#Ironing & Baby Setting

[borgialucrezia]

What have I done? Will God ever forgive me?

It was great piece of abstract imagery. I always love when they go a bit off piece, like the dream sequence in the first season where Lucrezia flies up into the ceiling. The more of that they use the better. I think television is often afraid of abstraction and presenting big ideas. That motif of Jeremy holding the child is beautiful. It says everything that needed to be said in a very fitting, visual and instantly accessible manner. — DAVID OAKES

[marciaillust]

smoke break 2

[angel---eater]

[icewindandboringhorror]

I'm so heavily anti-advertising that all pitches sound goofy silly to me/I can never take them seriously, so I have no idea how I'll manage to to advertise my game even if I do finally finish it soon-ish lol...

[swanbornbyleda]

Hi, I loved your art of Venhys and the Iron Bull. Is Venhys a Trevelyan Inquisitor or an OC of some other background? Either way, their energy together was so compelling.

Thank you so much! I'm really glad that seems to have played for so many people because I don't imagine either of them knows how to curb their mutual or individual intensities.

I'm the type to take my existing original characters from my own worlds and writing and AU-ify them rather than making new, bespoke characters for each new game and setting I want to play in. That's just what's always been more fun for me, so crafting Ven's backstory for a Dragon Age AU does mean tossing out the canonical inquisitor backstories.

Ven's a blood mage from Tevinter, the child of a contentious magister within a reclusive, cult-like family dynamic. Through some miserable (and, long-term, serendipitous) circumstances, Ven is a ward of a Circle in the Free Marches when Kirkwall falls and the Mage Templar war begins (we keep a little trevelyan backstory, for fun!)

But Venhys is, for a very long time, hiding anything and everything about who they are, where they come from, and what they do for a long time. There's a foundation of pretty significant distrust between Ven and Bull because of it. But as far as the inquisition is initially concerned, the herald of andraste is just a regular ol mage from the marches with a bit of a tilt to their accent when things kick off.

Ven and Bull's relationship is fractious, and tense, and guarded for a very long time. Neither of them is comfortable with the other in pretty severe ways? They can be quite cruel and scrutinizing of one another before they start to develop a friendship, and even after they become friends and start circling one another, they don't know how to Not be Intense and challenging and contentious with one another. Casual conversations? Between these two? Unlikely. They're a slow burn, and a pretty bumpy one at that. Ven has a little fling with Cullen in the beginning that falls apart (overcoming mage prejudice is one thing, but it's a bit harder when they're actively practicing blood magic and proud of it), and in the narrative in my head, Ven and Bull don't actually end up together until fairly late game, through much different circumstances than the actual in-game Bull romance.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Matt accidently scaring the shit out of Gil is so fucking funny. Love how Arthur looks at Matt and sees a little malnourished soping wet kitten left outside in a storm and everyone else sees some ghoulish, brutally stone-cold being 💀. Arthurs the 'it dont bite' to Gils 'GET YOUR DOG!!'. When Gil is over what do their normal breakfast table conversations even look like? It seems like itd be a little awkward.

To be fair, that version of Matt is the one he got when Matt finally stopped shooting at anything speaking English. Sad cold baby. I feel like this is something to try and avoid as best they can. Who wants to watch their parent/mentor make googly-eyes across the table 😂. Matt just like "😬 sorry about that time I slit your throat and drowned you in a trench crater. Or the time I rolled a grenade under your latrine. Or the surrendering prisoners of war— yeah, I'm just going to go— love you dad, bye!" as he grabs some toast and runs for a train to Glasgow as Arthur tells him not to forget an umbrella and his jacket because good god, Alasdair is going to think this is so funny.

Gilbert just dumping booze into coffee all 👀. "Katya would like him."

Arthur tries not to look proud or amused.

"It's nothing we didn't do to each other!"

"In the dark ages."

"Blame the Normans. He's a sweet boy! Breakfast?"

"I'm good with Müsli and you, sir, are delusional."

They don't bring up Ludwig 😂. Nations aren't supposed to fuck each other up so much! You never know who you might need as an ally 200 years down the road! Matt kind of forgot that bit. Father's favourite combat knife got off his leash and everyone forgets he's not the novelty butter knife Alfred advertises!

