#oh but don’t even suggest them to read a wip

[pretentiouswreckingball]

I hate you stranger on the internet that claims the marauders fandom could use another big fic but then refuses to actually read a wip

[fanaticsnail]

Oh snail, i know you already have a long list of WIPs (i can't wait to read them) and your Inbox is probably already full with requests, so i understand if its not in the cards right now.

I was just wondering what the kid-pirates would do, or how they would react if ther precious doc-reader is the one that was injured badly or was very sick. Especialy how Killer would react after that romantic tention between them (i need more of that 😩). I don't have a particular song in mind, because the seires already has a vibe to it, hope thats okay.

I wish you a wonderful day/night/evening! 💕Sooo looking forward to your next work, whatever it may be 🐢

I love you for this prompt, @daydreamer-in-training. Thank you!

Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 2,000+

Synopsis: You've taken care of your crew and nursed them back to health from their flus... but now it's your turn. The Kid-Pirates do their best to take care of the worlds worst patient, their doctor: you.

Themes: platonic!kid-pirates, eustass kid x gn!reader, swearing, illness, comforting, taking medication, kid is a bit of a dom, doc is a bit of a bra, you're the kid-pirate doctor: the crew calls you 'doc'.

Notes: I am currently struggling with the flu myself, and this was simply too cute to not write about. Thank you for your ask, it's been fun to write about!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

“Hey, Doc? Did we need any more petroleum jelly from the-...?” the fire breather called beside you, hating when you turned to face him, “...-Shit, Doc. You look like absolute balls today.” 

Rolling your swollen, glassy and red eyes at him, you draw another tissue from your counter and sneeze into it. The silky tissue felt like sandpaper over your leaky nose, the skin splitting surrounding your nostrils and leaving small stains of red on the pale paper.

“Always so full of compliments and kindness, Heat,” you huff out, your voice sounding hoarse and cracking along with every word. Heat cringed, recoiling away from you with eyes narrowed in sympathy. You attempt to breathe through your blocked nose, no air passing through the dual nostrils.

Treating the crew for the past two weeks, and nursing them to health in recovering from the flu, had finally caught up with you. You felt both cold and hot at the same time, your skin both dry and sticky with sweat. Mind swelling and cracking behind the tense throbbing throughout your brain caused a dull ache ringing in your ears and fogging your mind.

“I-... I’m just saying, Doc,” he reiterated in defense of himself, “You don’t look too good. Maybe you ought to sit out from the in-land trip to restock. Stay home on the Victoria Punk?” Heat suggested with a soft smile and a subtle shrug.

“What?” you grunted out a cough, “And leave you lot to restock my clinic for me? Not fucking like-...” coughing into another tissue, your glassy eyes pricked at the corners and began to spill out and down your cheeks, “...-likely.” 

Heat’s smile fled from his face, his lip downturning in sympathy. He shook his head and extended his hand out to you, gesturing you to follow him out through the door towards the deck. You attempt to sniff back another intake of air to reopen your nose to no avail. Following on, you trudge somberly towards the top deck where the crew were all waiting to step foot onto the pier. 

Without drawing attention to yourself, your eyes squinted lazily to compensate for the pain the sun caused your mind. With each achy step, you attempted to bite back the ache your body was going through. Barely aware of your surroundings, you gesture in the medicinal remedy booths at town square for herbs, ointments and aromatic fragrances. 

As you reached into your pocket to pull out your small folder of Berry, a large right forearm reached over your shoulder and paid the vendor before you could. Rolling your eyes, you turn to look at the scowling grimace of your captain, Eustass Kid, baring his rage down at you. Attempting to roll your eyes at him again, you clenched them tightly shut instead as the world became far too bright to process.

“Captain,” you acknowledge him with a clumsy nod, fighting the urge to not to fall over with the vertigo overcoming you. He growled at you immediately, gesturing to Wire beside him to gather the supplies and walk back to the ship. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ idiot, aren’t ya, Doc?” he spat, scolding you with his heavy growl. You laughed at him, shaking your swirling head and beginning to walk beside him. Your overexertion and sleep deprivation caught up with you as you tripped over an uneven divot in the rocky path.

“I'm not into degradation, Cap,” you respond in a half-joking hum, your eyes feeling heavy and weighted, “Not my kink. Might be yours, though, considering the amount of times I yell at you to hold you accountable.” That comment earnt you another low growl from your captain, his face turning a few shades darker than his hair. 

He turned to face you at his side, his lips curling as if to speak. As he opened his lips, he was lost for words as you fell into him, bracing yourself against him to steady your walk. He caught you in his right arm, bringing his face down towards you and brows knitting with concern. Turning towards Wire, he cocked his chin to the side to usher him on towards the ship. 

With no further warning, Kid dipped at the knees and hoisted you up into his chest beneath your thighs. He curled his bicep and hooked your head beneath his chin and cradled you firmly into him. Under usual circumstances, you would’ve fought this tooth and nail.

You do not enjoy being manhandled by the crew, especially by your captain. While you enjoy the embrace once in a while with your more sensitive crewmates, particularly Bubblegum, the Captain has only ever been this close to you when he’s sparring with you.

“C’mon Doc, I'll get you seen to,” he grunted down at your position curled into his chest, “I’ve-... And the-...” his words trailed off, the fever raising your temperature higher and prompting you to seek out sleep against his pectoral. 

Voices and words fade in and out of your ears, a slow drawl and murmurs of several of your crewmates swelling around your assumed resting spot for the day. The room wasn’t physically moving, even though your vertigo suggested it was. 

“When was the last time Doc’s had a day off?” you recognised the feminine voice of Quincy in the room beside you. Several grunts and incessant babbling reverberated around the room, prompting you to flutter your eyelashes open and push through the pain. 

“Doc!” you cringed as a body almost flew into your bed, sitting on the plush sheets beside you, “You’re awake! I’m so happy to see you’re up!” You wince, slowly waving Bubblegum away, swatting at his zig-zagged head.

“Off, off,” you shooed him, wincing as you shrugged your duvet off your thighs and swung your legs over the side of the bed. As you began to wobble to your feet, the booming voice of your captain called over the chatter of the room,

“Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?” he growled, striding over in intentional steps and giving you a shove from his right hand in the middle of your chest, “The medics here said you need a week in bed to rest. Sit down.” You growled at him, doing your best to gather the strength to growl at him. 

“If I’ve been prescribed ‘rest’,” you began, gesturing to the crewmates surrounding your current room, “Why the fuck are you all here?” Several sheepish mutters surround the room, a few members pinching the scruffs of their necks, a few more wringing their hands in front of their waists. 

Your captain clapped his hand on your shoulder, pushing you to lay back down and wrangling you into your bedsheets. Refusing to go down without a fight this time, you wriggled in his grip and fought both the fever and the strong arm of your captain. 

“For fucks sake, Doc!” Kid yelled at you, pushing and shoving you down into the very comfortable and unfamiliar bed in front of the crew. “Just lay down and rest, damn it! Go back to sleep.” You wriggled harder. 

“No!” you yelled defiantly, kicking off the duvet and fighting each and every time your captain attempted to shove you into your bed. Kid looked around to the crew, angled his chin sharply to wordlessly order them to leave the room. As they left, Kid turned back towards you and crawled up onto the bed. 

“You are more of a pain in the ass than that fucking bullet to the buttcheek,” he growled, climbing over you and baring down his weight onto your smaller frame. Straddling your thighs, he placed his knees on your open palms and successfully pinned you beneath him. He pressed his forearm over your chest and gave you a firm shove to force you to lay down. You had no choice but to thump your head back into the plush pillow behind your head. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clench your jaw and growl behind your lips. The rumble in your throat hurt the raw swell in your jugular, but you pushed past it to air your frustrations at him regardless. The chuckle from your captain above you only served to propel your anger to rise higher. 

“Yeah, yeah. Growl and groan all you want,” he scoffed at you, pinning your chest with his bicep while reaching his hand between you and gathering the blankets in his fist. Slowly raising it up, he continued his place straddling your thighs until he thought you would no longer fight him. 

“Why are you doing this, Captain?” you snarl at him, finally opening your eyes to gaze up into his eyes. He smirked at you in response, pressing his palm to your forehead and clicking his tongue at the temperature. 

“Because,” he leaned over to the bedside, taking two small spherical tablets into his hand, “We love you, Doc.” He leaned back over you, gesturing with his chin for you to part your lips. You take a moment to snarl at him before complying, parting your lips and allowing him to place the bitter tablets on your tongue. 

He leaned back over to the bedside, finding a glass of water and bringing it down to your lips. Tilting the glass slowly as it brushed with your bottom lip, he carefully fed you a sip of water to take the pills with. Placing the glass back over on the table, he drew his attention to the small amount of water seeping from the corner of your lip.

“Now, be a good Doctor and get loved on, idiot,” he softly huffed, his voice low and husky as he leaned forward. He used the pad of his thumb to gently collect the spill of water from the corner of your lips. Your eyes never ceased its glare up at him. He grinned tauntingly down at you, arching his brow and ensuring you swallowed the tablets. 

“Get off, Captain,” you growled at him, bucking your hips up in an attempt to remove him from your body. He cackled his rumbled laugh down at you in response, shaking his head. 

“You gonna get up again if I do?” he asked, leaning down and caressing your cheek in a gentle stroke. His eyes held nothing but mischievous mockery, but his hand felt like it was gently coaxing you to comply with what he asked. 

“No, I’ll behave,” you snarled at him. His laugh was genuine this time, low and gentle. Slowly backing off you, he slid off your body before adjusting the sheets and smoothing them over. 

“Good,” he nodded, beginning to leave the room by the door off to the side of the room. Halting at the door, he fought with himself for a moment before looking at you over his shoulder and uttering, “I’ll-… I’ll get Kil to check on you in a few hours. Get some rest, okay?”

