#curly haired reader

[somewhere-elena]

"ძ᥆ᥒ'𝗍 ᥡ᥆ᥙ ᥕ᥆rrᥡ ᑲ᥆ᥙ𝗍 ᥡ᥆ᥙr ᥴᥙrᥣᥡ һᥲіr"

sᥙgᥙrᥙ gᥱ𝗍᥆ ᥊ 𝖿ᥱm ᥴᥙrᥣᥡ һᥲіr!rᥱᥲძᥱr

sһ᥆r𝗍 ᥆ᥒᥱsһ᥆𝗍

(𝖿ᥣᥙ𝖿𝖿)

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

You and Suguru were getting ready to go out on a date. A date to a friend's wedding.

While he was in your guys' bedroom, looking in the full body mirror while fiddling with the cuffs of his suit, you were in the bathroom, trying to tame your hair.

You'd always hated your curly hair. You thought it never suited you, so half the time, you went with straightening it.

It didn't help that your boyfriend had luscious long, straight hair. You couldn't help but feel a bit envious. He could wake up in the morning with perfect hair while you had messy, frizzy hair.

"You almost done in there?" You heard Suguru's voice call out to you.

"Uhh- almost!" You called back.

Cursing softly under your breath, you reached for your hair straightener, plugging it in and waiting for it to heat up.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyebrows furrowing. Why couldn't you have just been born with easier hair???

Suguru walked in, and raised a brow.

"I thought you said you would stop straightening your hair because it damaged it?" He questioned.

You sighed, shoulders slumping.

"I know, I know... I just- my hair isn't cooperating right now and I already hate my curls-" you rambled.

Suguru cut you off.

"What do you mean you hate your curls?" He asked.

"They're lovely and I love them." He said.

Your eyes widened a bit as you stared at him in slight disbelief.

"You... Love them?" You asked.

"Of course. They're part of the reason I fell in love with you." He admitted softly.

"I love playing with them, watching them bounce and coil. Your hair is beautiful in its natural state, honey." He said.

You felt that sting in your eyes. A sign that there were tears building up.

"Suguru..." You said softly.

He smiled, turning your straightener off.

"Come on.. I'll help you sort out your hair so we can leave, yeah?" He suggested.

You sniffled softly in response and nodded.

"Please." You replied.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

[moonstruckme]

Hii! I really love ur writing<3

Could i request Sirius black x fem!reader where her hair is really fluffy but after she has showered her hair is like kindy wavy-ish but she brushes it out and it becomes really fluffy. But then Sirius sees that and is like "u have curly hair" but reader is like "nope". So sirius convinces her and shows her his hair routine and it turns out she does have curly hair and all the fluff and everything?

English is not my first languages so I hope that I'm being clear about what i mean😭 sorry for any mistakes.

Feel free to ignore this if you want<33

No worries my love, this was super clear! I didn't learn how to make my curly hair look good until a few years ago, so this was sooo relatable haha! Thanks for requesting :)

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Sirius knocks as you step out of his shower, drying off one leg and then the other with the towel he’d given you. 

“Sorry, angel, could I get in there for a sec?” He calls through the door. “I forgot my moisturizer.” 

“Sure, just a minute,” you reply, quickly toweling off before wrapping yourself in a robe. “Okay, you’re good.” 

“Thanks,” Sirius says, steam whooshing out as he opens the door. He grabs a little jar from the counter, toting it about before starting back the way he came, but he stops before he reaches the door. Sirius looks at you for a moment, his lips curving slightly upward into one of those soft smiles you love so much. “You look so pretty like this,” he says.  

You give him a tiny grin in return, pulling the robe tighter over your body self-consciously. “Thanks, Siri.” 

“Is…” his eyebrows come together. “Is that what your hair always looks like when it’s wet?”

You look down at your ends, half expecting them to be purple from the expression on your boyfriend’s face. “Um, yeah?”

He crosses his arms, tongue pressing into his cheek thoughtfully. “And what do you usually do to it after you shower?”

“I dunno.” You pick your discarded towel up again. “Brush it? That’s it, really.” 

You start to run the towel over your hair, scrubbing out the moisture, and Sirius lunges for you as if you’re holding a weapon to your head instead. “No, stop!”

“What?”

“You can’t rub it like that.” He snatches the towel from you, something like offense in his tone. “That’s nearly the worst thing you can do for curly hair.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Well then lucky for me that I don’t have curly hair.” 

“I think you do,” Sirius says, hanging the towel on a hook. “Or wavy, at least. Look at it right now, it looks almost like mine.” 

The mirror is too foggy to see in, but you don’t need to. “It’s not like yours, though,” you say, a touch of envy creeping into your voice. “Yours is so pretty and shiny. You’ve seen mine, it gets all frizzy when it’s dry.” 

“Okay, compliment heard and accepted.” Sirius grins at you. “But I think your hair just gets like that because you brush it, darling. Let me play with it, please?”

You hesitate. You’ve always shied away from messing with your hair because, as much as it frustrates you, you know how to deal with it the way it is. Oil, buns, plaits. You’d rather have the devil you know than whatever might result from angering it. 

But Sirius does seem to know an impressive amount about hair care. His counter is littered with products that testify to that. And you don’t think he’s right, but if he is, and your hair could look anything like his…

“Fine,” you sigh, and Sirius beams at you, taking you by the shoulders and bringing you in front of the mirror. 

“Alright, I’m gonna talk you through it, dollface,” he promises. “I mean, I’ll do it for you every time you shower if you want me to, but I’ll give you the details just in case you wanna know later.”

He begins by rewetting your hair under the faucet, instructing you to only brush it while it’s sopping wet. He introduces you to leave-in conditioner, curl cream, mousse, telling you what each of them do and weaving them into your locks with skilled fingers. You can’t help but admire the concentrated set of his brows as he works, the way his dark hair gleams under the fluorescent light. However this turns out, you like having his hands in your hair like this. You might ask him to do it again just for that. 

“There we go,” he says, affixing one of his t-shirts to hold your hair close to your head. “We’ll leave that on for a bit, and when it comes off we should have a decent idea of how it’s gonna look when it’s dry.” 