[running-in-the-dark]

I think I mentioned that I was looking into getting a better sewing machine? well, it arrived today 🙈 that happened much faster than planned. I found the model I was looking at at a (relatively) local sewing machine store, for 30% off because it had been in the shop window, so the plastic has yellowed.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that (the website only said it was a floor model or something similar, then someone from the store called and told me the specifics and asked if that was still okay), but honestly? I never ever would have paid the full price, it was just too much, I couldn't justify that. but this reduced price was only a little more than the ones I had been looking at before (that were not great quality and probably wouldn't last very long).

I am very particular about things like this but I'm trying to make myself accept that it really is not that bad. it actually looks kinda cool. I just have to get my brain to accept that it's not a flaw, it's just a completely superficial and insignificant thing that doesn't affect its function at all. it's good that this machine that works perfectly won't end up in a landfill just because it doesn't look brand new.

I only got to try it a little bit today because I wasn't feeling well but damn, the difference to my old machine is huge!! it's so much more fun and easy to use - I love having the needle threader and that it can automatically cut the yarn when you're done. and with the start/stop button it's actually really fun to wind bobbins!! I always hated that on my old machine.

I skimmed through the manual earlier (and put page markers in it so that I can easily find anything later) - it did seem somewhat overwhelming at first. I've never used or even seen (irl) a computerised sewing machine, so of course it did! but it already felt much more familiar after just using it a little bit today. I love it 🥰

(also, I think the fact that it doesn't look perfect and brand new actually helps - I'm not afraid to use it in case I 'ruin' it!)

[borgialucrezia]

"Alexander’s grief for his beloved son was indescribable; even the stolid and normally unsympathetic Burchard was moved. Burchard commented, ‘The body was borne on a magnificent bier so that all could see it, and it seemed that the Duke were not dead but sleeping.’ He recorded that Juan looked ‘almost more handsome than when he was alive.’"

— LUCREZIA BORGIA: LIFE, LOVE, AND DEATH IN RENAISSANCE ITALY (Sarah Bradford)

[natequarter]

i think 1530s bbc ghosts would be hilarious. thomas is not making it out of the decade alive

[mythrilpencil]

My D&D character, Sky! Technically. Early early spring.

This actually lightly came up in-game where she turned 19 around the week we “officially” re-founded the city our party is helping build/rebuild.

My DM mapped our current campaign time to being somewhere in April I think and Sky’s birthday was about two in-game months ago, so she’s technically a February birthday. But in our campaign that’s considered early spring I guess.

Which OC has a spring birthday?

[koalemoslepus]

//Warning I have a tendency to accidentally hide my true vents in the tags by total accident

-----

I just saw an AI bot meant to give you the AI prompts to write AI image generations like at what point do we literally just get to revoke brain if you're not going to do it like literally we don't need you to copy and paste the machines could do that quite easily with a script and frankly I vote we pay them instead of you because shit maybe we could get some deflation in here if the money starts disappearing and it's not like you're fucking doing a damn thing for it also in my like in my warped verision of reality I cling to maybe?? If we let everyone go down this rabbit hole of the tech we have at present being sentient we could somehow crackpot loop our way back around them being regulated more than a worker maybe we'd help curb the cash incentives cause I know they'd get more protections / freedoms than a woman would in my lifetime FUCK anyway

[bonniepop]

another night where you fight, another night of silence. another night where miya osamu sleeps with his back to you.

the realization that there is not much more you can do to save your relationship clutches at your chest with an iron grip.

the gravity of it makes you whimper. pressing your lips together, you shakily push yourself up to sit blinking back tears while blindly stepping around for your slippers, willing yourself not to sob—not here, not where he can hear. your toes touch the fluff of them, and you hurry to slip them on. you need to get out of here.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

[goaskangel]

olderboyfriend!nanami headcanons

cw : age gap, 30-40's with 18+ reader, posessive/slightly toxic nanami, spanking, ccuuummmmm

olderboyfriend!nanami who comes your way, very unexpectedly. you could question why his instincts leaned towards a young lady like you, when he himself carries a sophisticated attitude with ironed suits and framed glasses. 

