#A4 Sounds

[red-dyed-sarumane]

forget everything else a4's jeep⁉️ is my new ear worm

[bavarianworkshop]

While starting the Audi on the road, the engine will always produce a smooth clicking sound before starting. Due to numerous reasons, your car is making a rattling noise while running on the road. So, when it happens, you have to take it to a mechanic for finding the exact causes behind the rattling noise and fix it as early as possible. Go through the infographics to know about the causes behind the rattling in the engine of your Audi A4.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/890023945085065870/

[celestialprincesse]

John Price's secretary 💌

John was adamant that he was fine working alone - desperate to convince Laswell that he didn't need help with the mounting paperwork and mission reports piling up on his desk. The last thing he needed was some airhead flitting around base and getting in everyone's way with the sole purpose of lessening his workload. He was a captain, should've been able to file his own paperwork just like the rest of his men.

That's why on your first day, he was no less than brusque with you. You who strode into his office with a polite smile and a practised firm handshake, introducing yourself to him with the obvious statement of your name and position. He couldn't help but immediately think to himself how lovely you were, how out of place the radiance of your smile was in such a dark place as this. His introduction was as gruff as yours was gentle, listing off your duties to you like you didn't already know what they were, a tablet already in hand as you took note of any extra information provided to you with a stiff reluctance, nails tapping away at the screen before you, his calendar already jotted meticulously down to the hour.

"Anything you want me to prioritise?" You chirped warmly, ignoring the way his eyes had already returned somewhat dismissively back to the screen of his desktop. In a way, though, you were almost relieved he wasn't looking at your expression, wasn't looking to see the way your eyes went wide when he pointed at the box of unfilled paperwork stored messily in manila files, dumped on the floor beside his desk, piled so high they leaned. You were sure that even one more piece of A4 thrown on the pile would have the whole thing come tumbling down like depressing corporate Jenga.

The paperwork had you drowning until lunch, heel tapping rhythmically against the linoleum as you stamped off and filed, stamped off and filed, hours crawling by at a snails pace whilst your desk became increasingly cramped for space. The paper overrunning your desk also occupied your mind so much that you didn't notice the tall shadow of John Price looming over you until he cleared his throat, making you jump with a squeaked out "Oh!" and a hand clutching at your chest in surprise.

"Didn't mean to startle you." He rumbled lowly, his warm, apologetic tone making you blush, unintentionally fluttering your eyelashes up at him, an action which causes him to inadvertently ball his fist, trying to hide the appreciative glaze settling over his baby blues. "You haven't eaten." His voice came out softer, trying not to startle you again.

"No. I guess not." You muttered softly in response, torn halfway between staring back up at him and shying away from the intensity of his gaze. "S'pose I got too caught up in all of this." A hand indicating to the paperwork drowning your desk made him chuff out something which sounded pleasantly like a laugh.

"Would you like some lunch?" Had you nodding emphatically in response, not even realising how hungry you'd become in your intense focus.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

The next few months were much the same, paperwork lumped on your desk, working until John came and offered you to join him for lunch. With every meal shared you learned more about him, and with every guiding hand he placed on the small of your back when he walked you to the mess hall, you grew more - appreciative? Your guilty little work crush grew harder to suppress.

It was hard not to be into John Price, with his gruff demeanour and contradictorily soft eyes and gentle hands, you couldn't help it. He was a good, kind man, so different from the others who haunted your past - a fact which you struggled to forget when he'd walk you to your car after working late, occasionally even bringing you coffees on early mornings.

".. You with me?" His voice snaps you from your reverie, his fingers drumming on the wood of your desk, one eyebrow raised in intrigue.

"Sorry?" You murmur in confusion.

"Said I've got a work dinner tonight with some important people. Need you to come along, take some notes for me."

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

[delfiore]

—NOT STRONG ENOUGH.

pairing: leah williamson x fem!reader

synopsis: you spend a few days in london with your daughter as you and your wife leah are filing for divorce.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: i don't even want kids why am i getting attached to this nonexistent child

“Mama!!” The sweet sound of your baby’s voice filled your ears the moment you stepped through the door.

You had been dragging your suitcase along the walkway, but dropped it by the door to catch the little girl and lift her into your arms.

“Hi, baby!” You exclaimed and shook her side-to-side. “Oh, I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too, Mama,” she giggled and writhed her way out of your kisses on the cheek. “I drew a picture for you with your new trophy!”

Without protest, the five-year-old thrust a piece of A4 paper in your face. You let out a quick laugh when you make out the figure in the middle—you—surrounded by bats and the Gotham logo with a golden trophy in your hand.

It was your first season at NY/NJ Gotham, and you managed to win the NWSL Championship for the first time for your club. Instead of returning to New York after the final to celebrate with your teammates, you hopped on the first flight back to London. You needed to see your little girl; after months of constant competitive matches, you were able to finally make time to fly back home.

“You did! Wow, Maevey, this is amazing! You drew this?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow, wow, wow. We’ll have to hang this up by the fridge, right?”

You walked into the kitchen with your daughter in your arms, heading towards the fridge behind the island. You were aware of your wife’s presence in the room by the oven but focused on balancing Maeve in one arm and hanging her drawing on the fridge with the other instead.

“There we go. That looks so good,” you cooed at her. “Thanks, Maevey!”

“You’re welcome, Mama.”

When you set the girl down, like lightning, she was on her feet sprinting towards the living room, no doubt grabbing a toy she had left somewhere on the ground. “Hey, no running, remember?” You called behind her and shook your head.

You glanced back at your wife, who, whilst stirring a pasty white batter in a clear bowl, still hadn’t made the effort to return your gaze.

“Congrats on the Championship,” she said without looking at you.

“Thanks.” And that was the extent of your conversation.

The house you once called home was cold when you left it, now it was even colder. The only warmth left came from a single tiny candle that managed you the smallest relief, and it was Maeve.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bub?”

“Why don’t you sleep in your room anymore? With Mummy?”

You had dreaded the question that had just come out of your daughter’s lips right after you tucked her in. Maeve was a smart kid, and you knew she would have been able to put two and two together when she saw you unpacking your suitcase in the guest room.

“Well, kiddo,” you started, brushing the stray hairs away from Maeve’s eyes. She looked so much like Leah when she pouted. “Mummy’s not too happy with me right now. So I’m giving her some space.”

“Is it because of me?” She said quietly, making your heart squeeze.

“No, of course not. Of course not, bub. How about you go to sleep now, and we will talk about this some other time, hm?” You poked her cheek gently. “Whatever happens, your Mummy and I will never stop loving you, and we will always do what’s best for you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” You leaned over the edge of the bed to kiss your little girl on the forehead. “Now, remember what I always say? ‘You are strong, you are capable, you are loved.’”

“‘I am strong, I am capable, I am loved.’” Maeve repeated your words, almost immediately as you said them.

It was a mantra you repeated to yourself when your doubts started to get in the way of your potential, ever since you were a young girl making your debut for Arsenal until now. Those were the words you echoed to Leah when she had done her ACL, and when she wasn’t strong enough to chase away the clouds one day.

“I’m strong,” Leah had just managed to say through the tears, “I’m capable, I’m loved.”

“That’s right,” you whispered and smiled softly. “Now go to sleep, or I’ll sell all your toys.”

This elicited a giggle from the girl, as you turned off the lights. Making your way back to the guest room, you noticed the light in the living room was on downstairs. The tranquility you felt after spending time reading and talking with your daughter made you feel brave to face Leah, brave that whatever interaction you would have with her would not end in screaming and arguing. The woman was sitting on the couch, scrolling on her phone, a match played on the TV, as it always was.

“Maevey seems used to sleeping on her own now,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Soon enough she’ll be off to college.”

The best you got out of her was a short smile, and you would take it at that point. Your last conversation wasn’t the friendliest, and you had hoped Maeve wasn’t aware.

“She cried for you the night you left,” Leah spoke. “Slept in our bed for two weeks.”

Maybe it was the fact that Leah’s head was pressed against the side of the couch—the way she used to do every time you two had enough time off to sit down on the couch—or the fact that she still referred to the master bedroom as both yours and hers, that made your heart squeeze. For a moment it felt as if you had your family back, and things would eventually go back to the way it was.

“Only two?” You scoffed but smiled.

“Y/N, you know this isn’t a long-term solution. Maeve needs you. You can’t just fuck off to America and come back to visit for a few days every few months.”

“I know,” you said, clenching your jaw. “My agent’s looking at options within Europe. Germany, maybe.”

“Why not in England?”

“That is if any club wants me,” you shrugged. “Frankfurt seems interested, so.”

You’d like to think there would always be a place for you at Arsenal. Growing up, while your peers had posters of Mia Hamm, Kristine Lilly, or Abby Wambach on their walls, you were looking eastwards to the likes of Rachel Yankey and Kelly Smith for inspiration. Your heart was red, white and North London and it broke into pieces the day you had to leave—not because of your performance, but because by then London had started becoming too suffocating. And if you were going to be a good parent to Maeve, you had to put the oxygen mask on yourself first.

“I do want to be close to Maeve,” you said, more to yourself.

Leah hummed. A moment later, she opened the drawer next to the couch and pulled out a thin folder. Placing it on the cushion between you and her, she made the decision to leave the living room to go upstairs.

The respondent line on the first page awaited your name and signature. Hers was already printed on the line above that, the ink was already dry like she had made this decision long ago. You were frozen to the seat with the divorce papers in your hands, and that night you cried yourself to sleep.

You took Maeve to the park the next day. You had extended an invitation to Leah, but she declined, saying she had errands to run. Maeve wanted to go to the playground in the park, so you packed the two of you a small picnic, and a football, in case she was up for a kick-about.