You smile at him, and Sirius fixes you with a look that’s unbelievably fond. “Normally, this is when I do my skin routine, while I’ve got my hair out of the way,” he says, speaking softly though there’s no one else around to hear. “Want me to do yours for you, lovely girl?”

You feel your face warm, but you don’t care if he sees, the affection between you too great to be a well-kept secret. “That’d be nice, thanks.” 

Sirius’ touch is gentle as he goes over your face with a warm washcloth, smoothing your various products into your skin while you do your best not to preen.

“So pretty,” he murmurs once he’s done, planting a kiss on your freshly moisturized cheek. You wouldn’t be surprised if you were glowing from the inside out.

You chase him, capturing his lips with yours, and the both of you giggle at the absurdity of it, kissing whilst sitting on his bathroom counter, you all wet in a robe and him fully clothed. 

“Alright,” Sirius says, stroking your jaw as a consolation when he breaks the kiss. “I think your hair should be ready to come down.” 

You find yourself almost excited as he unwraps the t-shirt from your hair, tracking the progress of his grin while he squeezes the last bits of moisture from your ends before taking you by the shoulders.

“Okay,” he says soberly, looking at you with mock gravitas. “Are you ready to see?” 

You roll your eyes whilst you nod, and he turns you. The fog has faded from the mirror, so you’re able to see yourself clearly as your mouth actually drops open. Your hair is still damp, but even so, the bottom half falls in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly. It’s smooth, and shiny, and nothing like you thought it had the potential to be. 

“Not bad, right?” Sirius sounds smug, but you can feel his excitement as he watches your reaction. “I might use less heavy products in the future, and more mousse, but—”

You spin around, wrapping him in a hug. He laughs, arms coming around your back with just as much enthusiasm. 

“It looks so pretty, Siri,” you gush. “Thank you so much!”

“I’ve always said you’re the prettiest girl in the world,” he sounds exasperated, but his grip tightens on you warmly, “so I really don’t see why you’re acting so surprised.”

[giggletea]

Jason Todd loves kissing you.

But even more than that… he loves you kissing him. Loves it when you hold onto his face, press kisses along the fat of his cheeks and his temples, the sides of his nose… loves when you pull him flush against your body just to shower him in your affection. 

On days where the world is a little kinder to him, and he comes home neither battered nor bruised, he loves tearing off his mask and reaching for you immediately—hands wrapping around your hips, lips chasing after yours. The sweat and humidity of hunting bad guys in places where heat prevails, even with the night’s chill, leaves his hair curlier (and dare you argue fluffier). When Jason returns all your lovin’ with his own affection the fluff of his hair tickles you and you scrunch up your face and laugh, and he laughs, and it’s just…

Pure bliss.

[sunnyrmrez]

Doodles of scenes in a sans x reader fanfic my friend was narrating to me

Guess the fic

[xoxorory]

Where’s the dog !

POV: Fem!Reader & Damian Wayne Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff | Humor | Chaos | Domestic Softness Featuring: Titus Word Count: 1K .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) requested by: @simpingmyassoff sorry it took long!!! I was finishing classes A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: It's kind of inspired in how @fromdove (💕💞💓💗💖💘💝) writes damian. . .,please GO CHECK HER BLOG ! ! ! !

“He hid again,didn’t he?” 

‘’Pffft– what? Of course not!”

©𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐,𝑹𝒐𝒓𝒚🐚 —-do not copy, repost, plagiarize,translate or feed any of my work into ai. I work hard to give quality content.

POV: You

Dog-sitting Titus should be easy. I mean, come on. He’s a dog. A big dog, sure, but mostly a big, fluffy, lovable dog who just wants to nap, chew his squeaky toys, and occasionally judge me for my lack of treats.

I’d done this countless times before. Titus stayed with me while Damian was off doing who-knows-what, and I’d happily take care of the giant fluffball. Feed him, walk him, throw his favorite toy until he got tired, repeat.

Simple.

Today was supposed to be just another normal Titus-sitting day.

And yet here I was, standing in my living room with my hands on my hips, heart thumping, and pillows thrown all over the floor like a tornado had hit my apartment.

Because Titus had vanished.

Literally.

It started an hour ago. I was cleaning up after one of Titus’s enthusiastic toy-chasing sessions, when I glanced around and noticed he wasn’t at his usual spot by the couch. No gentle snoring. No wagging tail brushing against the carpet.

Nothing.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇:  I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Oh great.

Great.

Because Titus was nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” I muttered, dropping onto my knees, scanning the floor for any signs of him. “Keep calm. He’s probably hiding. He loves hiding.”

Except that usually, when Titus hid, I could hear him. His nails tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood, or the faint squeak of his favorite red toy being tossed around. This time? Silence.

And the clock was ticking.

Damian’s text came again.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇: I’m five minutes away.

I was about to text back a frantic, “Hey baby! Um…I think I lost your dog,don’t kill me. xoxo” but I knew that would only make things worse. Damian’s eyebrow raise would be legendary.

No. I had to find Titus before Damian showed up.

So I launched into full search mode.

First, the couch cushions. I flipped and dug through every crevice, fishing out dust bunnies and a couple of crumbs, but no Titus.

Next, under the coffee table. No wagging tail. No big eyes staring at me.

“Come on, Titus,” I whispered, voice catching. “Please don’t make me look bad in front of Damian.”

I moved to the kitchen, thinking maybe he was trying to steal some snacks, but no. Empty floors.

The balcony door was closed, so no chance he escaped outside — plus, I was pretty sure he’d never survive the drop without some serious bat-gadgets.

Then I heard it. The tiniest squeak.

My heart jumped.

Titus’s toy.

I followed the sound, creeping around my bookshelf — and suddenly, there he was.

Curled up in the tiniest corner behind the books, happily gnawing on his red squeaky toy like it was the best thing in the world.

Oh my god.

Relief slammed through me in a tidal wave.

“Titus! You little stinker!” I scooped him up before he could run off again. His tail thumped against my arm as if to say, “I was just having some alone time, chill.”

I didn’t care.

I hugged him tight.

And then, because I was officially losing my mind, I looked around at the disaster zone my apartment had become.

