#leap of faith (fall from grace)

[moondancer35]

leap of faith (fall from grace)

'“Marinette, don’t!” Alya’s voice echoed behind her but Marinette hardly registered it, her only focus on the little girl. 

All at once, she was falling. 

Marinette was falling."

[zapreportsblog]

The Comfort of Imaginary Arms

➥ summary: Earth42!Miles misses his girlfriend so much he decides to sleep with his body pillow imagining that it’s her, but she won’t allow that

➥ one shot

The moon cast a soft glow through the window, gently illuminating Miles Morales' room as he lay in bed. Restlessness filled his mind, his thoughts consumed by memories of (Y/n), the person who had captured his heart. Though they were physically apart, the bond they shared remained strong, and the ache of longing for their presence grew more intense with each passing night.

Unable to find solace in sleep, Miles reached for the body pillow tucked beside him, a makeshift companion he had fashioned to provide comfort in (Y/n)'s absence. He hugged it tightly, the soft fabric against his cheek an imperfect substitute for the warmth of their touch.

Closing his eyes, Miles allowed his imagination to take hold. In his mind's eye, he pictured (Y/n) lying beside him, their laughter filling the room, and their fingers intertwined. He could almost feel the weight of their head on his shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of their breath against his skin.

As he clung to the body pillow, Miles whispered softly into the night, "I miss you, (Y/n). I wish you were here with me."

In the quiet darkness, memories flooded his mind—moments shared, conversations whispered in hushed tones, and the connection they had forged. He longed for those stolen glances, the way (Y/n)'s eyes would light up in his presence, and the laughter that filled the spaces between their words.

Miles traced his fingers along the contours of the body pillow, imagining that it was (Y/n)'s hand he held. He closed his eyes, his mind painting vivid pictures of stolen kisses, tender embraces, and the warmth of their love enveloping them both.

The silence of the night allowed his thoughts to wander freely, carrying him to cherished memories of their time together. Each memory was etched into his heart, a testament to the love they had shared. The pillow, now a vessel for his longing, provided a bittersweet comfort—a reminder of the depth of his emotions.

As the night wore on, Miles found solace in the intimacy of his imaginary embrace. It was a connection that transcended the physical realm, reaching deep into his soul. Though separated by distance, he held on to the hope that their love would bridge the gap and bring them back together.

With the gentle rhythm of his breath and the warmth of the body pillow against his chest, Miles allowed himself to drift into a fitful slumber. In his dreams, he walked hand in hand with (Y/n), their laughter echoing in the air, and their love radiating from every pore.

But even in his dreams, there was a lingering ache—an awareness that his imaginary embrace could never fully replace the tangible presence of (Y/n). He longed for the day when their arms would intertwine once more, when he could feel their heartbeat against his chest and whisper words of love into their ear.

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the city as (Y/n) stealthily made her way through the shadows. She moved with the grace and agility of a spider, her movements purposeful and silent. The wind whispered through the streets, carrying with it a sense of anticipation.

Tonight, (Y/n) had made a decision—a decision that defied the boundaries of distance and longing. She couldn't bear to spend another night away from Miles, her heart aching with the need to be near him. So, she had taken a leap of faith, climbing through his window to surprise him.

As she silently slipped into Miles' room, her eyes fell upon the sight that made her heart flutter with both tenderness and sadness. There he lay, wrapped in the embrace of a body pillow—a makeshift companion that served as a surrogate for her absence. (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing, realizing just how much she had been missed.

Determined to make her presence known, (Y/n) gently slipped the body pillow out of Miles' arms. As she did, he stirred, his eyelids fluttering open in confusion. He blinked, his drowsy gaze meeting hers, his voice caught in his throat as he tried to form words.

"What—" Miles began, his voice a soft murmur.

But before he could complete his sentence, (Y/n) placed a finger on his lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. "Shh," she whispered, her voice gentle but firm. "Go back to sleep, baby."

Miles blinked, his mind momentarily overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions and the unexpected sight of (Y/n) standing before him. He couldn't help but feel a mixture of surprise, joy, and confusion. But as he looked into her eyes, the longing in his heart subsided, replaced by a deep sense of contentment.

Unable to resist the allure of her presence, Miles settled back into his pillow, his eyes never leaving (Y/n)'s form. The room filled with a comforting silence as he watched her climb into his bed, her movements graceful and unhurried. She settled herself into his waiting arms, her head resting against his chest, their heartbeats aligning in a rhythm of connection.

The warmth of (Y/n)'s body against his, the softness of her breath against his skin—it was a moment of sheer bliss. Miles wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, as if afraid that she would vanish if he let go. In the safety of his embrace, (Y/n) felt a sense of belonging—a homecoming that filled the empty spaces within her soul.

As they lay together, their breathing synchronized, Miles couldn't help but whisper, "I missed you so much, ma.”

(Y/n) lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, a tender smile on her lips. "I missed you too, Miles. But I'm here now, and that's all that matters. Just let go and rest. We have all the time in the world."

Miles nodded, the weight of his weariness settling upon him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped in the comfort of (Y/n)'s presence. Her words washed over him, soothing his restless mind, as he succumbed to the embrace of slumber once again.

Wrapped in each other's arms, (Y/n) and Miles drifted into a peaceful sleep—a shared dream that transcended the limitations of their physical bodies. In the realm of dreams, they found solace and the promise of a tomorrow filled with togetherness.

And as the night unfolded, the moon whispered its blessings upon the lovers, casting its gentle light upon their entwined forms. It was a testament to the power of love—a force that defied distance, embraced vulnerability, and forged unbreakable bonds.

In each other's arms, Miles and (Y/n) found solace and a home—a sanctuary that welcomed them with open arms. And together, they would continue to navigate the intricate web of their lives, their love serving as a guiding thread, leading them towards a future where their dreams would become their reality.

[happilyhertale]

Deep affection – Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: You have decided to spend the Christmas holidays with Daemon's family. You were actually looking forward to spending a few days with Daemon. But you hadn't reckoned with the constant boredom. But Daemon knows how to counteract this.

Pairing: Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Oral (m receiving)

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.3 k

Other stories of mine

12 days of smuff

You throw a slender stick into the crisp winter air and your gaze gracefully follows its fleeting trajectory. In the blink of an eye, Caraxes, your faithful companion of the last few days, leaps forwards with unbridled enthusiasm, and a symphony of joyful barking accompanies each of his leaps. A gentle smile graces your face as you enjoy his exuberance and watch the merry dance he performs across the snowy canvas under the azure sky. Completely exuberant, he leaves his tracks in the untouched blanket of snow.

Amidst the serene spectacle, an unmistakable rhythm of footsteps interrupts the tranquil atmosphere of the winter landscape. You glance over your shoulder and see Daemon approaching. His face is adorned with an infectious grin that reflects the happiness emanating from the frolicking dog.

"There you are," he says softly, "I was afraid you'd run off," he adds.

You smile at him, "And leave Caraxes alone in this boring environment? I don't think so," you say quietly.

Daemon chuckles softly and wraps his arms around you as he stands behind you. "Boring?" he murmurs in his deep voice. You look over your shoulder, your eyes meet and you feel yourself getting warm despite the cold around you.

"Well, a bit..." you say and smile, "You're always involved in conversations with your brother that end in arguments... And then you drink whiskey until your anger dissipates... and you fall asleep"

Daemon looks at you and watches you closely.

"And I can't really talk to Visery's wife... She's boring, Daemon... She just knits and you can't really talk to her..." you continue as you turn around, your hands now on his chest.

His hands are on your hips, pulling you closer to him.

"And their children... always seem to sense when we..." but you can't finish the sentence. Daemon cups your lips with his. You gasp slightly, but surrender. Daemon pulls you closer, kisses you almost roughly.

He breaks the kiss and looks at you with half-lidded eyes. "So my wife is bored... and I can't take care of her properly?" he whispers. You bite your lip, instantly recognising the desire in his eyes, the certain tone of his voice.

"Maybe we should take the chance now that we're undisturbed?" he whispers.

You look at him a little incredulously, "Here? Daemon it's cold... and what if someone comes out?" you whisper. Your gaze falls on the huge Targaryen estate behind him.

But Daemon gently grips your chin, letting your gaze fall back on him.

"Then we should hurry," he murmurs.

He kisses you again, his hand travelling down your neck and gripping you lightly. A whimper fills the air, but you feel your desire rising – you've had to do without him for too long. Your hands move down from his chest, gliding almost effortlessly until they reach his crotch. His hard manhood is already pressing against the fabric of his jeans and a grin forms on your lips. You start to undo his belt and your grin is now reflected on Daemon's lips.

"Don't you want me to take care of you?" he mumbles.

You shake your head slightly and start to undo the buttons of his jeans – you bite your lip lightly.

The snow crunches lightly beneath you as you drop to your knees. His jeans slide down just a little with your falling movement so as not to expose him too much to the cold air. But his hard member doesn't seem to mind the cold, it's already pressing against his boxer shorts and twitching almost desperately. It's just waiting to be pulled out so that your lips can encircle it. When your eyes meet as your gaze travels upwards, your lips are slightly pursed. His pupils are dilated with lust, his breathing heavier as his anticipation builds.

His boxers slide down too and his arousal jumps out at you as you gently slide your warm hand along his hot length. Your teeth dig deeper into your lip as you feel his cock throbbing between your fingers, making your mouth water. Daemon growls slightly as you lean forwards and cup the tip of his cock with your lips.

"Gods..." he growls as you slowly let his entire length disappear into your mouth – or at least try to. You savour the sounds Daemon makes, knowing full well that he is watching his cock disappear into your mouth. And as you surrender to the familiar filling in your mouth, you moan slightly, followed by the gentle thrusts of his hips as they follow the movements of your head.

The salty taste is already spreading over your tongue as you begin to suck and lick his tip, concentrating on taking as much of his length into your mouth as possible while your hand strokes the rest of him. You calmly try to breathe through your nose when Daemon suddenly grabs your head and holds it tight. His hips begin to thrust harder and you moan loudly as his thrusts penetrate deeper into your throat. Sudden gagging follows as Daemon thrusts his cock into your throat with full force. The involuntary gagging makes your throat spasm around the tip of his cock. The interplay with the vibration of your moans makes Daemon groan loudly as he feels his cock being massaged in your warm, wet mouth.