She was telling you about a goal she scored at school the previous Friday when you returned home. Upon entering the two-story house, you heard laughter coming from the kitchen. As much as you wanted to listen to your daughter recount her story, your ears focused in on the conversation and what sounded like two female voices, and laughter . . . Leah’s laugh, something you haven’t heard in a long while. You regretted that that was the case.

“Mummy! I played at the park today, and I scored so many goals against Mama!”

“Is that right?” Leah gasped and picked up Maeve in her arms. “Looks like Mama’s got some competition in the striker position.”

“Hi, Auntie Lia,” Maeve said to the other woman in the room.

You barely managed a smile as you watched your former teammate greet your daughter, trying not to freak out at the fact that she was standing much too close to your wife when you first came in. You couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that harbored in the pit of your stomach seeing it, and, as selfish as it sounded, you couldn’t stomach the thought that Leah might have started to move on.

“Hi, Y/N. It’s good to see you again,” Lia smiled at you.

“Long time no see,” you said.

“Come on, little one. Will you show me how you scored those goals at school?” The Swiss woman extended a hand to Maeve and led her to the backyard.

“Don’t,” Leah said as soon as your daughter was out of sight.

“Don’t what?”

“I know you’re giving me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any looks, Leah,” you smiled sadly, and unpacked your daypack, putting the dirty Tupperware containers into the dishwasher.

“Lia’s been a great help with Maeve. Without her, I don’t think I would have been able to get through the first few months.” Her tone had a slight edge to it, but you understood why.

“I know,” you replied, “I’m not saying anything.”

“That’s the fucking problem, Y/N. You never say anything you’re thinking! You make me do this fucking guessing game with you, and you don’t even bother defending yourself when I assumed the worst about you, and you run away! Do you truly just not give a shit about anything?”

You took a sharp exhale, checking to see if Maeve was looking. Through the sliding door, you could see that wasn’t, she was playing 1v1 against Lia instead.

“Please, Leah. Not now,” you sighed. “I’ll sign the papers, alright? And then I’ll be out of your hair.”

You didn’t see because your back was turned to her, but your wife shook her head, causing a few tears that had collected in the corner of her eyes to fall. Then, you heard her storming past you out to the backyard.

“I do give a shit,” you mumbled to yourself. You did, so much, but maybe your family was better off without you. Watching Maeve kicking her ball into the little goal you got her whilst your wife and Lia pretended to defend her, you wondered if maybe they really were better off.

Your relationship was never perfect. She was Leah, and you were you. You used to love the routine you two shared until it turned sour and you would arrive to training in separate cars. You didn’t know when your marriage crumbled, just that when you looked back to assess the damage, it was already beyond repair. Leah telling you one night that she wished to separate was your wake-up call.

You had seen your friends and colleagues date and break up, and pretend that being in the same room afterward wasn’t the most torturous thing they’d ever had to endure. You never imagined that it would be your turn, and how much it hurt. How does someone be a human being whilst going through a divorce, and be a good parent at the same time?

“Mama, why are you crying?”

You quickly turned away and wiped at your eyes when you heard the tiny voice coming from your bedroom door. You must not have shut it properly. Maeve was standing in front of the door in her adorable dinosaur pajamas, and her favorite plush toy beneath her one arm. You would have given your entire world for that adorable punk right then.

“It’s okay, kiddo. I’m just a bit sad. What are still you doing up?” You gestured for her to come inside. Normally, Maeve would not hesitate to jump into your lap right away, but instead, she climbed onto the bed, and sat next to you like an adult.

“Why are you sad, Mama?” She said quietly, fiddling with her stuffed animal, her round eyes looking up at you with concern. “Everyone is sad.”

“What do you mean, bub?”

“Mummy is sad too. She was crying before you came home,” Maeve said, her bottom lip quivering. “She said it was because she missed you.”

The revelation left you speechless.

Your daughter turned to you. “Should I be sad too? Everyone is so sad.”

“No, baby, come here.” As soon as you pulled her into your lap, she started crying.

“Oh, baby. My little Maevey,” you hated that you made your little girl so upset, arms wrapped around your neck and broken sobs raking from her chest against yours. “Sometimes, people argue, and it’s very sad when they do, but it’s all a part of life, Maevey. Me and Mummy are arguing, but it has never been about you.”

“But I don’t want you and Mummy to argue anymore.”

“I know, baby,” you had nothing else to say that might offer her some comfort. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been around as much. It was my fault, nothing to do with you.”

You held Maeve for another minute or two until her cries subsided into choked sniffles and tearful sighs. “It’s okay,” you would repeat, “I love you so much”, hoping that it might reassure your daughter until she removed her head from your shoulder, wiped her tears away, and through hiccups, said, “You are strong, you are capable, you are loved.”

Letting out the smallest sob, you nodded and pulled her back into your chest. Your little girl, your heir, your legacy, only five years of age, yet she understood the significance of those words. You had won trophies and championships, but nothing compared to the burst of joy in your heart having her echo them back to you. It meant you meant something to her. It meant you were doing something right.

The next morning, after you and Leah had seen Maeve off to kindergarten, you gently placed the divorce papers that Leah had given you a couple of nights ago on the table opposite her. As you sat down by the dining table opposite her, you saw the way she eyed the files like you had just handed her a pack of poison and expected her to swallow it.

“I’ll agree to everything you bring to the table, within reason of course. This needn’t be a whole ruckus for Maeve. Whatever you want,” you started, darting your eyes up to Leah.

She continued to stare at the divorce papers on the table but kept silent.

“But . . . If you still have even just a tiny drop of affection left for me, I’m asking you—begging you—to reconsider this and give me another chance.” You took a deep breath. “This year away from you, from Maeve, made me realize that you two are the most important thing in my life. You make me a better person by just giving me grace and being who you are. And I failed you, I know. I’ve not been the wife and partner you needed, but if you give me one more chance to right my wrongs, I’d give everything to have my family back. I’ll go to therapy, we can go to couples counseling together, whatever you want, just please . . . please give me one more chance to make this right.”

Leah shook her head quietly when you looked up, but then she sunk her head into her palm and you heard a shaky exhale.

“I’ve tried so hard since March to move on from you, eight months since then, and just from one of your little speeches, I’m back to square one,” she laughed bitterly, wiping her eyes of salty tears. “You always give me false hope that it’ll get better, and I hate you for that, because it never does.”

You swallowed and moved to kneel in front of her. Your hands were shaking, but you reached for her hands.

“I know that. I know I’ve been apathetic before. I lost sight of what’s important. I used football as my excuse, and I did it. I won the championship, but there’s still this void in my heart that no trophy can fill,” you squeezed her hand with both of yours. “Please, Lee. I love you, and I need you back in my life. I’m so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you and Maeve, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it. If you’ll let me.”

By then, Leah didn’t bother hiding her sobs. Tears were flowing down the curves of her cheeks like waterfalls, as she leaned forward into your touch, clutching your hands like they might save her. You cursed under your breath. Watching your wife fall apart at the seams when she had been ice-cold with you the past few days broke your heart to pieces, as you pressed soft kisses to her wet cheek and whispered loving words in her ear.

“Okay,” she said quietly and sniffled.

“Yeah?” You smiled hopefully.

Leah nodded tearfully. “Please. This is the last time, Y/N.”

You knew that. You knew if you fucked this up you would lose everything, Maeve might never have a relationship with you again, and you lose the one person that keeps you grounded.

Maybe Leah would be much happier with someone else, someone who treated her well and could fill the co-parenting role for Maeve. You were sure there were others out there who fit the bill, but you were selfish, and you would fight for them because this was your family, your home, your love.

“I’ll tell my agent to work on the move. I’ll try looking in England again, Frankfurt will be the worst-case scenario. Even if the only option is to resign at Gotham, I’ll make it work. I’ll fly home more often, I’ll help you with—”

You were cut off with Leah pressing her lips against yours desperately. You couldn’t restrain the grin that made its way onto your face, as you kissed your wife back.

“God, I got you to talk and now you wouldn’t shut up,” she mumbled, which made you laugh.

“Well, get used to it,” you said. “I’m gonna tell you how much I love you every day, and I’ve got eight months to make up for too, so it’s a lot of talking.”

“How about you show me how much you love me, huh? Actions speak louder than words, right?”

epilogue. A month later.

A blaring alarm awoke you from your warm slumber. It was a Sunday, and you had forgotten you had the alarm switched on. You felt Leah stir next to you, and the corner of your mouth pulled up.

“Christ, what time is it?” She asked, her voice low and cracking. You’d always adored the way her voice becomes raspy in the morning.

“Eight,” you said, combing your fingers through her hair. Leaning in to plant a kiss on your cheeks, you whispered. “We have to get Maeve ready for football.”

“Hmm,” you heard her sigh, and snuggle deeper into your chest. “Five more minutes.”

Your wife opened one eye and grinned. You thanked the Heavens that she granted you another chance.

“Okay,” you kissed her head, “five more minutes.”

Just as soon as you lay back down, and Leah had gotten comfortable again, you heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet, the speed and agility of which you could only attribute to a five-year-old whose enthusiasm for football might be a little too much at 8 o’clock in the morning.

[crackerjackalope]

Do you love the intimate relationship between a mech and its pilot? Do you love quick, punchy, high emotion roleplay? Do you love the deep eroticism of being with someone while they bleed out?

If you answered yes to any of these questions then I have the 2 player ttrpg for you!

Goodbye, World </3 is a game of lasts words between a dying mech and its pilot. One player will play the dying mech and the other will play its pilot. The pilot speaks over voice chat while the mech may only type. The mech only has a limited number of messages they can send before they "bleed out" and the game ends.

The whole game fits on 2 sides of a4 folded in half and each playthrough gives a short but really impactful death scene. It has made multiple of my playtesters cry.

So if this sounds like your thing, check it out on itch here!

