#I might write more snippets here and there

[ofeliaxoxo]

Alex asked Charles about that, last summer. Yes, Charles had answered, eyes glowing, he cuts them. It is like the clippers I use for Leo. Alex was sure he wasn’t aware of it, the awe in his own voice, they always grow back very quickly. Charles had never watched it happen because Carlos wouldn’t let him. He said Carlos was too sensitive, and Alex didn’t say what he was thinking, you should be more sensitive. But now no one clips them.

and one day (if carlos ever decided on his own to clip his teeth again i guess) when carlos eventually lets charles watch him clip them-- or even lets charles do it for him-- and it feels incredibly intimate to both of them What Then (oh my god ive been going insane about your snippet it was wonderful idk how you do it every single time. i am now also overwhelmingly possessed by vampire carlos visions)

Yes you are a fucking genius I didn’t even think of that but that’s so sexy here it is. I’m definitely going to write a proper fic the only thing I care about now is vampire Carlos. Let’s all talk about vampire Carlos. My tame vampire….

Charles is straddling him on the couch. No heat, coming through their clothes. Just the cool shape of him, underneath. Charles likes it, loves to press himself against Carlos’s body during hot afternoons, feel it bring his own temperature down.

The clippers - and they are just like clippers - are heavier than they look. Dense, maybe. Probably they need to be, for the force of it, what they were made to do. He’s not nervous, looking up at Charles without speaking, the shine of his lovely eyes, trusting and deep.

Charles thinks he might be nervous himself. There’s something swirling inside him, a quickening.

“Open your mouth,” and Carlos smirks a little as he obeys. Charles is hard, knows he’s noticed.

Charles fits the metal around one pointed tooth as gently as possible. The whispering scrape of it, medical silver against enamel. Carlos can surely hear it from the inside, sound travelling through bone.

“Ok,” he has one hand on Carlos’s neck. Wants to hook his fingers onto the bottom row of the brilliant teeth, can’t because that’ll derail Carlos altogether. He’s so good, but he has his limits. Charles has to respect them, let Carlos remain in control of himself. “I’m going to do it now. Ready?”

“Ready,” Carlos tries to answer, garbled through his open mouth.

Charles gives him no warning. Realises he should have because when he cuts through Carlos’s whole body flinches, like a dog that’s heard a loud noise. A big shock running through his steady frame.

“Does it hurt?” He asks after Carlos’s mouth is his own again.

“Yes. There are a lot of nerves there. They should not be cut.”

“Sorry,” Charles murmurs, strokes a thumb along his eyebrow, feels himself leaking into his boxers as he lines the clippers up to do the other one.

Afterwards Carlos runs the tip of his tongue along the now even bottoms of them. Not jagged at all. Sometimes whoever used to do it would rush the job and Charles would see the rough edges, like fabric when you go at it with the wrong scissors.

Charles goes into the kitchen to wash the clippers, get all the spit off them with washing up liquid, wants to be alone for a minute so that Carlos won’t see when he leaves the bin alone, slips the two little ivory points back into his pocket after dragging one of them, sharp end first, along the soft length of his tongue.

[wakkoroni]

oh and Family Dance Night

Hellooooo againnnn

Ah yes. The title is slightly misleading I fear cause one would think this would be a silly crack fic but it's actually angst and of course: damian centric because I love my son.

Damian is drained mentally after a series of unfortunate academic events yet he still has to deal with his family who are just a handful to deal with. He is trying his hardest not to be a pain in the ass and he wants to self-isolate so badly but his family isn't letting him and he ends up getting annoyed and in a bad mood.

The family dance night comes in because eventually after an afternoon filled with activities, he's finally allowed to go to his room as rest but not for long because he is rudely awaken with a bunch of noise from downstairs and he goes to see because he just wants to sleep and no one is letting him sleep but finds out his family is having fun doing karaoke and dancing and messing around and he really doesn't want to get involved but Dick sees him and drags him to join and he's forced play along for a bit to not ruin the mood but internally is dying and eventually finds a way out to go back and rest.

This fic is very personal ngl since it may or may not be based on a true event that happened years ago (when I started writing it it was fresher) and it's honestly pretty much done just need to do the conclusion but yeah. It's complicated.

Here's a snippet:

They arrived at the Manor with Alfred waiting for them with hot chocolate in his hands. Now the question was: did he want one? He didn’t necessarily want one because if he wanted one then he would have to stay downstairs with everyone as they retold what happened at the mall. And he didn’t want to stay with people but if he took the hot chocolate and went upstairs then that would be seen as rude and disrespectful. If he declined the hot chocolate then it wouldn’t be disrespectful? But who in their right mind would decline some hot chocolate made from Heaven?

Good thing Damian wasn’t in his right mind. He declined and went back upstairs to change into some comfortable clothing. His sweater was itchy anyway. He changed into leggings and an emerald green sweatshirt with his initials on it in gold thread. He got this shirt at a hotel they were staying at on a trip and the hotel gave them all sweatshirts, but Damian uses his frequently. It’s soft, fuzzy on the inside, and overall very comfortable. He sat down at his desk, watching as Alfred the cat played with his pencils and proceeded to zone out again. Or attempted to zone out, someone knocked on his door.

“Damian? Can I come in?” His father asked from the other side of the door. Damian opened the door for him and noticed that he was holding two mugs of hot chocolate.

He looked up at him in confusion. He declined the hot chocolate? Or did he decline it in his head and just walk off. Holy shit did he accidentally have a mental interaction with everyone and forgot to actually interact with them. Shit-

“I know you said you didn’t want any but I figured I’d bring one up for you anyway. A warm drink should help you fall asleep” Bruce handed him the mug, which Damian accepted. He stepped aside to let him in.

