you say hastily, trying to ignore his growing desire, "now that I'm in it, I'm having second thoughts."

In the mirror, you can see Steve shaking his head. "No, you're absolutely radiant in this. It's perfect . . . and it's just so you."

He acts without warning. You inhale sharply as his tongue trails up your neck, slow and hot. Steve was licking you—licking you—in front of everyone, without an ounce of shame. It reminds you all too well of the other night, when he had spread you out across his desk and eaten you out while he'd taken a call on speaker. He'd taken his damned time too, keeping you on the very precipice while the caller spewed all this babel your mind couldn't comprehend, all thanks to the desperate state you were in. And when he finally let you come, it had been with his hand shoved against your mouth.

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

Yeah I have no idea what this is lol; it was such a basic and simple premise that really didn’t need to be 2k plus words long, but here we are I guess. Graphics by me.

[zippidi-dooda]

"Alucard?" You said softly, looking up from your charcoal detail paper.

The man hummed, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

You glance back down at the drawing you'd finished of him.

It looked great, he was a marvelous subject for a portrait. He was perfectly still and silent in any pose you positioned him, unmoving until you said you had finished. You loved to gaze at him with each drawing, tracing the outline of his well defined features, like the curve of his jaw or sharp shape of his nose, the soft curls of his golden hair that fell in waves around his shoulders, the length of his lashes that cast shadows over his amber eyes, the prominent arch of his brows, and swell of his plump lips onto the thick sheet of paper you carried around with a pen of charcoal, shading his features to match the lighting in a way you knew best.

Each pose, angle, and lighting was different. But there was one thing every drawing of him had in common.

"Why don't I ever see you smile?"

The man stiffened and proceeded to ignore your inquiry. "Are you almost done? I believe it's nearly time for our evening meal."

You looked back up at him and nodded slowly.

"I couldn't be more grateful that you allow me to draw you, Alucard. But, I am noticing a pattern in your ... habits. The way you present yourself."

Alucard stood and proceeded to walk in the direction of the kitchen, hoping to escape your conversation.

You followed after him.

"You are less grumpy looking than when we first met. But I have never seen you laugh or smile or give any other expression than this numb, blank look."

"My apologies, I am just not an expressive person like you're used to. There's no need to follow me, I'll finish up quickly and call for you when the food is done."

For a moment you didn't reply, simply staring at him from behind as he took long strides in front of you.

Like the castle walls surrounding you, he was so cold and sheltered, with walls thick enough to withstand many heavy attacks from the outside. So distant. Hiding in his own mind as he was hiding in this crumbling structure so deep into the woods.

You hoped one day you could even hear a snippet of what he was thinking of, get accepted into his inner fortress like you had been able to be accepted to stay within this fortified home of his.

You just, didn't know how.

Hesitantly, you reached out to him, pausing your actions for a moment before finally grabbing onto the sleeve of his coat, prompting him to stop and look over at you.

You gave him a warm smile and said, "if you ever have anything you need to get off your chest, I'll always be here to listen."

Alucard blinked slowly at you and after a minute you continued to walk in front of him, babbling about what he should make for this evening.

It went in one ear and out the other.

Alucard, now following behind you, furrowed his brow and pursed his lips further as he ran your words back in his mind over and over again.

Such compassionate words. From a seemingly harmless person. He truly wanted to believe you and tell you all that has been persistently wearing him down. But he just couldn't.

He had met one too many who gave him the same impression of harmlessness. And they had no remorse in trying to take advantage of his trust and vulnerability. That cut deeper than any sword or claw ever had and he couldn't handle the thought of experiencing that again with you.

He may have been a fool to let you in to live with him in the first place. But he would not make the mistake of blindly trusting you because he was lonely. He would not allow it.

'You'll always be here?'

Unlikely.

Alucard shook his head to clear his thoughts, and jumped into the conversation of dinner plans instead.

Maybe one day, he'd be able to meet someone he could actually trust. Maybe that person was you. He really hoped so. But as of now, it was too soon to tell.