you’re not complaining, though!

olderboyfriend!nanami who takes his time to get you to warm up to him, knows he’s intimidating to the average person with his stoic and reserved resting face. but he knows a girl like you just needs a little more time. 

olderboyfriend!nanami knows how to schedule and work around things. always managing to take you on dates every friday, even through his tight work schedule. a dinner, a fancy local restaurant, maybe a movie or bar if he’s feeling playful. 

olderboyfriend!nanami who takes appreciation in every gesture you do for him. his sweet baby who goes out of her way to bake him a sweet treat or pick up his favorites from his dearest bakery. 

olderboyfriend!nanami who doesn’t only love you but guides you. feeling stressed out about work or university? don’t even worry—nanami’s got you all figured out. whether you need help organizing your messy set-up and schedules, or if you just need someone to talk too. he’s just always so reasonable and gives the best advice while understanding and listening to every word you say.

olderboyfriend!nanami who drives you around anytime you need. gotta run some errands? kento’s right outside, wanna go shopping? hell, his card’s already in your hands. 

olderboyfriend!nanami who can’t help but keep a hand on you, either for his own comfort or your safety, but he is very protective. taking quick glances of your surroundings as you pick through a clothing rack at your favorite store, his hands never leaving your waist or shoulders. he’s got to ensure his girl’s safety is all! and to make sure no guy your age thinks they’ve got a chance.  this goes for anywhere. taking walks with his arm around you and driving around with his hand on your thigh. especially at bars or parties, he knows how guys your age are. they don’t care about your well being, can’t take care of you like he can. obviously you’d be with somebody who’s already got it all figured out!

olderboyfriend!nanami loves domestic moments with you. his only motive to keep going throughout the week is for friday nights into saturday mornings—when he’s got you nice and comfy in his bed, or when he stays the night at your place, which is when he silently plans to get you moved in with him. 

he likes to feel you under him, or the feeling of you rubbing your face into his chest when you’re about to fall asleep. he runs his fingers through your hair, soothing himself to sleep.

NSFW

olderboyfriend!nanami who, along with being overprotective with his actions, tells you in bed. his mature hands running over and over your body as he fucks himself into you. kissing your pretty face between thrusts, and speaks, 

“can’t imagine myself without you, god—you’re all mine, y’know that, pretty? nobody’s gonna feel you and love you like i do. nobody.”

olderboyfriend!nanami who enjoys ending and starting his day with burying his cock into your sweet cunt. keeping you tightly against him as you cockwarm him into the morning. some days you’ll wake up before him, admire how his usually tamed, blonde hair runs messily with sleep. you’ll notice the morning wood he’s got going and take it as your duty to wake you precious, older man with a sweet morning treat. 

just how thankful he gets when he’s woken by your hot, young mouth around his length. his darling suckling at his creamy tip for breakfast. 

olderboyfriend!nanami who loves watching you touch yourself. maybe he’s got you twirling around in lingerie you brought for him with his card. he’ll lay you down and watch as you moan and grind your hips restlessly with your smaller fingers rubbing at your clit. teasing you, he’ll keep his greedy eyes on the way your pussy leaks with every praise he adores you with, his own hand adjusting himself through sweatpants. 

olderboyfriend!nanami who can’t himself when it comes to your skin. with his possessiveness, he just wants to mark you in any way possible. kissing your lips long enough until your lips are plump with blood and pouting from how he keeps teasing you. leaving love bites on your neck, trailing to your breasts, licking them softly to show some type of poise. sucking hickeys onto your neck, barely low enough to hide them with the collar of your work shirt. 

his favorite—when you’re acting up. get a little too comfortable with him, say something you know you’ll regret and you’ll end up over his knee. smacking handprints into your perfect body, putting you back into your place, he just can’t get enough of it. 

another favorite would be pumping load after load into your tight pussy. too many to count, thick and heavy loads of cum filling you to the brim. you could almost forget his older age with the stamina he’s got of a young man. aaa, he’s perfect, you wouldn’t take him any other way!

comments, reblogs, likes are always apperciated !

masterlist

[spurbleu]

fussy. simon riley.

simon who is terrified of fatherhood and the child he cannot stop holding. a little over 1k words about simon accepting paternal love. gross fluff.