“I’m not going to sleep?” Damian meant to say it as a statement but ended up as a question instead.

“I think a nap will be okay”

“I don’t take naps” Damian protested as he watched Bruce close the blinds and shut the door slightly. He pulled back the covers so Damian can climb in. “I don’t want to take a nap”

“It might help you feel better”

Yes, he is tired so a nap should help. But he isn’t known for naps and what if naps become a regular occurrence? Plus naps are for toddlers and he isn’t a toddler. He took sips from his mug as he thought about this. Bruce sat down on the bed next to him and took the mug from his hands once he finished drinking from it. Damian got comfortable under his covers and curled up. With the weighted blanket on top, it felt more secure. He let out a sigh of relief and of exhaustion and closed his eyes for a second. He distantly heard Bruce kiss his forehead goodnight before shutting the door.

[agender-wolfie]

Imagine Kid meeting his future partner by being too rowdy and knocking over their art stand or something by accident (being himself) but instead of apologizing, he blames them. Stating that they shouldn’t have been in the way in the first place. And instead of backing down and being a meek little mouse like he expects you to be,you tear into him.

“You listen to me you giant red fuck! I don’t work my ass off, pouring blood, sweat and tears into my work just so wild ass fuckos like you can come in here and tear shit up! You’re either going to clean this up and pay for the damages, or I’m gonna beat your ass!!”

The whole crew was stunned, everyone that didn’t run away in fear of an altercation was stunned, but most of all, Kid was stunned. As soon as you called him a “giant red fuck” his smirk dropped and his mouth hung open while a steady red creeped up his neck and face. The fact that you had the gall to stand up to him in the first place was one thing, but your fiery spirit and your overall passion in the face of a feared pirate is what had his heart thumping and pants becoming a bit tight.

Killer, who had moved close just in case he needed to step in and prevent more trouble, had seen the absolute love struck look on his captains face and let out an amused huff, knowing Kid had finally met his match.

[louroth]

All this nervous energy just running off of you as long as you. keep. moving. The adrenaline feels lovely as it surges, past the last set, into another, and a third— you're going for failure, aren't you?

Always.

It is not enough to coast the high of enough. It has to be more. There has to be the tenuous sigh of relief as your body scrambles to survive within the frame you've made for it. Just one more. Another.

The weights fall to the floor with a clatter and your mouth splits into a wide grin of approval as everything— your vision, your limbs, your spirit— trembles, quakes: the good kind of exhaustion. The ceiling is the loveliest view you've ever seen— you did it. The something you can do. Colors dull in comparison to it. As you lay on the mat, tracing worms of fracturing color that twitch with your heightened breath, a face steps in, swirling your vision into whirls of lights and traces of sweat. A smirk, a raised eyebrow— distant, not staring, but aware. He hefts his own weight. Flicks his focus to your red, flushed face. Meets your eyes for a fraction of a second before curling the iron once more.

"A sight for sore eyes."

You, at a lack for words, trace an eye over his form. He rolls his lips. You flick a brow.

And that is all there is to it.

[avirael]

Sparing you the direct side by side comparison here but I really think Nhagi’ra has a bit of Flynn Rider energy, as in he’s a charming but kind idiot. Maybe a little more silly/clumsy than Flynn 🤭

Imagine him just walking by and seeing a woman attacked by some monster. Of course he heroically rushes to her help just that he slips/trips, falls down down a ravine or something and breaks his leg.

Meanwhile said woman (who can absolutely save herself) chases away the monster on her own and finds him stuck and whining.

Still he immediately puts on his most self-assured, charming face to impress her, which pathetically fails of course.

I Imagine it goes like this:

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I ca- Aaaah! - No! No, I can’t…”

“Alright, let me help you…”

[morganaseren]

Saoibh "Rook" Cousland

BASICS

Fandom: Dragon Age

Name: Saoibh (pronounced "Sive"; like the number "five" but with a "S" in front of it) Cousland

Nickname(s):

Rook - headcanoned as being given to her specifically by her mother Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine and Inquisition Spymaster (or simply Empress Celene's feared Nightingale of the Imperial Court in the Werewolf/Vampire AU). Saoibh serves as her mother's eyes and ears when abroad—the Rook to Leliana's Queen essentially.

Trouble - given to her by Neve obviously

Any variant of Pup or Puppy - these see more use by the members of her family, especially those of the Mac Eanraig clan

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Occupation and/or Titles: Canonically, she's the laidback but eccentric leader of the Veilguard, but Saoibh's also one of the Lords of Fortune in any verse she's in.

The adventurous escapades they get up to would honestly fit in so well with her wild personality. Plus, all that seafaring would go well with her background, especially with the Mac Eanraig blood she's got flowing through her.

In the Werewolf/Vampire AU though, she's the partner in crime to Neve Gallus, a centuries-old vampire and longtime secret leader to one of Minrathous' most infamous crime syndicates: the Threads.

Birthday & Age: She was born on the 7th of Kingsway in 9:32 Dragon, so she's 19-20 years old by the time the events of Veilguard happens. She's definitely on the younger end of Rooks since she was conceived just before the endgame of Origins.

In any of her AUs though, she's in her very early to mid twenties.

Physical Description: Although the height gene escaped both her parents (who aren't too terribly short to be fair 😂), Saoibh regained it during her generation. She stands taller than most Fereldan women at an impressive 6'2" (188cm), which is perhaps the one trait people can note of her from a distance.

Within arm's reach though, most would likely see that she bears an almost uncanny resemblance to Leliana with her general facial structure, the glacial blue color of her eyes, and her freckles. Granted, Saoibh has more of a sea of freckles—which actually extends out to the rest of her body—than her mother does. 😂 She also inherited the Couslands' dark-haired good looks, courtesy of Niamh, but the little braid she typically fashions on the left side of her head is an homage to Leliana.