He'd skirt any further questions you had in correspondence to this until much further in the future, when all doubts about your intentions were washed away from his mind.

An issue that would be much harder to fix than simply wishing it to go away.

[zablife]

Charlie's Lullaby

Tommy x Rosemary (OC, Charlie’s nanny)

Summary: After the loss of his wife, a grief-stricken Tommy is unable to care for himself or little Charlie. One night he finds Charlie's nanny comforting the child in the nursery and her advice leads to a solution for both father and son, bringing them closer than ever before.

Author’s Note: This was requested by @the-fangirl-diaries who wanted to read a fluffy fic about Tommy watching Charlie’s nanny comfort his child. There's a bit more angst in the beginning as Tommy navigates being a single parent, but it ends with fluff.

Warnings: nightmares, mention of blood

The stillness of the house wasn’t bothersome to Rosemary. The last two years spent caring for her father had prepared her for an assignment such as this. The melancholy of a large house, devoid of laughter or cheer was too familiar. She’d learned to find her own sunshine even in the last hours of his life. 

Therefore she made it her mission to bring joy to little Charlie Shelby, not yet two years old, whenever she could. The problem was his frequent nightmares. Despite having every toy and comfort imaginable, the child lacked the most basic comfort every young boy desperately needed. His mother had been killed months earlier in a tragic accident, the details of which were still unknown to his nanny. However, the chatter amongst the servants was enough to keep her from asking any further questions.

She’d grown fond of the late Mrs. Shelby, a fellow countryman, who treated her well and seemed to care deeply for her only child. She seemed far too young and beautiful to die. Little Charlie didn’t understand either, crying night and day for his mother. It took several weeks before Rosemary was able to lay him in his crib for the night without him waking every hour.

In truth, Mr. Shelby didn’t seem to fair much better than his young son. He rarely slept, pacing the halls with a glass of whisky in hand, staring at his wife’s portrait from the top stair. He never cried, but Rosemary often observed a pained expression on his handsome face that told her everything she needed to know about the horrible grief he was experiencing. She knew the look well because it was the same one her father had worn many years ago as he mourned her mother. 

Although she wanted to say or do something for him, she knew it was not her place to intrude. When she was hired Frances had warned her that Mr. Shelby could be volatile and she heeded this warning even more considering the present circumstances. 

Tonight as Rosemary placed her book upon the nightstand and turned out the light, she hoped it would be a peaceful evening without the cries of a child or the footsteps of a sleepless master. She tried not to think of her own exhausted limbs as she sunk into the soft mattress, hoping for a few hours of rest. 

It was not to be. Just as her eyelids grew heavy and a light dream played upon her mind, Charlie began to wail. Rosemary sat bolt upright at the noise, ready to attend to him. Throwing on her robe and slippers, she bustled down the hallway to the nursery and found her charge standing in his crib. He rubbed his tired eyes with chubby fists, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“Shhh, Charlie. It’s alright, love. I’m here,” she assured him. As she drew closer, he raised his arms to his nanny in hopes of being rescued and she scooped him up, hugging him to her body tightly as she swayed and rocked him in her arms. “Did you have bad dreams again, little one?” she asked softly, caressing his hair. He hid his face in her neck, confirming her suspicions and she took him to sit in the large rocking chair in the corner.

“Want Mama…mama,” he mumbled his plea into her skin as hot tears trickled onto her night dress.

Rosemary held her breath as the words hit her ear, knowing she would have to explain it once more, the reality of the situation breaking her heart in two. “Your mam can’t be with you, Charlie. She’s in heaven with the angels,” she sighed. He sobbed until she stroked his back and asked, “Would you like a lullaby?”

His chest hiccuped against hers as he quieted, nodding slowly in affirmation. Then Rosemary raised her voice slowly as Charlie brought his thumb to his mouth for comfort.  