What he said next was something you weren’t expecting to come from his lips. In all the time you served with him, he only ever called you ‘Doc’, or ‘Doctor.’ You were your title, and you appreciated that about the crew. You were Doc, only ever Doc. But what he said changed all that.

After he uttered the word “okay,” it was immediately followed by your name. Waiting a few moments, you responded in a cadence just above a whisper. 

“I’ll be right where you left me, Kid,” you replied with a soft smile back at him. He closed his eyes, offering you a reflection of your smile in return before it grew back into its usual mischievous face. 

“Good,” he again offered you, scrunching his nose up at you and looking up through his red eyelashes at you, “Otherwise I would’ve gotten your doting daddy to come coddle his whiny baby.” Your eyes went wide, your jaw clenching and your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. 

Eustass Kid just laughed in response, exiting the room and giving you both the time and space you needed to recover. Your recovery was not only the flu, but of the second hand embarrassment that Killer must’ve relayed to Kid what he’d said to you in the consultation room. Either that, or you left the shell of your Den-Den accidentally activated from when you spoke with your captain earlier in the day.

Either way, you pouted as you did as you were told and huffed back into your bed and went to sleep: the paracetamol activating and stilling your swelling head and masking the undertones of pain in your body.

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Chiori and Yae with a reader that tries to slack off all the time

characters: Chiori / Yae Miko x gn!reader (separate)

a/n: Chiori is such an asshole and I absolutely adore her. She’s like if they gave Stannis Baratheon hair and a second sword.

(I wrote this like... 2 months ago and finally finished it. A total henry move to write 90% of smth and then let it rot in my WIP folder for months, if you ask me.)

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Chiori

While the two of you matched when it came to radiating calm energy, the way they came out in quite contrasting ways. Where the Seamstress worked hard at following her passions, you were easygoing, where she was direct and brutally honest, you were charming and always said what the other party wanted to hear. Where she was Chiori, you were you.

So when you once again found yourself in her Boutique, chatting away with customers and somehow managing to make them spend more than they had planned, only to up and vanish from one moment to the next, Chiori couldn’t help but feel like she had an inkling of an idea to as were she would find you.

“What are you doing here?”, Chiori’s voice suddenly rang out, waking you from your slumber as you slowly looked up at her, your eyes still half closed and yet still managing to make out the vexed look on her face.

“I was taking a small break. Do you need me for something, Chiori?” you asked in a completely innocent tone, an unwavering smile plastered on your face as she stared you down before signaling to the once locked door.

“And where did you get the keys for the room?”

“They were in the door, so I let myself in. Oh- Was I not supposed to go here?” You realized with widened eyes, glancing between her and the door before shooting her an apologetic smile.

“Yeah no, don’t do that again. The next time you want to take a nap, do it at home”, came her response almost immediately.

Putting the whole “sneaking off and going into a locked room to take a nap away from people” situation aside, what annoyed Chiori even more was how impossible to read you were. If she was sure you were lying to her, she’d have thrown you out long ago. Were you really clueless enough to let yourself into a room or were you simply playing dumb? 

“Ugh. If you want to stand around and do nothing, come with me. I’m in need of a model right now.”

Yae Miko

While you were certainly far from being as lethargic as a certain ninja-girl loitering around the shrine every so often, you had your moments of supreme languidness. And while there were times she felt the urge to help you out by giving you a bit of motivation to get your day started, more often than not, Yae found herself amused by the lengths you took to go unnoticed by your superiors.

“Oh my, you look exhausted. You must have been working hard to get all of this paperwork finished. I do hope I’m not being a nuisance right now”, Yae observed as she entered the room, her voice both soft in nature while masking her mischievous intentions, letting herself into your office only to see you half-slumped over your desk with finished paperwork surrounding you.

That being said, Yae had no doubt it didn’t take you as long as your dramatic rendition of an exhausted warrior would suggest, considering the clever ways you found to make your work easier. So often had you inadvertently impressed her with your way of working that she wouldn’t put it past you to reinvent the wheel if it could shave off a few seconds from your work.

“No, I just now finished my work”, you were quick to soothe her worries, and yet by the way you rubbed your eyes awake, the Kitsune couldn’t help but doubt your words.

As expected, you had learned from your mistakes. The last time you were caught finishing early, you got a few sentences of praise and an extra load of work, the way your self-satisfied smile turned into one barely holding on as you tried to mask whatever emotions washed over you on the inside, being exactly the kind of subtle reactions she loved to watch people go through.

“You should know that you are truly a commendable employee. So, to reward you for your hard work, I should give you a promotion”, Yae spoke before shooting you a small smile as if to praise you, and yet by the time her words registered in your brain, your mouth was left hanging wide open.

“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary. I can think of a dozen people more suited than me-”

“You’re selling yourself short. I’m confident you’re more than qualified for the position”, Yae quickly cut you off, her expression unchanging as she slowly turned around. “Or… Is it that you do not want more work?” She added as her smile grew wider, barely hiding her enjoyment anymore.

“No… thank you”, you responded with a meek sigh, realizing the futility of fighting it.

Once you’d take a closer look at your new privileges and responsibilities, you’d surely realize that she made sure most of your new workload wouldn’t take nearly as long as your current one if handled in an intelligent manner, and yet, when she saw your current reaction, a part of her found herself hoping you wouldn’t realize anytime soon.

By the time Yae reached the door however, she found herself halting in her tracks, quietly humming to herself as she seemed to think about something before finally turning to face you once again.

“I do suppose you did work well today. Take the rest of the day off.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Shameless

Sequel to Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.

You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day. 

Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.

The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.

There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.

Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.

You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.

“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.

“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.

“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.

“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”

You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.

“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.

“I think.”

“Garnet?” Albina suggests.

“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”

You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”

You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.

“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”

“Cora, please.”

“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”

You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.

“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.

“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”

“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”

“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”

The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.

“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”

You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.

“She shoved me! She–”

“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”

Ruin… 

The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.

💙

The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.

…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…

You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.

You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.

Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.

“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”

“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.

“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”

You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.

“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”

“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”

“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.

“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”

“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”

You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.

“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”

You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.

As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.

"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.

She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.

The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander. 

You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.

You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.

The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.

An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.

You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.

"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"

"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you. 

The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.

"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."

"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile. 

He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.

"Might I–"

"I spy–"

You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."

"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."

"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."

"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."

"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."

"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"

"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."

"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."

"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"

You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.

You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."

"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.

"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."

You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.

💙

The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.

"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."

"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.

You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.

His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.

He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.

You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.

💙

The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.

You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.

You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.

The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails.  Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.

You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.

"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.

"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."

"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."

"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.

"She would like you, very much, I think."

"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."

"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."

"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.

"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.

You face him, a frown.

"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"

"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"

"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"

"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."

"Fooled, my lady--"

"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."

"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.

As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."

His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.

💙

You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.

You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.

You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.

There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.

"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."

He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.

"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."

He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile. 

Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.

There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.

You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."

You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.

"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."

You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.

"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."

The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.

Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.

"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."

💙

"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.

"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.

You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.

"I am the valkyrie," she japes.

"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.

"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."

"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.

"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."

"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.

"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"

"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."

"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."

"Fawning? Don't be silly."

You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.

"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."

"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."

"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."

"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"

Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."

You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.

"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."

You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.

💙

You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.

You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.

You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.

"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.

"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.

"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"

"Perhaps," you answer.

"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"

"If he wishes."

"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."

"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."

"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."

"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.

"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"

"It was only a game."

"I do not think he plays."

"Why..."

"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"

"He is polite."

"Oh, you are stubborn."

You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.

💙

The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.

As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.

You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.

“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.

“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”

“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”

“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly. 

You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.

“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”

Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”

You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.

“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”

“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”

You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.

“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.

You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.

“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”

“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”

Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”

“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”

“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”

“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”

“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.

“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”

As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.

💙

You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.

As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.

"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"

You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.

"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."

You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.

"A visitor, father?"

"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.

You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"

You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.

"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."

"He does not--"

"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."

She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.

"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."

You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak. 

You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.

Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.

"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.

Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.

"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"

The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.

Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.

"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"

"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"

"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.

You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.

"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"

You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.

[patrophthia]

just curious | theodore nott

pairing: theodore nott x reader

genre: angst, mutual pining (but they don’t get together boo 👎👎👎 me), theodore wears glasses (yes that’s it’s own genre), reader is called princess by everyone bc i didn’t want to use yn in this

wc: 2.2k

note: i wrote this in two hours while listening to super shy - new jeans (intended for it to be a cute fic) and ended up with this angsty little piece, it’s a wip i ended up abandoning but am putting it up for anyone who might like that sexy pining genre of not ending up tgt, also was gonna stay on my docs but got too emotionally attached to not post it (you better talk to me about this theo or i will cry)

Theodore is a friend of Draco. That's how you know him. Theodore Nott: the tall, cute, and quiet friend of Draco's who's eyes —when he smiles, like really smile, curves upwards in an adorable manner. Theodore who, whenever you were to hang out with Draco's friend group, keeps a closed off expression that is so hard to gauge and read that you gave up the second time you met the lad.

The door clicks open and you prepare yourself for what's to come next, taking in a deep breath as you try your hardest to play it cool. Theodore steps into Draco's living room, shopping bags in his hand as Pansy follows him from a few steps behind.

You try not to think too much of it, friends hold shopping bags for their friends all the time, it's only natural. Pansy smiles when she meets your eyes, her voice soft as she nags you on why she hasn't seen you in so long. "Draco ought to bring you around more, I know you're his friend before ours but there's no reason for him to keep you to himself like he does."

Draco scoffs at that, "it's not like I don't invite her, she just doesn't want to come to stuff."

That's not exactly true though. You do want to come to stuff —if anything you loved going to them, Draco's friends have always been very welcoming and accommodated to your every need; it's just that every time you were to spend time with them, it seems like you can't take your eyes off of one particular person (hint: it's not Draco himself).