Saoibh sports broad shoulders, and due to training with both bow and daggers as well as tracking prey/targets over long distances, she has the muscles to show for it. On her right arm and left leg, she has tattoos done in bold, black ink to show her allegiance to the Lords of Fortune.

Clothing Style: Saoibh grew up along the sea though. As such, she spent most of her formative years learning her way around a ship with her Great Aunt Eithne, so her casual wear tends to lean more toward anything that allows her skin to cool off efficiently beneath the scorching rays of the sun. This doesn't really change too much in colder weather either although she switches out the lighter cloth materials with more leather, which can be seen in the images above.

When it comes to armor, however, she wears an actual chestplate and more layers in either the form of cloth or leather—or any combination thereof—in order to better deflect blades and incoming projectiles. As a rogue, her armor is typically enchanted against magical attacks. Headcanonically, as a Lord of Fortune, Saoibh also wears a number of golden rings on her fingers in her normal casual wear that offer the same effect.

Overall, Saoibh keeps to the same color palette of black and silver that Niamh does; it's Saoibh's own way of honoring her since she doesn't possess magic. However, it should be noted that she starts incorporating certain accent colors and Tevinter-style motifs into her wardrobe to better match with a certain ice mage... 😏 In turn, Dock Town's Darling starts wearing Saoibh's signature colors. 😉

COMBAT & SKILLS

Class: Rogue

Specialization: Saboteur

Preferred Fighting Style: Saoibh introduces absolute chaos onto any battlefield she steps upon. There's no moment where she's not moving because her goal is always to close the distance between her and her target. Close quarters combat is where she absolutely thrives.

Like her mother, she's every bit a trickster, so beyond her usual array of daggers and arrows, Saoibh also equips explosive knives, flasks of either poison or lightning, and turrets. As such, her enemies never know a moment's peace so long as she's there with them.

Special Skills: Saoibh's something of a mad genius when it comes to alchemical mixtures and traps. A warrior's using a shield to try and block her blades and arrows? Well, her explosive knives have a substance on their tips that allow them to stick on any surface! She's about to be surrounded 20 to 1? No problem! Watch her throw a flask to the floor imbued with actual lightning that electrifies her body (headcanon: her enchanted armor and rings allow her to do this unscathed) and that of everyone else around her as she moves in and around the crowd to dispatch them with her blades. Saoibh's fighting in too open a room without any chokepoints? She can deploy a portable turret that will help her reduce the amount of enemies around her!

Don't even get me started on the canonical ultimate the Saboteur specialization has. Who in their right mind gave Saoibh access to an actual mini cannon? 😂 (Headcanon: it was The Iron Bull. He probably told a wide-eyed, young Saoibh about gaatlok, and she took the idea and ran with it when she got older. 😏 )

RELATIONSHIPS

Family: She's part of the newest generation of Couslands alongside her half-brother Kieran. They're very close to Niamh's siblings, which includes Uncle Fergus, who is the Teyrn of Highever, and their Aunt Saoirse, who is the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

Saoibh loves her mother Leliana dearly. Unfortunately, due to the nature of her profession, Leliana had a growing number of enemies by the time Saoibh reached schooling age. Out of an abundance of caution, Leliana sent Saoibh to live with Morrigan and Kieran in Orlais when the other woman had been named Empress Celene's Arcane Advisor. Leliana would discretely send her letters and care packages through her agents, but Saoibh would stay under Morrigan's care until she could be reunited with her mother during the events of Inquisition.

Along that same vein, Saoibh holds a great amount of love and respect toward her sire as well. However, Niamh's role as Ferelden's Constable of the Grey meant her duties to the Wardens would occasionally pull her away. Whether Saoibh was in Amaranthine or Orlais, Niamh would always find a way to visit—often with gifts to spoil her and Kieran. By 9:40 Dragon though, Niamh's gone off in search of a cure for the Calling.

Although her immediate family dynamics are a bit unconventional thanks to the Dark Ritual, Saoibh absolutely adores Morrigan as well, who she views as another mother. When Leliana sent her off to live with Morrigan in Orlais, Saoibh hadn't offered any form of complaint. She honestly thinks Morrigan's ability to use arcane magic—something so different from what her sire is capable of—and shapeshift are amazing.

Saoibh also has a lot of relatives in the form of extended family though.

From the moment she was born, the Mac Eanraig clan—particularly her Great Aunt Eithne—always made her feel welcome. Following the end of Inquisition, Morrigan and Leliana relocated the children to Amaranthine permanently. As a result, Saoibh learned a lot of seafaring skills from her Great Aunt, which she'd hone on her own in addition to her training as a rogue during her teenage years. Such a unique skillset would catch the eyes of the Lords of Fortune, who would later recruit her as an adult.

Love Interest: Her lover is honestly a woman whom needs no introduction, but let's just say it was practically love at first sight when she laid eyes on Neve Gallus. 😍

Saoibh was still running high on adrenaline on the trek over to Dumat Plaza, but as she turned the corner to see the immense, icy dome covering the area in its entirety, she couldn't help but be filled with awe. When it came to elemental magic, she'd only ever seen power and control of that magnitude from her sire before.

She reached out to touch the dome, but before her fingertips could even graze its cool surface, it simply... fell away. With great shifts and cracks, the icy structure slowly dispersed in a soft veil of snow, revealing a single woman at its center: utterly beautiful, quietly confident, and oh so calm and deadly as she casually took a drag from her pipe as several Venatori laid in various states of frozen decay around her.