“Over in Killarney, many years ago My mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low Just a simple little ditty in her good old Irish way"

The tune of the familiar lullaby half hummed, half sung soothed the child instantly. It might have been the vibration rumbling pleasantly over his cheek or the dulcet quality of her voice, but all the tension left Charlie’s tiny body. Rosemary closed her eyes as she allowed her mind to wander, not needing to concentrate on the lullaby she’d known since childhood and sung countless times before. 

She found her thoughts straying to the well being of her employer. Remembering the dark circles under his eyes and she hoped she’d settled the child before he disturbed his father.

Stopping to take a breath, she listened for his footsteps in the hall and smiled to herself when she noted an absence of creaking floorboards.

Charlie began to squirm in her arms once more, signaling he had not yet succumbed to peaceful slumber. His tears continued along with a mournful wail as she resumed the chorus.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry! Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby”

It took a bit longer for Charlie to quiet this time, his sharp cries echoing down the corridor. 

Tommy tossed fitfully in his sleep, the shouts of his brothers’ angry voices broken by the piercing scream of a woman who had caught sight of Grace’s bloody evening gown. It quickly turned to a baby’s cry and Tommy moved his head from left to right, looking for his son in the fray.

Half awake, half asleep he willed himself from his bed to find his son in an attempt to protect him from the attack. “Charlie, Charlie…” he mumbled, stumbling along the hallway, barely holding himself up by the railing along the stairs. Had he taken two steps to the left, he would have fallen down a long flight of stairs to certain doom, but Tommy continued on toward his child.

As he walked through the drafty old manor, Tommy woke and shook his head to rid himself of the dreams that so often plagued him. He was learning to spot them now, the idiosyncrasies more easily detected nowadays. However, he couldn’t always rely on his gut alone. He craved the certainty of seeing his child and feeling the weight of him in his arms to know that all was well.

Rosemary continued singing, unaware of Mr. Shelby’s presence as he approached the nursery.

“Oft in dreams I wander to that cot again. I feel her arms a-hugging me As when she held me then”

Looking up to find her employer standing in the doorway, she gasped involuntarily, but Tommy only placed a finger to his lips to silence her. He had taken note of his son’s docile posture and wanted nothing more than to observe him in repose. Taking a moment to compose herself, Rosemary began to hum once more.

“And I hear her voice a-hummin' to me as in the days of yore, when she used to rock me fast asleep outside the cabin door.”

Noticing how Charlie’s arms fell loose around her shoulders, Rosemary stopped the lullaby, watching Mr. Shelby carefully. 

“Likes that one does he?” Tommy asked, voice rough and full of sleep.

“He does,” she answered quietly, stroking the child’s back absently.

“I like it too. I think I recall my wife singing it,” Tommy said, raking a hand through his hair, brows furrowed in deep thought.

“She said it was his favorite and I was to sing it to him when he was frightened,” Rosemary offered, casting her eyes to the ground.

“Mmmm,” Tommy agreed, the pain resounding through his chest. “I should have learnt it,” he confessed on a low breath. “He never asks for me, you know. Only his mum,” he admitted in a voice filled with hurt and shame at the thought of being a stranger to his own child.

Rosemary held her breath, unsure of how to answer as she watched the powerful man before her slump down against the wall, cradling his head in his hands. 

“I could teach it to you if you like,” she replied, biting her lip in anticipation. 

“Please,” was all he whispered, and she realized he was just as lost as the child she held in her arms.

Singing the tune once more, she noticed his head sway slightly as she sang. When she finished the last verse, she swore she saw a tear fall down his cheek in the dim light. Although, there was a note of joy in it as well, his lips curled in a half smile, eyes fixed on the photograph kept on Charlie’s dresser and Rosemary knew that some good had been done that night to bring father and son closer together. 

—————————————-

Rosemary woke with a start, hearing an unfamiliar voice coming from the nursery. Leaping from the bed, she laced her robe and padded down the hallway with her heart in her throat. She wondered what noise could be coming from Charlie’s room at this hour.