[szynkaaa]

So Much (For) Stardust by Fall Out Boy

Bind made for a Fall Out Boy trade with beardeddogbindery

Christy and I chatted about FOB and doing an album exchange while I was attending a FOB concert - I know there are a lot of Swifties out there, so it's nice to also bump into another FOB and be able to do a small trade together ((if there are more Fall Out Boy fans out there, don't be shy let us know))

Christy told me that she hasn't really listened to much of the newer Fall Out Boy stuff - I knew that lot of the older fans didn't like any of FOB's post-hiatus works. SMFS was described by FOB as "[the album] sounds closer to a continuation of their 2008 record Folie à Deux", which I thought might be a good "re-introduction" into FOB's newer music. I also really really really really like this album myself lmfao.

✦ illustrations are done on Procreate, everything was typesetted on Clip Studio Paint 0/10 I do not recommend typesetting on CSP lmfao ✦ Printed on A4 folio and then cut down to 148x148 mm because I wanted the lyrics book to be square and resemble an album ✦ original album cover features a painted dog. Christy has two VERY ADORABLE puppers. The only logical approach here is to draw one of her dogs and slap it onto the cover ✦ Dog illustration + endpapers + title page + some other pages are foiled using black foil! It was my first time working with black foil. It's very subtle ✦ Backside text is done on holographic reflective HTV, to add a bit of surprise effect and make it glow like a star

Please go check out @beardedogbindery's page for her two adorable quarto binds (I got two binds. two!!!)

So Much (For) Stardust typeset will be available at request for personal binding too! .

[strwbrythoughts]

time's up | dr. veritas ratio

The doctor - also known as your husband - has come to refine your problem-solving skills, particularly in mathematics.

A/N: This man is insufferable but I simp because smart + muscles = hot!!! Also can you see me projecting onto this and wdym i don't like triangles, ngl i accidentally switched to first person pov at the ending 💀 this is why i need to find time to write in my busy busy schedule

Divider by @/osqrie

"You have 15 minutes to solve these questions. You may begin."

The soft click of the digital stopwatch in his right hand sounded louder than ever to your ears. Your eyes went from his soft, smiling face - which in itself, was a rarity - towards the questions printed on the single sheet of white, A4-sized paper on your desk. They were all mathematics equations. Every single one was an integration-related question.

You always thought that you could escape the topics you didn't like after finishing your studies in the undergraduate level. Life had been pretty smooth-sailing after graduation; you opened a cute and cozy bakery, you married a genius, lived in a comfortable home, have and maintain a loving relationship...but this. This was the least of what you would expect. Being tutored and tested on the one subject you refused to take back in university.

Or perhaps it was your mistake when you told him your weak points in the academic aspect of yourself. That was a side effect of marrying a genius, you supposed...or a 'Mundanite' as he would use to refer to himself.

But you couldn't think of that now. You had a test to complete, and you didn't want to receive his punishment for not being able to do so within the given timeframe. His eyes could be felt on you, as if burning into your body and directly gazing at the very essence of your soul. The rise in your heartbeat and downturned gaze highlighted how nervous you felt to answer this paper.

After taking a deep breath to clear your head, you observed the questions carefully. There were 3 questions, and all of them were pretty easy to solve (or at least, that was what the instructions said). The first two questions were fine; only including polynomials and exponents respectively. As you got to the third question though...you couldn't say it was 'fine'.

It included one of your most disliked topics...trigonometry.

Granted, the trigonometry was pretty simple, but you never seemed to be able to wrap your head around how so many formulas could be derived from them. When Veritas explained it to you in one of your tutoring sessions, you asked for more breaks than usual since you had put a barrier in your mind; 'I will never understand this'; which in turn, made the topic seemed harder than it actually was.

The soft 'ding!' of the bell on my desk reminded you that you had five minutes left for this last question. You gulped, hoping your nervousness would be swallowed away as well. His eyes were glued to the back of your head; not that you dared to look behind my shoulder at the moment.

Every second counts after all, even if you had no clue what steps you should take to solve the problem on the paper.

Your brain seemed to malfunction and your memorisation skills failed you right this moment. You didn't remember the basic formulas, and you didn't know how to derive them from the triangles either. With no viable options left, you decided to unleash your expertise; cooking up your own theories.

'Ah, he's definitely punishing me for this...' was the only thought floating in your brain. Autopilot mode was switched on, and your hand glided across the paper, writing down whatever nonsense that seemed to be related to trigonometry, regardless whether they were correct or not.

The digital stopwatch in Veritas' hand had reached its last minute; the fifteenth minute. "Time's up," his voice bounced off the white walls right into your ears. "Put down your pen and stop writing."

Although reluctant, you did not wish for a heavier punishment. His words were followed by the sound of the pen being put onto the wooden desk. Within seconds, he was stood right next to your desk, using his index finger and thumb to pick up the piece of paper.

His eyes scanned my answers, going from left to right as he inspected each line of working. There was a faint smile on his lips...until it was gone.

Gulp.

He had definitely seen the absolute mess you made on the last question.

A slam onto the wooden desk; you swore you heard the wood crack a little bit. "Did I not teach you this last question?" You could barely reply. His tone was dripping with condescension, but you didn't take offence from it. Both you and him knew he had the right intentions, but his ways wouldn't be able to satisfy everyone.

"You did! I...I just didn't like it."

Veritas let out a 'tsk' thrice, seeming almost animated as he did so. "You do know what you have to do now, right? So come on, what are you waiting for? Is time not ticking?" He took a seat on his chair, eyes looking straight into mine.

You sighed, preparing your facial muscles...as you climbed into his lap. Ah yes, the 'one hundred kisses or you're not leaving this room' punishment. A classic, really. Your lips peppered his face, landing on each part like the first snow of winter; gentle and heartwarming.

"Lunchtime is nearing, so you better carry out your responsibility quickly and dutifully, dear. You'd hate to have lunch at 4 PM again, hm?"

Ah, crap! He was right! Better get to work now!

Thank you for reading!

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 3)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 2, Part 4

summary: A bad day turns even worse. Miguel surprises you.

warnings: angst angst angst, mentions of grief, very vague mention of domestic violence and abuse.

recommended reading: the painting Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and the song Ophelia by the lumineers.

a/n: i lowkey suck at communicating my "big" ideas so i really really hope this makes sense!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

they were here, she says,

You’ve had your share of bad days.

Oh God , enough to fill an A4 binder with. For example, knocking out that tooth when you were twelve. A butterfly effect of fuck ups that led to a scuffle at school: blood in your mouth, a tooth on the ground, and a looong suspension. You received quite the earful at home, that day. 

And then there was telling your parents you had dropped out of college. Telling them you were moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend. Breaking up with said boyfriend in your favourite diner; thus sullying Pam’s waffles and pancakes with the bitter taste of… oh-fuck-I-don’t-know-how-I’ll-afford-an-apartment-now. Oh, and heartbreak – although that wasn’t as immediate. 

Scratch that, the day of the breakup had been fairly mundane. Pleasant, even. Jamie had an off day, and you only had a few lectures. He didn’t tell you, of course, so meeting him in the apartment was a surprise. You’re home earlier than usual, and you can’t quite bear to wake him up; slumped on the sofa like an old cat. He’s tired, lectures and clerkships running him ragged for the past few years. Only a year out until residency, with bags under his eyes as proof, and you see him less and less.  All things considered, you’re glad to spend the rest of the day with him. 

You’d spent too long after the break up analysing the days leading up to it: for a sign, something in his behaviour that would’ve warned you. And so, you remember it quite vividly: kicking your shoes off, putting your bag down, and sinking into the sofa next to him. You curl into him, looking up at his face: steady, tempered breathing. Something at your chest, solid and heavy. He looks peaceful, happy; and you haven't seen that side of him in quite a while. 

When you shift against him, you knock against his shoulder. Jamie stirs, groggy, and eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing he sees as he wakes is you; romantic, in theory. His expression is etched into your subconscious; stark and stiff like a marble statue, or a tombstone. A flash of disappointment, lip drawn in what seemed like disgust – but only for a moment.  

" Morning , baby." You squeeze his side, and take his hand into yours. That look ; it's gone almost as quickly as it came. 

"Thought…" He frowns, fighting dregs of sleep. "I thought you would be back later."

"Nope." You give him a smile and he returns with one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He puts a hand on your cheek. 

"Morning," Probably tired, he sighs deeply. You move on with the day. And he breaks up with you, not even 6 hours later.

You had had 4 years of that: good days, bad days, but most of them had been… mundane. Boring. Not quite the heat and intensity of true love, as the movies had gaslighted you into believing in. 

You like the old black and white ones the best. Old fashioned, old-timey folk; declarations of love in tinny transatlantic accents. Suddenly, you’re on the floor of your childhood bedroom; eyes wide at the Sound of Music. Maria and Von Trapp hand in hand: her dress billowing, the flash of white glove on the small of her back. Love, love, love; and your lack of it.

You feel its loss all the same. 

Despite all your efforts – including a dash to the station that could rival an Olympic sprinter – you were late to your first lecture. Sweaty, out of breath, and ambushed with a pen and paper; thrust into your hands on arrival. You look around to see dozens of heads down, scribbling furiously. A surprise test – and you’re late.

Hand aching, you barely finish within the two hours, after bullshitting your way through at least half of the questions. By the looks of the people streaming out of the hall; faces rumpled and grimacing; you’re not the only one. However, it does little to comfort you. You’re sure you're the only one failing so spectacularly, with the semester already half over. 

You'd smacked your leg on the coffee table on the way out and a book had slammed to the floor. An art book, the kind in a model home - and you know damn well Miguel's not an enthusiast. The image sticks for some reason, leg aching as you trudge to your next class. When he gives you that blank look; the memory of men gone past is haunting – dead-eyed, and blank, like eyes cut out of a painting. You wonder if a Van Gogh would feel the same with the brilliant blue of eyes slashed out. 