And quite honestly, you doubted whether he even knows your name. "In my defence, work has been hectic," you deflect with a small laugh, your eyes betrays you and drift to where the real reason stood. Theodore meets your eyes straight on, and offers you a nod as if he's only noticing you now and was saying his greetings. Yeah, he definitely does not know your name. "But I'm here now so let's enjoy it."

Pansy pouts but let's up when Astoria calls for your group of friends from the kitchen, Blaise right behind her with an apron wrapped around his stature. "Well?" He cocks his head. "What are we waiting for?"

Dinner went by smoothly, mostly Blaise stuffing you with his cooking and Pansy catching up with; asking every question she could possibly think of. You didn't mind if for the most part, actually quite enjoying the attention as the group went on and on. "You're shy, aren't you?"

The question is weird, and not exactly directed at you so you turn back to your plate as you take a bite of Blaise's lasagna (Draco helped cook the noodles for this, he wants you to keep this in mind). You feel something kick mid-chew, looking up to the person sitting opposing you; only to see Theodore with his full focus on Pansy.

You turn to her as well and she laughs as she repeats her words. "You're shy, aren't you?"

"Not really?" You don't think you are, not really. You're just trying your hardest not to make it obvious that you're interested in someone at this very table who does not seem to be interested in you one bit. "At least I don't think I am."

Astoria laughs kindly, finding you cute as she says: "you've just been quiet today, you're never like this with Draco and I."

Yeah well Draco and Astoria weren't plaguing your every thought every time you were within one metres of them. "Oh." you murmur. "I guess I'm a bit tired today."

"Work?" Blaise suggests and you shake your head. "What is it then?"

"Just Boy problems," you say off-handedly, quickly regretting it when their faces turn to one of interest. "But it's nothing big, I promise."

"Are you seriously going to tell us that and not elaborate?" Draco looks offended, hell, he feels offended that you weren't elaborating. "What did that dickhead do?"

Your heart warms at the fact that your friend cares about you enough to immediately hate on whoever might be causing you boy problems but are quick to dismiss the situation. "Nothing, drop it."

From the look on their faces, it looks as if they weren't going to drop it anytime soon. Pansy opens her mouth, ready to say something when Theodore clears his throat, letting you hear his voice for the first time tonight. "Why don't you tell them about who you saw at the shops today, Pans."

Her eyes light up suddenly, going off on how she ran into her scumbag of an ex boyfriend as she was shopping for a new dress. Your eyes found Theodore's, sending him a small smile as you mentally note down on how you'd have to thank him for it later.

And when he offers you a small smile in return, his dark eyes softening —yet not enough for you to see those half moons you hold oh so dear to your heart, you try to remind yourself that he is nothing but a man doing the bare minimum.

"Stay the night," Astoria says softly, "it's late, Princess. I can't have you heading back on your own at this hour."

As much as it sounded pleasant, you can't help but feel like you might be intruding their night (even though you've spent countless night crashing at their place after a bad break up before, you guess that it's just different now that you weren't staying to cure a broken heart with a comforting shoulder —Astoria— and someone bad mouthing your ex —Draco—). "I can't," you tell them. "And trust me, I'll be fine."

Draco isn't chuffed by your answer, looking apprehensive as he thought everything over. Blaise and Pansy left for their shared apartment mere minutes ago so it wasn't like he could ensure your safety with them. But someone else was still here though, "Nott, can you take her home?"

Theodore startles from his spot by the coat rack, pausing with one arm in his coat as he looks at Draco like a deer caught in headlights. Cute. He then glances at you before hesitantly nodding.

This is bad. Oh god. Okay.

"Great," Astoria says with a smile. "Take care of our Princess, please." She then turns to look at you. "Call me when you get home safely, okay?"

At your nod, she hugs you goodbye and sends you out the door. Theodore walking slowly by your side. He's silent when he opens his car door for you and you try your best not to swoon. "Thank you."

He hums in acknowledgment as he walks over to the driver's side, Theodore does a double check to make sure you had your seatbelt on before he started the car. The ride is quiet, save from the song playing from the radio; a familiar tune you can't place a finger on.

He asks for your directions and you tell him, sneaking glances as you did so. His hair is longer than it was the last time you saw him —but to be fair, it has been months since you did; a few dark strands cover his eyes and you resist the urge to reach out and push them away. Maybe even taking out a hair clip from your purse to pin it back just so he wouldn't have to deal with it again.

It's calm and overwhelming at the same time, sitting so still and tranquil next to Theodore like this. You want to say something, you want him to say something; anything if meant you get to hear his voice again. If it meant you get a chance to memorise it and compartmentalise it in a folder that is ardently his.

"Oh thank you by the way." He looks at you for a split second before turning his focus back to the road. "For switching the topic back there."

Theodore only nods and you try not to cry. Why won't he speak? It's almost like he doesn't even want you to be interested in him.

"I really do appreciate it."

He hums this time around, a low note vibrating from his chest. It's either a nod or a hum, that's all you're ever going to get from Theodore, huh?

You bite the inside of your cheeks, looking straight at the road as you did so. Should you even attempt to make small talk? All your attempts have been futile so far so why even try. You didn't mean to huff, or at least not as loud as you did, your arms instinctively as you looked out the window absentmindedly.

This catches Theodore's attention though, prompting to finally say something. "Thinking about those boy problems again?"

You don't answer him, you don't let yourself feel the satisfaction of finally hearing him speak for the second time tonight. You don't say anything related to that topic whatsoever. "Do you have a girlfriend, Theodore?"

You can hear the hitch in his breath, see the surprise in his rapid blinks, feel the shift in the air. The car pulls to a stop at a red light, the tail lights of a car a few metres in front of you shines your faces the same shade.

He looks at you and you hope —no pray, that he doesn't notice the sparkle in your eyes as you look at him. Or maybe you do, you can't tell anymore. The only thing you can tell is that you are so incredibly into Theodore Nott, and him driving you home is not helping your case at all.

"No," he says earnestly. You don't let your eyes flicker to his lips, you don't let your eyes flicker to anything else but his eyes, trying to gauge him for something; anything, only to end up finding nothing.  "Why are you asking?"

A car honks from behind, breaking the two of you away from your trance. "Just curious."

You thank Theodore as he pulls to a stop outside your house, he —just like you would expect from Theodore Nott, only nods at your thanks. And when you bid him goodbye with one leg out of his car.

He tells you, "Goodnight, Princess."

Princess, that's what your friends called you. That's what Draco Malfoy called you at the ripe age of ten years old where the two of you would play royalty and would later be his favourite nickname for you, then further on your other friend's choice of name for you. That's what Theodore Nott calls you because he does not know your name.

"Goodnight, Theodore." You shut his car door behind you, and take a few steps to your front door before turning over your shoulder. Looking back at him at once, finding him reaching for his glasses within his glove compartment; ones with round wired frames that settle flatteringly on his high nose bridge. He shuts his glove compartment box and you turn back to your front door. And unbeknownst to you, with your back to him, Theodore turns to look at you once, and then, twice when you finally enter your house, before finally driving off and into the night.

Curiosity kills the cat, that’s what Theodore thinks as he unlocks his front door. Curiosity kills the cat, is what he reminds himself time and time again as he sheds off his jacket. Curiosity kills the cat, that’s what he knows from the start. But how could curiosity really kill the cat if it was already dying? 

If it had already yearned for something for long; a clenching thirst yet to be fulfilled, if it was already wailing to just be held, would curiosity really kill it then? 

It's weird. It's weird how —now that he thinks of it, he can't seem to recall you ever going on a date. Not a single one. While him on the other hand; yeah, he can't exactly count the amount of dates he’s gone on in the past month on one hand. 

It's not entirely his fault though, he’s trying to put himself out there; trying to find the one despite knowing that said one is constantly running around the back of his mind and was sitting in his passenger seat mere minutes ago. But he chooses to ignore it because one, it's wrong and there was no way you could ever reciprocate his feelings. And two, even if you were to reciprocate his feelings, he will never cross the line between platonic and romantic. 

He’d take the endless yearning over any potential heartbreak any day because the second he crosses the line, there's no turning back. And no amount of romantic feelings you might have for one another will make up for the years of friendship between him, you, and most importantly, Draco. The blond was your best friend before anything else, and he doubts you’d ever risk ruining your friendship for someone like him.

So, for now, he’d settled for the guilt he feels every time he sees you; he’ll hold back on his urges even though it’s clearer to him now, in this very night, than ever that you are as infatuated with him as he is with you. 

He’ll take off his glasses, he’ll place them by his bedside table, he’ll lay in his bed, cold and alone, he’ll try to fall asleep and not think of you, he’ll try and try to make it through tomorrow, make it through the date that Blaise had set up (yet again) for him that will inevitably be the worse hours of his life and think about what it be like had his date been you instead. 

— from bee: yeah i wrote this theodore with jeon wonwoo in mind so what about it?? theodore is so wonwoo coded idc idc

[calissto]

On Writing Every Day

Possibly the most ubiquitous piece of writing advice: write everyday. Write every day or you’re not a writer, your work has no value, you’ll never get good, you’ll never go pro. Maybe I am at a bit of a disadvantage because I’ve never published a book, but I feel like I have some place to question this motion. 

Don’t write every day. Write often.

Because I agree; writing is like a muscle; you must train it. You have to exercise your vocabulary, your voice, your prose — all as often as you can. It’s essential. But you can do all of these things without gluing yourself to the chair each and every day. Some of us just can’t do that — some of us have obligations; a job, school, sickness, or emergencies. Things come up. And some of us just don’t want to. And that’s okay, too. 

I say write often because it’s a promise you can keep. No matter how pressed for time, you can construct a schedule around often. You can stick to that. Practice becomes joyous instead of overwhelming. You will improve without being weighed down by guilt clouding your judgment, adding on to the already compounding series of worries and doubts you have about your identity as a writer anyway. 