As she rounded the corner and peered into the room, she stopped suddenly as she realized her services were not needed. Mr. Shelby stood at the edge of Charlie’s crib, bouncing the child in his arms as he hushed his cries with a tenderness she didn’t know he possessed.

Rosemary watched intently as Mr. Shelby crossed to the window whispering, “Good boy, good boy.” As Charlie’s cries lessened, her employer stood in quiet contemplation, looking out toward the gardens. A bright crescent moon shone down upon him, illuminating the silvery blue of Tommy’s eyes and the deep hollows of his cheeks from lack of appetite. 

Reaching a chubby hand toward his father’s face in a bid for attention, Charlie caught his father’s gaze with a sob and a single plea, “Mama!” Tommy’s posture became rigid and his chin tilted toward the ceiling, searching the intricate molding for an answer to his troubles.

As Charlie whimpered, he looked down at his son, feeling the urge to confess the very thing he’d been unable to say since Grace died. On a shaky breath he admitted quietly,  “Mama’s not coming back so it’s just you and me.” Clearing his throat to dislodge the lump that had formed, he added reassuringly, as much for Charlie’s benefit as his own, “She’ll be with us in our hearts, cause we love her.” 

Charlie cocked his head to observe his father as though he understood every word completely. Laying his head against his father’s chest for warmth, he stayed perfectly still and quiet as his father continued, “I’m not much good, Charlie. You’ll find that out soon enough, but I’ll do my best for you, my boy.” 

With his back to her it was difficult to hear at first, just a low hum rising from the depths of his chest like a distant rumble of thunder. As Rosemary strained to hear, she realized Mr. Shelby was singing to his boy and her heart swelled at the recognition of the lullaby she taught him days before. 

It took a moment for the shock to dissipate as she had never actually heard him sing the lyrics. He’d only spoken them back to her as he learned them, leaving her to wonder what his voice might sound like when raised in song.  Closing her eyes, Rosemary listened to the richness of his baritone as it began to fill the room, his confidence growing with each verse. 

He took his time and sang the chorus a bit slower as it was clear he was relishing his new ability to soothe his son properly. And despite the slight rasp at the end of the notes due to his smoking, Rosemary couldn’t help but be impressed.

Opening her eyes once more, she drank in the sight of father and son as they clung to one another. Leaving them to their grief, she retired to her room for the evening in case she was called upon later.

——————————

Three months later…

Rosemary was helping Charlie finish the last of his breakfast when Mr. Shelby strode into the dining room looking more well rested than he had in months. Charlie was still waking at night, but not as much as he had before and Tommy found that singing helped them both relax. The fact that they were also using the time to bond was a revelation as Tommy never imagined he’d be close with his son after Grace's death.

He leaned over to place a tender kiss to the top of Charlie’s head before turning to Rosemary for an account of the two days he’d been gone on business. He was anxious to hear everything and Rosemary spared no detail.

As Tommy chain smoked, she dutifully gave her report of her charge's playtime and sleep schedule. Then a smile spread across her face as she informed her boss of the most important piece of news, “This morning when he woke, Charlie called out for you. Not me or his mam. Only you.”

Tommy’s eyes immediately darted up from his lighter, a forgotten cigarette hanging from his mouth as he sat dumbstruck. His lips began to curl in a slow smile that eventually reached his eyes, creasing the corners in genuine happiness. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and studied it as he chuckled, “Well, how about that.”

Frances arrived to clear the table, looking from Tommy to Rosemary, wondering what had everyone in such high spirits. Although she didn’t wish to disturb the atmosphere because it was so rarely a joyful one.

Before she could ask, Tommy spoke up with a note of pride in his voice as he boasted, “He asked for me today, Frances. For the first time.”

“That’s wonderful, sir,” Frances beamed, before returning to the kitchen.

Lifting Charlie from his chair, Rosemary barely noticed Mr. Shelby rise to come and stand by her side. Touching her forearm, he said, “I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, slightly confused.

“Showing me how to be a better father,” he admitted, sincerity evident in his tone.

“I just taught you some words,” she said shyly.