Tears well up in your eyes as Daemon continues to thrust into your throat. Saliva slowly drips from your mouth as you are unable to swallow as you continue to be held tightly in Daemon's grip and he thrusts into you relentlessly.

"You like that, don't you?" growls Daemon, "The way I'm taking you... claiming your mouth."

You can't answer, but you moan at his words, unable to help but surrender to him. Tears run gently down your cheeks as the assault on the depths of your throat makes you gag up again and again. "Gods, you are divine... Look at me," he grunts and you try to obey and look up at him, still breathing heavily and with tears streaming down your cheeks. His thumb slides slowly over your cheek, a total contrast to his thrusting hips.

Daemon's hand grips your hair tighter, holding you firmly in place as his cock begins to twitch in your mouth. You start sucking hard, wanting to taste his juices. Daemon grunts loudly again and continues to hold your head while his hips thrust harder.

"Fuck, yes," he moans as his one hand tries to gently caress your cheek, "My good girl," he grunts before covering your warm mouth with a white veil. Deep down your throat he spurts his warm seed. His eyes are shut tight and his breath comes in gasps as you try to swallow it all down. You whimper slightly as Daemon opens his eyes again and looks down. He loves the sight of you kneeling in front of him, his cock deep in your mouth, your mascara slightly smudged.

Slowly, he pulls his hot length out of your mouth, then runs his thumb over your lips to wipe away the remnants of his cum. You're breathing heavily, but you're smiling. Slowly, you stand up again as Daemon pulls his jeans back up. He pulls you closer to him again, kissing your lips almost gently as you stand in front of him.

"Let's go inside, lock the doors and not come out until tomorrow," he murmurs against your lips. You can't help but giggle excitedly and nod at him.

@hoshi-miharu-blog @arryn-nyx @aemonds-eyeball @praline357 @melsunshine @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @lauftivy @valeskafics @dreamlandcreations @hopelesswritergall @wetbitchlibrary @bl4ckph0enix @autumnhymns @fan-goddess @msmorningstaarr

[hunnysnoops]

₊˚｡⋆❆ 𝔹𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 ❆⋆｡˚₊

Chapter One: Wolves Without Teeth

Kenny McCormick x fem reader

You hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep. You're sailing from another world, sinking in my sea. You're feeding on my energy. I'm letting go of it, he wants it. 

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: A collision at the ice rink leaves you with a gnarly bruise and a hockey player who is quick to be infatuated. Kenny McCormick takes it upon himself to be the first to break you out of your shell.

Warnings: brief mention of injury / crude language

MASTERLIST

Moving to the middle of the rink, you and Craig get ready to begin your routine. As the familiar song begins to play, you inhale deeply and pay attention to the beat. Craig looks up at you and nods reassuringly. Everything about this has been overdone to the point it doesn’t make you nervous: the rise and fall of your chest, cold air stinging your skin, the only warmth in the arena rests between you and Craig. With a series of elegant moves, you start off by cutting smooth lines into the ice with your blades. Every motion is intentional, a precise dexterity you attain from day after day trying to reach something close to perfection.

As you glide into the first lift, you feel Craig's hands firmly grasp your waist. With a practiced ease, he lifts you high, and you stretch your arms and legs, creating a perfect line. You savour the feeling of weightlessness so you might taste it later. He lowers you gently, and you land seamlessly, continuing into a series of synchronized spins.

"Nice," Katya calls from the side of the rink where she watched the two of you with her arms crossed, picking apart each and every movement. She was an ex-champion from Sweden, and now she coached figure skating in Colorado "Craig, get your knee deeper." 

Barely even thinking, Craig does as he's told and lunges further. You had been skating with Craig for the past nine years though you didn't talk much he was what you considered to be your only friend who was your age. He had been the sole human to show up to your barren birthday parties since fourth grade. All of your trust poured into him, with every leap and scratch of your blade slicing across the ice. 

Each step of the routine builds on the one before it with ease. You perform a sequence of deft footwork, your blades clicking quickly and rhythmically on the ice. Craig perfectly mimics your movements and stands by you, steadying you with his hands. You two loop around the rink, hitting every mark of the choreography with ease.

As the music swells, you prepare for the jump sequence. You've practiced this countless times far too many times to hold any nerves over it. "Don't rush it, hold your edge longer," Katya shouts, accent thick. You approach the takeoff point, feeling Craig's presence close beside you. With a powerful push, you launch into the air, twisting and turning with grace. The landing is smooth, and you immediately transition into a spin, feeling the centrifugal force pulling at you.

Craig moves into position for the final lift. You gather your strength and leap, offering your faith to him completely. His hands are strong and steady as he lifts you high above his head. The audience, though imaginary today, would be breathless. You extend your arms, holding the pose for a beat before he brings you back down.

The routine ends with a dramatic flourish. You and Craig strike the final pose where his hands are secured on the small of your back as you lull backwards until your head is inches away from the ice, breathing hard but exhilarated. The music fades, and the rink is silent again. You catch your breath, face red, Craig skates in a little circle, one hand gripping his black hair. 

"Good job," You smile holding your hand up for a high five. Craig eyes you for a second before caving and gliding over to land his hand over yours. 

"Beautiful work," Katya smiles brightly at the winded pair of you. She looks down at her watch biting her lip "I wanted to do some strength work but we went a little over time so just do your cooldowns and head out, we'll pick this up tomorrow."

"Craig's strong enough," You tease though Katya doesn't seem to take it that way.

She shakes her head "There is always work to be done. The day you stop pushing yourself is the day you fail." 

"Oh," You glance at Craig "Um, okay." You probably spoke more at practice than you did anywhere else which wasn't saying much as you preferred to keep your thoughts to yourself on most days. 

You move into a series of gentle stretches, reaching down to touch your toes, and feeling the pull along your hamstrings. The cool air of the rink mingles with the heat of your exertion. You extend one leg behind you, leaning forward to stretch your back and shoulders, thinking back to the routine you performed only minutes ago you think of all the things you could improve on and make a mental list that you will soon put onto paper. 

You had butchered your cool down, trying to leave as soon as possible. Right after your nightly sessions a group of rowdy hockey players would swarm the rink careless of whether you were still in there or not and it wasn't particularly something you were fond of. 

Craig, on the other side of the rink, begins his own routine. He skates slowly, his strides long and deliberate, a stark contrast to the intense moves from earlier. He stops and bends down, touching the ice with his fingers, and stretching his long legs and back. 

You notice Craig moving into some balance exercises, lifting one leg behind him and holding his arms out for stability. It's a simple move, but one that requires focus and control, skills he's perfected over years of practice. You can see the concentration on his face, and the way he fine-tunes his posture and alignment like the world would end if he stumbled.

You slink off the ice and slip guards on over your blades, not wanting to risk any damage from the rubber or accidentally set your blade on something one of the hockey players left behind. The walls are adorned with colourful banners celebrating local hockey teams, figure skaters, and upcoming events. Scuffed benches line the corridor, providing a spot for spectators and players to rest or lace up their skates. As you peer down the corridor, your fears are proven to be true. 

Sitting down long rows of benches or standing up and blocking the halls is the hockey team that you were so careful to avoid. Quickly you begin to unlace your skates, hurriedly grabbing your duffle bag from your locker and tucking the skates inside. 

Of course, they line themselves up perfectly to block the entrance. It wasn't the people themselves that you were irritated by but how loud they were when they were all together. Even when your headphones were in and the volume turned to the max you could still hear them yelling and cackling no matter where you were in the building. 

The best part of winter was how the snow acted like soundproofing for the whole world and made everything really quiet though the hockey team was quick to cancel that out with their crude jokes. Aside from Craig's boyfriend, you hadn't spoken to anyone on the team as far as you knew. 

Their bulky gear makes the narrow passage even tighter. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and take a deep breath, weaving your way through the crowd.

"Excuse me," you say politely, trying to slip past them. The boys are engrossed in their conversation, their roughhousing spilling over into your path. One of the boys pushes his friend onto you and has you stumbling away, trying to keep your balance. 

Just as you think you've made it through, one of them swings his hockey stick at the punchline of a joke, not noticing you. The butt end of the stick catches you squarely in the stomach, the impact knocking the wind out of you. The pain is immediate and intense. It's not just a surface-level ache but a deep, visceral throb that spreads outward from the point of impact. Your breath catches in your throat, and a gasp escapes your lips as you double over instinctively, clutching your stomach.

The laughter stops immediately, and the boy who hit you looks horrified. His blue eyes are filled with instant regret as they draw wide. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” he exclaims, rushing to your side. His friends gather around, awkwardly glancing around at each other. 

"It's fine," You say through laboured breaths. It definitely was not fine. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine worry. You nod, still trying to catch your breath. He gently helps you up, his hands finally finding a firm grip on your arm and shoulder. As you stand, you notice the way he's looking at you, his eyes studying the features of your face. 

For a moment, he's stunned, his gaze locked on your face. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway, he takes in the delicate curve of your jaw, the light glinting off your eyes, and the way your hair frames your face, slightly disheveled but pretty nonetheless. He seems momentarily lost, his apology stuck in his throat as he's struck by you up close.

He recognized you as Craig's partner and the girl he passed in the hallway who wouldn't spare him a glance, he tried to approach you on several occasions but your headphones were always in and you didn't even notice him trying to talk to you through the music blasting in your ears, leaving him humbled. He had his eyes on you for a while,  you were what his little sister referred to as a hallway crush- someone he thought was attractive when he saw you in passing but had never properly spoken to. 

The pain and shock have left you somewhat dazed, and his sudden proximity only intensifies that feeling. You pull your arm away from his grip "Please don't touch me." 

"Do you want-

"No," You dismiss him before he even starts "It's fine." Despite the pain gnawing at your stomach, you manage to shoulder your duffle bag and hurridly stagger out of the exit

Kenny blinks, snapping out of his daze and running a hand through his blonde shaggy hair. "I'm so sorry," he calls after you, his voice more earnest now though his eyes travel down your body and take in the way your leggings cling to your legs.