Saoibh had never been more aroused in her life than she had in that moment, and who could possibly blame her? 🥰

Best Friends:

Bellara - There's an excitable enthusiasm about her that laces itself into nearly every conversation Saoibh has with her. It's a feeling that she can easily relate to, given how often she gets lost in her alchemical projects or brainstorms new trap ideas. They tinker about with their various gadgets together—sometimes in companionable silence and sometimes not as they eagerly bounce ideas off each other—in either Bellara's workshop or Saoibh's room. Given that Neve likens Bellara to a sister, she's constantly exasperated by all the antics these two inevitably get up to.

Davrin - No one's quite as adept as getting Saoibh to relax quite like him. Their adventures often take place out in nature and typically don't involve much other than gathering more gingerwort truffles for Assan or just observing wildlife from afar. Still, these little excursions are always a helpful reminder for Saoibh to take such moments of time to herself and savor them for all they're worth. Life and their respective duties take away enough from them as it is.

Taash - Saoibh's absolute "Ride or Die" companion. Due to them both being Lords of Fortune, Taash likely got to experience her being a "big, dumb puppy" every time a dragon distraction/hunt came around. Given the treasure hauls for such excursions were extremely profitable, Saoibh became very competent with such tasks once she learned to tone down the overexcited behavior and focus. And even Taash would begrudgingly admit that the rogue's multitudes of tricks and traps were useful in distracting such large targets. As such, Saoibh is always the first person that Taash would ever willingly choose to come along with them on anything dragon-related. Their friendship only grew from there. While Taash is admittedly more blunt—and can even come off as an absolute arse at times—Saoibh can appreciate how straightforward they are. She can always trust they won't lie to her even when the truth hurts. She also knows they'll always have her back even in the most impossible of circumstances.

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits: She tries not to take life too seriously, so she's very playful and mischievous. She's also very compassionate though, so she never hesitates to go out of her way to help someone in need, especially if children are involved. Saoibh's also ridiculously charming, so she's quite talented in getting people to open up to her even if it involves making herself look like a fool at times.

Negative Traits: She has a strong tendency to act first and think later, which makes her highly impulsive. Can a situation be solved by applying a bit more stealth and diplomacy? Sure! When lives are on the line though, you can bet she's always going to find the quickest path between points A and B. Apologies can always be made later if a situation goes completely sideways due to her last second plans—provided they all survive later of course... 😅

Likes: Cooking (although it's limited to seafood dishes thanks to her upbringing and later profession), tinkering, sketching, fishing

Dislikes: Condescension, discriminatory behavior, arrogant authority figures

Fears: Given that her parents were veterans of the Blight, it can be difficult not to feel like she has an important legacy to uphold in regards to them. She doesn't want to be seen as a disappointment or a failure to them.

Guilty Pleasure: Like her parents, she greatly enjoys sweets, but she has a strong preference for chocolates. Although it can be seen as unbecoming of a leader, she also loves sleeping in whenever she can.

Hobbies: She loves working with her hands. If she's not working on alchemical mixtures or one of her various gadgets, Saoibh's usually in the middle of some type of carpentry project. Working on a ship in either the Mac Eanraig fleet or the Lords of Fortune got her used to making repairs or just making things in general. For instance, if she notices the Lighthouse's kitchen lacks proper storage, then she goes about building new cabinets and shelves. If there's a door that just doesn't close right, then she's there on the job. If she thinks any of her companions could benefit from some type of furniture (chair, desk, bed, etc.), then that becomes her focus during any free time she has.

BACKGROUND

To expand on the last section on this particular AU, Saoibh was born from an unintended side effect of the Dark Ritual. 😅

Niamh was the Warden who agreed to participate in it, but due to the fact that she and Morrigan were both women, the other mage had to use a variety of other spells to compensate for that and ensure conception. Since the spells used on Niamh had still been active when Leliana approached her not long after the ritual was completed, this also resulted in the bard becoming pregnant with Saoibh.

Were it not due to the constant morning sickness some months after the Archdemon's defeat, Leliana likely would it thought it to be just simple illness. It wasn't until the wizened apothecary at Vigil's Keep subtly mentioned she should seek out the expertise of a midwife—patting her hand gently with a toothless, congratulatory grin—that shocking realization finally dawned on her.

Niamh had been equally surprised when Leliana broke the news to her. Then, when Leliana absently mentioned how far along in her pregnancy she was, she saw how the other woman was unconsciously piecing a timeline together—ever discontent to leave a mystery unsolved—which was evident in how that gaze clouded over in thought.

And then those silvery eyes blinked.

Twice.

Thrice.

And then they widened almost comically as Niamh and her both came to the same conclusion:

The Dark Ritual.

Saoibh was born just a little over a month after the events of Awakening. Her birth came a tad early, likely as a result of the stress Leliana endured during the darkspawn siege upon Amaranthine, where she'd been staying as an honored guest of Eithne Mac Eanraig—Niamh's aunt, head of the Mac Eanraig clan, and Arlessa to the city.

Despite arriving into the world prematurely, Saoibh proved to be as much of a survivor as her parents. Within a year, Saoibh had grown to a healthy weight and had reached developmental milestones to any baby of the same age.

Around that same time, Niamh managed to find Morrigan and convince her to take their son and come back with her to Amaranthine. While she never doubted Morrigan's abilities to keep herself and Kieran safe, the events surrounding The Architect and The Mother had left Niamh greatly unnerved. While both Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep had both survived the darkspawn onslaught, that either location were still standing at all had been a very near thing in the end. She didn't wish to have Morrigan endure any similar attack alone.

It was only when Morrigan saw how earnest Niamh was regarding her and their son's safety that she finally relented—much to the delight of Aunt Eithne upon their return.