Often can look like this: every other day, a few days a week, a few days a month. Often is up to you. It’s a malleable guideline, and that’s why I like it. It’s about constant practice — routinely coming to dance with your writerly spirit without letting it die nor allowing it to overshadow everything else you are. You can be a writer and other things, too. It’s essential you are other things, too, otherwise you pigeonhole yourself and dull any unique perspective you may bring to the vast, ever-broadening literary table. Have something to share with your peers. Something to bestow. Besides, some of us have dreams besides writing we would like to pursue, and we have every right to pursue them. 

I think writing (well) is so demanding we sometimes forget writing is an incredibly forgiving art. It doesn’t usually feel like it. Writing is difficult (because it is everything) and mystifying and capricious. It feels like the most unforgiving art (because it is: it can be forgiving and unforgiving all at the same time, because it is everything). The muse coquettishly woos us one day then sets us on fire the next. You can have amazing ideas and, propelled by the whirlwind it conjures in your mind, sit down to write and hate everything you put down. The inner critic can be restricting, mean, impossible to satisfy. Plots can get dizzyingly convoluted and messy (and sometimes they don’t come at all! Yay!), wips take years and decades to perfect. You can spend hours, days, weeks, months, years in confusion as to what the fuck you’re even meant to be doing in order to make your story work. Just thinking about all this makes me tired. Writing can be grueling.

But it is also forgiving. 

We can take our time. We can fix our stories again and again and again. We can wait until we're ready for the world to see it.

A contradictory mistress, writing is. The truth is your writing hands will not fall off if you choose to take some time off. You do not really forget to write creatively. Oh, you can get rusty, and it can take some time to get your groove back, but the talent you’ve accumulated (and, perhaps, have been born with) does not evaporate out of thin air just because you step away from your word processor. I, myself, have stepped away from writing for large swaths of time only to return just as strong as I was before. If this is indeed a problem for you, I suggest reading more often — just so you can remain close to writing without actually doing it. You can stay familiar and play with language and characters and plotting without actually doing anything— watch essays on movies and characters. Stay engaged. Don’t feel like your talents will be irrevocably blunted by a break, no matter how long it is.

I often think writers are their own jailers, while other writers you associate with and look up to can function as fellow wardens; what exactly is gonna happen if you don’t write everyday? I’ve come to really detest writing “rules.” There are no rules — they aren’t even rules to be broken. There are guidelines and things that have worked in the past. The trick is to learn what has worked for others, why, and what works for you. Mix and match at your own discretion. The life of a writer is often a solitary, lonesome affair. Not just because you do it yourself, but because you are your own god; a huge part of being a writer is fashioning things for yourself, coming up with your own rules, if you dare to call them as such. You conjure up worlds for your own amusement. So, the way we find ourselves chained to the so-called rules and those who espouse them has become kinda hilarious to me.

Also, go ahead and accept this: a lot of what defines good writing is completely out of your hands. What is popular and lauded as a masterpiece today may be rejected and ignored tomorrow. There are principles to help you bridge the gap of generations — compelling characters, thoughtful plotting, and, oh, idk, basic understanding of storytelling elements etc, but we all will have our own personal talents as writers. Rest assured, you’ll be an acquired taste, so go ahead and study your own talents and strengths as a word person. What are the things you love about writing? What do you like to zero in on? What do you look forward to? Focus on those things, and just try to have a basic grasp of other, essential things.

The point is this: if writing really is that important to you, it will be in your life somehow. You won’t have to make room so much as it will wedge itself into one of the movie theater seats in your mind. Your mind will wander to your wips. You’ll think of your characters at random times. You’ll picture your settings and scenes will just randomly come to you. Don’t worry about it so much! Write often, stay engaged, but if you need a break, take one.

[lavampira]

wip whenever

tagged by @redwayfarers @impossible-rat-babies @coldshrugs earlier this week so I scrounged up some of the sidalia wip to microdose on making progress by sharing bits of it <: and I’ll tag @hythlodaes @birues @scionshtola @hylfystt @gwynbleidd @carlosoliveiraa @sirotras @ghostwise @queenofthieves @creaking-skull @perpetuagf @kirnet @aphoticfairy @oh-yeah-no @yloiseconeillants if anyone has things to share!!

[parent death tw + spoilers for ffxiv heavensward and drk 60-70 quests]

The last hazy flickers of light filter through the cabin windows with the sun dipping below the Tailfeather horizon, leaving the need for the lit lantern to see as they work. D’alia glances across the wobbly square table at the concentrating children while their small, nimble fingers slowly attempt to weave twine into braided cords, so intent on turning them into bracelets under her instruction. ‘Twas meant to be a simple task to occupy them quietly before bed and recover from the day, but she had underestimated the competitive streak between them.

“Does it go this way?” Rielle asks, showing her efforts with a pinched brow.

“Not quite.” D’alia reaches across the table to adjust the girl’s fingers, still holding onto the colorful strands, and guides her through the step with a gentle hand. “Think of it like braiding hair, if it helps.”

Myste snickers as he watches over Rielle’s shoulder. Her blonde head snaps to him, and she sticks out her tongue, which he readily mimics before the pair descend into a fit of youthful giggles. D’alia allows a small smile to grace her lips as she continues to braid her own cord. After how despondent that Myste had grown in his latest failed endeavor, she will gladly take the improvement.

Rielle faces her again as they settle. “When did you learn to make these?”

“As a child—”

“A member of her tribe taught her after her parents died,” Myste interrupts, ignoring the sharp glance Rielle sends him to meet D’alia’s gaze as she stills. ‘Twas not a question, she notes curiously, but before she can comment on it, he adds, “Am I right?”

After a moment, D’alia simply mutters, “Aye.”

“You miss them.”

Yet another statement, wrenched from the confines of her heart. Her eyes seek Sidurgu still seated on a wooden chair by the door. He remains hunched over his sword in his ministrations to oil the blade, but his gaze is already on her beneath the flop of silvery fringe over his forehead. She can’t read his expression in the dim light, and he says naught of it, though he’s scarcely said much since his resigned suggestion to stay in the village a while longer in order to assuage Myste once the dust had settled.

“I do, but I’ve also made my peace with my past,” D’alia finally says, turning back to the children. No longer in the mood to braid cords, she slides her unfinished bracelet to Rielle, offering a tight smile as she rises to her feet. “Since you’re getting the hang of these, would you mind if I leave mine in your capable hands so I can draw a bath?”

The young girl beams. “I don’t mind.”

D’alia pats her cheek with a gentle palm before tucking a tendril of hair behind her pointed ear. She leaves the children to their task, knowing Sidurgu will mind them in her absence as he has in her weeks away from them, and she tries not to dwell on the guilt of it. Instead, she leans on the desperation to soothe the fresh ache in her muscles and cleanse the remaining sweat and grime from her body and follows the hall in search of the bath.

‘Tis a rather small cabin, but far more than she had expected upon requesting to stay in the village, complete with two rooms to sleep, a cramped room to wash, and an even tinier kitchen in comparison to the rows of cots and bunks that she remembered from not so long ago. Marcechamp had insisted for the one who’d helped to achieve Ysayle’s vision and her companions, though not without eyeing Sidurgu’s glowering form and the quiet elezen children behind her warily as she’d forced a smile and thanked him for the generosity through her tightening throat.

For as much as she claims to have made her peace with her past, it still has a way of haunting her every move. She can at least think of the tribe that her adoptive parent and she had left behind for the safety of Revenant’s Toll’s walls without the roiling guilt and loss that threatens to pull her under its murkiness these days.

She doesn’t know when she can say the same of Ysayle.

Or Haurchefant.

[frozenjokes]

grub snippet

“Right.” Cub looked amused, “I guess that means you’ve made plans then?”

“Of course I’ve made plans!” Grian straightened up, pleased, and flared his wings to show them off, feathers recently preened and painstakingly brushed through. It took a moment for him to catch the undertones of Cub’s words, the hint of disappointment behind the question. “I- I mean unless you had any ideas! I’m very flexible.”

“Oh, it’s nothing much, really. I was just curious about that government building all the superheroes file in and out of, y’know. Where you and HotGuy have been working out? You said a lot of stuff was centralized there, right? Tailors and such for costuming, private gyms and break rooms, weapon smiths.. anything a hero could need, really.” Cub shrugged, a lazy, deliberate smile crossing his face, the kind of expression Grian only saw on Cub when he was about to suggest something stupid or illegal.

“Okay..”

“You think they have gunpowder? I mean, I’m sure they do, but I’m also looking for other minerals, dyes, things along those lines. I bought the casings already, but I was just thinking, your place probably has an abundance of the stuff I need, and I doubt they’d notice if a few things went missing.”

So stupid AND illegal today. “Cub, are you asking me to steal extremely shady materials from a government facility for you.”

“Of course not. You don’t know what I’m looking for exactly, and you don’t have the tact for this sort of thing. I’m asking you to bring me with you so I can steal shady materials from a government facility.”

Grian was suddenly forced to reconsider every denial of his feelings for Cub at therapy today in one fell swoop. He barely had the words to speak, the revelation making his mouth run dry. “That sounds very illegal, Cub. They don’t even like me there, I don’t know if that’s a great idea at this point in time.” There was no rejection or denial under Grian’s voice, only some sort of lovesick fascination, the kind of feelings he always felt when he remembered Cub was easily just as fucked in the head as he was.

“I don’t think we’ll have any issues. If I’m being honest, I’m sure you’re far from the only bad tempered hero in their roster. They probably hate everyone who goes in and out of that place. I was thinking you get me in as your private scientist, assistant, whatever. I make you shit. And if they push back, you give them hell. You’re probably high profile enough to get what you want, right? Or maybe you should be nice instead. They might appreciate that. Or they might be suspicious. It doesn’t matter. I bought a lab coat and everything.”

“You- seriously?”

“Well I wanted one anyway, and I thought I might need it. You’ve got a job now, so I figured I’d treat myself.”