Nevertheless, you feel like lead. Off

to your next class, and it's going over material passed out the day before; which you didn’t have the time to look over. The professor drones on; voice monotonous and gravelly. Struggling to keep up, you sink into your seat – tapping away at your laptop, whatever you can get down. You pick at your lip, unravelling; unfurling like the tip of a slashed rope.

That's what you’re waiting for, you think: sandbags clattering down from stage left, to bring the rest of this whole farce down.

A sinking feeling, that starts at your chest and makes its way to the tops of your fingers and toes, leaves you numb for the rest of the day. Dread, like a shadow, at your heels in the corridors, across the courtyard, all around campus. Another lecture, and you make it in time for labs, barely, but there’s no time to go over notes; what you managed to scrape together in preparation. And of course , your lab partner’s sick, because that’s just the kind of day you’re having. It’s hectic, doing the work of two people with only the scraps you’ve cobbled together. 

The pressure mounts. Like liquid in that flask you weren’t meant to stopper; and you just might end up like its remnants on the counter. Glass everywhere but where it should be. For a good grade, it helps to be organised: everything in its place, always. Except it isn’t, and you’ve fucked it up, again . It means the results don’t match up in your lab book, and another hour staring at liquid decanting, monitoring temperatures. Staring at stark white walls, with achy legs. 

You step out whilst machines run in your stead, and shed your lab coat. It’s hot and stuffy in there but out in the corridor, you can finally breathe. Forehead on the cool wall, it all stops for a moment. The persistent buzz of your phone, sat in the pocket of your trousers, creeps into the quiet. 

Absent-mindedly, you turn it on with a click. The buzzing stops. You’ve just missed a call from Miguel. It’s odd, he doesn’t usually call, but it’s the little box underneath the notification that makes you pause. A message, from a number you thought you’d blocked – that you should’ve blocked. 

From:Jamie <3

Hey

From:Jamie <3

We should meet. I’ve still got some of your things in the apartment.

Your blood runs cold. Dread, like a shadow; its hand wrapped your neck. You can’t breathe, stuck under the weight of something at your chest. You can’t breathe, the walls close in. We should meet , he says. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world; just friends catching up over a coffee. Like you didn’t watch him carve out a chunk of your heart with a rusty spoon. 

A panic attack, and you’re awkwardly hunched over by the wall, phone in hand. Someone will find you here, lying on the vinyl floor in Block B, spread eagle between lab 6 and 7. Dramatic timing, but if it kills you; you’ll find a way to haunt your ex's ass for the foreseeable future. And Miguel’s too, because if you’re having a bad day; then somewhere out there, he’s having a good one. 

~~~

The apartment is still when Miguel gets back – unusually so. You’re not on the sofa, watching a mindless soap opera, or howling some song in the shower. And he’s had to deal with that most days for the past few weeks, a break in the peace and quiet he’s so carefully cultivated. Rigorous routine, they keep him together. He needed it; the way myth needs a martyr, the way flowers on a small grave needs a body. A tick-tick-tick in his head, that drives him a little less crazy after a morning run, or a good meal when he comes home. A countdown, he thinks, a mechanical clock whirring and puttering with a shake of its gears. He feels them stutter and start, slowing down, but not quite stopping. An ache so deep, he feels its creak with every step. 

Absent-mindedly, he looks around the empty apartment, pulling at his ears.

When he was younger, Gabi would pull at his ears, to get him out of a book. Reading, always reading, whenever he could. At the dinner table, when his mamá would rap his knuckles with a wooden spoon and chuckle lightly at his little grimace. No en la mesa, Miguelito. Not at the table, Miggy. Léeme más tarde – read it to me later.

It was when he got his braces, and picked up a slight lisp. He stopped talking for a while, not completely; but a lot less, not as interactive in lessons. And it was always little Miguel, at the front of the class with his hand up to answer. It didn’t help that Gabi poked fun at him, often sneaking up to him to hiss in his ear: palms pressed together with a slithering motion, and then a strike to his ribs like una víbora - a viper , struggling to say his S’s. They’d fight because of it after, tousling on the floor of their bedroom in a mass of limbs, like pythons squeezing prey. Or at least, until their mamá rushed to separate them. 

She didn’t like it when her boys fought; so they’d been forced to make up every time. He still has the scars to prove it.

Car magazines at first, and then the newspaper, whatever book he had picked up at the library that week. Even with his lisp, his mother made sure he read to her, and sometimes to Gabi as well, at least once a week. Looking back, she was never perfect; the things he knows now about his dear mamá, and her visage tumbles like Ozymandias in the sand. Her mother, married to a piece-of-shit mechanic; and his mother, elbow deep in the oil spill. That’s the funny thing about love, he thinks. Love, and the lack of it; dripping through the cracks, passed on through generations. Maybe mamá felt the gears shuddering in her chest. He hopes Gabi was saved from that burden. 

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s not enough. Doesn’t explain the little boy pulling at his ears, in Miguel’s jacket and dress shoes.

A glimpse in the reflection of a shiny pan on the side table, and he looks like shit. Eyebags, a permanent scowl, shadowy lines that prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s ironic, crows feet without the penchant for laughing. He thinks you’d find it funny. The pink and purple of a setting sun spills in through windows and makes him sigh. It’s late, and you’re still not home. 

God, you're strange; sticking your nose where you shouldn't. Disrupting the calm of his apartment. A sanctuary, and you've got your grubby paws all over it. Your shit is all over the place; pun-based mugs in the cabinet, chewed pen lids with no pens in sight, a blanket on the couch. The same blanket, a ratty old thing, that he usually meets you wrapped in when he gets back. A creature of habit, he folds it up; trying to ignore the whispers of your perfume, sweet and heady on the fabric.

He gets dressed, starting with dinner; knife on a chopping board cutting onions and peppers into cubes. It's therapeutic, the steady thud ringing out into the kitchen. Quiet, for a fleeting moment. But the worry, it sticks ; despite his better judgement. Before he changes his mind, he clicks open his phone to call you. It rings out – you don’t pick up.

The urge to call again is surprisingly troublesome, so he shoves it down with a piece of tortilla. It sits in his chest, regardless.

~~~

You trudge into the apartment. Squelch seems more accurate, sopping wet as you step out of waterlogged trainers. It was an inopportune time to wear jeans and forget a jacket – and you fight the urge to wring out onto the wooden planks. Miguel would kill you; the place was already falling apart, and water-warped floorboards might just be the last straw.

It’s thundering outside; a torrential downpour you’d just been dragged through. Dragged, half-running through streets-turned-streams, with nothing but a tank top and hoodie on your back. And you must look a sight , eyes bleary and slick with rainwater. The bag heavy on your back goes first, slipped off your shoulder and on the floor next to the coffee table with a thunk . You’re unzipping the flimsy canvas, inspecting its contents. A soaked through textbook, clumps of loose paper. You’re ready to cry when you see what's happened to the pages of your lab book; bleeding ink that’s only half-legible. But it’s the state of your laptop that makes your chest really heave and knees weak.

It’s slick with rainwater, and the sandwich you’d forgotten to eat, smeared across its fans. Caked on, more accurately; an odd sludge that you try your best to wipe away. You put it on the coffee table and your hand shakes as you press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. 

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands between the coffee table and the couch. Everything was on there: photos from senior prom, end of semester projects – your whole life. You have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a scream.

Miguel peers from the kitchen, watching your silent breakdown. Quiet, and so still, with only the slight shake of shoulders to tell him that something is wrong. He glances at your half-opened laptop. He’d eaten already, clearing up what remains of his dinner and this is the sight he’s greeted with: the lady of the lake, lain between the reeds. 

He shakes the image out of his head, and walks over. You feel a tentative prod, and look up.

“...I called you,” He says lightly, scratching at his neck.

You blink up at him. He thinks you look like a painting, watery and forlorn, framed in the yellow light of the soft bulbs.

“I was busy,” It’s not said with malice, nor as lilting as your usual sarcasm. Plain, simple. Busy. Your head slumps back into the little hollow you’ve made with your arms.

And so he sits, shoulders brushing against yours. He’s frustratingly patient, presence warm and comfortable despite… well, despite everything. 

You can’t help it. Popping back up, you state, “You never call, though.”

“You’re never this late home.” Home. The word is heavy, knocks you onto your heels.

“So?” You shrug. “Could’ve been out with friends, or at a club–”

Laughter slips out like apples loose in a bag, spills onto the floor. Crisp, sweet; but you glare at him all the same. 

“You don’t have friends.” He says it with the remnants of a smile, teasing. A challenge, and you’re more than happy to accept. 

“ Not true , fuckface.” It is. You'd lost track of most of your friends after moving – and all the ones you made here? Your friends were Jamie's friends, and they chose him  in the divorce. " You don't have any friends."

"I do ."

"You don't." It's your turn to scoff. "It's a Friday night and you're in here, washing up and planning to go to bed at a reasonable time."

"I'm an adult, doesn't mean I don't have–" 

"The ones you fuck don't count." And then you pinch the bridge of your nose. "God forbid, if that's how you treat your friends…" 

He laughs, properly, and you feel it in your chest too: the kind of laughter that bubbles like little breaths rising to the top of a lake. 

“M’serious.” He says it in between gasping breaths and you try to steady your own giggles. "And, I have a friend who could take a look at your laptop, if you wanted."

His eyes flick over to the crime scene besides you. It's sweet, but.. "It's gone, Miguel, I know. You don't need to… try and make me feel better."

" Chula ," He flicks the deep lines forming at your brow. You look up and he says, softly, "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you off of the floor so I can mop up that puddle."

With the way he says it, with that little smile, you don't believe him. 