Stan abruptly smacks him on the arm, it is still felt through the padding "You are such a dick, Kenny."

"What?" He swerves his head to look at Stan "I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to stare at her ass?"

"Um, yes?" He had spent months trying to talk to you when you didn't have headphones in, and now that moment finally happened he had fumbled so badly that it was over before it even started. 

"Kenny, that is not what happened," Stan calls out his friend's incredibly incorrect account of the night before. The school hallways were far from barren, students rushed back and forth, slamming their lockers shut and hunting down their friends.

"So what actually happened?" Kyle asked, digging through his locker, back turned to his friends.

"Kenny hit her," Stan says.

"Why would you hit her?"

"I didn't mean to," Kenny retorts, "I was making a joke and I accidentally hit her with my stick."

"He was making a joke and fucking winded her," Stan corrects.

"She was not winded-

"She was keeling over, clutching her stomach, and coughing." He remembered getting sucker punched by Shelly right beneath his ribs and imagined that you were feeling something similar when you were hit. "Oh and then she asked him not to touch her."

"I wouldn't want this freak touching me either if I were her," Kyle shoves a textbook into his backpack and zips it up.

"What do you mean by that?" Kenny furrows his eyebrows though is question goes unanswered.

"Hey Slumlord, Jewrat, Stan," Cartman disrupts the conversation, joining their little circle in the hallway "What's going on?"

"Kenny hit a girl," Stan says.

"Nice man," Cartman gives Kenny a firm pat on the back, leaving Kyle to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

"Dude, stop, I actually feel bad about it," Kenny says, chewing the inside of his mouth, thoughts focused on the little glimpses he caught of you.

"No, you don't," Kyle slings his backpack on after grabbing his phone from a pocket "You just want to get laid."

"Why can't it be both?" He was almost wistful.

"Who's this chick you're in love with?" Cartman asked. Lately, he wasn't as up-to-date on his friend's matters as he'd like to be, being left out of an inside joke to him was a fate worse than death.

"This girl who skates with Craig," Kenny shoves his hands into the pockets of his old warn jeans. Part of him was regretting leaving his jacket in his locker, winter in Colorado was cold no matter if you were inside or not "And I'm not in love with her, I just like looking at her."

"Maybe talk about this with someone as gross as you," Kyle doesn't bother to look up from his game of Candy Crush, he had an addiction though he would never admit to it. He would act oblivious whenever someone asked him if he was playing it.

Something catches Kenny's eye, you brush past the group without even casting them a glance. Kenny excuses himself and trails behind you, trying to catch your attention.

As you stand at your locker, the music blaring in your ears serves as a shield from the outside world. The thrashing guitar drowns out the noise of the bustling hallway, wrapping you in your own private bubble of sound. You were preparing yourself to spend your lunch period studying and trying to ignore the ache in your stomach from the night prior. 

Unbeknownst to you, Kenny approaches, his footsteps barely registering over the music. He hesitates for a moment, watching you carefully as you focus on organizing your books and belongings. His lips move, forming words he hopes will reach you through the barrier of your headphones.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle but unheard amidst the din in your ears.

You continue to rummage in your locker, oblivious to his presence. Kenny clears his throat softly, trying again to get your attention. He gestures towards you, a small smile on his face, but you don't notice.

He takes a step closer, his hand hovering near your shoulder as he tries to catch your eye though he retracts it after recalling the way you shook him off previously. "Hey," he repeats, a little louder this time.

Finally, you glance up, startled to see Kenny standing there, a grin playing on his face. You quickly pull out your headphones, and the music is abruptly silenced. You stare at him, silently waiting for him to continue.

It takes him a beat to realize and then he picks up where he left off, "Just wanted to say I'm sorry about last night."

"You already did." 

"Uh, yeah," he chuckles, rubbing the nape of his neck. You were now getting a good look at his face. He had a nice smile, dimples, most notably a faint little scar over the bridge of his nose and a silver piercing through his right eyebrow "I just felt really bad, let me make it up to you and buy you lunch?"

"I packed my own," You said flatly. 

"Do you like coffee?"

You didn't even think about entertaining this idea, you swiftly shook your head.  "I'm not good company," Before giving him another chance to speak, you put your headphones back in, moving past him.

Kenny had been rejected a handful of times, namely in middle school, but yours hit him the worst. 

You weren't one to recklessly date or recklessly do anything really. All that mattered was achieving a top ranking in your country and eventually making your way to the Olympics, everything else was an afterthought or a stepping stone to get there. 

There were some days when you would eat lunch with Craig, though with Tweak being so jumpy, you spent most days you did as you are doing now. Eating lunch alone in your English class. As you push the door open, you see Mrs. Miller typing on her laptop, she looks towards the door and gives you a little smile as you enter. 

She was a middle-aged Filipino woman with the most beautiful black hair you had ever seen. It fell down to the small of her back and shined like silk under the harsh lights in the school. You first had her as your teacher in the ninth grade, after writing a paper about skating she told you that she was once a skater. Mrs. Miller quickly became your favourite teacher. You were now in your senior year and still you spent lunch wallowing in her classroom. 

Pausing at her desk, you unzip your bag and pull out a little package wrapped in parchment and secured in a bow of twine. She looks up from her papers, her warm smile inviting you to continue. "It's a cream cheese pound cake. I made it last night."

Her eyes light up with genuine appreciation. "Thank you, this is my favourite part of the day." She takes the pound cake from you, her smile growing even wider. Being as avid of a baker as you were, there was far too much excess to leave to go bad, you didn't really have friends to give them to so you let your step-dad bring it to work though you always brought a little bit for Mrs. Miller as a little thanks for letting you stay in her classroom. 

You sit in the corner of the classroom, no one dares enter during lunch, you always thought that the students must have feared the written word. The usual hum of voices and clatter of footsteps is replaced by the soft rustle of pages as you study. Your lunch, a simple sandwich and an apple, rests on the desk beside your notebook, untouched for now. The sun filters through the windows, casting a warm glow on the bookshelves lined with classics and contemporary novels.

As you take a bite of your sandwich, somewhat disappointed in the combination you had chosen. Your eyes flittered to your phone rather than to your work, in mere moments you had abandoned studying in favour of looking at baking recipes on Pinterest, saving the ones that caught your eye and humming quietly to your music. 

Which recipe would you make that night to settle after skating? Your mom loved lemons but your step-dad was a die-hard chocolate guy though he would really eat whatever you baked and brag about it to his friends at work. 

"Mrs. Miller?" You take your headphones out and look at her.

"Yes?" She looks up from her papers, her warm smile inviting you to continue.

"Would you rather have lemon loaf or black forest brownies?" Some might think it sad that you only had two friends and one of them was your English teacher but you didn't find an ounce of loneliness in it. 

"Hm," She leans back in her chair, thinking long and hard over it before coming to her conclusion "Oh, both sound great, but I think I gotta say black forest brownies, never had them before."

You answer her with a little thumbs up and scribble it down in your notes. Sifting through the internet for a recipe, you find one and start tweaking it to your liking, After crossing out measurements and ingredients and then filling them back in, you snap a picture and send it to your step-dad.

New Message- FIFA man 

You: Thoughts? 

FIFA man: Looks awesome kiddo 😎❤️😘

FIFA man: I'll pick you up from skating ⛸ tonight 🌃

You: Is mom working tonight?

FIFA man: Yes 👍

FIFA man: Do you need a ride 🚗 there? 

You: No, Craig's driving me

FIFA man: Cool 😎 tell him I say hi 👋

FIFA man: Do you want takeout 🥡 or chicken 🐓 and veg 🌽🥕🥦🥬???

You: Chickens good

FIFA man: Awesome 😎🤠🥰😇

FIFA man: I need to grocery 🍎🥐🥩🥬🥑 shop 🛍 tomorrow

FIFA man: Send me a list pls 📝

You: Okay 

FIFA man: Love you 🤬

You: ?

You: Are you mad?

FIFA man: No 🥶

You: Why did you use the cursing emoji?

FIFA man: I thought it was kissing 🤔 LOL IJBOL 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Todd overused emojis to the point his texts were hard to read, but you always caught yourself giggling at them. You turn up the volume on your phone, letting your favourite music fill your ears as you take another bite of your sandwich. The melody shifts your thoughts back to the ice rink. You can almost feel the cold air and hear the sound of blades cutting through ice. Figure skating has always been your escape, a separate world where a blade stood between you and the ice. You remember the exhilaration of landing a perfect jump, and the applause from the audience, it was like a drug, little hits of dopamine each time you heard that familiar cheering from strangers in the crowd, it was the only loud sound you wanted to hear. 

As the song plays, you imagine yourself skating to it. Each note guides your movements, from the elegant arcs of your arms to the powerful sweeps of your legs. You visualize the choreography in your mind, picturing how you would translate the music into a captivating routine. The swells of the hymn dictate your jumps and spins, while the softer passages call for graceful glides and delicate footwork. 

You were really one to dream away your time. Every program you watched, you imagined what it was like to be them, to feel what they did, to see what they did. It consumed you entirely.

Mrs. Miller had always tried to get you out of your shell, pairing you with the loud kids in class, and assigning public speaking assignments, but you always wound up coming back into her classroom to soak in the quiet soft scribble of her red correction pen. 

Kenny was never keen on waking up early. Though he had recently been inclined to pick up more shifts at work, meaning he would be skipping several practices and had to make up the time elsewhere. He dragged his hockey bag behind him as he entered the rink. In the winter, it was dark almost all of the time, by the time he reached the arena, the sun wasn't even out yet. 

He checked the time sheet posted upfront to be sure no one had booked the ice time, luckily he was in the clear. Kenny didn't bother to put all of his gear on, he just shed his thick coat, leaving him in a hoodie and sweatpants while he laced up his skates and shook the now-melting snow from his hair. There was no need for all of the padding when he would be the only one in there, boring himself to death doing technique work.

"Kenny?" Coach Trevor pokes his head out of his office. His face splits into a smile when he spots Kenny on the bench "Good seeing you buddy, didn't expect you to be here bright and early."

"Me neither," He shakes his head slightly.

"We missed you last night at practice."