Simon doesn’t know what he’s doing.

The hospital room filters the bruise of early morning through windowpanes that looked cleaner before the rain. Silver linings sparkle around cloud rims when thunder collapses between them. Aside from the yellow bedside lamp, and the sheet of light that flattens from under the door, the world is still dark.

The clock is one of two sounds. The other is your snoring.

You swelter under thin cotton. Rashes of red labor cling to the skin visible from where Simon guards. Hair mussed and barely contained in the complimentary hair ties from the nurses. Sleeping, sure- but still raw. Nearly burned alive, by what Simon can only assume was his own selfishness.

Despite all of this, it’s the first time you've looked at peace within the last 3 months. Beautiful- a word that grows low on trees, but Simon finds himself unable to reach much farther. Exhaustion taunts his mind and paralyzes the arm he usually holds you with.

But the bundle flinches, and he is once again wide awake.

Made from China glass. Painted in pink and tulip pollen. She’s got your nose, curving into small nostrils that breathe amateurly. Cheeks that swallow the crease of her lips and eyes that have not yet opened.

Simon is terrified that when they do, they’ll be his.

He is built from barnacles and the bottom bricks of a lighthouse. Iron that’s been fed to a kiln a dozen times until its edges sport burnt, flaking edges. Salt strung upon a wire until the saline coats his teeth when he speaks.

He probably looks ridiculous, holding a newborn. Even if she’s his.

Because nothing about him is soft, or new. He is decades beyond cradles, velvet rabbits and the grass that will undoubtedly grow when she takes her first steps. He is what happens to a man when you feed him hours not made by God. He is old and mean and none of that belongs to a baby.

But he pulls her from the incubator anyway, maybe with the hopes of proving himself wrong.

She stirs before settling between the crook of his elbow. A small thing, hair like thin field callows over her head, thumbs the size of mouse ears. Barely a beginning, despite it feeling like ages ago since you revealed the pregnancy. Hardly possible, to be looking at almost a year of his life, only for her to be as fresh as the morning and blissfully unaware of who she is. Who her father is.

And God, she’s warm. Practically burning him. Warm enough to ignite the ugly fire in his chest that he’s spent the more active, awake years of his life keeping at bay. A desperate creature that drools when softness offers itself to him. Bone marrow to a set of canines.

Told himself he’d only indulge it once- his marriage. To the bread dough and the goodnight kisses and the fresh clay that you envelop him with. The arms that wait for him. Something he really wasn’t made for. But something you fit him in anyway. Put your two hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye and told him,

“I want you and everything that comes with it.”

If that’s not a confession of love, damn the fairytales he’ll raise his daughter on. Knows shit about what it means to give and expect little. To take knowing you don’t deserve it.

Thunder blossoms outside, and the baby jolts. Her face scrunches, and Simon stiffens at what he knows will follow.

He’s never really been…fond of children. Too fussy, too loud, too flushed in the face. All delicate rounds, emotions nonsensical and unpredictable. Manifestation of a love he hadn’t understood. Not when comrades talked about it, not when Price had, not even, admittedly, when you had.

Held a peculiar, unviolent anger towards them. An ugly disquiet that had him convinced for years that children were his anthesis. The North of his South.

All of this dissipates when she starts crying.

Bounces her gently and pulls her closer against his chest. Swears quietly when she worsens, the poor, pathetic, toothless mouth opening wider to choke on her own sobs.

“I know, I know…” He shakes his head, “’don’t like the rain, either.”

She doesn’t stop, but neither does Simon. Guess she inherited his stubbornness, too.

“C’mon now…Is’alright I gotcha. Can’t get you from inside,” leans his head back when the cry rattles his teeth, “Just loud-shit…just loud…”

Re-adjusts her in his arms, and she chokes again, before her crying becomes a long, drawn-out thrum. Waters his ears until he’s looking over at you, praying you'll stay asleep and that his daughter will begin to like him.

Won’t blame her, if she doesn’t. Looking like the personification of danger probably doesn’t convince her he’ll protect her from it. He didn’t realize how quickly he was going to have to learn to be gentle. Kind.