Pillows from the couch tossed everywhere.

Blankets flung like flags of defeat.

My coffee table now sporting a suspiciously large scratch.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” I told myself. “Damian’s coming. You can do this.”

Almost like the universe heard me, the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped again.

“Okay, Titus,” I whispered, setting him down. “Time for Operation: Don’t Look Like You Lost Him.”

I straightened my hoodie, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Damian stood there, expression unreadable, as usual.

His dark eyes flicked from me to Titus—who was now sitting politely by my feet, tail wagging.

“Welcome back,roohi! ,” I said, voice a little too cheerful.

Damian’s lips twitched—maybe the closest thing he had to a smile.

“You seem… relieved.”

I flushed. “Really? You’re making up things again”

He took the leash from my hand and clipped it to Titus’s collar.

Titus immediately jumped into Damian’s side, tail wagging furiously.

Damian glanced back at me, then said quietly, “I suppose I won’t ask where he was.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

But the way his eyes softened told me he already knew exactly what had happened.

And maybe, just maybe, he was choosing not to make me explain.

POV: Damian Wayne

I texted her fifteen minutes ago.

I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Simple enough.

When I arrived at her place, I expected to see Titus sprawled on the floor, maybe half-asleep, or at worst, begging for a walk.

Instead, the door swung open, and there stood her—looking disheveled, slightly flustered, and clutching Titus like he was a fragile treasure.

My eyes scanned the room.

Pillows were strewn everywhere.

The coffee table bore a fresh scratch.

Blankets were tossed haphazardly.

The couch was upside down.

Clearly, some kind of Titus-related chaos had ensued.

I kept my expression calm, though inside I was amused.

“Titus,” I said softly, kneeling down to the dog’s level.

The giant mutt wagged his tail, tongue lolling happily.

Relief was written all over her face.

“You seem… relieved,” I said quietly, not really expecting a reply.

She flushed and gave a small laugh.

“Really?,” she said, “ You’re making up things again”

I clipped the leash to Titus’s collar.

The dog immediately pressed against my leg.

I glanced back at her.

“Where was he?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

I didn’t press.

Some things were better left unsaid.

[zyettemoon1800]

Saja Boys x Reader with curly hair

Jinu

He is going to stare at you whenever you do any with your hair

He has never seen someone with naturally curly hair and he is amazed

He is going to ask a lot of questions about your hair and the products you use

Abby

Abby Saja ? More like hair stylist Saja

He is surprisedly good at help you maintain and style your curly hair

If there is a style you want to try and that he likes, he is already set up on the couch with your products and snacks and a pillow on the floor

The only down side is that he is heavy handed so sometimes you be gripping his thigh and cussing him out because he is being too rough

But be warned, if you move too much he will pop you with the comb

Mystery

He is strangely attached to your curly form.

His hands are always in your hair playing with it

He hates it when you put your hair up or straighten it.

It has gotten to the point that he will hide your straightener from you and if you found it he will pout

Baby

He is a simple man

All he does is pull your curl down just to watch it curl back up

He will do this for hours and hours as he scrolls online

Romance

He LOVES your hair

Always running his hands through it and smelling it because he loves the products smell.

Maybe he secretly hair curly hair, but he straightens it all the time

[supercutszns]

a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.

[ridingtorohan]

Moments of the Tulpar crew experiencing Hanahaki disease for the reader (pre-crash)

𓇻 content warning. no spoilers for the game. swansea's is left ambiguous if it's romantic or platonic. receiver's choice. jimmy's whole section is a warning; denial, mention of self-mutilation (not depicted), possessiveness, manipulation and implied sexual frustration. jimmy's ending line is not about sexual assault, he's just manipulative.

Hanahaki Disease

A condition that causes the victims to cough up flowers or flower petals, due to either unrequited love or repressed love for another person.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Read it On AO3! _ Masterlist _ Join the taglist _ Ask box

Yellow Chrysanthemum- a deep love that cannot be spoken.

"You have your space legs," Curly says, voice a low rumble in his chest. His hand smooths over your shoulder, feeling the shift of muscle. Through the flightsuit, he could feel the rumble of your laughter.

"Six times the charm, right?" You smile with the glint of your teeth, head tipped back to peer up at him. Warmth and roots lodge in his chest, like tiny tendrils of leaves crawling through him. Like being tickled from the inside, a radiated warmth that resonated through his limbs. He loved to look at your smile, how your expression lit up the whole room.

Curly remembered when the two of you were paired together, with you fresh out of training and new to travel. How queasy it made most people feel, even with the artificial gravity. He'd been the same.

Blue eyes dart low, watched as Daisuke threw a uno reverse down, giddy in his seat.

You shout back and reveal one of your own. The conversation devolved then to a bickering match and culminated in Daisuke's sulky expression as he scrounged around for a green.

"You should join us, Curly," you said, eyes back on him.

Stems lodged in his throat, petals curled against soft muscle. A bloomed flower, ripe under your attentive gaze. Everything inside him blossomed at your every word, fragile and wanting in his mouth.

"In a minute. Piloting duties." As he excused himself with a clearing of his throat, he reluctantly pulled away from your side, only to let his eyes linger on your side profile. How easy you interacted with the other Tulpar crewmembers; Anya and Daisuke especially.

Swansea grumbled in his seat and through some barbaric display of betrayal, threw down a stack of +4's on top of Daisuke's green before announcing the new colour (green). The pivotal horror only increased as you slapped your own on top, just for Daisuke to hurriedly slap through the deck. ("We don't even have enough cards!")

It's a gentle feeling; being in love like this. Feeling connected in more ways than a captain should. Than a captain legally ought to. Still, it reached up, through his body, like an ache that needed to be fulfilled. Eyes that always followed you; the attentive way he spoke to you. Every bone in his body whispered love, love, love. I love you.

Pilot duties was just an excuse. Safe from the rec hall, Curly raised a fist to his mouth as his chest heaved. A wet, sticky yellow flower fell from his mouth, devotion spelled out to the bone.

Curly doesn't hate you for this. He's lived long enough to cradle the emotions as they come, to take the small chances when he could get it. A captain's duties didn't extend to fraternization.