“Lab coats can not be that expensive- actually, don’t respond to that. I don’t want to know. I do want to know what you’re planning on doing with gunpowder though. You’re not making bombs, are you?”

“Not like, big bombs.”

“Cub!”

“I want to make fireworks. I want to try. How much do you know about fireworks, Grian? They’re really very cool. I’ve been watching all sorts of videos; went all the way down the rabbit hole. They’re awesome, man. I gotta try. I gotta.”

“You. Are going to lose all of your fingers. Possibly your arms.”

Cub didn’t miss a beat. “Technology is crazy, I bet they can sew that shit right back on.”

“Not if you blow yourself up!”

“I probably won’t blow myself up. I’m assuming that’s a ‘no’ then for working on this in the apartment.” Cub smirked, and Grian could only gape stupidly for a few moments, utterly shocked.

“You absolutely can not play with explosives in our apartment!”

“Gotcha,” Cub laughed, and Grian groaned into his hands, dragging them all the way down his face.

just a wip I wanted to share. I’m having a bad day so I just wanted to post a little something. If you’re interested in the rest of the story you can read it on ao3 here

[avalynlestrange]

Love Story

Theodore Nott x Reader

Reader: she/her pronouns

Warnings: None I don’t think? I didn’t proof read

Category: Fluff, Modern Timeline AU, One-Shot, Songfic

Summary: In which Theodore surprises you with Eras Tour tickets.

No Sneak Peaks 😋

Request: @lucywritess requested based on @annaisabookworm ‘s post

Author’s Note: Hope you enjoy~ <3 This was really fun to write

Word Count: 1k

To The Library (my masterlist)

To The Kitchen (my WIPs)

To more Theodore Nott fics

To Fearless TV Anthology

You were quite upset when you couldn’t buy tickets to Taylor Swift’s Era’s tour. You had your boyfriend, Theodore, wait for the tickets during his work at the ministry whilst you were at home on a day off. However, neither of you managed to get any tickets.

Pansy didn’t get any tickets either, so she planned on throwing an era’s party instead at her family’s summer house. The theme, ofcourse, is to dress as an era.

“I’ve nearly finished my outfit!” You squeal. Theo slides his office chair to peep in your office.

On the tailor’s dummy was a blurple body suit inspired by Taylor’s Midnights Costume. The sparkles brings you so much joy but not as much as Theo’s coupling outfit.

“That looks gorgeous, sweetheart.” He eyes the outfit up and down.

“And you’re going to look fantastic next to me in your chair t-shirt!” You grin at him.

The doorbell rings and you jump in excitement.

“That must be my matching dress shirt and boots!~” You sing as you sprint to the front door.

Meanwhile, Theodore walks to the garage to place something in the boot of the car. He smiles to himself and sends a text to Pansy.

Theo: ‘Make sure to text her that your party changed venue to the one near the stadium so she doesn’t suspect us driving near there.’

Pansy: ‘Duh! I got you dude! I can’t wait for you two to get back from the concert!!!!’

Theo: ‘Thanks. I hope it goes well.’

“Babe! The beads are here we gotta make some more bracelets! Pansy said she’s invited a lot of people!” He hears you shouting from the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

The day of the party is the same day as the concert. Pansy told you she set it up that way since she knew a lot of Swifties that were in the same position as the both of you. You were even more thrilled when she mentioned she managed to book a venue near the stadium so that you can hear Queen Swift herself through the echoes of the speakers of the concert.

You stayed up all night to make bracelets and finish off your body suit. It was all worth it. Theo suggest that you can always nap on the way to the event and that’s what you did. He brought you a pillow and placed your to-go make up bag in the glove compartment so you can touch up beforehand.

When you arrived he gentle wakes you.

“Darling, we’re here. I couldn’t find a parking space near the venue but I luckily found one in the stadium.” He lies but you are still prying your eyes open to realise.

Whilst you applied some make up to correct smudges, Theo goes to the boot of the car and places items in his jacket pocket. He walks to your car door and opens it.

“Ready my sweet?” He offers you a hand that you gladly take. He starts leading you towards one of the entrances of the stadium.

“Where are you going? Isn’t the venue the other way?” You ask, puzzled. Still you allow him to walk you closer and closer to entrance.

“Maybe we can go in and buy some merch before we go to the party?” His hand is firm in yours ensuring you don’t detour back to the opposite direction.

“Babe it doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh well then good thing I have these.” He takes out two V.I.P. lanyards.

You are speechless as he puts one of them on you. When reality hit you, you jump up and hug him.

“I can’t believe you did this for me!” You sniffle.

“Hey hey! Save your tears for Miss Swift.”

⳾*⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*❀⑅*⳾

Nothing could beat this feeling.

You are standing in front of the stage. Your Theo had bought you both front standing tickets. It is all like a fever dream. You exchange your bracelets with other fans and they appreciate your couples costume so much that some even asked to take photos with you.

And to add even more delight, Theo brought a muggle polaroid camera to capture your experience.

The countdown clock hits 5 seconds and the lights dim.

🎵 It’s been a long time coming 🎵

You, along with thousands of fans scream at the top of your lungs. Theo smiles and captures a photo. Jumping and singing throughout the concert. Slow dancing with Theo during ballads.

Theo swears the twinkle in your eyes is shining brighter than anything on the stage. Even brighter when the first notes of your couple song plays.

🎵 We were both young when I first saw you 🎵

You had met in first year of Hogwarts on the boats leading up to the castle. He saved you from falling off it when you thought you saw a mermaid tail swimming near the surface.

🎵 You were Romeo & you were throwing pebbles 🎵

Literally happened in fourth year. Theo on his broom throwing rocks at your bedroom door during summer holidays when he was missing you. Your family weren’t very happy with the broken window but did find it very sweet. Young love.

🎵 Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone 🎵

You both focus on each other than the crowds and the performance. Bodies swaying together, Theo twirling you, and kisses during music breaks in the song.

🎵 And my daddy said stay away from Juliet 🎵

Flashbacks to when your family disapproved of Theo when his father was sent to Azkaban. But you both fought for your love and here you were now.

🎵This love is difficult but it’s so real 🎵

Your family eventually embraced him when they saw how he protected you throughout the second wizarding war. Not a scar was on you. He made sure of it.

🎵 Is this in my head I don’t know what to think 🎵

Theo kneels down and pulled out a ring and mouthed the words to you.

“Yes yes yes!” You cry out as he places the ring on your finger.

He picks you up and swirls you. You were wrong earlier. This is the best you’ve felt in your life.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

🔥🔥🔥, please!

Make Me Write Monday

Nice! For my current WIP, my Buck 1.0/118!Tommy fic, The First Evan! Lol I know I'm only supposed to write three sentences. But I thought fuck it, and I'm going to give a spoiler to something in the fic and I'm writing more than three sentences for this. I'll put it under the read more just in case no one wants to be spoiled. The spoiler is intense and is a plot point that someone actually asked about in the comments of the last chapter 😂 so, you've been warned. Enjoy!

“What do you think is a good ‘I’m sorry for our last fight?’ wine?”

A lot of people randomly asked Tommy things. Tommy wasn’t sure if he just had the face of someone to pour out your soul to or if he had some sort of energy about him, but random strangers tended to ask him things often or began out of the blue conversations with him.

Tommy.

Didn’t particularly like that. He didn’t really like situations where he had to talk to random strangers when all he wanted to do was buy some nice beer for Maddie to celebrate her new place. Alas, such was life. And despite Tommy’s want to not engage in this conversation, Tommy glanced to the side to find the man who asked. He seemed… out of place. Something about him wasn’t quite California.

But.

Hey.

A lot of people moved to Los Angeles. Maybe Tommy was overthinking whatever feeling he was getting from this guy. It was probably nothing.

“Someone I know just moved into a new place and I want to mend some fences,” further explained the man.

“I, uh. I don’t actually know much about wine,” said Tommy, because he found himself drawn into these sorts of conversations even when he didn’t want to be in them, “But, uh. My friend Chimney knows wine pretty well – Chimney?”

Tommy looked around. He knew that Chimney was around here somewhere. Evan and Eddie were in the store too, but Tommy didn’t know if Evan or Eddie knew wine.

Chimney and Eddie popped their heads down the aisle, fancy cheeses and meats in hand. They tossed their charcuterie into the shopping cart as Chimney said, “What do you need, Tommy?”

“Oh. It’s me. Hi,” said the man as he extended a hand, “Jason Bailey. I was just looking for a good ‘I’m sorry wine’. Chimney, was it? And Tommy?”

Tommy.

Reluctantly shook the man’s hand. But then immediately felt the need to say, “I have a boyfriend already, sorry. And Chimney’s kind of – well you’re not with her. But you’re going out on a date soon, right?”

Because.

Maybe Tommy just read the room wrong here. Sometimes Tommy did. He didn’t always pick up what people were putting down for him. It happened enough for Tommy to at least need to clarify.

Chimney beamed at the mention of it.

The date.

“I mean, it’s only a first date. And I don’t want to pressure her or anything. Her last relationship ended pretty badly, so… we’re taking it slow,” gushed Chimney, “But we’ll see how it goes.”

“Eddie’s single, now, though. Recently single,” suggested Tommy.

Eddie laughed.

“No. I am – I’m not in the headspace to date anyone. And I don’t think you’re my type, honestly?” said Eddie apologetically, “Sorry, man.”

“That’s so cute. The date. Not the recent divorce. I’m not – this isn’t me hitting on anyone. I’m actually buying this for my wife. We’re, uh. In a bit of a rough patch. I’m trying to smooth some things over,” explained Jason.

“Didn’t you say the wine was for someone you know who just moved into a new place and you wanted to mend some fences with?” asked Tommy, a little confused.

Jason shrugged.

His eyes.

A little dead when they gazed at Tommy for a moment. Or. Or maybe Tommy was seeing things that weren’t actually happening, because it didn’t look like anyone else noticed that. Maybe Tommy was being hypersensitive because of how this was just giving him flashbacks.