"Uh, yeah, sorry, I've been working more, I'm just trying to juggle everything right now." Kenny stood up and shifted his weight, fiddling with the worn tape on his hockey stick.

Trevor's brow furrowed in concern. "I understand the need to work, Kenny, but your performance on the ice is slipping. You're falling behind on your drills and your conditioning. It's not just about showing up; it's about being present and giving it your all."

"I'll, uh- ask if they can switch my schedule around," He lied through his teeth. Kenny couldn't quit his job to play hockey or cut down his hours, he wouldn't even be able to afford to play hockey if he didn't have a job. 

"Okay," Trevor gives him a thin-lipped smile and a firm pat on the shoulder "Let me know how it goes and we can work something out."

"You got it," He returns the smile, giving the coach a little thumbs up. Trevor retreated back into his office as Kenny entered the abnormally quiet rink. His brief conversation with Trevor was enough to make him want to lie down on the ice and wait until the cool air of the rink froze him whole.

That feeling of desolation melted away the second he saw you on the other side of the arena. Across the rink, you are engrossed in your own world, skating solo on a secluded patch of ice. Your headphones are in and you're buried deep in concentration. You execute each move with precision, lost in the rhythm and flow of your routine.

Like a shot of caffeine, he suddenly didn't feel tired, straightening up his posture as he stepped onto the ice. The first few glides were always the most exhilarating, a reminder of why he loved the sport like he was weightless. 

If you had noticed him enter, you gave no indication, not even a quick look in his direction. It was just you and your music, shifting gracefully along the sleet. Your arms swayed above your head, controlled and elegant like the wings of a swan. 

First was the axel. You skated backward, building up speed before launching into the air with a powerful push from your right leg. Your body rotated mid-air, arms tucked in tightly, and time seemed to slow for a moment. You landed smoothly on your left foot, the blade biting into the ice, a soft scrape marking your descent.

Next, you transitioned seamlessly into a toe loop. You approached the jump with a series of elegant crossovers, each movement precise and calculated. Planting the toe pick of your right skate into the ice, you used it as a pivot to leap into the air, your body spinning in a controlled rotation. The landing was crisp, your knees bending slightly to absorb the impact. With every movement, you thought of each correction Katya had given you. 

With barely a pause, you moved into a sequence of spins. Starting with a camel spin, you extend your right leg behind you, your body bending forward in a perfect horizontal line. The spin began slowly, the centrifugal force pulling at your outstretched limbs, then gradually sped up as you pulled your arms and leg in tighter. The world blurred around you, the only constant the center of your spin.

Kenny found himself in awe of your movement. He had never seen you skate and frankly hadn't expected you to be so good. He tightened his grip on his stick, pushing off with purpose and shaking the thoughts from his head. Kenny was here to practice, not to watch you run a routine. 

However, as he skated, his eyes kept drifting towards you. You were in your element, gliding effortlessly across the ice, your movements fluid and precise. The sight of you skating with such grace captivated him, drawing his attention away from his own drills.

Without realizing it, Kenny's focus wavered. His skates lost their cadence, and his mind wandered as he watched you execute another flawless turn. He failed to notice the approaching sideboard in that split second of distraction.

Suddenly, reality snapped back into focus as Kenny collided hard with the sideboard, the impact jolting through his body. He winced in pain, clutching his shoulder where it had taken the brunt of the crash. His collision echoed through the rink, drawing your attention at last. 

Maybe it had been karma for hitting you so hard the night but good lord, he was hurting. "Are you okay?" You take out one headphone, sliding into a stop to watch him

"She speaks," He says, somewhat winded but his voice carries a teasing lilt. You just stare at him, waiting for a proper answer, not feeling pressure to push further for one. Kenny uses the sideboard to yank himself up, wiping the shavings from the ice off him and then looking at you "Yes, I'm okay."

You nod in the slightest, moving to put your headphones back in but in the seconds before it connects to your ear, he seized the moment.

"I'm Kenny."

"Yeah, I know."

"You know?" He asks, a lopsided smile on his face "How?"

"You're-" You pause, you didn't exactly know how to phrase it but you had seen him in the halls with his friends, screaming in the locker room, and hitting up girls. If anything, you were an observer, a wallflower as opposed to a Venus fly trap. 

"A whore?" He asks. You open your mouth to speak but close it right away, letting the words die in your throat "Oh, jeez, you really think I am?"

"I was going to say, you talk a lot" You say, politely. 

"Well, compared to you, yeah." He waits another beat for you to respond but is met with nothing but a blank stare. Kenny let out a breath, a little cloud escaping from his mouth "Nah, I get it, you're shy."

"I'm not shy," You say, feeling yourself cringe at the word. You hated when people called you that, they tended to be the same who treated you like a pet since you couldn’t fit a word in between their constant back and forth "I just like my-" You rack your brain for the right word "Aloneness." 

"Then I will leave you to your aloneness," He says, reaching back for his stick and turning away from you. Kenny weaved through invisible cones with the puck like he was actually practising with his team, focusing on control and precision. He kept his eyes up, forcing himself to rely on his peripheral vision to navigate.

You really didn't care what he did, without another thought you unpause your music and go back into your movements. You changed into a sit spin and sank yourself into a low squat without slowing down. Your arms made a graceful arc above your head, and your left leg extended in front of you, toes pointing. The sensation was both thrilling and disorienting as the ice whirled beneath you during the quick and low spin.

You changed into a layback spin as soon as you got out of the sit spin. Your back arched flawlessly, head tipped back, eyes closed, the ceiling of the rink a faraway haze. Your free leg was raised slightly behind you as your arms softly curved around your head. 

Finishing your spins, you took a moment to catch your breath, the music in your headphones guiding your next movements. From the corner of your eye, you see Kenny doing the exact opposite of what he said. He's staring at you from the other side. 

His eyebrows furrow deep, the way you twist and turn your body replaying in his mind on repeat until he notices you watching him, crossing your arms "How do you do your crossovers like that?"

You stare him dead in the eyes and point at your figure skates, a different type of blade entirely.

"Yeah, figure skates, I know but my crossovers are so clunky and yours are just- clean." He knew how you did yours, probably hours, weeks, and years of practicing longer and relentlessly than he did. Also, the fact you were trained for grace and agility while he was trained for speed and strength. He just wanted to dig for ways to get you to talk to him. 

"Show me how you do yours," you say, tone flat. "Forwards and backwards." 

Kenny took a deep breath, positioning himself on the ice. He started his crossovers, his movements stiff and deliberate. His knees were slightly bent, but his weight seemed unevenly distributed, causing his skates to scrape awkwardly against the ice semi-purposefully. He plays it up in hopes that you'll correct him. 

"First, bend your knees slightly- not too much. Keep your core engaged and your weight centred over your skates." 

Kenny bent his knees a bit more and adjusted his posture, arms out at his sides. "Like this?"

You bite your lip, wanting to cringe at his positioning though you were raised too well to do so. "I- Can I show you?"

"Be my guest," There it is, just what he was looking for. You skated to his side, demonstrating the correct posture. Kenny studies your form, attempting to mimic it "Better?"

"No," you said bluntly. "Not like that." With a sigh, you skated closer and placed your hands on his shoulders, adjusting them to be more relaxed. "Relax your shoulders. You're too tense."

Kenny's breath caught slightly at your touch, but he quickly tried to hide it. "This good?"

"Yup," you replied, moving your hands to his hips, guiding his posture. "Now, shift your weight over your skates, keep your core engaged. Feel the balance." Skating felt like the only thing you could talk about. Usually, you just didn't speak when you had nothing to say but skating gave you purpose. 

Your proximity made the air between you feel charged, and for a moment, Kenny forgot he was supposed to be pretending. "Alright, I think I've got it."

You step back slightly but still close enough to correct him if needed. "Now, when you cross one foot over the other, push off with the edges of your skates. It's about finding a fluid motion."

You showed off a couple of crossovers, and you moved with ease and fluidity. With elegance, your left foot crossed over your right, and you leaned slightly into the turn while keeping perfect balance.

Kenny tried again, this time paying more attention to your instructions. His movements were still awkward, but there was a noticeable improvement. He looked at you for validation.

"Better," you said, your tone softening slightly. "But you're still too stiff. Relax your upper body more." You placed your hands on his shoulders again, gently pushing them down. "Let your legs guide you."

Kenny nodded, feeling the warmth of your hands through his hoodie. He took a deep breath and tried again, bending his knees, relaxing his shoulders, and tilting into the turn. This time, his movements felt smoother and more controlled. He could feel the fluidity you had described, he didn't come into this actually intending to learn something but he stood corrected.

"Listen to your skating, if it looks like this," You sweep your leg back, pushing off the ice to demonstrate "And it sounds like that, you're using one leg, it should be two. You should hear the rip on the ice, go again."

Kenny does as told and you see him implementing what you had said "Looks good," you nod, already skating away to continue your routine. Kenny watched you for a moment, admiring your skill, feeling the lingering warmth of your touch.

He skated closer, a playful glint in his eyes. "I think I need a bit more help. You know, hands-on guidance really works for me."

You look back at him, putting your headphones in as you do so "I think you're fine." 

Every minute you spent on the ice that morning, you savoured it like you would never have it again. It was easy for you to ignore Kenny's staring, it was just like a miniature audience. Having eyes on you never hindered your performance and maybe that was why you found it so easy to ignore people.

Unfortunately, you had to leave the rink eventually. While you didn't mind school, you weren't thrilled for it- particularly the awkwardness that came about when you had to pick partners. Your grades weren't by any means perfect but you managed to keep your above water just enough to skate as often as you did. 

You begin the ritual of unlacing your pristinely kept skates, Kenny sitting on the bench across from you doing the same. You slip your shoes on, tucking your skates away and look up at him "Have you had breakfast yet?"

His head shot up, face lighting up. His lips curved into an easy, charming smile and you could understand how he drew so much attention without trying "No, do you wanna get some?"

"No," you said, curtly. 

"Oh," his face dropped but he still kept a staggered smile, watching you reach into your bag.

"Do you want these?" You pulled a box from your tote bag, holding it out to Kenny. "They're brownies, I made too many," That was only half true. You made a lot, figuring your stepdad would take them to work for the staff to munch on but he insisted that you should bring them to school and hand them out like high school students initiated friendships by passing baked goods back and forth.