As he held the flower between his fingers, he couldn't fault you at all. Not when you smiled at him - like the crew-- like that. He didn't expect his love to be returned; loving you was enough. Even like this.

Honeysuckle- devoted love, whose entwined vines represent the difficulty to escape its grasp

The insufferable itching was the worst of it. Each swelled muscle, bulge under his veins; Jimmy has half a mind to claw into his own skin. Tear the flowers right out from him, bloody and whole.

He'd rather feel anything but this, this unfathomable twitchy lurch in his chest. How you made his skin clammy and pulse skittered. Half of the time he wanted to throttle you, the other portion involved throwing you against the wall and devouring you right there.

Because something about you demanded that he take, stake a claim on his person. Outside of Curly, you were the only one able to placate him, to have a backbone and withstand his hurled words.

He didn't expect this twitch in his body, the tension that rattled through him like a freight train. Jimmy, on all accounts of everyone he's ever been with, didn't do soft. He didn't do sweet.

With you, it felt like the best and worst of him was brought out. A willingness to scoff and turn the other way - however begrudgingly. The way his temper flared, quick to rise on the offense and defense.

Red, sickly petals fall from his mouth, stems and roots attached. He's aware of the damned disease; felt it in every rock of his body. Every time his arm so much as touched yours. The inescapable draw, the sway of the boat, the chasm that roared to life inside him.

They tore like a mother up his throat and no amount of scratches at his skin lessened the torment. You have him wrapped right around his finger, drowned him in a pool of your own making.

Jimmy all but hated you for it; hated your sympathetic frowns, the way you so easily acted with the nurse and Daisuke. He's imagined it many times, his fist clenched around your wrist, his mouth on yours. How hot you'd feel against his skin.

The way you turned your head, how your mouth moved so easily, focus rapt on Swansea over some bullshit. Holed up on the sofa, electronic board between you. A better student than Daisuke was supposed to be.

Jimmy's eyes darted over your expression, the way your nose moved when you breathed, the swallow of your throat. Under the simulated forest screen, you looked captivating. Forest light over your eyes that highlighted your cheekbones.

That familiar spasm resonated in his chest again, wet, hot and sickly, and he spat it out, threw the squashed pink and orange blossom in his fingers, roots slick with blood. All that left to the ground as he stomped ahead, hands planted on the back of the sofa.

"Sure, electronic work is all hoorah, but how 'bout I show you some real skills in the pilot's chair?"

He's definitely one to boast, and with the way your eyes turned up, it sent another tremor through his chest. Eyes narrowed, a challenge left your lips, his eyes quick to follow the motion.

Swansea scoffed with a sneer. But who cared about him or his opinions?

When you finally relented, the rattle in his chest intensified, that ache to touch reigning fierce. While Curly's presence deterred any advances Jimmy could make on you, he'd eventually get you right where he wanted you.

Forget-me-nots- the pain of loss and desire to hold onto memories and love

Psych evals weren't Anya's favourite task by any means, but it had been another aspect of her career. One that she chose, one that she'd keep choosing again and again. A step closer to the actual job she wanted; one with different stresses, different bosses. More stability.

For all that it was considered, one aspect that she liked most was to learn about you. How you perceived the depicted situation, how your lips pursed when you were in thought. How your leg shifted, how you once paced the room.

More than once, she'd been distracted by the lull of your voice, the stride of your steps, how your tendons moved beneath your flight suit.

"Good." She says, the word airy in her mouth.

When you smile at her, it is blinding, enough to make her eyes dart away, heart tender in her chest. With you, everything just so much ... less. Less frightful, less stress. Less constant noise in her head. She could breathe around you, bursting a garden for you in her lungs with each stolen glance.

For her, passing the flowers were easy. Mostly petals at first, loose and velvety to the touch. Then whole ones, beautiful and pristine, a testament to their circumstances.

She didn't feel drawn to you, so much as drawn around your orbit; like the Earth around the Sun. A star that burned bright in her eyes. She'd always preferred sunrises.

As the nurse, Anya has been expected to pick up on traits of her patients; learn their allergies, habits. How to better help them. Who helped the nurse? Who helped her when her heart galloped, cheeks a fire when she looked at you?

You were sweet - tender, when most others would look away.

It felt like a baptism by fire.

"That's a cool flower," you breathed out, when the silence lapsed between you.

She startled, hand to her mouth - but your eyes are distant, focused on the bottle she kept on her desk. Not that bottle was an apt term; a tall cup was more appropriate. Keeping a flower without roots was difficult; but forget-me-nots was simple. Easy. Swaddled in water, pretty blue petals frame the glass lip. A testament to her affection for you.

The end of her pen tapped against the clipboard. "Thank you."

Now, your eyes turn to her, lidded with approval and warmth. Her flower garden grows. "I never knew we were allowed to keep flowers here."

A smile lit up her face, immediate and without hesitation. Your approval, however small, meant the world to her. It filled her with a sense of satisfaction, of belonging. Of knowledge that she'd be safe and secure with you, as she always has been.

"It's a special case."

Eyes turn back, admiring the pristine petals. "Still petty cool though. Adds nice colour to the room."

She smiled and her chest hurt with the admiration and affection that ran through her. An intensity that swooped through her, fierce and devoted. "Thank you. I'll be sure to add more next time." She would; anything to have you keep coming back to her little corner of the world, to see your eyes linger, even if not on her.

"Sounds great."

You both turn as Daisuke poked his head in, grin wide on his face. "Hey, guys." Brown eyes dart to you with a pointed, "Curly was looking for you." You nod, fingers on your coat lining as you adjusted it. Anya tried not to focus on it.

"We'll continue this later?" You ask her.

Anya's eyes turn to the forget-me-not, alone and perfect. Even though psych evals weren't a choice, this was. And she'd always keep choosing you. "Yes."

Rue - fragrant flower that is used to ward off evil spirits, representing courage, repentance and healing

Feet step over the small, fragile petals littered over the ground. No matter how many times Swansea swept them up, they clung to his clothes and followed him. Even now, they cluttered his workspace, with one ground to paste around a bolt.