“I did say it was an ‘I’m sorry for our last fight’ wine too,” Jason pointed out.

Something. Felt wrong about this.

It reminded Tommy of his mom. His mom getting presents when she still had a black eye. That apology tour his father always went on after a particularly heated argument of his own making.

And.

No.

Not everyone was like that… right?

“Separated, huh? Yeah. Been there. It’s rough. But sometimes, it’s good to give them the space. To figure themselves out,” said Eddie, a little – a little more at peace with his own divorce, “You can’t hold onto someone who doesn’t want to be with you.”

For a moment, Jason looked like he might break the bottle of wine in his hands. He might just break it on Eddie. And reflexively, Tommy found himself subtly stepping between Eddie and this random man.

Something about his eyes.

Some anger that went away just as fast as it came.

It.

It reminded Tommy of his dad.

Impulsive. Rage at the drop of a hat. A charming smile in public.

Tommy didn’t like this conversation.

Jason’s anger eased as quickly as it came. And Tommy wondered if he had just been seeing things. Reading into things. It wasn’t as if Eddie or Chimney reacted to Jason the same way. Neither of them were feeling that fight or flight response, that panic quickening Tommy’s heartbeat.

“I think she’d like to see me,” Jason said amicably.

And.

Tommy was probably overthinking things, right? He wasn’t sure if Jason noticed what Tommy had done. If that was an overstep on Tommy’s part. If he was just being overprotective over a friend who could most definitely handle himself in a fight and Tommy knew that.

Tommy.

Needed to not be here.

“I’m, uh. I’m not very useful in this conversation, anyway. I’m going to go find where Evan went off to,” said Tommy as he turned the cart around and left the aisle.

Left Eddie and Chimney with Jason.

And he felt terrible doing that. But he really needed to stop talking to that man.

[moonlit-han]

super secret project! do not enter!!

pairing: lee felix x gender-neutral reader genre/au: fluffiest of fluff, est. relationship word count: 1.1k  warnings: two (2) slightly suggestive comments request: yes (well, mostly) a/n: (oh gods, this has been on the wip list for way too long). hello to the anon from becca’s blog: it’s finally here, the felix wedding scrapbooking fic we’ve all been waiting for! i hope you like it!! ✨

↠ masterlist to reblog |  comments & feedback encouraged! ↞

↠↞

“Lix?” You called, having not heard from your boyfriend for roughly an hour. While it wasn’t unusual for him to go into his own little world in your shared bedroom, whether that be for gaming, chatting with friends overseas, or just reading—a full hour without him coming to find you or texting you, even when both of you were home, was definitely out of the ordinary.

So, you made your way to the bedroom’s closed door and lightly tapped on the wood. “Yeah?” Came the muffled reply.

“You good, baby?”

“Yep!”

“Can I come in?” You asked, opening the door before Felix could answer.

After all, it wasn’t as if either of you had anything to hide. On the rare occasions you did, like when wrapping birthday presents and such, notes to the effect of “Super Secret Project In Progress. Do Not Enter. I Love You!!!!!” were typically taped to the door.

As you entered, Felix looked up with a look on his face you’d only really ever seen on a cat. It was as if you’d caught him just after he’d knocked a glass of water off the counter or had ripped a rug to shreds. Before you could say anything, your boyfriend was shoving the papers strewn over the desk into a pile and stuffing them into a drawer, then standing in front of said desk with a foot on said drawer to stop it from popping open.

You giggled. “Babe, whatcha got there?” 

“Nothing, just something I was working on,” Felix said nonchalantly. As if he could appear anything short of guilty now that he’d so clearly been working on something he did not want you to see.

You sauntered toward him, swinging the overlong sleeves of your—his—hoodie as you went. “You sure about that? Are you sure it’s not something for me?”

“Oh, very sure, honey,” Felix replied, nodding and grinning like a fool.

You hummed, snaking your arms around his waist as you reached him and staring directly into his eyes. “You know, Lix,” you mused, “your ears always turn red and you end up staring into space a little more than usual when you’re lying.” You smirked. “Your ears are red.”

Felix huffed a laugh, returning your embrace. “My ears also turn red whenever I’m particularly excited to see you.”

“Right, that’s not the only thing that happens, baby,” you said, pressing yourself against him and letting your hands slide just that much closer to his ass.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Felix warned, moving away just enough to end up dropping his foot to the floor. Taking advantage of his distraction, you tried to disentangle yourself from your boyfriend’s arms.

“Now let’s see what you were—” you began, only to be pulled away by Felix.

“Nope, secret project, baby,” he insisted, resorting to lightly tickling your sides and kissing your cheek as you squirmed and reached for the drawer. “You are so not finding out what that was.”

“But Lix, I wanna know!” You whined, doing your best impression of his sister’s youngest child. “Please?”

“Nope!” Felix said, now having successfully maneuvered the two of you over to the bed. You quickly found yourself flat on your back on the mattress with Felix over you, still tickling you.

“Please, please, please?” You begged, but to no avail. At this point, you weren’t even sure whether you were begging for Felix to tell you what he’d been doing or to stop tickling you.

“Only if you give me a kiss,” he relented, pausing for a moment.

You stared up at your boyfriend, his eyes sparkling and cheeks ever so slightly flushed—and ears tinged a cherry red—and gave in.

It wasn’t such a hardship, after all.

Craning your neck, you pressed your lips to his in a brief kiss. “Okay, you’ve got your kiss. Can I see what you were doing now?” You said confidently.

“That was barely a kiss,” Felix said sorrowfully. “I’m so unloved. The love of my life won’t even kiss me properly anymore.” He pouted.

And who were you to deny him?

Ten minutes later, you were both quite out of breath and more than a little excitable. “So, Lixie, my baby, my darling,” you panted. “Are you going to tell me what you were working on now that you’ve gotten a little more than just a kiss?”

Felix sighed, burying his face in your neck. “Okay, but it’s a little embarrassing.”

You stroked his hair. “I’m sure whatever it you’ve done is lovely.”

Felix slid backward off the bed, grasping your hands as he went so that you sat up as he stood. “Here, um… Just close your eyes for a moment. Please?”

You nodded, even going so far as to cover your eyes with your fingers.

After some rustling and little comments along the lines of “Okay, that goes there and that goes… Shit. Not there,” from your boyfriend, you felt warm hands cup your cheeks and soft lips press to yours.

“Come see,” Felix murmured against your mouth.

What lay before you on the desk took your breath away. “Is that…” you began, leaning forward to peer at the little photos and dried flowers on the pages of what was unmistakably a scrapbook.

“It’s us,” Felix said, hand securely around your waist.

“Is this a wedding scrapbook, Lix?” You asked, voice quiet with admiration and more love than you knew what to do with.

“Maybe…”

“I love it, baby,” you said, turning to kiss Felix’s cheek. “Can you show me all of it?”

So, he did. There were pictures of the two of you, more dried flowers—“This is what I’d have in my boutonniere!”—pictures of your friends, drawings of table settings, pictures of suits and dresses and everything in between… In short, Felix had compiled all his dreams and wishes for a wedding into one book.

“Wait,” you said after looking through the entire scrapbook. “Does this mean… Are you… Are we?”

“If you’re asking if I’d like to marry you, Y/N, then yes. Yes, I would, if you’ll have me,” Felix said sincerely. “It would be the greatest honor of my life if I could marry you.”

You threw your arms around Felix’s neck, clinging tightly to him as your murmured—and squealed—“Yes! Yes!” He spun you around, the two of you laughing and giddy, before finally stopping to kiss you soundly again.

“I love you, Felix,” you said, gazing at the man who would someday be your husband. The thought alone gave you such a thrill.

“I love you, too. More than you know.”

“Care to show me?” You asked mischievously.

“Later, later,” Felix promised. “But first I have a very serious question.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Which one of us will wear the garter belt?”

You burst out laughing, drawing him back down onto the bed again. The rest of the evening passed languidly, the two of you moving from the bed to the bath and finally to the kitchen, content and more in love than either of you thought possible.

Perhaps, some Super Secret Projects were worth the wait…

[eridanidreams]

WIP Wednesday

from a future chapter of *stars through my fingers like grains of sand*

Cora followed Dad and Captain Cait down the ramp of the Razorleaf. They were having a real quiet conversation—maybe even an argument, given the way Cait’s jaw had set—and Cora tried to stay out of those.

Usually coming to Neon was a special treat, but this time she was more worried than excited. It had taken her a day of working herself up to it to talk to Dad about Mom going quiet, mostly because she’d kind of gone behind his back to talk to Mom. Oh, he would have let her do it, but he’d have gotten all upset about it first—not that she was talking to Mom, but that she was the one who was making things work. “It’s our job to make things happen for you, sweet pea.” But at least this way she got to see her mom on video calls.

Dad also thought that Mom could handle anything that came her way, and so did the other Rangers. But Cora listened to people, and she’d overheard Dad tell Andi once that he felt a lot more comfortable traveling with Cait, because they could back each other up. And if that were true for just exploring—though Cora knew they were doing more than exploring, she’d seen them come back with bullet scars on their suits once or twice—then it had to be even more true for Rangering. So when Mom didn’t respond when she said she was going to… well, that was an ultra mega bad thing.

So she’d expected Dad not to take her seriously. Not because he didn’t take her seriously, but because it was about her mom and Mom really was that good. She hadn’t expected Cait to stand up for her, though. Cait had just looked at her—she didn’t have a good way to describe it; it was kind of weird and kind of neat all at the same time—and then she told Dad they needed to follow up on this, that she thought it was serious. Cora would have hugged her in thanks, but she was too worried and Cait was a little uncomfortable about being hugged, like she didn’t know what to do with them. She’d originally thought that was weird, but then she went and considered it like Cait had suggested, and that had culminated in a talk with Dad.