Now he's got your attention, he says, "You could've skipped that 9:00am. Or just been late. Don't think it would've mattered."

"Maybe." You shake your head. "M'not the best student. I'm blindingly… average. Just wanted it to be different, this year." 

Your voice crackles, leaves something in the air he can't quite name. Quiet, again, except this time it's thicker. Smoke, ash, rolling clouds of melancholy in the little front room. For once, he doesn't know what to say. 

You've got your head back on the sofa now, with a deep sigh. You look at the ceiling, and he's looking at you. It's the first time he's able to really study your features, trace the outline of your lips and sloping cheekbone. Your lashes, damp with little droplets of water, look crystalline in the light. Sparkling. Like the paintings depicted in the hefty book sat on his coffee table. He's read that one, twice , cover-to-cover in a fit of… insanity, maybe. He's not a man of frills and fancy, didn't really get it; nor why Gabi had given him the book in the first place. It felt like a filler piece, something to put on the little table and forget about, or to prop up a wooden leg. But that's not how his brother works, frustratingly convoluted. It's stupid, Miguel thought. Everything had to mean something , or what was it good for? 

But looking at you, here, like this ; it clicks. Reaching over for the book, he leans it against the flat of his thigh. And you see it in the corner of your eye, watching as he flicks through the pages. Filled with art, it's the kind of thing on a table in a model apartment: a space-filler in a false home. When you first came here, the starkness and severity of the space had stuck. To you, the book had only reinforced it. Who was Miguel? A serial killer for all you know, stocking fluff pieces and coffee table books; only pretending to be human.

Finally, he stops, finger over a specific place. A double page spread, of surprisingly good quality. 

He clicks his tongue. " This one. "

You follow his finger. A woman in a lake doesn't do it justice. It's beautiful, but it doesn't mean anything to you.

" Ophelia, John Everett Mills, 1852 ." He reads out the little label at the bottom of the image. "Like from Hamlet."

You shrug. "I don't…?"

"Well, she's in love with Hamlet, and then her father's murdered, Hamlet fucks off; and she's left heartbroken, goes mad because of it , arguably–" 

"I've taken tenth grade English, Miguel. I don't get what that has to do with anything."

"She drowns herself. Also arguably, to be fair," He chews his lip, thinking. "Slipped off the bark of a willow tree, into a brook. Incapable of her own distress, or something. Drowns. Do you know how horrible drowning feels? How violent? And yet–" 

He taps the page, and you come a little closer. Beautiful. She's beautiful. 

"I'll admit it, I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. Gabi – my brother – is way better at this stuff than me. Drama and intrigue and–" He gestures vaguely. "– love . That's why he likes it, apparently. And I… I know someone who really liked this page; I think it was the colours, or the flowers…? She said it looked like a photo, and that the woman looked so pretty in the water."

He pauses, dead-eyed. He's rambling, only taking a breath to compose himself." I… didn't have the heart to tell her that Ophelia, in this painting, is dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Dragged through still water, sentenced to death by her passivity and grief – but you wouldn't know it."

Unconsciously, you trace the outline of her hair with your finger; swirling locs that blend into muddy reflections. She's on her back and fully dressed; a beaded skirt billowing out into the water. On her back and looking up, like you were on the sofa just a moment ago. Oh. Oh . You blink at the image. Flowers, peppered around to frame Ophelia in her watery grave. It doesn't look like a grave from where you're sitting, but there's a body in the water all the same. 

There's a lump in your throat. Grief; the loss of 4 years of your life in a middling relationship, the aftermath of dead eyes and brilliant blue slashed from a canvas frame. Grief, rising to the surface like a bloated carcass. You thought you'd bound its ankles to cinder blocks and tossed it in a river long ago. 

"I'm probably overstepping. For that, I'm sorry, and I mean it. But I think there's something else. I..I hear you rattling around at night; and sometimes, when I look at you..." 

Your eyes are glassy, tears threatening to spill over. You’re hearing him but you don’t quite understand. Does he know? God, does he know?

"...it reminds me of this painting. You remind me of Ophelia .”

He sighs, turning to you.