"Looks like a chicken was killed here," comes your voice. Swansea's mouth twitched, upper lip pursed as he doubled over his work. Wiring was delicate work, after all, and he had to correct the mess that his intern made before it affected anything.

Fortunately, he was able to rewire the grid for the time being.

"Shit's tough if a little flowers gets every inch of you knotted up," he answered, voice gruff as flowers tickled his throat. With a twist of his mouth, he coughed, and with the ease of a man whose been through this before, spat the dry buggers out and away from his workspace.

He could all but hear the shrug as you say, "Doesn't bother me."

As he set aside his tool, he leaned over for the spool of electrician's wire. Your knuckles met him, warm flesh against weathered hands as you pass it to him. "Thanks." As he turned away from you, he coughed again, each petal little more than a nuisance.

All the same, you hovered beside him, head leaned over his shoulder as he toiled away. There was something soothing and mundane about it, the way your eyes drifted over his hands, faded tan lines not yet gone.

"You want something or you just like babying my work?"

From his peripheral, Swansea could see the twitch of your lips, the wry wrinkle in your brow. How your eyes turned away, roamed over the assortment of metals he has strewn about over his work table, only to linger on the equally as vast array of pale yellow.

Telling him to see Anya about his 'condition' hadn't helped the last time you brought it up. Swansea had more than enough experience to believe that it'd be here to stay, to ruminate among the other seedlings left behind in his chest. This one festered longer than the others, almost soft and delicate. How he dealt with it was the same.

But you were different from the rest.

"You know me, always wanting to admire your work." There's that cheeky grin he knows and he snorts in amusement. Even when it was followed by a short cough, he turned his focus back on the wires. When that was sorted through, he leaned back in his chair, brow sweaty with exertion.

"Alright, get it off yer chest and tell me what's up."

There's that twitch of your head he knew so well, the cock of your mouth and the side-glance of your eyes. Even as you leaned against his workstation, hip to the edge, every side of you rang with familiarity. Cramped together on a ship for six hauls did that to people; it was easy to know their body language, their mannerisms.

Easy to love.

Swansea's head tipped back, lips quirked and brow shifted in a beckoning motion. With a sigh, as you always did, you began your tirade about your latest frustration. Jimmy was at it again, a string of months long frustration bubbled out. Cards up his sleeve - literally--, the snide remarks, the open hostility. A point of contention that Swansea knew all too well.

"Want me to sock him a new left cheekbone?" In response, you laughed, eyes shut tight as you doubled over. No holds barred, genuine and true to the bone.

A facet of you that Swansea always liked; you had been upfront from the get-go, earnest in your attempts to befriend the crew. In mapping out the ship, glad for Swansea's guidance as he gave you the grand tour. A genuity that he hadn't seen for a long time, let alone directed at him.

Most people scoffed at his age, dismissive of the years toiled away in labour, dedicated on one task to the next. Where the two of you may have butted heads, you always bounced back, prepared for the next go. It had reminded him of himself, when he was younger. Now, it just reminded him of you.

While you all too gleefully admonished him for the offer, he didn't rescind it. Because for all the things he admired in you, you fostered it in him too. A drive to be himself, to rebound after the goings get tough. Wakeup calls weren't as pleasant as your company, but for now he'd take what he could get.

Even if the flowers got in the way of it all.

Dahlia- representing sacrifice and endurance needed to thrive in harsh conditions as well as gratitude and commitment

His leg is stationary, twitching every so often against the table. Daisuke has already knocked over a few Sorry! pieces, not that he had much problem with that - Swansea was winning anyway.

The tv screen before you two was awash in a golden haze, a sun over a distant horizon, washing the sea in light. It's picturesque, letting him ruminate in the thoughts with a hazy feeling in his chest.

He's never quite been in love like this before, this upbeat, yawning, yearning chasm inside him. Where every touch gives him the jitters, where he just wants to wrap you up in his gangly arms and hold onto you forever.

He's never been in love where it aches, like flowers rooting in his blood. Out of everyone, he knows more than enough about the condition that saunters in his body; seen it enough times on his sisters. A hereditory predisposition, he somehow never grasped that he'd get it.

Not once did it ever feel wrong, like this was a burden. A phantom ache, it reached into his lungs and nestled there. He had seen the pink petals fall into his palms and he knew, 'this is love'. When he saw your face, felt his heart patter in his chest, he knew, 'this is love'.

Each time he opened his mouth, slid a packet of extra sweetener your way, he felt it. Just as he felt it now, resting low in his chest, stems of dahlias woven into his hair. Out of everything, he'll always be proud of it, of what you've given him. This life that throbs inside of him, the moments that never seem to pass.

Even though you've expressed concern whenever Daisuke coughed up a fresh one - whenever your shoulders so much as touched-- he was glad for it. Glad for how your leg shifted against his now, your arm all but crushing his. How you two are folded together, your eyes glued to the peaceful scene on the screen, while all Daisuke can think about is watching you.

How the light dances over your cheekbones, over your nose. How you nestle against him like you can't pry yourself away, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. As restless and ansty as he tended to be, he felt solid and complete right beside you.

"That is not what your book says," is what you say as your mouth twitched upwards, eyes crinkling at the corners as you look at him. Each glance has him grin and he felt like a kid again, one who learned how to draw again for the first time.

"It is so!" He chirped with a dramatic wave of the electrical book that Swansea had given him. "It is hella in here! Thomas Edison totally got the idea of the lightbulb from the flowers that wove around it!"

And you laugh, that sound that sent shivers right down to his bones and he grinned and echoed, unashamed of how he sounds, his heart and inner garden close to bursting.

"No way! I've read that book! He isn't even in there!" You smacked his shoulder and he doubled over, sides pressed to yours as he dramatically flourishes it closer.

"Is so!" He pointedly tapped his index finger to the paragraph he was on. As you squint through the dim light, he could already tell by your furrowed brow and rolled eyes that you had skimmed the page. Even as you jostled his shoulder, he laughed.

"Am I right or am I right?" He laughed.

"It's not in there!"

"It might as well be!"

Even as your laughter chorused together, he found himself all too eager to slide back up against you, the book propped up in his arm as he showed off the page. "...and he totally, radically, found purple petals. The end!" He concluded his paragraph. It was worth the elbow to the gut and the hard laughter. Because it was coming from you. It was all you.