“I’ll require a few more lessons though,” Tommy smirked. “I need more than one tune in my repertoire, eh?” he laughed and Rosemary joined him with Charlie clapping his hands in delight between them.

----------------

Tag List:

@peakyswritings

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@wandawiccan60   

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

@theshelbyslimited

@kittycatcait219

@callsign-fangirl

@christinasyellowflowers

@notyour-valentine

@theshelbyclan

@areyenotfondofmelobster

@polishcrazyone

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@jomarch-wannabe

@the-fangirl-diaries

@mgcldydrms

@look-at-the-soul

@gypsy-girl-08

@dandelionprints

@raincoffeeandfandoms

@cillmequick

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@rangerelik

@alimosblog

@mythos-writes

@l1-l4

@kmhappybunny240

@runnning-outof-time

@peakyltd

@anonymooseforever007

@brummiereader

@pherelesytsia

@multifandomwriter56

@toms-cherry-trees

[mourningliliesmorningglories]

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace, and so the battleships will sink beneath the waves.

“Leaving, brother? Without even so much as a goodbye?” Sirius turns to see Regulus perched on the stairs of Grimmauld Place. There was a reason Sirius didn't say his farewells. Neither brother had any discernible expression on their face, nothing that any stranger could ever pick up on. Regulus' brow was furrowed, only just, an expression of despair, of disappointment. Sirius' mouth was set in a thin line. Regulus knew that this was his resignation, shame even, in leaving this place and not even extending a hand to his little brother. Regulus knows why Sirius chooses to leave quietly. You cannot blame a ghost for haunting a house in the opposite way to which it once lived there.

You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same.

Regulus stands, he chooses to do this face to face. "Goodbye." Sirius' voice is rough around the edges. His skin is sallow in the candle light, hair limp and tangled. He looks like a Black. He looks like every Black that ever had their face burned off of the tapestry. Maybe this is their curse, not the actions of the leaver but the suffering of the one left behind. “It was always my life for yours.” Regulus' voice is cool, collected. He will not acknowledge his brother's inner tempest, simply because it isn't his. “So naive brother. This is not her letting you go. This is her telling you, never come back. This is her telling you, I knew I’d have to have a second son.”

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed, you turned into your worst fears.

Regulus sees Sirius shudder. He cannot falter, he must play his part. Everything in their lives is an orchestra. Regulus was no better than a puppet, but this act of the play matters. “I paid for your freedom, Sirius Black." Regulus' voice was almost melodic, mocking. Sirius stares directly into his brothers eyes. He tries to understand this parable but he cannot reconcile his brother into the role of both the punisher and the punished. He turns and his footsteps echo down the corridor. To Regulus, the slam of the door sounds almost like the snap of marionette strings. The deed is done. The demon is free of the body that once controlled it.

And you're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain, crossing out the good years.

Sirius would always be Regulus’ first and last word. It echoes around the cave like salvation. Sirius. Saved. Sirius. Saved. Sirius. Saved. Regulus knows their eyes are identical. Regulus knows he will die. Sirius will always carry a part of his brother, and Regulus will die with a part of his. Regulus finds only relief in the knowledge that he would be free from his punishment. He thinks it to be natural, this yearning to be his brother's other half again. Regulus hopes Sirius can understand him, that one day he'll revere him as an oblation. He hopes he is his brother's favorite sacrificial lamb.

And you're cursing my name, wishing I stayed. Look at how my tears ricochet.

The Daily Prophet arrives at Sirius Black's window like it does every day. Remus is making breakfast. This isn't routine and this isn't normal. It's 1979 and the first time in months neither he nor Remus were doing something for the Order. The normalcy, the domesticity almost puts him on edge. He skips to the best part of the Prophet - Obituaries. He's always had a morbid obsession with betting on which Black would go next. He sees his brother. He reads his name. He watches Regulus blink up at him from the portrait with the exact same eyes Sirius thanks him with.