“Dad, do you think Cait had a bad childhood?” Dad had just finished reading to her, and she was still all snuggled up in his embrace. (A lot of girls her age said they were too old for that sort of thing, but Dad gave the absolute best cuddles and Cora was determined to never grow out of them.)

He’d looked down at her, eyes serious. “Well, gumdrop, why do you ask?” He did that a lot, answering a question with another question, but she didn’t mind. Dad said he liked ‘seeing her think’. And when she talked things out with him, sometimes she realized she knew the answer herself. That was the coolest.

“Well, she seemed really surprised that time I punched the mayor’s son for being mean about her. Not that he was mean, but that I punched him.” Cora folded her arms as her dad nodded encouragingly. “And she was really upset that I got hurt. And when I hugged her—Dad, do you think anyone had ever hugged her before?”

“You know, I don’t think so,” Dad said thoughtfully, and with the air that said that he knew something she didn’t, and he wasn’t going to tell her. And that was okay, too—adults had their secrets, and if a smart kid like Cora couldn’t figure them out, that was on her.

“Well, I think she’s lonely,” Cora had declared. “And if she doesn’t have anyone, we need to fix that.”

Dad had chuckled. “That’s a real good idea, gumdrop. Why don’t I put you in charge of that? Just remember, there’s a fine line between making someone feel wanted and making someone feel pestered.”

“Da-ad,” she’d grumbled, and he’d kissed her on the top of the head and said goodnight.

Cora was thinking about that talk, and the way Cait had gotten real sick after the last time they’d been to Neon. She caught up with the two grown-ups just outside of the Rangers office. “Dad? Cait?” They both paused to look at her. “Um, Cait, are you gonna be okay here? You said the eyestrain made you sick last time.”

Dad let out a big sigh, and Cait got the kind of smile on her face that people did when they didn’t want to quite tell the truth. “I’ll be okay, Cora. This is important enough that I can deal with it for awhile.”

“Cait,” Dad said, in his ‘please-be-reasonable-it’s-for-your-own-good’ voice, “I really think you should stop in at Reliant. They know how—”

Cait interrupted him. “We’ve talked about this.” Cora was usually all for someone doing what they wanted to, but Cait was already looking what her dad called ‘pretty rough’ and what she called sick. Cait reached out to push the door open, and it flashed red; a holosign flashed up: RANGER OUT ON BUSINESS.

“There,” Dad almost snapped. “He’s not in. Cait—I know we’ve talked about this. How about a compromise? I’m not asking you to make any decisions right this minute. All I’m asking is that you look into it. Find out if it’s even possible, and we can discuss it again later when you’re not already stressed to the gills.” Dad gave Cait a look that Cora knew she wasn’t supposed to understand—but duh, she was twelve, and she knew Dad was, for some obscure grown-up reason, trying not to let Cait know he was in love with her. And Cait was just as bad!

Not for the first time, she wished they’d just go ahead and kiss each other already.

[atwooozi]

Almost Perfect (Sebastian x Fem!Farmer) Chapter 21: Flaws and All

Warnings: Slow burn, personal struggles, anxiety, depression, eventual smut

Summary: The Allers-Armstrong family attempts an unusual rehearsal dinner to prepare for a guest. (check the author's notes for content warnings.)

A/N: CW: emotionally heavy and talks about anxiety

Hello everyone! As it turns out I'm a liar and I am posting today instead of next Thursday. I'm honestly so happy that I was able to write this chapter. I actually have a beta reader for the other WIP that I'm currently working on and she's been so helpful with helping me think more deeply about character motivations and dialogue. If you wanna check out some of her stuff she goes by Zark or Linotte-Miller on tumblr. I think her writing is beautiful and I'm actually going to be helping her with her WIP once she's out of the planning phase so I'm really excited.

READ ON AO3

Chapter 21: Flaws and All

Fall 11

“I don’t think normal families do this,” Maru said as she took her seat at the table.

The “this” that Maru was referring to was a rehearsal dinner of sorts. And she was right, normal families didn’t do this, but the Allers-Armstrong wasn’t the most functional family, unfortunately. A good dinner in their house was one where no one talked, so a rehearsal dinner was practically a necessity if they were going to have a guest over who wasn’t Sam or Abigail. 

Sebastian snorted as he took his seat across from her. “What makes you think we’re a normal family?” 

“I think the term is nuclear family,” Demetrius interjected, obviously only half listening as he took his seat at the table.  

Maru and Sebastian exchanged glances, but neither bothered to correct Demetrius. Correcting him right now would open a can of worms that would most likely bleed into tomorrow’s dinner. Angeline didn’t need to deal with that. In all honesty, Sebastian didn't want her to see the cracks in his family-life.

“Do you think spaghetti is too simple for tomorrow?” Robin asked as she took her seat at the table. Tonight they were eating salmon. Sebastian honestly loved all the meals that his mom cooked. He was just grateful that she would make enough for him even when he didn't join them at the table most nights. Sebastian couldn't help but feel worried when he watched his mom frown as she looked down at her plate. 

Although this dinner was his mom's idea he didn't want her to stress over it. It was supposed to be fun…but why did it put such a pit in his stomach? It wasn't even just him, but his mom too. She was always so confident so if even she was worried then he must be doomed. 

“I think we should have bean hotpot,” Demetrius suggested as he picked at his salad. 

Sebastian made a face at Demetrius’ suggestion and shook his head. "No–Mom... Look, I think spaghetti is fine.” He did his best to reassure her. “I don’t really think Angeline is going to care.” 

“Maybe we should make rhubarb pie, too?” Maru suggested, also doing her best to be helpful. 

“Is rhubarb even in season right now?” Robin questioned.

“Oh yeah…” Maru pursed her lips and shrugged. “I don’t think we should just do spaghetti, though.” 

Robin nodded, “Yeah, I think it’s too simple.” She looked over to Sebastian, pointing her fork in his direction to emphasize what she was saying. “Text Angeline and ask her what she likes.” 

“Now?” Sebastian asked with a frown. 

“Now.” 

Sebastian felt conflicted as he hesitated to reach for his phone. Not that he ever cared before, but Demetrius hated when phones were out at the table. Something about it keeping a person from being present. Yet, Demetrius would read a newspaper or some scientific journal during dinner and that was never considered an issue. Regardless–Sebastian didn't want to create a problem that could easily be avoided. 

“Yeah, you should do it now.” Maru agreed. “That way someone can go to the store before it gets too late.” 

Sebastian sighed as he pulled out his phone. He didn’t realize it until now but his palms were sweating. He wasn’t sure if it was his nerves, the heat, or both. Not only were his palms clammy, but his fingers were trembling. 

He swallowed thickly as he tried to will his hands to stop shaking, but it didn’t work. If anything, the shaking got worse. He balled his freehand into a fist to make the shaking stop. 

“I thought we all agreed on no phones at the dinner table?” Demetrius said as he watched Sebastian with a disapproving look. 

Sebastian frowned as he looked between his Demetrius and his mom. At this point, he wanted to text Angeline and tell her not to come. He wanted to lie and say that Maru had the flu so they’d have to reschedule. With the way his heart was pounding in his chest, he felt like he might faint. 

This is a bad idea. 

“Oh stop,” Robin said as she nudged Demetrius’ shoulder. “I told him to.”

Demetrius frowned and gave a shrug not saying much more, but it was obvious how he felt about it by the face he made. It made Sebastian grit his teeth because no matter what he did Demetrius would have a problem. If he didn’t listen to his mom he’d get a lecture. If he said no he wouldn’t text Angeline he’d get a lecture. If he broke the stupid dinner rules he’d get a disapproving look. He couldn’t win.

“I don’t want to have this dinner tomorrow,” Sebastian admitted in the steadiest voice he could manage. 

“What?” Robin shifted in her seat to give Sebastian her full attention. “Why not Sebby?”

Sebastian just shook his head. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say. No, that wasn’t it. It was that he shouldn’t say it. He shouldn’t tell his fucked family that they were the reason that he wanted to cancel the dinner. How could he say that without it coming out horribly wrong and leading to an argument that he knew would get him kicked out of the house? How could he say that without breaking his mother's heart? He refused to do that. 

He swallowed his words and took a deep breath. He wanted to be calm. He needed to be calm. But he couldn’t look up at them as he said the words, so instead, he looked down at the table. 

“...I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”  

Robin and Maru exchanged concerned glances before looking back over to Sebastian, waiting for him to continue. They sat in silence for a few tense minutes. No one ate, no one dared to say a word, the only movement came from Demetrius as he looked over whatever journal he had brought with him to the table. It all felt so suffocating. Between the arbitrary rules and the heavy tension that infected this house Sebastian felt like he couldn't breathe. 

Sebastian couldn’t bring Angeline here. If he did she’d hate him. He was sure of it. She would see all his weak parts he tried his best to hide. The only person that made him feel normal wouldn’t want anything to do with him anymore and he couldn't take that hit. 

Sebastian stood up from the table abruptly, causing the table to clatter and quickly made his way out the door. Doing his best to ignore his mom’s and sister's calls for him as he ran away. He needed to get out before the situation became worse. It wasn’t the smartest move, but he wasn’t sure what else he could do at the moment.  

Without realizing it, Sebastian was making his way down the mountain path to Angeline’s farm. Usually, when Sebastian needed to clear his head he’d either run off to Zuzu or hide out with Linus for a bit, but instead he was making his way to Angeline’s. Just the thought of her made him feel a bit more relaxed. She was his new safe place and as sweet as that was, it was equally just as terrifying. 

Sebastian gulped as he stood in front of Angeline’s farmhouse. He wanted to run through the door and just collapse in her arms much like a child would do after a long day at school. He felt so emotionally exhausted. Would Angeline regret liking him if she saw him like this? He didn’t want to know. 

“...Sebastian?” 

Sebastian felt his heart stop when he heard Angeline’s voice call out to him. It was so gentle and full of concern. It made him feel so much lighter. And while that feeling was so comforting he could feel fear creeping into the back of his mind. He didn't want his happiness to depend completely on another person. It was too fast to be so attached, but he couldn't help it. 