"You said orange flowers last time!" You admonish, almost under your breath before you laugh, "But alright, go on then. Read the rest of it if you're so sure of it!" With a wide grin, he did, even when you rolled your eyes at his random embellishments, or when he completely derailed and started to rant about the invention of pizza.

For each moment that lingered between you two, it felt easy. It felt safe. Even when you gave up and grasped the book from his hands, when your knuckles touched and electricity wound under his skin, he knew it to be true.

As your hands drew out the flower bookmark he kept, half-squashed between the pages, he caught it as you set it down.

For every failure that he felt he cropped up in life, this certainly wasn't it; this was something made with love, with passion, with something that he had avidly searched for as he grew up.

When he tucked the flower into your hair, he listened to the ramble of your words as you scanned through the paragraphs - the proper ones-- and watched the light of the screen reflect across your eyes.

This is the feeling that Daisuke knew best; this burning, smoldering affection that rested inside his chest. This was as close as he'd get to feeling 'home' without returning to Earth, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

Something About Curly Hair and Any Character You Have in Mind

I've always had a fantasy of someone playing with my curls. Delicately pulling on them, like a kid pulling on a string. Playfully and adoringly watching the curl bounce back. Maybe the person could even praise it, saying it's cute, or beautiful, or mesmerising. Especially if they don't have curly hair.

A few minutes ago, my girl friend did it to me, exactly how I've always dreamed, even if inside I wanted to pull away, afraid that she would mess it up, I didn't, and she didn't, and even if she did, I wouldn't care, because I'm starved. So here's this little scenario that I finally felt courage and inspiration to write.

This was written based on my own experience having 123B hair, that has some volume on it (how do you even measure that??), with definition, so you must imagine it was very indulgent.

Also works for Readers of any race!!!! I just specify they have natural curls, didn't even mention the colour.

Gn!Reader and Gn!Character so you reaaaally can imagine whoever you want. But the character probably doesn't have curly hair, and learns to do different hairstyles on you (it's different doing it on yourself and then doing on other people, so you still can imagine any gender or appearance on them). Sex is mentioned. I'm tagging this with the first characters that come to my mind while writing this, just to make it easier.

Might edit this later because it's currently 3am and I'm sleepy as fuck

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They love you. That means they love everything about you. And they love your hair.

They think the volume is sexy. Think clouds can't be softer. Think the way the light reflects on it is ethereal. Think the curls smells heavenly. Think the shape is unmatched.

When you move your hair, it's like being a kid and having a first crush again. Especially if the action causes the delicate smell of it travel through the air faster than they can blink, and they're swallowed in a fog of you.

When you sleep in the same bed together for the first time, and every other time after, they like to wake up before you. Just to admire your peacefull beauty for a while. Like the rest of the world doesn't exist. That's the best way to start a day.

Sometimes, boredom doesn't get to them because tracing curl patterns in your hair with their eyes is entertainment for a lifetime. Never before have they noticed that someone can have more than one curl texture, and how unique and perfect that mixture can look.

There's moments where they get distracted by you. You, taking their attention from something supposedly more important at that moment. Either you smell too nice, or look too good, or shine too bright. And they just can't seem to find anything more interesting than looking at you and your hair.

The first time they touched it, they were surprised by how soft it was, like cotton. Almost weightless, despite it's volume and length. Other people's hair surely doesn't feel like this. They spend so much time touching it the first time, that you have to ask them to stop, or you wouldn't have a nice hair day the next day. They looked like a kicked puppy, so you taught them to gently scrunch from the bottom.

They think bonnets are funny at first, but not in a bad way. They're not laughing at you. Mostly giggling, actually. They understand you may have needed some courage to look like this with them around. And it's like a tiny, almost nonexistent, relationship goal. To be intimate enough to feel confortable wearing a bonnet in front of your partner. And they love that you have no problem doing it.

They even buy silk sheets and pillows if it might help you. It might be morte confortable and not mess with your hair. And they understands sex while having curly hair might be frustrating at times.

Speaking of, they won't pull or mess with it unless you ask for it. They took very seriously your lesson from the first time. And if you have some instructions to give them on how to do it while causing less damage, then you certainly will lift a weight off some shoulders.

Oh, and the difference of how it looks when it's wet and then dry? They can't believe their eyes for a moment. Logic seems to escape. It feels impossible. But it isn't. And they're amazed. Almost jealous for not being as gorgeous as you. They understand why someone would be jealous of you.

Actually, they partially think others should be. If someone dares to utter you are less than stunning, then oh boy. God help them.

Any styling is great. And they're so in love with you, so focused on you, eyes solely on you, that they think no hairstyle looks as good on other people, as they look on you. Even if you hate it, he thinks it looks way better than it would have on anyone else.

Also, they learn some things. They learns to curl with their fingers, how to put on clips, how to do some braids, or buns, or pigtains, or anything you wear often. Even something you never did, but they think will make you ethereal, they will do it on you. They might not even teach you, just so you'll need them for something.

They feel part of their heart breaking if you straighten it. Sure it looks good. If it makes you happy, than they're happy. But it's far from a favorite look on you. It's not the natural you. And they love you. They might love a modified version of you, but only because they love you. Just the way you are.

And if you ever feel insecure, I assure you, they're gonna fix you right up.

Like, comment and reblog 🥰

[vivaiavidapasta]

Ngl I usually hate human-ifying non-human characters but…. Shmilk inspired by the ending of Dreamwork’s Sinbad 😤

[dollwhite]

Imagine Talia Al ghol having a sister Orr a twin sister?? Like everyone also talks about Damian having a twin.

And like Damian def views his aunt as a second mother. Like aunt reader shows Damian a more loving side like we know Talia loves him. She just doesn’t show it much/ at all. Also aunt reader has more of a curly hair type, and when she straightens it she looks exactly like Talia. And girl dad ra prefers when reader doesn’t straighten their heir, so he can tell his two little girls apart. Because they definitely get a bit mad when he gets them mixed up.

Ra’s at his already old age having seeing problems: ah reader it has been a very long time, come closer. Have you straightened your hair?