“I know how it feels. And I think this shit is going to kill you, if you're not careful."

~~~

He doesn't talk about it. He runs off to start the shower, bundles you into towels and leaves you reeling. God, it's like you've been shot – barely a 10 minute conversation and he's cracked open your ribs to root around in what's left of you. He sees you; wades through the undergrowth and cuts through the bulllshit - he sees you. 

You couldn't even answer. That's what stings the most. 

You’ve settled on the sofa, cross-legged and still fresh from the shower. There’s a documentary on the TV; mindless background to Miguel clattering in the kitchen. He’s putting together some leftovers, even though you insisted that you weren’t hungry, that you’ve already eaten. Well , he had pointed to the gunk caked onto your laptop, wasn’t that the problem in the first place?

He’s good at it; wraps you up in the blanket you always keep draped on the cushions, and hands you a full plate. Wordlessly, because you suppose he’s said everything he needed to. Dutifully, he takes care of you, without a word; the strain of cutting you open on the coffee table clearly too much to bear.

You thank him, and he settles on the armchair opposite, mug of coffee in hand. The gloom of the TV bathes him in light, cuts his cheekbones and jaw just so. One of your mugs in his lap, and he's in a thick knitted sweater. His hair kisses the tops of his lashes, but he brushes it away. You swallow thickly, and when he turns, you look away.

“...You okay?” He asks, confused.

You nod, unable to speak. He gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like crepe paper. You return it with one of your own. 

He sees you. Finally, you see him too.

_

_

_

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Mr Gaiman. I wanted to ask a very mundane question, how do you physically write /what do you write with?

Right now my PC is broken and I wrote a really good first chapter (without saving, rookie mistake I know, my own silly fault) and it was deleted. It really disheartened me and my story is mostly just scribbles on about 20 scraps of a4 paper now. I have Dyspraxia so writing coherent sentence structures is a struggle and using Word or something like that really helps. I hate to sound like the gen Z I am but how did you keep all your ideas together and write them so well before stuff like word was commonplace?

I'd handwrite first drafts, then type out the next draft single-spaced on scrap paper (so I couldn't submit it and also to save money on paper), fix that draft up and then type it out again, this time double-spaced on good paper.

Then I went onto computers and I learned both to save everything AND to always assume the computer would be struck by lightning or something. I once had to reconstruct the second half of a novel from inspecting the drive manually with Norton Utilities and chunks of novel I'd emailed to friends...

[bloodblanks]

the cadence within [il dottore x reader] — prologue.

The quickest way to a man’s heart is through their fourth and fifth ribs.  But few men would allow you to just skewer them like that, and Dottore was no exception. So you took the classic route. No, it wasn’t through his stomach; it was through sheer force of charisma alone.  However, charisma is shaped like a double edged blade. Pantalone sent you to Dottore’s lab like a flying dagger, and not until it was too late did either of you realize you’d been lodged in his chest. 

co-written with noodsies, however, they’re shy and wish to stay anonymous! ♡

author's note: this fanfiction will contain mature content, including explicit sexual acts, violence, dottore himself, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

“Check,” you whispered.

Queen to C6 check, in response to white’s bishop checking on F3. Your D7 pawn guarded your queen, but your bishop was stuck in B8 while his king was vulnerable on A6. His only other piece was a knight on A4.

Did he blunder?

After placing down the chess piece, you glanced back towards him, your eyes searching his face for any readable signs or expressions. There were none, save for the hint of amusement that remained eternally etched into both his features and demeanour.

You mentally sighed. Dottore was as indecipherable as ever, leaving you confused about what to do with the nagging itch that tugged at your heart. You tried to push it aside, to dig a hole and bury the feeling six feet underground where it was never to resurface again, but you found yourself unable to. Instead, you found yourself caving into that emotion, the tension thickening the very air that now felt suffocating to breathe in, each of Dottore’s answers only leaving you with more questions to ask—none of which you should’ve paid any mind to, yet you still couldn't resist, barely holding yourself back from asking the one thing you really wanted to know.

You coughed softly, clearing your throat before speaking again.

“My turn,” you tried to steady your voice and sound as confident as possible, pushing past the dryness in your mouth. “Question nineteen, are you going to continue with your plan?”

It shouldn’t even matter. If you were being rational, you wouldn’t have bothered to ask that; whether or not he planned to continue should not affect your judgement in any way. He had done enough wrong as it is, committed far more crimes than could be excused or remotely justified.

Still, you couldn’t help but succumb to your own weakness, the question leaving your lips alongside a silent prayer that you hadn’t exposed your intentions—be it the one to put an end to him, or the far worse one, the one to give up on your original task. The task you should adhere to, despite your traitorous feelings wanting to get in the way. But you were not strong enough.

Dottore’s silence permitted you to keep ruminating over the same thoughts that had ceaselessly plagued you each time you faced him, the same thoughts that had insidiously grown in intensity throughout your interactions, leaving you to realize far too late that at some point, your actions towards him became genuine.

“Perhaps,” Dottore responded at last. You fought to keep your face neutral, trying your best to mask your disappointment at his answer. As much as you had wanted to, you were unable to deny that you had indeed wanted him to say ‘no.’

As shameful as it was, you pushed for a different answer.

“You’re supposed to answer yes or no,” you stated, keeping your tone light and indifferent.

How ludicrous, you thought. Your job was to pretend to be interested in him, yet here you were, desperately trying to act like you weren’t.

“Unfortunately, Y/N, I can’t do that,” Dottore replied. “The answer is dependent on certain variables.”

“Like what?”

“That’s not a yes or no question.” His face did not betray anything, yet you could hear the smirk in his voice, evident in the satisfaction he spoke with.

“But—”

“—My turn,” Dottore interrupted, and though you wanted to protest, you had to maintain an air of calmness, leaning back in your seat as you waited for him to speak.

“Question nineteen,” Dottore drew out each syllable with emphasis, “you are planning to kill me, aren’t you?”

His sentence caused you to freeze, a chill running down each ridge of your spine as you shivered, goosebumps breaking out over the surface of your skin, your hair standing on end as you stared at him, motionless, eyes wide.

That wasn’t a yes or no question. He knew. Dottore knew.

You didn’t need to see yourself to know that blood had drained from your face. There was no need for you to say anything; even if he hadn’t already known, your expression alone would be enough to confirm that everything he just said was true.

“Go on. Why don’t you answer me?” His voice was sharp enough to cut through the pounding of your heart, the pulsating of the organ reverberating in your eardrums being the only sound to muffle the deafening silence of the room.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” Dottore continued. Though the syllables reached you, your mind struggled to process the meaning behind them. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Dottore scoffed, indignant.

“I find it rather insulting that you think so lowly of me.”

“N-no,” you scrambled to find the right words. “I don’t—”

“—Is that so?” he said, cutting you off while clicking his tongue in mock disapproval. “Do you have a more plausible explanation for that gun strapped to your thigh, then?”

Your heart sank, his words the anchor that plunged it into the bottomless pit in your stomach. It felt like the life was drained from your body, rendering it an immobile marionette whose strings dangled from the tips of Dottore’s slender fingers. As if his words were coated in a paralyzing agent, you couldn��t bring yourself to speak further or move an inch. The only reminder that you were still alive was the harrowing thump of your pulse, each beat accelerating faster than the last.

How did he know?

For a split second you wondered if you’d been betrayed, but that was impossible. You had premeditated the perfect plan, meticulously memorized every step, and followed through with flawless execution.

With clandestine sleight, you acquired the perfect trump card—a gun loaded with bullets meant to destroy both visions and delusions. It was exactly what you needed to put an end to him, to put an end to this madness and absurdity. You’d be done with this once and for all. You’d have your old life back; exactly as it was before.

So how?

And what was more pressing than how, was the question of just what Dottore was planning to do with this knowledge. The urgency that question posed was unmatched by anything else, the answer pertaining to whether you would live or die.

You couldn’t help but wince, unable to conceal your expressions any longer. Dottore had seen through it all, seen through all your plans. You were dead, and you could only hope that your death would not be as unpleasant as some of the others by his hand. You knew what he was capable of, and you knew he was capable of far worse.

“I didn’t think so.” Dottore’s words were firm. Unwavering. And in those very seconds you were forced to accept the reality that you were going to die. This was the end.

“Go ahead,” Dottore said, slowly holding out his hands with both palms facing you. “Shoot me.”

What?

“I won’t stop you,” he finished his sentence. You were still gaping at him, but he was gazing back straight into your eyes, unflinching.

“Is this a joke?” you breathed, unable to comprehend what was just said to you.

“Is that your final question?” Dottore returned, his words somehow snapping you out of your daze and paralysis for a split second. You instinctively reacted by reaching to your thigh, pulling out the gun that you had prepared for this very moment and aiming it directly at him.

You tried to still the tremble of your hands as your index finger hooked onto the trigger, tensing it frozen so it wouldn’t pull.

A moment went by.

“Is that all?” Maybe you were imagining things. You had to be, but you couldn’t help but feel his eyes scan your face, searching for something.

Just what was he looking for? Could it be the same thing you sought?

“Allow me my final question, then.”

You couldn’t help but anticipate, that minuscule flame of hope, that lingering spark that refused to be snuffed out, flaring back to life.

“Sure.” Your voice was low, but you knew that he had heard you, nonetheless.

“Question...” Each second felt like it had been split up into millions, leaving you to experience time a microsecond at once. You were breathing heavily, your blood pulsating in your ears and adrenaline rushing through your veins. “...Twenty.”

“There is something stopping you, isn’t there?” 

next chapter -> any interactions are appreciated (´･ω･`) thank you very much for supporting my work! ♡

[elliesmainhoe]

i actually need military! ellie surprising her wife at home i woudl die sksksk

sorry this is so randkm😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫

Miss me sugar?

Military!Ellie X Reader imagine

Summary: After three months of deployment, Ellie returns home.

Contents: fluff, southern!Ellie, mentions of nudes, kisses, Ellie picks you up, a little bit of suggestive language, pet name use 'Doll and sugar',

It was the first deployment you and Ellie had went through as a couple, and god it was torturous. You missed her desperately, her beautiful freckled face and gorgeous laugh, you both sent letters to eachother, you to her more often than not.

It saddened you to hear from her so little, but you understood why, she was deployed in a country recovering from war- writing a letter to you wouldn't be her main priority, but you still felt a small warmth of comfort whenever you sent her a letter.

Unbeknownst to you- a warmth of happiness also comforted Ellie by your letters. The contents was always a a4 piece of paper, your handwriting scribbled on both sides tucked and folded into a white paper envelope along with two polaroids.

One of them was you sitting on the sandy beach that was located near your home, wearing your favourite summer dress and straw sun hat- wind in your hair as it blew behind you . The other was a selfie, you laying on your shared bed, makeup all messy and hair sprawled out on the pillow behind you- smudged eyeliner and glossy red lips, you wore a white spaghetti strapped vest, hard nipples pressing through the material.