"Don't you wanna give them to your friends?" Kenny asks and you shake your head. You had already set Mrs. Miller's brownie apart, wrapping it in parchment like you always did and most days you didn't see Craig until you skated at night. "Sweet," He muttered reaching over to take the box from your grip.

 "You can share them with your friends," You say slinging your duffle over your shoulder and holding your tote bag in hand. Kenny wasted no time digging into the brownies, he had the box on his lap one brownie in hand as he sunk his teeth into it. 

"Hell no, they don't deserve this," he says between bites "I'm keeping this to myself." 

There was always that little sense of pride when someone was enjoying what you baked. Usually, you would eavesdrop on your parents while they ate your baking to be sure they genuinely liked it. Kenny's reaction almost had you smiling. Almost. 

"Are you leaving already?" Kenny asked as you walked away, headphones back on and deaf to whatever he was saying "Okay, bye.”

A/N: I rewrote this a bajillion times and I’m still not happy with it but I don’t have the strength in me for another rewrite so here she is ✊

[merbear25]

I have these feelings... Choso

a/n: this is the first thing I've ever written for jjk, but my goodness Choso is such a lovely man that I couldn't resist. Just a quick drabble to unleash my sappy thoughts.

CW: SFW, gn!reader, fluff, slight angst

Couldn't there be a better time and place to have this conversation? There was never going to be and holding out for such would only let the opportunity pass, allowing it to fade into the dark with other chances that’d fallen victim to hesitation and doubt.

Laying on the spring grass, feeling the gentle breeze grace your skin, enjoying the tranquility: with moments as rare as these, one couldn’t help but be selfish—never wanting it to end. Gazing up at the clouds which rolled past, they evoked your deepest desires laid hidden behind these ambiguous shapes.

“It’s funny,” you started, catching his attention, “that swirls that are ever changing can spark such imagination.”

Glancing at you, he turned his attention back to the sky. “Tell me what you see.”

With a sigh of contentment, you began with a smile, “I see two people. One of whom keeps getting pulled away farther and farther from the other. They try to keep up, so as not to lose one another in the bustling crowd, but it’s getting harder to keep sight of them. Just as they’re about to lose each other, the one in front offers their hand, pulling the one who was falling behind closer.”

Looking at the fluffy forms layering the blue sky, he scanned them as you spoke, hoping to find that special pair that’d caught your eye. “Which ones are they?”

“They’re whichever ones you want them to be, really.”

His brow furrowed trying to focus on those two special clouds you may have been referencing, but he was a bit disappointed when they didn’t stand out from the others. “They all look the same to me.”

“Sometimes you just have to trust that they’re there, offering you that hand.” With that, your hand found his, a soft touch that held your innermost fears and desires. Despite the trembling woes shaking throughout your body, you took that leap of faith, for without risk there could be no resolution.

Your heartbeat pounded against your tightening chest, while you awaited a response—anything to make it clear where you stood with him. After a moment of silence, he laced his fingers with yours, blanketing you with a sense of serenity. Your worries were carried away with the next light breeze, allowing the blossoming love you had for him to grow.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello!

First of, thank you for all the work you put into this blog, you guys are truly amazing.

Secondly, I wanted to ask of you know about any fics in which either Aziraphale or Crowley get hurt (preferably without being unconscious for the majority of the fic. Whether its a small injury or full on whump doesn't matter) and the other gets super protective afterwards and won't leave their side?

Thank you for everything you're doing for the fandom!

Hi! We have #hurt aziraphale, #hurt crowley, #protective aziraphale, and #protective crowley tags, so check those out. Here are more to add to all of those tags!...

When the Blood Burns by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

Crowley is already having a bad day when he runs into a group of humans trying to rob Aziraphale. Furious, he leaps to the rescue. No one is allowed to hurt his angel.

Bathed by aliteralpissbaby (G)

Aziraphale draws a bath for Crowley after he was involved in an accident. Crowley has to go through the trauma of falling from grace.

Togetherless by Kyndoor (T)

After Aziraphale escapes Hell, he no longer remembers his demon. Crowley nurses him back to health and tries to restore his happiness and faith.

Balanced There, Between Those Eyes by stinkybarnacles (G)

"Crowley! Please!" Aziraphale repeated. A mixture of desperate and assertive. Crowley held his breath and tried not to move a muscle, since it seemed the slightest movement would launch him into agony. "Just - open the door! You're frightening me." The angel cruelly knew the exact buttons to push. Crowley's chest ached and he couldn't tell if it was his abused ribs, or just burning guilt. If he was smart, he'd stay exactly where he was. He wouldn't make another noise. He'd wait until Aziraphale got annoyed with his stubbornness and left, and then he'd put himself to bed the minute he could drag himself across the floor without being heard. But he wasn't smart. He was desperate. He just wanted to see him. OR Crowley recieves a demonic beat-down for his good deeds and has a lot of trouble allowing Aziraphale to help him afterward. (Please read note at the beginning.)

Re-Canonized by Snarky_Synesthete (T)

Aziraphale remembers who his heart was made for, long before The Beginning...but if that secret is revealed, it will only cause more pain. Hiding his longing and fear from Crowley throughout the ages leaves him desperate for a way to protect them both, once and for all. Saying yes to The Metatron's offer, however, causes some unintended consequences. Now Aziraphale has to figure out how to both protect Crowley as well as earn back the demon's trust.

Feeling Love by Storyteller_of_the_Forest (G)

Crowley has always been able to feel when Aziraphale is on Earth and has an uncanny ability to find the angel when Aziraphale needs him most. It's an ability Aziraphale shares, though neither realizes it. When Aziraphale escapes from Heaven, mortally wounded, he hopes to see Crowley one last time. But is it too late? Can Crowley still sense him?

- Mod D

[heresylog]

12 Days of Christmas Symbolism Explained

1 Partridge in a Pear Tree = Jesus on the Cross

2 Turtle Doves = The Old and New Testaments

3 French Hens = Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues

4 Calling Birds = the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists

5 Golden Rings = The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch", which gives the history of man's fall from grace.

6 Geese A-laying = the six days of creation

7 Swans A-swimming = the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven sacraments

8 Maids A-milking = the eight beatitudes

9 Ladies Dancing = the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit

10 Lords A-leaping = the ten commandments

11 Pipers Piping = the eleven faithful apostles

12 Drummers Drumming = the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Lettuce-In-Law

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack/Belle Rating: T Word Count: 2166

Summary: The first marriage proposal of the evening might be ill-conceived, but the second is quite sensible.

There is something in the manner of the man—the bank man, the man under whose nose their father allegedly thrust a shovelful of dirt—as he descends to one knee that conjures in Belle’s mind some sort of toy with springs. As if he might pop up from his propositioner’s crouch with unsettling and mechanical speed. But he is not a toy, and this is not a game, despite the party invitations and the pretty foursome of Foxes in evening attire. The scrape of chairs as they all turn to look scratches a rough match of pain down her sternum. It’s starting, but it’s damn inconvenient timing, so as Fanny’s premature “Yes” leaps from her tongue, Belle employs equal haste to rise from her chair, trying to stand up straight so she will be taken seriously, trying to fill her lungs that she might have breath to scream over the unfairness of women dressed like dolls so men with childlike expressions might be overcome over dinner and fall at their feet.

The pain has a rhythm like a hundred thousand soldiers stamping the earth, like the roiling sea that tosses the great ship constructed in hubris, threatening to reduce it back into the splinters of the boards of the wood from which it was made. The pain is the Army and the Navy at once, and Belle is withstanding their onslaught while the man—Oliver Twist—proposes marriage to her sister.

“—a brief but significant acquaintance—” Twist is calling it as Belle marches down the length of the table opposite the lovers’ tableau.

“—knew from the very instant—” he is claiming when she grips the corner of the table, feeling Jack’s eyes on her, pushing off and fighting her body’s impulse to double over.

“—and the security I could provide you thanks to my comfortable position, my generous salary, and my valued friendships must not be weighed against the simple pleasure I shall feel each time I am graced with your radiant smile, though of course they are factors which you are welcome to consider. So, in conclusion…” Twist says, very much sounding as though there is a great deal more he intends to say.

“No,” says Belle. It’s so easy, actually, to get straight to the point.

Twist looks up at her with disbelieving eyes as she sidesteps him and stares hard at her sister, who is utterly aflutter and barely restraining the second assent that will probably come at a startling volume and pitch.

She yearns to tell Fanny more than she knows she has time to say, with pain sharpening its knives on her very bones: that a brief acquaintance is not enough to judge whether this is a man to whom she will want to show her drawings, that a lifetime of security is insufficiently fantastical for someone who practices kissing on bananas, that they weren’t little girls for this, for this, no matter what society would have them take on faith.

“Fanny,” she groans from between her teeth.

Her sister’s wide eyes are on her.

“Belle,” she replies.

Belle takes another step and staggers, sinks, slams the heel of her hand to her chest like a seawall against the hot swell of pain, looks up to see…

…Jack on his feet next to her sister. With Belle on her knees, closer to his chair than Fanny’s after the collapse, and holding her hand in such a way that it could easily be mistaken for an emotional gesture, a tender covering of her heart, she can feel what this looks like even before she registers the reactions of those assembled.

“I knew you really liked him!” Fanny exclaims, clapping her hands together and expressing at least as much joy over this horrible, accidental proposal as her own (which is more proof Belle is too winded to wield towards discouraging the rushed match).

“My daughter is so full of modern ideas!” their father chortles, acting to hide his discomfited uncertainty and recast his child’s erratic behaviour in front of the important guests. “Imagine the woman doing it instead of the man! Quite entertaining! Good fun!”

Belle’s gaze swings to Sneed, trying to smile, ignoring what his medical training must be urging him to see in favour of humouring Governor Fox, agreeing in order to stay in his favour. Coward.