She wails again, and he sighs, accepting defeat. Letting the exhaustion drown him before being pulled from the waters by her shaking, fat fingers. But Simon is void of the anger that attaches itself to interrupted peace. He couldn’t fathom looking at the swaddled thumbprint in his arms and feeling anything but immense…gravity.

A pull. The moon to the waves, waves to the shore, shore to the land he built his house on and will bring her home too. Not anger, not grief, not even joy. It was-

“Mm…love…” Simon’s head snaps up, and stares to where you have rolled over, eyes blinking away tear crust, “Is’at you?”

“I’m ‘ere darl,” a baby cry, “’m sorry I couldn’t get ‘er to…she won’t…”

“Si…” you reach out your hand and beckon him closer. He stands slowly, making sure not to stir the baby more than she has been, and starts to hand her back to you. But you shake your head, hand out to stop him. “Sit down.”

He blinks, before taking a seat next to the hospital cot. His jaw reaches the head bar, and he leans up against the beside table with the weeping child. You mumble something unintelligible, voice and body still plagued by sleep, before reaching over the mattress and stroking the top of the baby’s head. She still cries, and Simon sends you a desperate look.

Your hand travels down, before settling your palm over the baby’s chest. Make slow, small circles, and begins humming like you would when you bake, or when you read. Tiny normalcies amongst chaos.

And it’s a miracle. She stops crying. Hiccups a few times, fades into sniffles, and eventually a dove coo. Hands rest over yours, barely twice the size of your knuckles. Simon doesn’t take his eyes off his daughter.

“You did it.”

“We did it,” you correct, “You’re the one holding her.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t working before.” Still staring, watching for a crack, a fissure in this carefully crafted peace. It doesn’t come.

“’Cus you were doing it alone, Si,” You look at him, really look at him, and Simon feels young again for the first time since exchanging vows, “She needs the both of us. Should’ve seen her when it was just me ‘n her.” Laugh to yourself, before yawning.

Simon nods, even though he doesn’t understand. It feels like he won’t for a long time. Maybe he never will. But staring at his daughter, all flushed in the face and fussy and loud, he feels like trying.

“’gonna be alright, Simon.”

He looks up, mouth twitching into a dry smile, “Me or her?”

You reach across with your other hand and stroke under his cheek. “Us.”

And at least for this moment, Simon will let himself believe it.

[borgialucrezia]

RODRIGO BORGIA + his beloved sons

"I remember the joy of holding [Juan] in my arms. A brother for little Cesare at last."

[cameronsbabydoll]

salvatore — rafe cameron

rafe always brings you fruit in the mornings.

dripping peaches, split open with his pocket knife, the blade still warm from the heat of his skin. he presses a slice to your lips, juice trickling down your chin, and laughs when you gasp at the sweetness. his laugh is lazy, sun-drenched, slipping through his teeth like molasses.

“you like that, don’t you, baby?” he thumbs the juice from your mouth, licking it from his hand. “sweet girl. my girl.”

you don’t remember how you got here. not anymore at least.

one day, you were someone else, living a normal life with normal things—grocery lists, alarm clocks, bus rides. and then there was rafe, golden and grinning, spinning you around on some villa balcony, promising you forever with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“y’know you don’t need to go back,” he told you, brushing a lemon-scented kiss against your cheek. “stay with me.“

and you did.

now, your world is just rafe and the sea. sun-bleached afternoons by the pool, the glint of his watch as he reaches for another glass of champagne. he doesn’t work, doesn’t worry. he just drinks, kisses, pulls you into the water with him, soaking your dress as he presses against you.

but sometimes, when the sun is setting and the air turns thick, you think about leaving. about running. about what exists beyond the cliffs and the winding roads, beyond rafe’s golden hands and honeyed words.

and you wonder if he’d let you.

then he catches you staring at the horizon, fingers curling possessively around your wrist.

“where’d you go, huh?” his voice is soft, teasing, but his grip is iron. “thinkin’ about something?”

you shake your head, offering him a smile, and he presses a kiss to your palm.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “no need to think about anything but this.”

the sea glitters behind him, endless and inviting. but rafe always shines brighter.