Talia: no father I have not..

Ra: oh.. when was the last time ur sister came by?

Talia: 5 years ago, when Damian went with 𝐡𝐢𝐬 father.

Ra: hm

Twin reader: oh family! Am I late?

[moonstruckme]

(This is super self indulgent) but I've been thinking about curly haired reader being sick and trying to get through her hair routine but she doesn't have the energy to stay up and properly do it so one of the boys (I was leaning more toward Sirius ) helps her out and does it for her because of her unwell she feels.

Hope you have a lovely day!

Thanks for the request, hope you had/have a lovely day too <3

cw: reader has curly hair, and I know everyone does curl routines differently so I just picked a couple steps at random and tried to keep it somewhat vague

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 671 words

You resist the urge to sit down in the shower the whole time you’re in there. You doubt Sirius would begrudge you the increase in your water bill, but you worry genuinely that if you sit down you may not get back up. Your boyfriend might have to come in and drag you, wet and nude, over the lip of the tub and into bed. 

He’d do it, too, but you like Sirius too well for that. 

You’re in what you hope are the final stages of your illness. It’s mostly headaches and some congestion now, and a heavy, bone-deep fatigue that makes trekking from your bed to the kitchen feel an unendurable task. After getting out of the shower and drying yourself with your towel, you take a rest sitting on the toilet lid. You don’t want to go through with everything else in your routine. 

Eventually you’re able to talk yourself into standing up again. You open the bathroom door. The steam rushes out, your skin pebbling at the loss of warmth. 

“Sirius?” 

Your boyfriend looks up from where he’s reading in your bed, a paperback’s cover folded cruelly in his hand. He tucks his hair behind his ear to see you better. “Yeah?” 

“Can you help me, please?” 

You don’t have to try very hard to look pathetic and miserable. Sirius knows what you’re asking; he gets out of bed without further explanation. 

“Course, sweetness. You aren’t cold? Do you want your robe?” 

You do want your robe, actually, you only hadn’t wanted to go get it. Sirius brings it to you, taking your towel so you can put it on and steering you in front of the sink. 

He’s watched you go through your curl routine enough times not to need instruction. He pulls out the products in the order you use them and begins combing them into your wet hair with his fingers. You close your eyes, enjoying the gentle tug at your roots and the feeling of being cared for. 

“Are you sure you want to go to work tomorrow?” he asks. 

You sigh. “Yeah.” 

A soft chuckle. “Eager to get back, clearly.” Sirius’ tone is amused, but it softens when he says, “You seem so tired, baby.” 

“I don’t want to use any more of my sick days,” you mumble, tiredly. “I’ll make it.” 

He hums. You feel it like a physical thing, a pleasant thrum running over your skin and sinking into your bones. “Alright. Don’t pack a lunch, I’ll bring you something warm.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“What’s that matter? Flip over for me.” 

You bend, letting your hair fall forward so Sirius can scrunch mousse into your roots. Even through your stuffy nose you can smell the sweet scents of your products mingling in the steamy air. 

“Thank you for doing this,” you say.

“Shush.” The next time he scrunches, his nails scratch teasingly at your scalp. “We both know you’re doing me a favor here. I live for this shit.” 

You smile. It’s getting very easy, letting yourself hang forward like a rag doll. When Sirius stops scrunching, you stay there, indolent.

“You can straighten up now, sweetness.” 

You sigh as you do, rolling your head so that your hair falls behind you without much fuss. Sirius takes your face in his hands, pouting. 

“My poor girl.” He kisses your nose. “Bedtime?” 

“Please.” You reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

He hugs you back as he walks you both toward your bed. You turn your face into his neck, no longer caring if you’re being embarrassing. Every part of you feels warm and heavy. 

“You always smell so good like this.” Sirius noses at your hairline. “I’m rather lucky, aren’t I? You wanna just keep this on?” 

He means your robe. You wouldn’t normally, but tonight you can’t bring yourself to do more than hum in acquiescence.

“Alright, here we are. Comfy? Do you mind if I keep reading for a while?”

You’re too far gone to reply.

[n0vazsq]

Hi can I request something with Ollie Bearman or Pepe Martí with a girlfriend reader I can imagine reader has curly hair and it's their first sleep over and realising how much time she put it in her hair

Hope you have a wonderful day

Loving machine | OB87 x Reader

pairing . . . ollie bearman x curly!haired!gf!reader

summary . . . Ollie never knew how much effort it took to care for your curly hair, until he stayed over at yours for a sleepover

warnings . . . none!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . !PART OF MINI FIC SERIES! ignore the title i couldnt come up with something <3 moodboard is SHIT so ignore that pls! NOT PROOFREAD

animated divider by @toastray !!

. . . The soft glow of fairy lights cast a warm hue in the room, flickering gently as if in sync with the dim lamps set up throughout the room. The scent of candles and pastries filled your room, the soft blanket laid underneath you spread across the bedroom floor.

A warmth filled the air, calming down your nervousness as you sat down in front your mirror. Ollie was sat cross legged on your bed, eyeing the hair care products lined up next to you, as you gave him a wide grin.

"I didn't know sleepovers came with ambiance," he teased, eyes scanning the little setup you organised with your mother; snacks, movies, and the faint smell of coconut from your hair filling the air.

"They do now." You said as you took your hair out of its towel, the wet curls cascading over your shoulders. You could feel Ollie's stare as you slightly shook your head, causing the curls to cascade down your shoulders.

You reached for a small spray bottle, misting your curls section by section. The air filled with the light scent of something sweet, and for a moment, Ollie felt like he was breathing you in.

Cool droplets clung to your hair as you worked through it with ease, fingers moving through each section like you'd done it a thousand times before. Slow. Careful. Like it mattered.

He watched your fingers glide through a thick curl, pause at a knot, and gently work it loose. There was no rush in the movements, just a slow rhythm. The soft drag of a comb followed, the kind of sound you'd miss if you weren’t paying attention.

But Ollie was.

You scooped a bit of cream from a jar, something thick and rich, Ollie noted, and rubbed it between your palms before scrunching it into your curls.