[saberlibrary]

Picking the perfect tree ft. Obito Uchiha

Day 02 of 31 Days of Ficmas!

summary — obito uchiha, an exiled war criminal, doesn’t understand why you’re so obsessed with a tree.

word count — 807

content — fluff, post-war!obito (he survived because I wanted him to), he’s a sad boi, longing, friends to lovers kinda

notes — hai! second fic of many I hope ^_^ obito is my fav boy and this isn’t the only fic I’ll write for him in this event even though I know not many people simp for him. on a second note, I’m really hoping I can write all the 31 days. send me good luck! <3

“I don’t see the point.”

Obito stood by your side with crossed arms, his puzzled eyes watching you cautiously as you analyzed a pine tree as if it were the most important and interesting thing in the world.

Maybe it was, but he didn’t get it.

“Nah, this one is not good enough,” you stated, at last.

He sighed, more lost than ever, not complaining when your gloved hand closed around his wrist and dragged him further into the forest.

“They all look the same to me,” he observed. “Sure, some are smaller and have fewer branches, but they’re just… trees?”

Your giggle didn’t go unnoticed by him and, as usual, it warmed his body in that unfamiliar way, his stomach fluttering from this all-new sensation.

No, not new.

Obito knew exactly what feeling was that; something he felt when he was just a foolish kid, the feeling that made him try harder to impress someone, that got him all messy and blushy and kissing portraits.

The feeling that created longing and, eventually, created hate.

Looking back, what was Obito doing if not trying desperately not to forget what it was like to feel like that? Starting a war to feel it again, even if it weren’t real.

Countless mistakes in the name of love, and Obito just accepted he wasn’t deserving of such a thing – love.

And yet, you stood there in front of him. Picking a damn tree for whatever reason, and making him feel all over again.

After being forgiven but exiled to a distant village, there you were. You knew his crimes and yet you showed up at his door every day, convincing him to take a walk with you until you became friends.

And today you showed up smiling like always, “Hey, let’s buy a tree for your house.”

And there you were.

“I liked the way you described the trees, so I’ll trust your eyes,” you said after a while, apparently conflicted. “I don’t know if we should pick this one or that one, which one is taller and has more branches?”

He wanted to laugh at you and your silliness, but eventually gave up, “That one.”

You smiled widely at him and, even though he wanted to scream at you to stop making him feel like that, he smiled shyly back at you.

Quickly talking to the couple who ran the tree business, you paid them while Obito seemed lost in thoughts and you brought the tree home with the help of some ninjas that worked there.

When the tree was installed in a corner of his living room and the two of you were left alone again, he blinked slowly with a blank expression, “I still don’t get it. Why do I need a tree inside my house?”

He was so clueless it was cute and you couldn’t help but laugh, flustering him further, “You’re such a dork, Obito! Let me finish this, ok?”

With red hot cheeks, he hummed in agreement as you placed your backpack on the table and started pulling out a lot of weird things.

Weird, but beautiful things.

He eyed you curiously as you circled the tree with some sort of wire he couldn’t distinguish, wondering what that was for, and then you started putting beautiful decorations on the branches. It didn’t take long for the tree to come to life, bringing some sort of comfort to his dead house.

“Can you help me?” you asked after a while and he nodded, standing up as you handed him a star. “Put it on the top of the tree, please. I can’t reach it.”

He did exactly as he was told – he still didn’t understand what it was for but it was incredibly beautiful and, foremost, done by you.

When the star was placed he looked at you, then at the tree, and back at you, “It looks–”

“Wait! There’s still one thing for you to see before you say anything,” you interrupt him as you run to plug in the tree lights.

When you finally did and the tree lightened up, Obito got taken aback by the beauty of it all. All the colors and decorations came together, lighting up his living room and warming his heart. Something you did for him.

“Here in the village, we celebrate something called Christmas, a time to be reunited with people we love and celebrate. This is a Christmas tree, but there’s so much more I can show you,” you finally explain. “And I was hoping we could celebrate Christmas together.”

