#reply: calla

[vuotriste]

it's been a tumultuous past couple of months for calla. between spending every waking moment with daemon and struggling to keep her emotions at bay, she fears that her break into insanity may come sooner than she wishes. it doesn't help that at every turn her bodyguard has chosen to assume ignorance rather than to face their problem head on - much like he does with her adversaries.

she knows he's only doing what's right. that their slow descent into a life of love could also mean the end of everything they've ever known. he's keeping her safe, she knows, but she still can't help but wish that he would pull her into his arms despite it.

calla can't even keep count of the nights she's stayed awake in bed, staring at her door, wishing and hoping he would KNOCK.

he never does.

" you know exactly what i mean, " she says, head falling. she can't bring herself to look at him. there's a moment of panic as she backtracks - had she said the wrong thing ? is this crossing the line ? had every moment, every touch of their hand, every fleeting glance, had all of it been in her head ?

no. she won't let her doubts cloud her judgement. she knows what she feels. she'd even seen it before - just once - a single premonition where he'd kissed her. it never came true, but she dreamt of it every night afterward.

calla leans forward and rests her forehead against daemon's chest, her fingers finding his and wrapping gently around them, squeezing him, willing for him to know.

" don't you feel it, too ? "

Daemon couldn't help but be taken aback by Calla's sudden assertiveness. In the brief duration he had worked under her, he had never witnessed this side of her spirit. The revelation was a welcome surprise, reassuring him that she possessed the strength to stand up for herself. It was a stark departure from the fear he harbored that she might allow others to trample over her. In this moment, he was reminded that Calla, despite projecting fragility and gentleness, was a woman perfectly capable of holding her ground. Gritting his teeth, he restrained himself from uttering more than necessary in response to her command, silently submitting as was his customary obedience. He vowed not to broach the subject again.

Her subsequent words, however, took him by an even greater surprise. A singular question arose within him: why? Daemon never considered himself deserving of such affirmation. He had reconciled with the belief that post this life, he wouldn't be reborn but would instead succumb to the fiery depths of hell, a consequence of the lives he had claimed as a mercenary. That was an expectation he assumed many shared. Yet, the princess of his homeland held a contrary view. In her eyes, he was more than worthy; he was loved.

All I think about is you. The impact of those words on him was unforeseen. Standing so close to him, Calla's confession stirred a tumult of emotions—confusion, denial, and a heartbeat racing beneath her touch. What did this declaration signify for him, for them? Was it a genuine proclamation of love or a fleeting utterance in the heat of the moment? Stunned, all he could do was gaze at her, grappling with the implications. One certainty lingered in his mind: she was dangerous, and she had an undeniable hold on him, whether he liked it or not. Damn.

"Calla... I..." Daemon finally broke free from his stupor, his breathing measured despite the rapid thudding of his heart. He wondered if she could feel it too. Mere inches apart, the temptation to taste her lips nagged at him. Yet, he remained rooted in place, neither pulling away nor inching forward. "I am not sure what you mean."

[callalillywrites]

Made up fic title: Pocket Flowers

Based on this ask meme.

It took me a bit to figure out how I wanted this to go, but I knew instantly who it belonged to. It's this guy ⬇️ and it's a little bit angsty but there's some sweetness mixed in.

Pocket Flowers

Steve's been a true gentleman since he was the littlest of little guys. His mama made sure of that.

Since he could remember, he'd pluck out the scraggliest and scrawniest flowers he'd find between the cracks in the sidewalk during whatever adventure he'd find that day. Those flowers would go into his pocket until it was time to go home, then he'd present them to his tired but sweet mama. He knew, even then, how much and how hard she worked to provide all she could for him. The flowers were the least he could do.

The tradition continues well into his young adult years, including those where she's secluded at the hospital when she contracts TB and must remain confined. He finds a way to get them to her each day, just so she might smile once that day.

Even after she dies and before he's recruited into the army, he would visit her grave on a regular basis to give her whatever flowers he's tucked into his pocket. Just for her. Just as he always has.

After the serum and everything with the army, his attention shifts to Peggy, but it's not a tradition he actually starts with her. It's not that he doesn't want to, but she doesn't seem the type to appreciate the simple gesture.

So it kinda just stops for a while.

He goes into the ice and comes out to a changed world. It's a world that he's trying to navigating to the best of his ability. Sure, he's making friends and making smaller connections where he can, but it's really not the same as it was before. It never can be again. Not truly.

During one of his trips through the city after spending some time at the Retreat, he finds himself a little listless and restless, seeking some type of connection he can call his own again.