When you finally reached for your bonnet, smoothing it over your hair with precision, Ollie realised he hasn't said a word. You caught his eyes in the mirror and raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching like she was about to say 'What?'

He just blinked, then murmured, "You do all that every night?"

You shrugged, like it was obvious. "Yeah. Have to take care of it."

But he saw the way your shoulders eased when it was all done, how you sat back like you could finally relax.

"It looks awfully tiring, my hand would break." Ollie said with a smile, catching your eye as you moved to face him.

You shook your head with a laugh, streching your arms slightly. "It is tiring, but it's worth it."

Ollie moved from the bed to the spot on the floor where you were sitting, his face millimeters away from yours, your noses brushing against each other.

"I know it is." He murmured against your lips, before quickly giving you a kiss.

taglist . . . @barcapix ,, @f1lover55 ,, @ilovebarcaaaa ,, @httpsdana ,, @paucubarsisimp ,, @justaf1girl ,, @awritingtree ,, @freyathehuntress ,, @chilling-seavey ,, @eloriis ,, @linnygirl09 ,, @joaosnovia ,, @damonsalvatorelikessex (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)

[astrophiliaxx]

I think I have a type.....

[xoxorory]

I’m not scared !

POV: Fem!Reader Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff | Humor | Chaos | Domestic Softness Featuring: Dick Grayson,Jason Todd,Tim Drake,Stephanie Brown,Cassandra Cain & Duke Thomas Word Count: 740 .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: UGHHHHHHHHHH i wish i could hide on damian everytime i was scared. . .💔💔💔💔 A/N 3: This was sitting on my drafts for tooooo longggg,and i had to post something A/N 4: It's kind of inspired in how @fromdove (💕💞💓💗💖💘💝) writes damian. . .,please GO CHECK HER BLOG ! ! ! !

“I’m not scared.” “You’re shaking like a leaf.” “…I’m just cold.” “You’re wrapped in three blankets.” “…It’s a cold movie.”

── ୭ ˚. 

It starts with a bet.

Technically, it starts with Stephanie insisting on “Movie Night: Spooky Edition” at the manor and Dick bribing everyone to participate with popcorn and emotionally manipulative puppy eyes.

You agree because you’re not a coward.

(You’re kind of a coward.)

But still. You show up. Hoodie. Blanket. Big mug of cocoa. Confidence almost intact.

The movie is called something ridiculous like “The Possession of Abigail’s Doll’s Ghost’s Mirror” and the tagline is just “Don’t Look Behind You.”

Great. Perfect.

You sit beside Damian. Obviously. On the far end of the couch, pressed between him and the armrest like it’s a strategic fortification.

He gives you a look. Deadpan. Already smug.

“You can still back out,” he says.

You scoff. “Please. It’s just a movie.”

Twenty minutes later, you are fully regretting your entire bloodline.

── ୭ ˚. 

Thirty minutes in. 30,and you were talking,loudly.

‘’Okay but like,why is she even walking towards the sound? Do white people not have survival instincts—?’’

‘’Shhh,’’ came several voices.

You kicked Duke’s ankle. ‘’Tell me I’m wrong.’’ 

‘’I mean,your’re not,’’ he muttered.

── ୭ ˚. 

It’s not even the jump scares—it’s the atmosphere. The music. The whispering voices. The creaking floorboards and demonic whisper-laughs and sudden cuts to porcelain dolls turning their heads. . .

You definitely don’t scream when the ghost crawls out of the mirror.

(You do. Very softly. Like a baby bat squeak.)

Cass catches it. She smiles behind her popcorn.

Tim mutters, “Classic.”

Stephanie whispers, “Bet she hides in three... two…”

And that’s when you grab Damian’s arm. Silently. Like a lifeline.

He doesn’t react. Not much. But his arm tenses. Just slightly. Like he’s holding back a smile so hard it hurts.

You press in a little more.

A minute later—when the creepy doll moves—you full-on bury your face in Damian’s chest.

── ୭ ˚. 

“Comfortable?” he murmurs, lips near your temple.

“You’re warm,” you mumble, muffled.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m immersed.”

He huffs. “You’re terrified.”

You don’t respond. Mostly because the lights in the movie just went out and someone’s breathing heavily and you are not okay.

But Damian?

Damian’s thriving.

He shifts just enough to pull you closer. One arm wraps around your shoulder—casually. Like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not glowing with quiet, victorious smugness.

Jason leans over the back of the couch.

“Look at you, Little D,” he grins. “Big bad assassin boyfriend. Real chick magnet.”

“I will silence you permanently.”

“You look like a haunted Build-A-Bear,” Steph snorts.

Dick gasps. “You guys are cuddling during a possession scene! That's a romantic horror-core! I love it here!”

“Shhh,” Duke says. “They’re bonding.”

Tim, scrolling through IMDb: “This director’s entire filmography is just increasingly cursed furniture.”

“Wait. That doll just blinked. That doll wasn’t supposed to blink.” Duke mumbles.

Suddenly, the TV flickers. The screen cuts to static. There's a sound like someone laughing backwards.

You flinch so hard you knock your cocoa over.

Damian catches the mug before it spills.

Doesn’t say anything.

But you feel it—the smug radiating off him like a smug little space heater.

── ୭ ˚. 

By the time the movie ends, you're fully in his lap.

Not metaphorically.

Like—his arms are around your waist, your blanket has become his blanket, and your face is still pressed to his chest like the credits might murder you.

“Are you sure you’re not scared?” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just groan into his hoodie.

Everyone else, though?

The teasing is merciless.

── ୭ ˚. 

Later that night, curled in your bed, you feel the soft rustle of your window sliding open.

A familiar presence slips in.

“Hi,” you whisper.

Damian doesn’t speak. Just climbs in beside you. Still warm. Still solid. Still smug.

You poke him in the ribs. “You enjoyed that.”

“I enjoyed you,” he says, without hesitation.

You go still.

Then: “Okay. You win.”

He kisses your forehead. Then murmurs against your skin—

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the haunted furniture.”

[sunrisemill]

We all moved on from this photo way too fucking quick

LOOK AT HIM !! HELP MY PUSSYS GONE CRAZY !!