Obito looked down, tears burning his eyes without a warning. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve said tendering his soul like a remedy on every open wound he had.

It felt like he’d found the love he had reached for, for so long.

“Yes… yes, we can.”

[carelessflower]

veiled fate

Sun set, sun fell, Idris and Edom proposed a truce. The ever-lascivious King Asmodeus had folded, more than willing to open a new trade road between the kingdoms for the eldest Lightwood’s hand in marriage.

So now, Alec simply awaited his fate, watching impassively as servants and tailors fluttered around him like ants and bees, making sure he turned up to be the perfect bride.

A willing sacrifice.

His siblings tried to reject the proposal at first- anyone in their sane mind would, Asmodeus wasn’t known as a kind lover. All six of his wives had died painfully, some during childbirth, or the dangerous politic of the harem, or the king’s sadistic play. He took and took and took, until spring blooms cried to desserts, and he left to conquer another land.

Alec had no illusion he wasn’t the next victim. Better him than Izzy, that was.

“You can’t do this.” Came Jace’s whisper. “Please, there’s still time, run away, don’t let this marriage ruin your life.”

Alec was glad he was hiding behind the wedding veil, separating him from the desperate, sad expressions his brother must have on his face. “There’s no other choice.” Their kingdom needed this allegiance, and King Asmodeus wanted a new plaything. “It’s my duty, and I suggest you respect my choice, Jace.”

There was no other protest after that, just sounds of Jace pushing over everyone when he stormed out. He wouldn’t be far for long, he was in charge of leading Alec’s carriage to Edom.

The journey was tedious, exhausting even. Alec felt layers upon layers of silk and brocade weighing him down. The two kingdoms had spared no expense for this wedding to happen, especially with the wedding veil. While Edom gave away their precious lace, Idris tailors spent days and nights stitching pearls and crystals to every mile of the fabric.

An excessive cage, trapping Alec to his doom.

In the carriage. In Edom. In the ceremonial hall. Alec bowed and made the vow before the gods with his new husband, his heart growing colder by the second.

When servants had sat him down in the private chamber, Alec was numb from it all. Here he was, waiting for his brute of a husband to swoop in and take him, hands clenching in his lap.

The door creaked.

Alec's husband had come.

Tick. Tick. The water clock rolled. Alec heard footsteps coming closer.

Then there were hands lifting Alec’s veil while he remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground, one hand reaching into his sleeve, twisting the gold bangle. It was a gift from Izzy, and it cheered with the final chance to prove its usefulness.

Alec uncapped a secret hidden underneath the bracelet and felt a hefty weight on his hand, sharp and dangerous. He struck when the king got closer, lunging forward with his dagger, fighting with every last breath. Unfortunately, the king did the same, and in the end, victory didn’t smile upon Alec.

His back hit the bed below hard, anger and dejection seeping through his veins.

“Kill me if you want.” He spat out. “But as long as I live, I would never submit to you.”

“Oh darling, why’d I kill my bride?” The king smiled, his green golden eyes flickered in the dim light of candles, and Alec was annoyed the portrait sent to him hadn’t done this man justice. He was younger, and more approachable, though still carried similar striking features in the painting.

Alec breathed heavily, confusion rolled off in his throat. Asmodeus seemed more willing to play with his victim than he thought.

“Tsh– Look at me forgetting my manner.” Magnus leaned down, one hand pinning Alec’s hands above his head while the other used the prince’s dagger to slice off buttons on his fancy attire. Alec whimpered, feeling the coldness danced against his skin. Soon enough, the once lavish robe turned to ribbons, hanging desperately on Alec’s body. “There’s been a change in management, I’m Magnus Bane, and your new husband.”

Taking advantage of Alec’s stunned silence, Magnus took a step further, throwing Alec's legs over his shoulder. Alec moaned out loud, the first of a long night.

“My king–I, ah.”

“You’re so good for me, my darling consort. Say my name, say it.”

“M–Magnus, Magnus.”

for @pocketoffeels keep feeding us with ur chaotic genius