She looks again to Jack, who would and will not ignore her pain, but her glare repels him. He stands while she kneels, and it is another humiliation at his hand, that hand that cuts so quick. After the way he spoke to her, she would never ask him to be her husband. With her eyes, she tells him, but she can feel other eyes too, eyes in the heads of people who are waiting, and she doesn’t want those people to think she’s weak. The invalid or the charade? The pity or the forced congratulations from everyone but Fanny (whose congratulations would be genuine) and their mother (who would abstain altogether)?

“Your radiant smile,” Belle says, a deadness in her eyes as the pain storms inside her, turning her nerves to lightning strikes. She lifts a hand to Jack, offering it to him.

“The security of your comfortable position,” he responds, sliding his fingers across her palm to take hold.

She would howl with laughter over the bad-mannered boldness of using the words to declare that he’s taking her for her money—possibly her parents’ greatest fear—if she had the faculty. And if she didn’t despise him.

When Jack pulls her to her feet, his eyes, all concern, do a rapid dance with hers. Then, he smiles tightly around at the people applauding with what is likely more confusion than delight.

“Get me to my bedroom,” she quietly begs.

“Allow us a few moments to collect ourselves,” Jack tells rather than requests of the room, giving his and Belle’s respectful goodbyes with a sharp nod.

He guides her out, supporting her weight, apparently before her parents can decide what to do or how to stop them.

“May I continue now?” Belle hears Twist inquire, and sighs in relief when Fanny says, “Maybe you’d better not.”

—

Jack exhales in frustration, pacing. Belle’s hands flail behind her back as she attempts to unfasten her dress on her own.

“Just let me help,” he says. Again.

“I will do it myself. You are not my servant. I’m not some sort of princess.”

“Unfortunate choice with the crown then, wasn’t it?” he questions snidely, pointing at the tiara tucked into her styled hair.

Belle groans in annoyance, then pain, her hands flying to cradle her front as her breathing grows rapid and shallow. Jack lunges towards her, attempting to straighten her posture in order to ease the passage of air into her lungs. It’s exponentially more worrying when she doesn’t bark at him to keep back or slap his fingers from her neck as he seeks her pulse.

“Take a seat,” he entreats softly. “Please.”

She allows him to steer her to the edge of her bed. Without waiting—why make Belle waste precious breaths on manners?—Jack sits down too, shifting backwards until he can use both hands to open the back of her dress. The action exposes a white chemise and, over top, a corset he’s morally loose enough to know how to slacken with a few artful tugs.

“Deeper breaths now,” he urges, rubbing firmly alongside her spine with the heel of his hand.

“The trouble isn’t my ability to inhale,” she wheezes, undermining her words, “it’s the pain.” At least she’s finally speaking to him about what’s going on. Jack’s sure that a dialogue, formed around mutual respect, is crucial to— “You nitwit.”

“Well. I’ve never had to undress someone who hates me before. Stand,” Jack requests.

Belle does, and Jack moves quickly to unfasten the rest of her black gown. It slips partway down on its own, but he gets off the bed to work it past the large skirt she wears beneath.

“I don’t hate you,” she argues while he struggles with the fabric. “I just don’t care about you at all.”

“Oh, then I’m sure we’ll be very happy together. Big happy family: you, me, Lady Fanny, and the Lettuce.”

“The Lettuce?”

“Just a special term of endearment Fagin and I have for our dear Mr. Twist.”

Jack huffs, dress successfully around Belle’s feet, and glances up to realize he now occupies a pose identical to the one Belle did earlier. He is the future Mr. Belle Fox, twice over. It’s hard to say whether she notices, hands on her waist and jaw clenched as she seemingly attempts to master another surge of pain. He’s always believed he would do whatever possible to heal the misfortunates who landed on the operating table, but he looks at Belle and wants to do more than what’s possible to heal the ache in her, even when she prods at the ache she’s put in him. He pushes to his feet and removes her loosened corset, the avowal that she doesn’t care squeezing his heart as he sets her free.

“I didn’t mean to propose,” Belle asserts, holding his gaze firmly in hers. “To make that perfectly clear.”

“I’m not actually sure that you did—though, admittedly, I was rather swept up in the romance of the moment: the most despised acquaintance of my former life producing a deeply off-putting display of emotion, succeeded by you crumpling to the ground in obvious pain.” A sarcastic smirk pinches the corner of his mouth as he reanimates the horrible scene. “I nearly swooned.”

“Yes. Well. Good.” Jack’s eyebrows twitch upward. “Good that you understood,” Belle clarifies crossly.

“Thoroughly. The glorified butcher has gotten it through his thick skull.”

“‘Glorified butcher’? I would never—”

“No, but your mother would.”

“My mother…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insists with a sigh. His arms go around her to feel for the ties of her underskirt. Neither of them comment on how she sags a bit in his hold, how his fingers slow when her hands run up his arms. But she’s only using him to hold herself up.

The underskirt, heavy like a raincloud, falls.

“Lie down,” Jack says. “I’ll examine you.”

“My mother,” Belle repeats, maneuvering herself onto the pillows he readies for her head. “She doesn’t speak for me, whatever she said to you.”

“Seeing as you don’t know what she said, how can you be so sure you disagree with her?”

“I know two words of what she said, and I know that they hurt you.” She grips his wrist and he feels compelled to meet her eye.

Jack can’t say it aloud—that he was hurt, twice, first by Lady Fox’s blunt, belittling language, and then by her daughter’s easy rejection of him (triggered, of course, by his preceding rejection of her). And Belle can’t apologize, apparently, not properly, though her expression steps in when the words don’t come. They speak better with their hands though, don’t they? Surgeon’s hazard. Jack swallows and rotates his hand to clasp hers. They share a gentle smile, and then he shifts his focus to the tiara she still wears.

“Lady Belle,” he says with a teasing smile, and, gingerly, lifts the ornament from her hair. Belle settles more comfortably into the pillows.

“Is the pain more or less acute when you’re lying down?” Jack asks as he walks over to her array of medical instruments, lightly twirling the tiara, trying not to think about how easily he could conceal it inside his vest pocket, trying not to wonder whether the stones are obsidian, onyx, or—when they catch the candlelight and give off a cutting gleam—black diamonds.

“Less, just now, but that could be because you’re here.”

He looks back at her over his shoulder.

“Really?”

“No,” she says with a wincing grin, “though there is some relief in not having to pretend my condition is milder than it is to ensure your pride isn’t wounded when you realize you can’t save me.”

Jack stares at her following the rush of words, in the silence that seems to ring. Into the stillness bursts the crack and fizzle of fireworks. He doesn’t care. The heart in his chest thu-thumps.

“Save you?”

She says his name and he almost returns to her side instantly, but his training takes over. He turns back to the table, casting his softening, distorting gaze over the scattered instruments. How can he choose when he can’t see?

“They’re useless,” Belle says, and something in her voice ruptures. “Just come back.”

Steady, Jack tells himself. He draws a long inhalation through his nose and reminds himself that he’s always steady, a cornerstone of his profession. Sure grip on the handle of a saw, tight pinch of his fingers on a needle.

He reaches out with quaking hands and takes up the stethoscope, leaving the tiara there to shine.

[levinbolts]

Spare bg3 oc lore if available? 👁👁

OOOOOOOOOOOOH OF COURSE I WILL I'M ALWAYS AVAILABLE TO RAMBLE ABOUT VALEN. okay so i've been sitting on these for a while because i wasn't sure if i liked them or not, but i think i do so !!

1) Valen lost sight in their right eye (along with receiving their facial and neck scars) at a young age during their massacre of their adoptive family. Whether it was a conscious choice they made or yet another usurp of their control by Bhaal, they don't know or remember, and quite frankly, they don't want to remember. Despite not remembering, they are now certain that sight in their now solid black eye was restored as a gift from Bhaal. It isn't perfect, as things look dull and faded with that eye (it doesn't see color), but it serves its purpose regardless, so they don't complain.

2) Valen is constantly at war with themselves and their gradual development into becoming...a better person? A less-selfish person, at least. They have actual friends now, instead of people surrounding them that are a means to an end, and it feels nice. They want to see them smile. They want to see them happy. They want them to achieve whatever goals they may have—regardless of what that means for anyone else (except themselves, though, they aren't becoming that selfless; they're still at the top of their own list of priorities, second only to Astarion). And that is...weird, unsettling to them.

They come closer and closer to death's door with every risk and leap of faith they take for their friends and though their first instinct is to be annoyed with themselves for risking their neck for someone else, once they mellow out and the adrenaline wanes, they only feel...accomplished? Relieved? Happy? It's all new to them, but they wish nothing but the best for their friends, and seek to give their partner the world, something they vaguely remember only wanting for themselves and their former god.

3) Valen is an utterly devoted partner to a fault. They don't fall easily or quickly by any means, and in order for them to truly fall for a person, they have to align with them almost completely. Valen sees so much of themselves in Astarion—the selfishness, the wariness, aversion to doing what will hold no benefit to them—and it draws them to him like a moth to flame; it makes them feel comfortable around him, seen by him, understood by him, and it compels them to lower their guard sooner they would have for anyone else.

And once Valen truly falls, they want nothing short of the entire world for their partner, no matter what it takes to give it to them. If it will make him smile, laugh, make his eyes light up in that perfect way that they do, Valen will do it. Valen will give him everything. Even before Astarion was in the picture, before Orin's betrayal and their fall from grace and favor, Valen held the exact same devotion to Gortash. They were willing to throw everything away, if it meant keeping him safe and happy and free from the brutalization that Bhaal always forces them to inflict on those they love. They were willing to beg and plead and bargain with their notoriously unbending and unforgiving god to not be angry that their heart shared love and devotion with someone that was not him, pride be damned—and pride is something that Valen has in shameful abundance. In that moment, Valen did not matter, only their love.

Love will always, always, always be Valen's downfall.

[cartoonfuel]

Billiard Gloves

Tomura Shigaraki x Villain!Reader

** SLIGHT NSFW ** (still earns a Teen rating tho)

Anonymous Ask: can you write a shiggy x villain!reader where the reader gives him some sort of gift and then he takes things a little too far? sfw or nsfw doesn’t matter to me... thanks!

A/N: The formatting of this was a bitch so I copied your Ask and just pasted it here, Anon (I’M SORRY, I’M STILL LEARNING HOW TUMBLR WORKS)! Thanks for sending in a request! <3

Synopsis: Your gift seemed like a great way to score brownie points with Shigaraki. Unfortunately, you end up scoring more than anticipated.