-----

"You're... taking this all rather well," Niamh said, some measure of confusion creeping its way across her features with that admission, as she watched her aunt gently bounce Kieran in her arms. "Even Saoirse was flabbergasted when I originally told her about this."

-----BONUS SCENE-----

Saoirse sat heavily at the table as she stared at Niamh with an odd expression of dumbfounded queasiness. Her jaw worked itself uselessly for several moments before she slumped forward, tangling her hands in her hair, as she struggled over the fact that her baby sister had essentially fathered a child with not one but two women.

"I LEFT YOU ALONE FOR ONE NIGHT!" she bellowed with utter bewilderment.

As Niamh stared in concern over her older sister's increasingly disheveled state, the two women behind her seemed more amused by the Warden-Commander's current disposition.

"'Tis true."

"One night was all she needed," Leliana added with a giggle.

-----END BONUS SCENE-----

Niamh came out of the memory with a grunt when her Aunt Eithne placed a large hand over her head to pat it placatingly. The older woman's laughter was akin to a deep rumble of thunder.

"I really don't question half the things you're capable of anymore, Pup!"

-----

Due to them being conceived on the same night, everyone in the family referred to both Saoibh and Kieran as twins.

As they both grew up, however, it was clear their personalities were as different as night and day. Saoibh was far more extroverted and preferred to be outdoors or along the water while her Great Aunt Eithne taught her everything about the sea. Such knowledge would eventually lead her to become a rogue with the Lords of Fortune. Kieran, on the other hand, preferred the quiet solitude of libraries. He held a great fascination for the knowledge that could be found inside the collection of tomes at Vigil's Keep and could often be found around Velanna, wanting to learn more of her stories about the Dalish. His studies would lead him to become one of the Spellblade mages within the Veil Jumpers.

[waterfallofspace]

hello, it is me on your feed again to again do something I'm gonna have so much trouble committing to, but!!!

I'd like to practice doing no more than 1k word drabbles (since every request I accept ends up being like, 2k-5k and it makes it really hard to create when it's always such a long project 😭) Feeling that longing to be creative, but finding it a bit hard to do some larger projects~

So!!! This is an open invitation (/request of my own) for anyone who has lil prompts they'd like only 1k or less drabbles of!~ Feel free to do any fandom I've written for, or talked about before even if I haven't written~ or to submit multiple prompts if you'd like more than one thing!~

I'm always open to requests (though I don't promise to take them all) but this time I'm openly asking if anyone has some for tiny lil drabbles, just something to get the writing going without all the pressure/expectations of somethin longer!~

(honestly could maybe do the same with little audio snippets if anyone wants that, in 'character' or not, but I'm mostly aiming for writing~)

[blueberry-obsessed]

Does anyone want a snippet of the tennis au? (She asked, knowing damn well that she's going to give it regardless)

Charles doesn't find an empty court. Instead, he finds Max practicing—no, playing because no one gives this much of themselves over while just practicing—against someone Charles doesn't recognise. Charles can't help it, he lingers, takes a seat in the bleachers and just watches.

He's slightly off kilter as he sets his duffle bag down onto the empty seat next to him. It's way too early for anyone to be here, the sun only made an appearance minutes before. Point is, no one's supposed to be here. Maybe that's why Max is, though.

Charles watches as Max sends the ball flying and watches some more as his opponent misses it entirely. While he's at it, he watches the way Max's eyes stay on the ball, never straying away, watches the scruff of his shoes, the swish of his shorts with every movement, and the way sunlight shines down on his hair making it look golden. The ball thuds against the clay ground again, Charles hears it happen. Despite him not watching it happen, he knows it wasn't Max who lost track of it. The sunlight catches again, this time on the newfound curve of Max's lips.

Charles thinks maybe this is why the sun is here so early.

The thought stays for a minute, simmers under Charles' white polo before burning and biting—hard and hot. It has him running warm—skin sizzling like the beginning of a fever.

He hastily grabs his bag and leaves feeling like a fucking vouyer.

[luckylymantriid]

honestly after watching presto i think it actually makes a lot of sense that adam didn’t like jonah at first. ive seen a couple posts talking ab how it was ooc but honestly…? i can definitely see it. not just bc adam is a little hater in general but there is def potential for deeper, interpersonal reasons too.

ok more under the cut cuz this kinda got long:

i mean think about it. hunting alternates is something that means so much to adam. i wont expound on lynn and her tragedy; we all know what happened then. but he doesn’t. (well, didn’t.) it’s his raison d’être, almost, to find out what happened that cold night in 1992. that night but that changed everything.

whereas with jonah… we really have no idea why he joined BPS, actually. I have my own hcs of course, but little has been depicted so far as to give any canon motive. shits and giggles, maybe? thats what adam would’ve thought at first, at least in my eyes. he never really seems to be taking it seriously, always joking and messing around. i can easily imagine adam resenting, almost loathing jonah for not realizing the extent to how much this matters.

dont get me wrong, i dont think adam /continued/ to hate him. that log was written two years prior to what we see in vol 2, after all. plus, it wouldn’t make much sense considering their dynamic shown before in canon (which isn’t to say there still aren’t underlying tensions ofc).

what adam told thatcher during presto was very contradictory; both “hating” jonah and felling guilt over his death. which is good!! it adds more complexity to their dynamic! but yeah, i definitely feel that adam has conflicting emotions on jonah, and was mostly just trying to convince himself it was that simple.

idk i just wanted to get this idea out there while presto was still fresh in everyones minds. theres more i wanna say than this but i dont wanna derail the post so see yall later 👍

[nillisaie]

I've been kind of neglecting my ao3 lately... Partially because I was too busy writing a bunch of essays about my husband. I wonder if I should post those essays over there as well... Ao3 does allow that kind of thing after all. Though a few essays are image dependent so trying to figure out how to implement images in ao3 sounds a bit like a pain honestly. I apparently need to use an image hosting place or something...? I don't know. I've never really used such a thing before I don't think. Dunno. I'll think about it tho

[kianamaiart]

Growing an audience takes time and getting people to care about your characters can often take more time. I've done a bunch of OCs in the past but none of them really got traction until my IDWTBAMG OCs. I steadily grew my social media following for well over a decade. A lot of checking socialblade, looking at analytics and generally drawing/posting everyday. I have a whole doc available about this type of stuff.