Lets just say you helped with keeping her entertained during those long nights laying wide awake on the bottom bunk on one of the many bunk beds that were pushed up against the side of the white washed concrete wall in the shared.

She had missed you so much, her heart throbbed every time she looked upon that pretty Polaroid and the letter you sent her every three weeks. When she got the call that she could return home a month earlier than what was planned, she was ecstatic- finding it hard not to schedule a phone call home, announcing the good news.

But another idea nibbled at her, she'd seen those cute videos of soldiers surprising their wives by coming home early. The idea of seeing your suprise face, soft lips parted in suprise and eyes wide as you wrapped your arms around her neck for the first time in so long made her brain melt.

Well.... Fuck it.

•••••••••••

The soft chirps of twittering birds echoed throughout the otherwise silent suburban neighborhood, a soft breeze fluttering past her hair as she opened the door of her Uber Infront of the blue home that you and Ellie owned.

She thanked the driver, lugging out the black suitcase and slung the grey duffle bag over her shoulder as her boot clad feet began trailing up the stone path leading up to the porch, soft sun shining through the doors stained glass window, casting a colorful glow on the warm wooded floor of your hallway.

You were brushing your teeth when the sound of the doorbell rang through your house, you spat out the toothpaste, wiping your mouth before signing as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Pink stripped pyjama set, hair tied-up, out of the way and messy, your eyes still half closed, well you don't really think that looking good for the Amazon man is that important.

Fluffy socks met the carpeted staircase as you walked down yelling a small "Coming!" So whoever was at the door didn't leave, assuming the house vacant.

Your hand met the cold metal of the door handle, pushing down and pulling towards you. Your heart stopped. Your heartbeat loud in your ears, as you gazed at the brunette- eyes glassed over.

"Ells...? Is that really you...?" You whimpered, followed by a small sniffle.

"Hi sugar..."

Before you knew it, your arms wrapped themselves securely round her neck, squeezing tightly as her arms wrapped around your waist in return.

"Missed me?" She laughed into your hair.

"so... So much"

You looked up, your own eyes locking with her green ones, she pressed her lips against yours, tongues dancing with eachother- your hand moving from her neck to cup her cheek tenderly, massaging the supple skin in a circular motion.

"Think we should take this upstairs doll?.." she smirked suggestively, mouth mere centimeters away from yours-

You could only nod in reply.

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

This is really short and kinda rushed </33, but it's so cute 🫶

Taglist: @aunslie @lonelyfooryouonly @eywaskisses @daryldixonh0e @kittynnie @lovelyyevelyn @randomhoex @moonlightdivine @haerinwho @mufflaa @mial1l @sarahsmileslikesarahd0esntcare @moonlighting87 @escaping-reality8 @magicalfreakcowboylawyer @hejdevkdbdjsd @dergy @half-of-a-gay @ellieismami @cyberlainn @gollumsmygel @sseorii @kyleeservopoulos @taloulalila @ellieluhme @kiiyoooo @delusionalvioleht @joelscharm @hi2647 @gumdropkoo @coffeeandbookskeepmealive @womaniza @namgification @kimiisims-blog @tayyyystan @abigaillovestoread @whoreshores @kylieeluvstlou @knowitsforthebetterr @endureher @erikaar @lanasluverr @sayah13 @ilovebufflesbians @srryhoneyy @222fine444u @jade1212 @amoebagrl @casually-simping @frogtits1

NOT PROOFREAD

[hedgehog-moss]

Hey!

I thought maybe you could help me in my quest. I've made two bookmarks for a friend with watercolors. One of them is a small fox looking at fallen leaves flying above his head, as if he were mesmerized by them. And I've been trying to find a good quote to accompany it on the back of the bookmark, but I haven't been successful so far.

I'm looking either for a poetry excerpt (my bookmark is 1/8 of an A4 sheet of paper, so nothing that would be very long [like a full sonnet haha] but I still have some space) or a quote of any kind, in French or in English, both are fine.

Would you have any that would make a good fit? Maybe an autumn-y one?

[I don't want to influence you, but for example, for the second one which is a sky at almost-dusk-time with a washed-out blue sky and soft pink clouds, I have a quote from one of the Anne of Green Gables books by Lucy Maud Montgomery:

"In daylight I belong to the world, in the night to sleep and eternity. But in the dusk I'm free from both and belong only to myself."]

Much thanks, and scritches to your various animals :)

Handmade watercolour bookmarks are such a nice idea for a gift, I love it <3

I vexed myself thinking about your request because I learn poetry by heart so often, or small book excerpts, but when someone asks me to dig up a topical quote my mental library is suddenly empty. I wish I had a tag system for my brain.

I vaguely remember an Alfred Desrochers poem the first stanza of which was "Le vent est froid, le ciel est gris, la terre est rousse / L'automne est revenu par septembre apporté / Et les arbres, devant la mort du bel été / Pleurent des larmes d'or [?quelque chose?] sur la mousse." And something by Francis Jammes about "ces jours qu'empourpraient les agonies solaires de l'automne" but no recollection beyond that...

I also remember some meager excerpts from "Matin d'octobre" by François Coppée, "A travers la brume automnale / Tombent les feuilles du jardin / [???] / Une blonde lumière arrose / La nature, et dans l'air tout rose / On croirait qu'il neige de l'or."

And one of my favourite poems by Marie-Claire Bancquart, "Je marche dans la solitude des livres", "Beyond the garden, beyond the moment at hand, are the fallen shells of chestnuts, the fire of leaves in the mist..."

And a verse by Ernest Dowson that went "And are we not better and at home / in dreamful autumn...? "

Maybe a couple of lines from this e.e. cummings poem? What my brain retained of it was "the glory is fallen out of the sky, this is the passing of all shining things"...

(if a fox could write autumn poetry I think it would sound like this poem. "no lingering no backward-wondering straight glad feet fear ruining lead us into the serious darkness...")

I also like this sentence by Elizabeth Coatsworth, from her book Personal Geography: "The magic of autumn has seized the countryside; now that the sun isn’t ripening anything it shines for the sake of the golden age; for the sake of Eden; to please the moon for all I know."

Anyway, love the idea of handmade illustrated bookmarks :) It reminds me of a calendar I made for a friend years ago, I wrote a little poem for each month and illustrated it. One of the poems was about having a snail friend:

[the-atlas-sister]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝔸𝕥𝕝𝕒𝕤 (Sully Siblings x Sister!Na’vi!Fem!Reader) Part 3

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/mooskey/724247343162114048/%F0%9D%95%8B%F0%9D%95%99%F0%9D%95%96-%F0%9D%95%8A%F0%9D%95%9A%F0%9D%95%A4%F0%9D%95%A5%F0%9D%95%96%F0%9D%95%A3-%F0%9D%94%B8%F0%9D%95%A5%F0%9D%95%9D%F0%9D%95%92%F0%9D%95%A4-%F0%9D%95%84%F0%9D%95%92%F0%9D%95%A4%F0%9D%95%A5%F0%9D%95%96%F0%9D%95%A3%F0%9D%95%9D%F0%9D%95%9A%F0%9D%95%A4%F0%9D%95%A5

Warnings!: Blood, violence, vulgar language, angry Jake, angst, toxic parenting 

They held you in the dark and cold. You could feel the cool metal of their gun and other forms of violence against your skin, making it crawl. 

You heard the men talk before they sulked into the forest. 

Your ears suddenly perked at the familiar yipping sound in the distance. You caught the gaze of your siblings who all held knowing looks. 

Kiri began to pray to the Great Mother quietly, causing the man holding her and Spider to hiss a small, “shut up.” 

The chaos began when an arrow landed in the man’s skull.

“Contact rear!” Quaritch yelled, shoving the still restrained Kiri and Spider against a tree. The whole squad went into a frenzy, nearly all of them shoving you and your siblings aside as they directed their firearms in the direction of which the arrow had come from.

 You’re eyes caught a glimpse of the arrow tip still protruding from the lifeless body. You recognized the familiar colored feathers, confirming what you had previously believed. 

Your parents had come to find you. 

“Lo’ak! Now!” you yelled, turning your head to your brother. He caught your eyes before quickly pulling out the pin of a nearby soldier’s grenade. A green gas shot out of the small container causing the soldier to panic. Lo’ak then swiftly spun around and bit his capture’s arm, causing him to let out a pained yowl and release your little brother. Tuk watched her brother before doing the same. 

“Lo’ak!” she yelled as soon as she was released. She ran towards the older boy, both running off into the night. 

As Lo’ak ushered Tuk away from the scene and deeper into the forest, you took your moment. You let out a hiss, pulling your wrists close to your body and head butting the man who restrained you with the back of your skull. He let out a wail and released you, quickly grabbing his now bleeding nose. You rushed away from him, grabbing the small gun in his thigh holster and pointing it at him. 

“Y/n!” Lo’ak yelled, now noticing that you weren’t behind him and Tuk. 

“Lo’ak- go! Get Tuk!” you yelled, shooting the man in the head, causing him to collapse. 

“But-”

“Lo’ak, I’ll be there, go- now!” 

Lo’ak stared at you before doing what he was told, cursing himself for doing so. 

You let out a quiet sigh as the two left your sight before turning back to the now dispersed group. You spun in a circle, letting out a loud hiss. 

“Y/n, hey kid,” a fuzzy voice sprung into your ear. 

Your radio! 

You had forgotten that you had been wearing it. 

“Dad,” you answered, pressing the button on your neck. You could hear an audable sigh from the other side of the line. 

“Hey babygirl, are your siblings out?” your father questioned, and even in such a panicked setting, you felt your heart swell at the nickname he so often used with your sisters and so rarely with you. 

“Yeah, they’re safe.”

“Good, now your turn. Get your ass out of there.” 

“Yes, sir,” you responded before dashing into the dark forest. You dashed through trees, your feet easily avoiding the roots and branches you knew all too well since childhood. 

“Y/n!” Your face lit up at the familiar voice of your brother. 

“Neteyam!” you said, allowing the boy to embrace you. “Dad allowed you to come?” you questioned pulling away and watching as he pulled out a small knife. 

“Not exactly,” Neteyam responded, quick to cut your restraints. “Where did you get that?” He nodded towards the small gun in your hand. 

“Dead guy,” you responded. “Come on.” 

Your brother nodded at your statement before following you further into the dense forest. “Wait, wait,” he hissed, stopping in his tracks. “Mom.” 

You followed his gaze to see another man pointing his gun in the direction of your shared mother. She stood high in a tree, unaware of the danger. An easy target for a seasoned war dog. 

Without a second thought, you cocked your gun, shooting the man in the stomach. He let out a groan before he fell to the ground from the force of Neteyam’s arrow. 

“Prepare another,” you whispered, hearing the sounds of gunshots. Neteyam did as he was told before you were both pushed out of the way. Where you stood now was a flurry of bullets. 

“Go! Go! Go!” the voice of your father yelled, pulling his eldest children against a tree. “Hey, hey.” His stern voice pulled you from the sounds of gunshots and war, making you look at him. “You okay? You two okay?”

You both let out a series of ‘yeahs’, Neteyam constantly looking over his shoulder and around the tree. 

“You two with me,” he stated. “Ready, ready?” 

“Yes sir,” the two of you echoed as if you were indeed soldiers in war. 

Your father then swung around the tree, shooting at the squad following you. “Move!” he yelled as he shot. As soon as you saw him dash into the forest, you followed. The three of you darted through the jungle, ducking and jumping over and under roots and branches. You swiftly avoided the occasional bullets being sent your way. 

Finally, you reached a small clearing, coming within contact of your family. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” your father said, holding Tuk as she cried for him. 

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, rushing to Lo’ak. You threw your gun to the ground and grabbed Neteyam’s knife. You were quick to break the binds of his restrains and inspected him. 

He nodded, seeming a bit dazed before hugging you gently. You began to breathe heavily, the reality of the experience setting in. 

“It’s okay, we’re okay,” you said, hugging your little brother tighter. 

“We’re okay, we’re all clear,” your father said as your mother and sister arrived in the clearing. 

You released Lo’ak, allowing your father to pull him and Neteyam into a comforting hug. 

“Thank you Great Mother,” your mother cried, holding your arm tightly as she held your sisters. 

“They took him,” Kiri cried, looking up at you. “Spider, they took him.” 