Rating: TEEN

Warnings: Shigaraki being creepy af, one-sided attraction(?), this is not smut imo but it could be in someone else’s idfk, slight dark content

Word Count: 1.4K

~~~~~

“Surprise!” You beamed, handing a wrapped package to your boss, Tomura Shigaraki.

“For me?” Shigaraki retorted harshly, Kurogiri cleaning up the bar behind him.

Smile unwavering, you nodded. “For you! Open it!”

You had joined the League of Villains only a couple weeks ago. It was Himiko Toga who lured you in, gushing about her convictions and the reasoning behind being a part of the League. She then had the brilliant idea of inviting you to join, most likely because of the usefulness of your quirk. She was a close friend of yours, after all—so why not take a leap of faith and be part of a team?

This particular team wasn’t pretty, of course, with you, Toga and Twice quickly becoming an infamous trio of naughty villains. Dabi drove you mad almost daily as you had to put up with his constant teasing and eerie personality. Spinner and Mr. Compress were oftentimes barely noticeable and Kurogiri was the mom of the group. Tomura was most definitely the toughest character to impress. You wished he didn’t have to look so gloomy all the time. Logically, you concluded his cold demeanor had something to do with his destructive quirk. He sometimes drawled on and on about how annoying Decay was at times, and you couldn’t help but feel sorta bad for the guy. You’re sure it must’ve been a difficult power to grow up with.

And so, you bought him billiard gloves! These gloves only cover the thumb, index and middle finger of each hand. You were perplexed as to why he hadn’t thought of doing this before. Now, because of you, he’d be able to drink a glass of whiskey on the rocks in peace!

"What's the occasion?" Kurogiri inquired, putting one final glass away in a cupboard.

"If you must know, it's October 16...National Boss Appreciation Day! In America, that is. Y'know, cuz I'm originally from America."

Shigaraki just glared at you.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, just open the damn box, dude."

He groaned, snatching the gift from you with raised pinkies. The villain disintegrated the wrapping paper and box altogether, two black gloves gently falling to the floor.

"Gloves?" Kurogiri commented.

"Are you dense?" Shigaraki snarled at you, getting out of his seat. He knelt down to pick up the gloves, eyes widening the moment he noticed holes for the ring and pinky fingers. "Oh."

"Ah, billiard gloves. How thoughtful of you," Kurogiri said as he made his way around the counter.

"Kurogiri, one whiskey on the rocks, please!" you requested, causing him to stop in his tracks and sigh. "For my friend, here." You stole one of the gloves from Tomura and insisted he hold his hand out. Despite feeling mildly annoyed, he complied, allowing you to slip the glove onto his hand. Kurogiri poured Shigaraki’s drink, handing it to him with grace. In turn, Shigaraki picked up the beverage and raised an eyebrow.

As expected, nothing happened, Shigaraki’s glass remaining intact.

He sipped at the drink, coughing afterward. “What the hell is this, Kurogiri?”

“Whiskey on the rocks,” Kurogiri responded. “But we are all out of bourbon.”

“How’s it feel?” you butted in, grinning at the leader of the League.

“How does what feel?”

“Holding it with all five fingers, duh.”

“Kurogiri,” Shigaraki suddenly snapped. “Will you excuse us?”

“But your glass—”

“Get out, please.”

“Certainly. Just leave your glass on the counter when you’re done.” With that, Kurogiri warped away in a cloud of obsidian fog.

Uh-oh. This was new. You’re alone with Shigaraki and he didn’t even bother to offer you a drink to make things less awkward? Asshole.

“What game are you playing?” Tomura sneered, sliding his other hand into the second billiard glove.

You scoffed. “Come again?”

“Are you secretly trying to infiltrate the League or something? What kind of manipulation is this?”

“Whoa, calm down. If you hate the gift just say it to my face, don’t act all cryptic.”

He pat the barstool next to him, and with all five fingers too. Lucky bastard hadn’t even thanked you yet. “Sit.”

Geez, that was off-putting. “No thanks, actually. Permission to escort myself to bed instead? It’s late.”

“Denied. Now sit down.”

You furrowed your brow in frustration. “If you insist.” You pulled the seat out and sat, immediately crossing your arms. “Happy?”

“Give me your hand.”

You cleared your throat. “Why? Do you plan on regifting my gift? I don’t really care if you do, but generally people don’t tell—”

“Shut up and do as I say,” Shigaraki barked, causing you to jump.

“Fine.” Hesitantly, you held your hand out. “Now what?”

“Don’t move, please.”

You had never felt so uncomfortable in your life. “Uh…sure?”

He took your hand in his, delicately setting each finger on your skin one by one. First his thumb, then index, middle, ring and pinky.

“Um…Shigaraki?”

“Stop talking,” Tomura said, surprisingly less aggressive than usual. Despite telling you what to do, his tone came across softer. “I’d like to test out these gloves.”

Oh.

“I guess that’s okay. We could play catch or something.”

“Or something.”

Oh.

You shuddered, his hand continuing to consume your own. “Doesn’t it sound better to test them on something living? In which the stakes are much higher? Normally I would kill you if I did this.”

And then a lightbulb went off inside your head. “Don’t forget which one of us is technically Quirkless right now, Shigaraki.”

Shigaraki didn’t say anything as his hand began to move up your arm at an agonizingly slow rate.

“It’s you,” you added. “You’re the Quirkless one.”

His other hand shot forward to cover your mouth, quickly silencing you. “I thought I told you to be quiet.” His usual voice had returned, your eye twitching as a result. He backed off, slumping in his seat. He was right, because typically anyone in this situation would already be dead. However, those handy-dandy little billiard gloves did effectively nullify Shigaraki’s Decay, making these unfolding events seem a little less daunting.

“Carry on then,” you said with reluctance, grimacing at him all the while. Finally, you decided to zip your mouth shut, hoping that doing so would somehow end up being a power move. You knew you were capable of stopping this weirdness, but the last thing you wanted was to get off on the wrong foot with Tomura Shigaraki. Besides, it was definitely interesting to see him so curious.

“Perfect,” Shigaraki replied, his fingers entwined with yours. “After all, you wouldn’t want to ruin your gift to me, would you?” His opposite hand landed on the inside of your thigh, you attempting to resist the powerful urge to brutally kick his ugly face in.

“Of course not,” you murmured, your voice trailing off to prevent getting in trouble again.

Before you knew it, the hand on your leg had glided underneath your shirt and was latched onto your stomach. You wanted to vomit. This was not in the League of Villains job description. “You’re very warm,” Shigaraki observed, stating the obvious. “If only you could understand.” His hand inched up and up. “Can…?” Wasn’t he going to finish his goddamn sentence?

You glared vicious daggers at the man, knowing exactly what he wanted. “Whatever,” you hissed. “Have at it.”

He stood up and hunched over you, both gloved hands shooting underneath your top and cautiously fondling your chest. There was no hiding this blush of yours and you refused to make a peep. Looking up at him, you stared with mixed emotion, completely shocked by the current situation and whatever it was going on inside this guy’s head.

All of a sudden, one hand moved to wrap around the back of your neck, the other staying put. “Your heart’s racing.”

“Well I’m scared and half expecting you to try and kiss me,” you blurted without thinking, eyes wide.

Tomura’s eyes met yours, and then you noticed him glance down at your lips and back up again. “Kissing has nothing to do with testing my billiard gloves.” With that, Shigaraki backed away from you. “You’re dismissed,” he snickered as he exited into the hallway. “Next time you give me a present, maybe I’ll promote you to Lieutenant.”

Feeling both relieved and defeated, you swiveled in your chair and fell face-first onto the counter. “This was a mistake.”

~~~~~

A/N #2: IDK IF IMMA WRITE ANYTHING THIS SPICY AGAIN IN THE FUTURE BUT IF I DO CAN IT BE WITH SOMEONE LESS CRUSTY please and thank you

Have a lovely day, Lovelies!

[moondancer35]

you can have some angry adrien. as a treat

[attorneys-against-court-violence]

In hindsight, I think one of the reasons why DD feels like such a weird follow-up to AJ is that it borrows vibes more from the PW Trilogy than AJ.

You have the parallels to significant cases from the Wright trilogy - DL-6, SL-9, and Matt Engarde's case spring to mind. It's been said that Simon has parallels to Godot and Means is a carbon-copy of Manfred's personal philosophy. The general focus on Phoenix and how he affects the world around him also make DD feel more like a PW game than an AJ one.

I've always thought Athena and Simon's plight was a darker twist on Phoenix and Edgeworth's story in the grand scheme of things; a dear friend losing himself to the corrupted legal system and fighting tooth-and-nail to see them again, to save them from that darkness. How the trauma of losing one's parent causes one of them to lose hope and accept their guilt, the only salvation being a ridiculous leap of faith that somehow lands on its feet. Dual Destinies is, at its core (and I do consider their story to be the core of this game), irrevocably seeped in PW's ideas and narrative beats. Not AJ's.

I do love this in isolation, bringing the things we know from the series prior and twisting them into something different. Hell, it could even be a fitting return for Phoenix post-disbarment to rear up a new student going down a similar - if darker - road to his own... if AJ didn't already exist with ideas-galore to follow through on. A game that has a notably different vibe to Phoenix's own adventures, one that doesn't quite carry through to DD (which feels more in-line with the tone established in PW, just taken to extremes in places (for better and worse)).

I can see why people would prefer it to follow a hypothetical AJ trilogy instead of being smack-dab in the middle of the one we have. It could have been a return to form in that way, similar to how Phoenix returns to the fray in that game (one that can be earned over the course of a trilogy instead of in-between games). It's not that it doesn't have its ties to AJ - Apollo's attitude to Phoenix makes more sense with it, as well as his descent into paranoid doubt. Defense attorneys like Means being bolstered by Phoenix's fall from grace, that it would contribute to people's growing doubt over the (frankly abysmal) legal system, is literally in the text. It's the focus on Phoenix, his return to the defense bench along with vibes more in line with PW:AA, that makes people feel like it doesn't connect at all. If it was focused on Apollo and his new whacky assistant and Phoenix filled a more Mia-esque mentor role, the two may have stuck together in people's heads better. It already has a worthy follow-up story in exploring his growing distrust of the people around him (partly thanks to Phoenix himself if you can believe it); the body is there, but the heart feels like its in the wrong spot.