There's no particular shortcut other than happening to go viral or getting really lucky. But I will say "branding" or carving out a niche for yourself over time helps. Although I've been in a number of different fandoms over the past 15 years I've been on the internet, the kind of art I do has been pretty consistent. Lots of shorter, light hearted comics or vignettes highlighting relationships (be them romantic, platonic or familial) and people started enjoying my work for my writing style more so than just what fandom I was creating for.

Finding your community, creating stuff that aligns with those communities and engaging with others is huge. A lot of my work prior to IDWTBAMG centered queer people (specifically sapphics), Black and Asian folks and stylistically is very anime/modern western cartoon inspired. It's what became known for in fandom spaces and what people were following me for. So when I finally did make IDWTBAMG, a concept with anime influences, in a western cartoon style, with two Black, sapphic leads, it just fit right into what I was already doing. Like if you grew your following from doing cute, slice of life stuff, then suddenly dropped a psychological horror comic, chances are it's not gonna grab a large part of your audience. Might bring some new folks in, but you're ultimately kinda starting over and pivoting (that's why rebrands are hard to pull off). This may not be the best example but hopefully you get what I mean. Appeal to the communities you've fostered!

I hate using corporate speak for art but if you ARE trying sell your ideas to people and get your work out there, you do kinda have to learn how to market yourself and your art to some extent. Get in the head of a marketing agent or a brand manager. What's popular right now? How can I use that to my advantage? What times should I be posting my artwork to get the most eyes on this? Who is my target audience and how do I effectively appeal to them while staying true to my own work? Stuff like that. Genuinely, studying how social media managers operate as well as just observing how businesses market their products helped me a lot. "Okay I'm making this animatic, but it won't come out for the next four months. How do I keep people interested and hyped for that amount of time leading up to the pilot's release? I'll keep doing comics here and there so people connect with the characters by the time the pilot comes out. Once I get he VAs recorded, I'll make posts to get people hyped for the casting. I'll upload snippets and behind the scenes stuff to give people a taste of what's to come. I'll release during Black History Month since this is a Black led project with Black characters. I'll have a specific upload time at peak hours to get a good amount of people watching for the premiere and to give the pilot a good running start." This was all stuff I was taking into consideration and planning for.

Then generally, I think people connect to characters more than anything. You can have a cool concept and fun world building ideas but if your execution is bad and your characters aren't compelling, what's the point, y'know? IDWTBAMG isn't a particularly novel concept imo, but I think its strengths lie in the characters and how they interact. The concept is just a tool to give the character dynamics and relationships legs to stand on. So few of the comics I've done with these guys have to do with their lore, it's just small interactions of the girls in class, at a convenience store or just talking to each other in a void. Even though it's simple, that's often the kind of thing people connect with.

Then there's just the technical aspect of having appealing drawing! Getting better at your craft, if nothing else, is good for catching eyes and helping with your execution of your project. While it's not always necessary, I think it helps a lot. I know there's a lot of people who follow me just because they personally like my art style and character design.

Not sure how helpful this actually is LOL. It really does just kinda take time. We all have to start somewhere. I was a "small artist" too at one point. It was years of trial and error, mental breakdowns, finding my own artistic voice and posting artwork almost daily for like 5 years straight. I do think that's why IDWTBAMG ended up being so special to me. It really does feel like a culmination of everything I've learned and all that hard work up to this point and people can kinda feel that.

[inkedinshadows]

Brooding, Cuddly Shadowsinger

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

A/N: thank you @pey2618 for this one! It was such a cute idea and I love it! I'm always down bad for soft Az. Note: i just finished writing it (it's 11pm here) after a full day of classes, so forgive me if there are mistakes or typos

Prompts: "You're not so scary after all, are you?" + "You're my new pillow now." + reader and az are out somewhere and he is all broody and scares ppl away but when they are home he is as sweet as a marshmallow

Warnings: none! Just fluff

Word count: 824

The party was going well. For you, at least.

When your friend had told you that you could bring Azriel along, you said you would ask, fully believing he'd decline. Instead, he'd agreed to come with you as soon as you mentioned it.

You were sure he was now regretting that decision.

When you were beside him, everything was fine. His hand was on your knee if you were sitting on the couch, on your back when you stood. But whenever you left his side—to get a drink, to dance, to talk with the other guests—it was like a bubble enveloped him. He became quiet, his brows knitted together, and he looked at people as if they might suddenly turn out to be an enemy he needed to fight. Even his shadows were restless, swirling around his shoulders and wings like a dark tempest, calming only when you joined him again and yet never disappearing completely. The all-black clothes definitely didn't help his case.

You couldn't blame people for avoiding him. And when you passed by two girls on your way back from the toilet, you couldn't help but chuckle as you caught a snippet of their conversation.

“I don't really know how she does it.”

“Well, he's very handsome.”

“Yes, but he's terrifying. Just look at him!”

“Yeah, he kinda is…”

You walked up to Azriel, a smile already on your lips. “You're scaring people off.”