He really didn’t want her to see him so broken, but he could only hide it from her for so long. He reluctantly turned around to face her and he felt his heart start to beat once more, almost painfully fast. 

She didn’t say anything as she walked towards him. Without any hesitation, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, nuzzling her face into his neck as she held him close. 

It took Sebastian a moment before his body was able to respond to Angeline’s touch, but he returned the hug, holding her just as tightly to him. And without realizing it tears were rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t even know he was crying until his chest heaved as he sobbed into Angeline’s shoulder. 

And what did she do while he cried? Angeline rubbed gentle circles along his back as she gently cradled his head, letting him cry into her now tear-stained shirt. She didn’t try to say anything or try to get him to stop. She just let him cry and he had never felt so thankful before in his life.       

Angeline continued to hold Sebastian close, offering a silent comfort that he desperately needed. His sobs gradually subsided, leaving him feeling drained but slightly more at peace. The warmth of her embrace soothed his raw nerves that had been building steadily up for days.    

“Do you want to come inside?” Angeline asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Sebastian nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Angeline gently took his hand and led him into the farmhouse. It smelled faintly of pine, much like his own house, but unlike there this place felt more like home. It was small, but it felt cozy. It didn’t carry the same tense atmosphere that he was used to. He felt welcome. 

“Sit, I’ll get you something to drink,” Angeline said, guiding him to a chair at the kitchen table. 

Sebastian sat down, his legs felt like they could give out at any moment. He watched as Angeline moved around her small kitchen to get him a glass of water. He didn’t think it was necessary for her to dote on him like this, but he appreciated it. 

Angeline poured him a glass of water and placed it in front of him before taking a seat across from him. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked gently, her eyes filled with concern. 

Sebastian took a sip of water, trying to gather his thoughts. He wasn’t sure exactly how to go about telling her that his family was a dysfunctional mess, but he also knew that keeping it all inside wasn’t helping him either since he basically had an emotional breakdown in her front yard. 

“It’s just…” His voice was hoarse from crying. He tried his best to clear his throat before he continued. “My family is a mess a-and I don’t want you to see that.” 

Sebastian looked away from Angeline and found himself staring at the floor. “I don’t want you to see me like this…”  

Angeline reached across the table and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “Sebastian, I care about you, no matter what.” 

Her words felt like a lifeline that he wasn’t even aware that he needed. She pulled him back from the edge of his own despair. He took a deep breath and looked back at her feeling a bit stronger than he did just moments ago. 

“I’m scared that if you see my family…if you see me, you’ll change your mind,” he admitted. 

Angeline’s expression softened, and she stood up, walking around the table to kneel beside him. Sebastian tried to shrink away from her from his chair, but he couldn’t escape her gaze. She looked at him with eyes filled with unwavering support. 

“Sebastian, I like you,” Angeline said firmly. “I want to be there for you through all of it.”

“But–”

Angeline shook her head. “ All of it. ”

Sebastian pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her close as if she could disappear in an instant if he were to let go. 

“Thank you.”

Angeline hugged him back just as tightly, she made him feel as if he wasn’t so alone. He felt whole. They stayed like this for a while, finding solace in each other’s embrace. Eventually, Angeline pulled back slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. 

“Wanna sit on the porch?” She suggested. “Some fresh air might be good.” 

Sebastian nodded and reluctantly let Angeline go. They stood up and walked out of the cabin, hand in hand. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the acres of land. The view from the mountains was beautiful, but it was just as nice if not better from the farm.

Angeline pulled Sebastian down to sit with her, leaning against the wall. With her by his side, he felt like he could face anything. He wasn’t alone anymore. Not as long as he had her there. 

They sat there silently, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Angeline leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. 

“Hey.” Sebastian broke the silence.

Angeline glanced up at him. “Hey.” 

“Could you picture me living on a farm?” 

Angeline giggled and nuzzled up to Sebastian. “Is it possible to be an emo farmer?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and if he wasn't so emotionally exhausted he'd probably laugh a little at Angeline’s lame joke. He felt a sense of calm settle over him as he sat there on Angeline’s porch looking up at the stars. If he could pick a moment to live in it would be this moment. He’d stay here forever. 

[atonalginger]

Snippet Sunday

thank you for tagging me, @eridanidreams ! You've already tags all the usual suspects so I extend my tag to anyone who reads this far and has something they want to share!

This is from my starborn WIP I've come to call the Starborn Saga which sounds maybe too dramatic but it's what I got. lol.

Warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes (thoughts and implications of sex) With that this snippet is best suited for 18+ audiences.

“You really mad about the shipping crates?” Sam asked Lila as he settled on the couch in their room.

She stood next to the big picture windows watching the security bots patrolling the grounds. Two kept bumping into one another while a third harassed a small genophage minding its business. She’d need to upgrade their programming. She smiled at his question, “What do you think?” She asked.

“I don’t know what to think anymore. I figured you’d cool off when you saw everything I ordered but then you’ve been distant all fuckin’ evening,” there was heat in his words but he stayed relatively calm. She turned to look at him, “I haven’t been distant, I’ve been thinking.”

“Could have fooled us,” Sam tossed his red flannel shirt into a basket near the door, “Goose’s been teasing me all evening.”

She laughed, “Oh no, teen razzing.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he waved her off and bit back a smile.

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow in feigned shock. An impish smile curled her lip, “In that case I guess I won’t give you that gift.”

Sam looked up, curious. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. Then mouthed the word ‘gift’ to himself.

“I’m still not thrilled you volunteered our outpost, because even the most discreet crews can slip up, but I’m not a fool: Del would have found us eventually.” Lila sauntered over to the couch, “I just wish you would have told me.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he sounded tired. She wondered how many times he’d said these words today, “I wanted to do something nice for you and Goose. A gift. Being King of the Crimson Fleet comes with perks I like to use.”

“King?” Lila stood in front of him, her knees touching his, “Does Del know that?”

Sam flashed his signature smile and shrugged, “Don’t see how it matters. He still gets to manage the crews and that keeps him happy.”

“He’d try to kill you if he heard that,” she tapped the bottom of his chin with her index finger. He just laughed and took her hand, pulled her in and kissed her. She caught herself with a hand to his chest and clawed at the fabric of his shirt. With his other hand he snatched her waist and yanked her onto his lap.

“Maybe I should build myself a throne. Have my queen sit pretty on my lap.” He looked her over and bit his lip.

“Your queen,” she touched her chest in faux shock, “What an honor.” He ran his fingers up the back of her neck and took a fist full of hair, pulling her in for another kiss. She let out a small squeal and pushed back on his chest. He let her go and stared at her with hungry eyes.

“Aren’t I supposed to be fucking off?” she tilted her head to the side. He trailed his eyes down her front and squeezed her ass, rocking up at her, “you can fuck something.”

“Mmm, I could,” She pushed on his chest and forced herself up to her feet, “You really don’t want your gift?”

Lila could see the wheels turn in his mind. His eyes focused on her cleavage, a finger hooking the neck of her tank top and pulling it down further. He bit his bottom lip and looked up at her, “color me curious, I do.”

She reached down and worked his belt and pants open, her eyes never leaving his face, “just sit back, your Highness,” she said playfully.

“I prefer your Greatness, thank you,” He leaned back and draped his arms over the top of the couch cushions.

She grabbed the sides of his pants and shorts and pulled them down, Sam lifting himself to help, and knelt in front of him, “Don’t push it, cowboy.”

[twopoppies]

A couple of years ago I was reading a WIP that admittedly had started to drag and wasn’t progressing the story. The author asked for constructive criticism so I tried to gently give some (and I gave a lot of compliments for the things they were doing well) and that fic basically stopped updating after that. I still feel tremendously guilty because I did try very hard to be kind and only offered suggestions because they asked for them. So now I just don’t ever say anything even if the author asks for suggestions. And I’d never say something like “this was weird I had to stop reading.” I just quietly move on and find something else.

Oh, no. I’m sure you were kind and if the author asked, then you did nothing wrong. But it’s very hard to give concrit and, frankly, I only take it well from people who I know understand what I’m going for. I couldn’t ask just anyone to give it.

[pegglefan69]

The younger man had stood out amongst the hoary-headed sages congregating in the rented hotel. His sport coat was a loud bottle green check, his hair past his collar, and he was holding his champagne flute like he was afraid it would sprout wings and dart away. Nobody was speaking to him, and Rufus could feel his hunger for acknowledgement from across the room. It was cute, like a jealous puppy. Rufus had given him what he wanted. “Who, me?” His deliberate, wide-eyed innocence was more alluring than the real thing. Rufus had thought briefly that he was wearing mascara, his lashes were so dark. “Oh no, I’m unattached.” Rufus had never discovered how his apprentice had managed to get himself an invitation, or if he had ever had one to begin with. He’d displayed a startling flair for shapeshifting after having only been introduced to the rudimentary principles, leaving Rufus to wonder even years later if he had been in the habit of it before they had met. He was also very beautiful. Not everything could be chalked up to magic. When asked why and how he was there, he had only explained his motive. “I want to apply with the council, as an apprentice,” He’d smiled winningly, tipping his head towards the crowd milling around them. “But I don’t know any magicians–and that’s no way to get a placement, of course. So I thought, ‘why don’t I go somewhere there’s lots of them?’” The smile had turned coquettish. They’d made eye contact.  “Find somebody my speed,” Rufus had honestly doubted whether he was a good match for him. The younger man was obviously brimming with magic, enough to make Rufus’ teeth hum. He would have fought any of the other men in the room with his bare hands for a chance to train him. “And you think I’m your speed?” “Yes, I do.”

Need something fun to read this weekend? Might I suggest the first chapter of my ongoing novel project? If gay wizards, poorly-considered revenge quests, trans Goths, & the early 2000s are up your alley, consider following the link above (or right here) to start reading for free! 🧙🌈