To say nothing of how people feel that Athena and Simon's story is plenty on its own given room to breathe.

[inkwelloftheheart]

Sweet Delight

"I was so scared of falling, afraid of what I'd find. All my heartache taken me. I didn't want to try. But day by day you kept up your fight, and I start to realize that I'm not as broken after all, so I just may give it a try."

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

Autumn leaves paint the air with grace

Boundless sea, seeking solace in its own space

A canvas painted in a haze

Love's mysteries still perplex me

I stand still

Heart locked away, afraid to fulfill

Fears of love lost, scars that wouldn't heal

Hesitant to open, for fear to reveal

I've tasted the sweetness of affection's warm embrace

Only to be left with scars of love's bitter trace

The fear of heartache lingers, a shadow in my soul

Casting doubts upon my spirit, making me feel whole

Can I trust again, let my heart take flight

Or will shadows of doubt forever blight?

But then, like a ray of sunshine piercing through the gloom

With your charm so bright, you appear

Dispelling the darkness of my room

Conversations flowed like a gentle stream

Our laughter, a harmonious, sunlit gleam

We dance through the seasons

Our hearts intertwined, like threads in a chain

Yet I hold back,

A shadow lingered, a fear deep within

The ghost of past wounds still holding me apart

You're my enigma, a puzzle so grand

With eyes like hazel pools, where dreams expand

Your smile, a sunrise, chasing away the night

But my heart, a fortress, shielded from the light

Fear's cold grip, it holds me feet

The echoes of heartache, they linger near

Promises broken, tears I couldn't bear

To love again, a leap of faith so bold

Can my heart mend, its secrets unfold?

But in your eyes, I see a reflection of my own desires

A love that ignites, passion that fires

With trembling hands, I reach out

I surrender my heart

And let go of the past

You're a vision with eyes like twinkling stars

Your smile, a melody, captivating me

Our paths entwined, a dance so sweet

You see my soul

And vow to cherish with utmost care

You show me that love could be safe and true

A beacon of hope, shining through and through

With each passing day, my walls did crumble

Barriers fell, my heart now humble

Love's embrace, a warmth so true

Now I see, all I ever knew

Gentle breeze on a stormy night

Patient words, a soothing sight

Melting ice, chasing away fright

Your touch ignites a fire within

Passion burns, our love begins

A bond so strong, our hearts entwined

My heart once guarded, now in your gaze

No longer shackled by fear's hold

Hues of joy, sweet delight

Through sunshine and rain

Forever in this space

Forever our home

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

[catenaaurea]

Everyone is familiar with the song The Twelve Days of Christmas, but very few know that it was originally a catechetical song for children. Most Catholics know that Christmas is 12 days and starts on December 25th, but almost nobody today makes the connection to the song.

The songs gifts are hidden meanings to the teachings of the faith. The "true love" mentioned in the song doesn't refer to an earthly suitor, it refers to God Himself. The "me" who receives the presents refers to every baptized person. The partridge in a pear tree is Jesus Christ, the Son of God. In the song, Christ is symbolically presented as a mother partridge which feigns injury to decoy predators from her helpless nestlings, much in memory of the expression of Christ's sadness over the fate of Jerusalem: "Jerusalem! Jerusalem! How often would I have sheltered thee under my wings, as a hen does her chicks, but thou wouldst not have it so..."

2 Turtle Doves = The Old and New Testaments

3 French Hens = Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues

4 Calling Birds = the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists

5 Golden Rings = The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch", which gives the history of man's fall from grace

6 Geese A-laying = the six days of creation

7 Swans A-swimming = the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven sacraments

8 Maids A-milking = the eight beatitudes

9 Ladies Dancing = the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit

10 Lords A-leaping = the ten commandments

11 Pipers Piping = the eleven faithful apostles

12 Drummers Drumming = the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

[365runesoftheamalgamations]

Make The Word [ 01 ]

hello and how are you?

I am here to answer the call to a new tag game that has developed! And I am very happy to be a part of it; this was such a fun little writing thought to wander over! :D

So thank you to the wonderful @vacantgodling for tagging us! You can find their post here!

RULES: Using the 3 random words given to you, you have to write a scene either using all 3 words in one scene OR write three separate scenes using each word separately. When you’re done, generate 3 random words and tag 3 willing participants. No day or time pressure, and have fun :3c

We will be tagging: @crypticcodexcreations | @andromedaexists | @papercutsunset No pressure continuing, your words will be: List | Braid | Snap

And like clockwork, he arrives.

The Reaper seats himself on the shrine’s front torii gate, easily letting himself bleed into the background so that the scolding of the High Priest could be ignored for now. He knew it would only take the elder’s eyes focusing on him for a beat, but he also knows his hiding spot is given immunity in this moment.

There’s movement at the gate, one that the Reaper has been witnessing for the past few months without fail.

A man sits at the edge of the gate, barely whispering anything to his existence save that he is a little too large to be given any sort of natural sway of misdirection. He is big where anyone would think is appropriate, the soft tote hanging across his shoulders and chest instantly dwarfed and dainty against the backdrop that is the man.

But instead of the soft greetings that always are accompanied with visits to the Temple, the entire crowd of priests and priestesses seem to lose themselves to the hum of daily activities. The Reapers sees as everyone shifts away from the main pathway leading to the shrines, some simply leaving the campus for the rooms and houses within the Temple.

No one gives the man anything but silence and peace, not even the High Priest gracing the man with a single glance.

The man seems to wait for the Temple to set the stage for him, not moving from the top of the steps until the entire place settles just for him. The Reaper keeps track of the man, watching from his vantage point as the man seems to steel himself into moving forward.

He takes careful steps, never once straying from the main path on his way to the main shrine, sitting in silence as it awaits his presence underneath its canopy. The man is silent in a way that makes him deadly; he doesn’t look anywhere but straight ahead but the Reaper knows the man is aware of everything that is happening within the temple grounds, even the gentle leaves that take flight from the slumbering trees readying themselves for Winter.

The Reaper stares him down, waits until he hits the shrine’s offering box before he leaps, one second lounging on the gate and the next stepping into the darkness of the shrine to lay witness to the same ritual that has never left its routine since the man has begun coming.

The man’s eyes are already closed when the Reaper focuses on him, his head bowing low in the respect of generations, and the Reaper watches as the man begins his ceremony. His tote is opened, things being opened and poured and situated until a soft meal is set before the offering box, steaming soup and tea lifting foggy breaths into the air from the clay of the bowl and cup. The man takes only a moment to bask in the smell before he is retreating from his spot to stand away. He bows again, his back straight and his head low as he whispers his prayers to the Gods of his faith.

And the Reaper finds nothing of the rebel that the country has deemed worthy of death. Nothing holds anything but the respect of a devote man, giving his own unto his faith so that he may hold himself up for another day, another month.

The rebel keeps himself bowed throughout his entire prayer, nothing moving but the falling leaves and gentle breeze that pushes the fragrance of his adoration into the shrine’s doors and around the complex. It is only after he is finished that he stands, his eyes keeping themselves to the ground as the man grunts softly and leaves.

The Reaper watches the man go, the same way and in the same manner that he came, before he turns himself to the offering. The soup is filled with vegetables and broth and flavor, even in its simplicity. He ducks down, takes in the tea and hums in soft appreciation for it.

He glances up to find the High Priest watching him with knowing eyes. The Temple slowly bleeds itself back into working order with the absence of the rebel and the Reaper gives the priest a small smile before he digs into his meal. A tiny thought of bread comes into his mind before he dismisses it for letting the heat of the soup bring goosebumps to his skin in large gulps of desire and love of the craft.

The High Priest leaves him to his meal, not one of the others ever commenting on the mysterious enter or exit of the miracle. It is never noted, never whispered, no one willing to destroy the trust of the phantom who feeds their shrine and guardian.

The bowl is carved with words of gratitude, given only to the Reaper, and a gentle promise for a return. The Reaper keeps every single one of them, hidden and never able to be found. Everything is eliminated, destroyed so that no one could claim that the rebel was anything but a ghost, one of so many to wander throughout the temple that no one could possibly have noticed.

And in return, the man never questions his asylum, never wanders how he is free to roam without the Country’s ability to track him down.

The Reaper shivers from the warmth of the soup, happily returning to his spot on the torii gate and awaiting for the High Priest to find his voice again to scold him down from the gentle stone that has always been nothing but a haven to all.

[tewwor-moving]

* & HEADCANON — JIE & TENDERNESS .

i thought of tenderness with jie as the receiver and.. my heart aches so much for him… and i’m not just speaking on romantic tenderness either. i’m thinking of all forms of it, because he wasn’t really given much over the years. 

when he was still young, very young, he can sort of remember fuzzy bits of how nice family life was before his aunt’s death. before that cracked open the descent into a rapturous chaos that still hasn’t ceased to this day.

the hands of his mother, that had once embraced him so lovingly, was the same that tried to carve the life out of his body. graced by instinct, the attempt fell short onto his cheek, but the scar serves as a reminder of how he flinches from touch — no matter how docile the hands may be.

when his friend vanished into thin air, he learned the cruelty of half-assed facades. how the care of even the ‘closest’ to you are merely straw laden pits, spiked at the bottom and ready to pierce the foolish that fall in.

the thought of anyone touching him gently puts him at great unease. honestly, he doesn’t even remember how a simple touch can be free of any pain. then again, he doesn’t give himself, or anyone else, the chance. not even the very few friends he has now can chip away all the damage he’s held onto like a wounded canary to a barbed cage. some still try, of course, but progress is incredibly slow-going.

i think when jie finally lets someone in with trust and takes that leap of faith.. he’ll enjoy it. hand holding, arms loosely pressed against another’s, casual lounging, stray kisses, a tender hand laid upon his cheek….. he’ll cry most likely for the last one, but it’d be healing in more ways he could ever imagine