His face softened as soon as he saw you, and he shifted to a more relaxed stance, his shadows settling down. But at your words, he frowned. “I'm not doing anything.”

You crossed your arms and looked him up and down. “You're standing here, just brooding.”

Azriel's gaze swept around the room. Some guests quickly looked away from him.

“Why would that scare people?” he asked when his eyes settled on you again.

“Because you're the big, infamous Shadowsinger?” you replied with a teasing smirk. “The High Lord's Spymaster?”

Azriel rolled his eyes, but his lips curled up at the corners. Before he could say anything, you playfully patted his arm.

“Try not to scare too many people, okay?” you quipped. “I'll be right back.”

His expression fell, and for just a moment, he reminded you of a lost puppy. “Why? Where are you going?”

“To say goodbye to everyone.” You were already stepping away, people parting to let you through after a quick glance at Azriel. “I'm taking you home.”

~~~~~~

Not even an hour later, you were back in your room, ready for the night.

Azriel was already in bed. As soon as you slipped under the covers, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you closer. He rested his head on your chest, right on the soft swell of your breasts, his eyes closed as he let out a content sigh.

You laughed softly. “Are you comfy enough?”

He hummed. “Yes. You're my new pillow now.”

You laughed again, shifting just enough to find a comfortable position without disturbing him. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls, while the other hand came to rest on the nape of his neck.

Azriel melted in your arms as every ounce of lingering tension from the day left his body. His shadows vanished, and his wings splayed out above the sheets, covering you like a second blanket. You swore he purred like a cat when you began gently massaging his scalp.

There he was—the big, infamous Shadowsinger who had terrified everyone at the party just hours earlier.

“You're not so scary after all, are you?” you murmured. “Those people just didn't know you like I do.”

He nuzzled into your chest, his voice already groggy as he mumbled, “No one knows me like you do, love.”

You smiled and kissed the top of his head. “That's right. Just me.”

With another soft sigh, Azriel settled against you. You could feel his warm breath on your skin, his long eyelashes tickling you every time his eyes fluttered.

The party had drained him, despite the fact that he hadn't danced or interacted that much. But being around so many people could be overwhelming for him, especially when in an environment so different from what he was used to. Yet he had still come with you.

“Why did you come to the party?” you asked quietly.

Azriel’s arms tightened around you. “Wanted to be with you,” he mumbled, the words blurring together.

He was adorable. Utterly, sickeningly adorable.

“Go to sleep,” you murmured. “I love you.”

You felt his small smile against your skin as he whispered, “Love you too…”

You continued stroking his hair, holding him close to your heart, right where he belonged.

To others, he might be scary. Terrifying, even. The Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, the one no one truly knew.

But to you, he was this—a sweet, cuddly male who needed the comfort of his mate's embrace.

To you, he was just Az.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[dutchs-paisley-vest]

You ever just write something so gas but also so revolting

Is “The deification of Dutch Van der Linde” a tag on ao3??? Hold on. Let me check something.

Okay cool, so can I propose something then-

[corkinavoid]

Hey i just reread the whole ring of rage and was wondering if you had more of it? I loved it

Hey! It's been a while since I've written that series, and, unfortunately, I didn't (and don't plan to) write any more of it.

However, here's some snippets and vague thoughts that you might like!

It takes a bit of adjusting, but eventually, all the Bats learn that the best way to deal with any kind of magical bullshit is calling Danny. Or, well, calling Tim so he calls Danny. The latter is fine with it the first few times, but after one very eventful week, when they've managed to summon him nearly twenty times in a row, he ends up introducing them to Sam. She doesn't like it, but she teaches Bats a few ways to use magic anyway. However, Tim is the exception here — Danny will never ever say no to his summons, and helping Tim can't be annoying no matter how many times he calls or how small the problem is.

One time, Alfred brings up the fact that Tim and Danny are not married legally. Not in the mortal realm, at least. To which Tim says that they are, he's actually filed all the documents about a month after they've started going out on dates. That starts a whole new level of chaos because, one, why didn't he ever mention it, two, everyone wanted a party and a wedding reception, and is it too late for that now? It later turns out that they accidentally got married in an alternate timeline, not in this one. To be fair, neither of them even realized that until Barbara wasn't able to find the records of their marriage anywhere.

Out of all the Bats, Danny's favorite — aside from Tim, who is obviously the number one — is Duke. He loves how the boy is probably the most unhinged out of all of them, and yet no one has a clue. Which is why Duke also gets a free pass to summon him whenever he needs to. His least favorite is, surprisingly, Jason, and it's mostly because Danny holds a grudge against him for attempting to murder Tim in the past. But also because Jason is liminal enough to notice and avoid the harmless (by Danny's standard) pranks that he sets up to keep the Bats on their toes.

Steph gives Danny a whole collection of manga on his birthday. Later, Tim tracks her down and starts a fight, during which he doesn't say a single word, and his face is so red he looks like a tomato, and Steph won't stop laughing. Tim doesn't talk to her for a month. Since then, every time Steph summons Danny, he comes in a form of half-man, half-octopus (think Ursula from My Little Mermaid), and they both break out in giggles spontaneously from time to time. Tim absolutely hates it.

None of them bother to explain shit about the whole ordeal to Constantine, and it's definitely on purpose. It eventually leads to the memorable day when John ends up watching Batman draw a summoning circle and successfully call on the High King of Infinite Realms with no trouble. Despite everything, the only reaction they get is Constantine sighing and muttering, "So, he didn't file for divorce, then."

[tacobacoyeet]

Could I request a fic about George x Muggle!reader? Like she stays and works in the little village near the Burrow. Could either be snippets of them throughout the years having little flirty talks and slowly turns into a George feeling protective/scared for her safety kinda thing. Fluff/smut/angst/maybe happyending? That I'll leave up to you if this isn't too much of a ask!

Absolutely love your work!

flour and flowers | george weasley x reader

a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)

warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread

The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.

He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.

You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.

He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.

Told himself a lot of things that day.

You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.

“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”

He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”

You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”

He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”

“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”

George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.

“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”

From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.

Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.

Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.

Still, there were things you noticed.

He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.

The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.