“I know,” you cooed, allowing her to fall into your arms. “It’ll be okay, he’s your brave monkey boy, huh?” You stroked her hair and watched carefully as your parents shared a look. 

“We need to get back,” your mother said, her voice shaky as she stood, still clinging to Tuk and now Neteyam. 

“Go ahead, Neteyam, lead the family, Y/n and I will follow the rear,” your father said, nodding at each family member as he directed them. 

“Yes sir,” Neteyam said, his voice shaky as well. It was obvious he was still recovering from actually being in battle but still followed your father’s orders. 

You and he watched as the family began forward. 

“Grab that gun again,” he ordered, looking directly at the small gun on the forest floor. You did as you were told, feeling the air shift between the two of you. “What the hell happened?” your father asked coldly as you began to follow your siblings. Your head hung at his words. “You’re the oldest. You’re supposed to keep your siblings out of trouble!” His whispers were harsh and full of rage. “You four know you’re not supposed to be out there. You disobeyed our rules and your siblings were put in danger because of it! You’re 18 years old for godsake, y/n.” 

“I’m sorry sir,” you mumbled, feeling tears prickle in your eyes. 

“Neteyam’s younger than you and follows rules better,” your father mumbled, probably to himself, but his words made your fists and heart clench. 

You stayed silent, quickly wiping away tears that made their way from your eyes. 

A/n Heh- sorry if I’m reintroducing trauma for some of you. 

Tag List! sparks0918  @the-mourning-moon​ @justpasssingby @thehoneymushroomhealer ictoa  ladylovegood-69

If you’d like to be added to the tag list just let me know!

Y’all want the reader to have a love interest, so the next poll is for who that love interest will be!

https://www.tumblr.com/mooskey/724245349688131584/who-should-be-the-readers-love-interest-make?source=share

[my-dark-lord]

Hello, all! I come to you with an experimental fic commission idea! For now, it's just a small grid to see if there's much interest in it. But I know there are lots of fankid breedable grids, and I got to thinking, why not a grid for ship fics? It sounded like a fun idea for me, so I wanted to go ahead and try it!

RULES:

1. All payments must be made before I start on your fic. Payments can be made through PayPal, Venmo, or CashApp.

2. If you would like to purchase an entire row for a polyship fic, it will still be the standard tier price plus $8 each for a total of $16 extra dollars.. If you purchase A1, B2, or C3, then the fic will center around the character of choice and may not have any other characters in it as main characters.

3. Please see tier list for pricing. My commissions are also open should you want to purchase more words than are allowed here, but it will incur an extra fee of $8 per 100 words.

4. I would prefer not to take commissions outright bashing Valentino. He is my favorite and a comfort character to me, so it would be better if he was not being treated like a one-note monster.

5. I will write smut, angst, fluff, romance, and humor. These are genres I’m very well-versed in.

6. Once a purchase has been discussed, I will send you my commission form for you to fill out.

7. Fanfic examples can be found here. Please feel free to check both pseuds listed! Sunshinecackle is my main, and E-M-P-Error has all of my fics based on my rp blog interactions!

TIER LIST:

A Tier - $52 - 1,000 Words

A Tier is my standard 1k word price. You will not be charged for anything 1,001-1,099 words. A compromise can be worked out if it is a couple of words over strictly for this grid only. If you purchase a polyship fic, it will be $68.

B Tier - $31 - 700 Words

B Tier is my standard 700 word price. You will not be charged for anything 701-799 words. A compromise can be worked out if it is a couple of words over strictly for this grid only. If you purchase a polyship fic, it will be $47.

C Tier - $15 - 500 Words

C Tier is my standard flat 500 word price. You will not be charged for anything 501-599 words. A compromise can be worked out if it is a couple of words over strictly for this grid only. If you purchase a polyship fic, it will be $31.

SLOTS:

A1 - Vox-Centric Fic- Open

A2 - VoxVal Fic- Open

A3 - VoxVel Fic - Open

A4 - Polyship Buyout - Open

B1 - VoxVal Fic- Open

B2 - Valentino-Centric Fic- Open

B3 - ValVel Fic- Open

B4 - Polyship Buyout- Open

C1 - VoxVel Fic- Open

C2 - ValVel Fic- Open

C3 - Velvette-Centric Fic- Open

C4 - Polyship Buyout - Open

All images belong to Vivziepop, Spindlehorse, and A24

Breedable Grid made by Wolveswoodglenadopts of DeviantArt

[kookygranger]

Notes On Progress

Ghost!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader

Series Masterlist

500 words

“Can I hear them?”

Steve’s been watching over your shoulder as you type up a review of a band from upstate. Reading along as the black ink stamps into the paper with each clack of your typewriter.

You wondered how he didn’t get bored. Surely, you were one of the least interesting witches in the coven to follow around day-to-day. You weren’t used to entertaining, and you rarely practised witchcraft outside of your daily rituals – although he’d watch that intently too, asking about all the different ingredients you’d steep in your tea and why continuously getting the Ace of Cups card in your tarot spread was bothering you.

But he was still here, and you were still wary of why that was – both spiritually and physically – why you?

“Uh, sure.” You click your Walkman, taking out the cassette when it pops up and move over to your stereo. You watch as Steve reads over what you’d written again while the first track fills the room, his tongue digging into his lower lip in concentration.

“That’s good. What you’ve written is like, what it sounds like.” He winces at his inability to articulate, but you get what he means. The compliment makes your shoulders hunch.

“Thanks.”

A knock at the front door of your cottage pulls you away, and you ignore the tingling in your arm as you pass the ghost.

“Hey.” Your fellow coven member Kelsey smiles at your appearance, holding out a thick A4 piece of paper towards you, “Essie made this painting for you, but she was too shy to show you so I volunteered to bring it ov–“ she stops talking when she notices something over your shoulder, then leans in to whisper, “You have a ghost?”

You follow her line of sight to Steve who smiles at the both of you, offering a wave from where he’s standing further in the house.

“Wait, you can see him too?” You turn back to Kelsey who nods, eyes still trained on him. “Huh, I guess he really isn’t here because of me then. He kind of just popped up a few days ago. Would he have anything to do with you?”

She shakes her head, frowning at the way Steve is staring at you like you invented tight, dark-wash jeans.

“Fuck, well if you hear of anyone missing a spirit let me know.” You look down at the colourful portrait she handed you, “And tell Essie thanks. It’s beautiful as always.”

“Will do.” She turns away slowly and you hear her release a deep sigh as you close the door.

Steve follows you as you walk into the kitchen, admiring the portrait of you with crossed arms as you stick it onto the fridge.

“Pretty.” He mutters.

“I know, she’s so talented.”

He rubs the back of his neck before taking a step closer, chest almost close to touching your back if it were possible. “I didn’t really mean the art.”

You turn your head to see a shy smirk on his face, eyes transfixed on you. You roll your eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping into your skin. Who the hell flirts this much when they’re dead? You’re not even used to the alive ones doing it to you.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of his spell if you can’t his spirit, and move back to your typewriter.

Steve settles back into his place over your shoulder, nodding along to the music as the words flow from your handwritten notes to the page in front of you.

Steve edit by @petersspideymask on Pinterest

[aimeedaisies]

HRH Princess Anne talks about her new Rustler 44 yacht and love of sailing in Scotland

Article from Yachting World, published 4th December 2014

Elaine Bunting asks Royal Princess Anne and her husband Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence which are their favourite Scottish cruising grounds when they sail their Rustler 44 Ballochbuie.

Scotland is no easy cruising ground. The weather can change quickly. Reaching the more distant islands requires a certain toughness as well as skill, especially if sailing double-handed, as The Princess Royal Princess Anne and her husband Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence usually do aboard their new Rustler 44 Ballochbuie. This is ‘black run’ cruising.

Their favourite places are the more remote islands and anchorages. “To be honest, if we get north of Ardnamurchan it suddenly feels different, and if you go north of Skye other boats almost disappear, and although there are some based up at Ullapool and Stornoway, they are rare,” says Princess Anne.

Asked about some of the places they like to visit, they first mention the island of Coll. “We’ve got some friends who live there,” says Sir Tim, adding: “though is not the most hospitable and the anchorages there are a little bit variable.”

“But it is pretty impressive at certain times of the year,” adds Princess Anne, “particularly up at the northern end, the Cairns of Coll. The northern end is rocky and the southern end is a bit more agricultural and there are lots of geese in the winter. Actually, winter is probably more entertaining – you get snipe and woodcock as well.”

At the mention of anchorages, Sir Tim gets up and goes below to Ballochbuie’s navigation table to retrieve a document that runs to several pages of A4 paper. This is a list of all the places he and Princess Anne have been to during their years of sailing the two Rustlers.

It is a very impressive and comprehensive list stretching from Rathlin Island off the north coast of Northern Ireland as far north as Cape Wrath at the north-western tip of Scotland. The scores of anchorages are carefully listed and account for some challenging pilotage and difficult nooks and crannies. But they seem to enjoy exploring new – and preferably out of the way – spots.

“We haven’t kept a record of how many miles we’ve sailed, but we have kept a record of the anchorages,” says Sir Tim, to which the Princess adds: “Every trip we added one anchorage we hadn’t been to before, at least, and usually two or three. Even if you are going over the same ground there are still places to be found, though fish farms are a bit of a menace. There are places we used to anchor in Bloodhound that you can’t get to now.”

The wildlife and sea life are something they both mention. “We see quite a lot of basking sharks, particularly between Coll and Tiree,” says Princess Anne. “Once I lost count at about 25. That was extraordinary.”

Princess Anne recalls: “We had a rough three days on the way from the Sound of Harris down to Lochboisdale [on South Uist] and saw a big pod of dolphins, which was just extraordinary. They were coming at you from the top of the waves. They didn’t quite jump over the top of the boat, but they looked like they were going to.”

Royal favourites

Lewis: the lochs on the east side are great. There are quite a few places to anchor in Loch Roag.

Shiant Islands: we’ve been there a couple of times in Blue Doublet and a couple of times on [the cruise ship] Hebridean Princess with The Queen.

Loch Ewe: we had an interesting time in fog as thick as I’ve ever known it. There is a wonderful garden to see here as well.

Hermitray: there are some nice anchorages in the Sound of Harris, but lots of fish farms around.

Rona: a favourite spot. One of the most sheltered anchorages on the west coast. A very nice man, Bill Cowie, is the warden.

Skye: we’ve been all round Skye. There are lots more places to visit. We’ve only been to 12 anchorages there!

Eriskay: there’s a fantastic little anchorage here. We went there for the first time in Ballochbuie.

Barra: a marvellous place and a wonderful escape from the world.

Vatersay: good shelter in the lee of a sandbar. We anchored near Vatersay in company with Britannia one year.

Canna, Rum, Eigg and Muck: we enjoy visiting all these islands.

Loch Nevis and Loch Awe: both are lovely places.

Loch Moidart: beautiful, but we’ve only been there once. It has quite a scary entrance, not easy in a long-keel boat and you’re always battling the wind to get out.

Mull: Loch Mingary, Bunessan, the Bull Hole and Ardlanish. A beautiful little spot with shelter on the south side of the Ross of Mull. Carsaig is a little notch you wouldn’t think you could get into or get any shelter at all, but there’s a little reef offshore you can tuck behind.

Lismore: the island in Loch Linnhe. Walking there you get the most beautiful views and you can see as far as Ben Nevis.

Loch Feochan: there is a little place right at the entrance that is great.

Garvellach Islands: lovely, but weather- dependent so it has to be very calm.

Loch Craignish: Goat Island is one of the safest anchorages on the west coast of Scotland, as long as you are able to wash off your anchor; it has the stickiest mud.

Jura: we have visited anchorages all round the coast.

Rathlin Island: fascinating, a bit shallow and we bounced off the bottom there.