He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.

He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.

Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.

Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.

The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.

He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.

He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.

You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.

And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.

He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.

You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.

---

He realized it on a Tuesday.

He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.

The café was dark.

The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.

Something in his chest snapped to attention.

He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.

Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.

“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

His hands were already shaking.

Because he didn’t know where you were.

Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.

And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.

Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.

Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.

The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.

He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.

And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.

You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.

You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”

Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”

He looks up. His eyes are too bright.

“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.

“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”

He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.

“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I'm here,” you whisper.

And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.

The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.

His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.

You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.

“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”

He kisses you again.

Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.

You nod before he even says a word.

That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.

You let him.

You tell him he is.

And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.

You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.

Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.

He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.

“I want to try something,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.

When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.

“Expecto Patronum.”

And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.

It takes the shape of a magpie.

He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.

And he comes home to you all over again.

-----

tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy

[kannady]

more than gold

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: you were getting flashbacks of a previous life or maybe you were just going crazy. a man lingered in your memories, plaguing your heart and mind. and who was desperately in need of your help?

a/n: where the extent of my creativity ends, @silverianni's begins. wonderful idea, but a not so great execution. im afraid i might not be able to write it in the way you anticipated. honestly, im not proud of this at all LMAO. but ill try my best. heres a snippet for now. its very basic but theres a couple more chapters to go. and once again, i cannot express how much i hate how i wrote this. but then again its 5 am. let me know your thoughts or should i even continue it?

Trudge. Trudge.

It was eleven, and you had just gotten off work. Sometimes you liked working at the local bar, but most of the time, like today, it was a pain in the ass. One drunk customer refused to leave, drowned himself in liquor, and forced you to sit through his sob story about how his wife caught him cheating and ruined his life.

Sigh.

You almost knocked some sense into him. But for what? He wouldn’t give a shit, and you’d lose your job. Not exactly a win-win situation. So you hoped you’d see him somewhere else. And maybe today was your lucky day.

“Come on, sexyyyyy! Let me take—” Hiccup. “—you ‘ome.” He flashed a grin at a young schoolgirl who had just stepped out of the academy.

“No, thank you, mister. I’m quite alright,” she replied politely, trying to step around him. But he grabbed her wrist.

“No!” he shouted, catching you off guard. “You brats ‘ave no respect for the elderly!” His grip tightened, and he started dragging her toward his car.

Time to strike.

You sprinted forward, swinging your satchel hard against his head. With a grunt, he released the girl, clutching his skull in pain. She seized the moment, darting away with a breathless “Thank you!”

“YOU! How dare you—” He tried to throw a punch, but you dodged effortlessly. “I’ll make this short.” A sharp kick to his groin sent him crumpling to the pavement, writhing and howling.

Smirking, you crouched beside him, slipping a hand into his pocket and retrieving his wallet. Your brows lifted. He was loaded. With feigned innocence, you slipped a hundred-dollar bill into your pocket. “You forgot to tip me.”

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you turned and walked toward your original destination.

“Only you and this flower… can touch me here.”

A whisper, hot breath grazing your neck. Instinctively, you clenched your fists and whirled around. “Okay, back the-” Alone. In the middle of an isolated alley. “-fuck up?” You scanned the area but found no one. Just a cat rummaging through the trash.

You frowned, confused. You’d definitely heard someone, someone who had been right behind you, whispered in your ear, then vanished. You were a bartender, but you never drank on shift. So you weren’t imagining things. Still, this wasn’t the time or place to dwell on it.

You kept walking until you reached your destination. For some reason, your friends thought a midnight get-together was the perfect way to spend the weekend. A few hours ago, you’d have agreed. But now, you were exhausted, physically and mentally. And that eerie whisper clung to your memory like a stain. You just felt… off. Shaking away your unease, you stepped into the restaurant, greeted by laughter, clinking glasses, and the familiar hum of old stories, enough to drown out your worries for a moment.

You ordered dinner, downed a drink, and reminisced about the old school days. It felt good to laugh like this after so long.

Then you froze. The air turned to ice.

There stood a man, his gaze locked on you. Silver-white hair, slicked back, with a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. His eyes were ethereal. Crimson, like wine spilled over snow. They didn’t just look at you—they pierced you. His frown was barely perceptible as he spoke.

“Before you tried to kill me, did you consider it’d end like this?”

Suffocation. Like the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs. You gasped. “What the hell?”

“See! I told you it was a bad idea. Anyone would react like that.”

You blinked. Everything was normal again, just you and your friends, eating, drinking, laughing. No sign of the mysterious man. But the unease lingered.

You were not okay. You needed help. Now. Were you overworked? Drunk?

Questions flooded your mind. Absently, you excused yourself and headed to the restroom.

Staring into the mirror, you replayed the moment. Was it a memory? It felt familiar, like you knew him. But you couldn’t put your finger on it. The whisper in the alley, the glimpse of the stranger. What was happening to you?

You took a deep breath, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on your face. Refreshing. Maybe you just needed sleep. That was the only explanation you’d accept. You weren’t crazy and you knew that.

Then you straightened and met your reflection.

“Please help me!”

Your head snapped around. Another voice. Female, desperate. Not a memory, but close. Too close.