He's traveling down one of the many streets he used to frequent during his younger days in Brooklyn when he comes across a small flower shop. It's the flyers taped to the windows that draw him in first. Each one promises the prettiest pocket flower designs he's ever seen. They almost look like someone painted them with the minutest details shown so clearly.

It's not even really a clear thought that has him stepping inside, his curiosity piquing.

Your sweet voice is a close second as its sweet melody calls out to him from deeper in the shop. He follows it until he comes upon you where you're working at the little table you've set up for yourself and all your designs. Several arrangements, big and small, surround you, but it's your sweet smile that has him closing the distance between you.

You share some small talk before you ask him what he's looking for.

When he flounders a bit but eventually points at one of your flyers, your smile turns into a pleased grin. You even go so far to hold out the one you'd been working on. Stepping away from your work area, you approach him and nod towards the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

His cheeks are bright pink even as he can't help staring at your hands. They're beautiful as they work, placing the small bouquet just so in his pocket. The soft fragrance of the flowers had him taking a deep inhale as old, bittersweet memories slammed into him.

Yet, even as they made their presence known, they mixed with the present. They brought with them a bit of hope that maybe not everything was different. Maybe he could find his footing again. Maybe, just maybe, he might find love in this new world and find it someone as sweet as you.

*****

Okay, this one went a bit longer than I thought it would, but I do hope you enjoy it. I did try to make this one more of a generic reader, but I'm not sure how well I succeeded. I'm a little out of practice. But, I had a lot of fun writing this one out. Thank you for sending me the title. 💖

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[bendover-productions]

Sorry if you've already been informed of this, but in case you haven't, I just want you to know that Sam still has the teal pom pom hat! He said on the podcast that he misplaced it almost immediately and thought he had lost it, but that he found it in his bag once he got back!

NO!!! no one told me!!! 😭😭 thank you so much, that teal hat is incredibly important to me and i am delighted he still has it

^^^sam in that hat. to me tbh <3

[ranger-danger]

Tried to draw Morrigan from memory, also I’ve discovered I can give every character I draw moles.

[chrryblsssm]

❝     your     home's     really     only     a     town     you're     just     a     guest     in.     ❞     the     first     daughter     of     hawkins     had     never     felt     at     home     in     the     town     her     family     had     founded,     and     she'd     always     felt     a     camaraderie     with     steve.     kindred     spirits,     of     sorts.

@theha1r: 🎁 + 87 — florida!!! by taylor swift ft. florence welch

[anniebeckcalla]

━━ꜱᴋᴇʟᴇᴛᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴛ.

. a secret relationship with the dreamies

(bf! dream x reader) ◦ ₊ wc:809. ◦ ₊ cw:fluff, kissing, light skinship. ◦ ₊ lowercase intended ! ◦ ₊ navigation

ღ calla's note: i may have been a little top- heavy on jaemin and haechan’s parts, but who cares? enjoy!

𝘫𝘦𝘯𝘰

the room was crowded to the brim with happy party goers of all ages; from the crawling tots to the wobbly elders. you yawned as you checked your watch- parties like this tended to tire you out. you'd only come for your best friend, as it was her family's party- oh, and her older brother…you looked up from your watch to see jeno gazing directly at you from directly across the room, his mouth raised slightly in a smile. your ears and cheeks flushed as he tilted his head in a slight nod, a subtle reminder of how much he ached to be beside you instead of what felt like poles apart

𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬

the door shut behind you both as you staggered in, lips pressed tightly together, your breath coming out in heavy pants. mark pressed you against the wall, but you pulled away suddenly, pushing him away gently. ‘we shouldn't be doing this, mark. not right now.” mark’s eyebrows curved in a frown for a moment, but then he composed himself. “when will it ever be a good time, baby?” he muttered, taking your hips and pulling you towards him. you sighed, stroking the cropped hair at the back of his head when he nestled it upon your shoulder. “one day, when everyone knows about us, it'll be all day, I promise.”

𝘫𝘢𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯

with one arm casually draped across the back of your seat, jaemin maneuvered the car into a shady alley, eyes trained on the back window. at last, the car came to a stop. “this should be secluded enough for us,’ he concurred. his gaze softened as his eyes landed on your lips, and he cupped your face with one hand as he leaned in to kiss you. you took your time to kiss him; there was no rush. nobody would find you two here. jaemin pulled away gently, staying so close that your lips were still brushing. “i can't wait until we can do this without having to hide away,” he whispered, his thumb caressing your jawline.

𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨

“did you do something nice with your hair today?” the girl had a huge smile plastered on her face, eyes sparkling as she gazed up at jisung. jisung smiled, but he wasn't looking at the girl. he was gazing across at you. “yes. i decided to do something special today,” he replied. “for someone i love dearly.” you beamed back at jisung, your heart bursting with more affection than you thought it could contain. none of jisung's admirers meant anything to him. it was only you, and nobody else. even if you two had to keep it on the low for now.

𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘦

“you never said we were coming to an abandoned basketball court!” you picked leaves off your jersey as you tried not to lose your balance from where you were squatted near a clump of nettles amongst other debris. chenle prodded gently at a thorn scratch on his cheek. “well, at least nobody would think to look here!” he smiled. “we're well and truly alone.” you rolled your eyes, but not unkindly. “I get the sentiment.” chenle shuffled closer to you. “I promise that I'll take you somewhere nice one day,” he said, taking your hand in his. “then we'll make it an official first date. we'll go anywhere you want.” you laid your head on his shoulder. “as long as we're together, I don't mind too much.”

𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯

you let out a sigh of delight as haechan tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his hands caressing your waist with gentle strokes. you suddenly broke apart as the door shook; someone was trying to get in. you watched on in horror, trembling slightly even after the rattling stopped. “good thing i secured that door shut first, right?” haechan laughed, pointing to the sliding lock at the top of the door. he held his arms open as he walked back towards you. “i am a genius.” “don't praise yourself too much,” you laughed as haechan wrapped his arms around your waist to resume the embrace.

𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘯

you yawned as you opened your eyes, smiling as you wrapped your arms around renjun's waist. in response, he traced lazy circles on your back, you nestled your head further into the nook of his neck, inhaling his soft smell of citrus and talc. whilst you were already at home, in your bedroom, your true abode was wherever renjun was. your phone pinged suddenly, and you leaned over to pick it up.

‘mum- i'll be home in 5 minutes!”

“you're going to have to go, renjun,” you sighed, and renjun nodded sadly, getting up immediately. “text me when I can come back, okay?” he said. you forced a smile on your face. “it won't always be like this-”

“I know, y/n, i know.”

◦ ₊

reblogs and comments greatly appreciated !! (´･ω･｀)

masterlist

taglist: @cigsaftersuh @jenoleeaesthetic @pl4netx1a @jeonghansshitester @herjaemin @chenlezip

click!

[charliemwrites]

Mister(s) Steal Your Girl — part 3

(I seriously need to come up with an actual name for this series before it sets in)

Introducing his grand horniness- John “Soap” MacTavish

No Content Warnings

It’s been six, coming up on seven, dates with Kyle. A dwindling part of you feared that after the absolutely mind-blowing night you two shared, he’d ghost you or something.

But nope, the morning after was spent in one of his jumpers, receiving kisses and breakfast and tea. The two of you watched movies all day until he drove you home, kissing you at the door. He let you keep his jumper.

Not three days later, he invited you to a movie you’d both been excited to see, and giggled over the popcorn bowl like teenagers. He didn’t even mind that you leaned over to whisper during certain parts, or the ramble you went on afterwards. (When you apologized for overanalyzing and talking so much, he gave you a bizarre, almost offended look. “Don’t you dare stop,” he huffed, “you’re way better than radio. What did you think about that after credit scene?”)

A few days after that, he called with apologetic news.

“Being shipped out for a couple weeks. Shouldn’t be anything too dangerous, and I’ll call when I can,” he explained.

You told the nervous little twist in your gut that you knew this about him. That this is Kyle’s job, not a convenient excuse to ignore you.

“Stay safe regardless,” you murmured earnestly into the phone. “I‘ll… I’ll miss you, Kyle.”

“You’re getting the biggest hug when I get back, darlin’,” he promised.

He kept to it too. Called at odd hours sometimes - once during dinner with your fiance even. But Brandon is always taking random calls nowadays, so you figured, given the circumstances, it’s not such a big deal to excuse yourself either.

On the other end of the call, Kyle sounded a bit tired, but happy to talk to you. He couldn’t tell you anything about what he was doing, but shared some smaller, safer details. That the tea was shite because Soap kept over-steeping it. That his lieutenant was big enough to body slam him during sparring practice. That Captain Price wishes you well and promises to bring Kyle back in one piece.

You even heard one of his teammates in the background, asking Kyle if he was “chirping at his new bird.” Soap, as you found out. They sound like a good bunch.

When Kyle comes back, you offer to welcome him at his apartment. You bring a little plate of cookies and a pack of his favorite beer, hoping it’s not too much. But when he opens the door, his expression melts before he scoops you up in the big hug he promised.

“You’re a fuckin’ dream, ya know that?” he murmurs, tucking his face against your neck.

You spend the whole weekend with him, kissing at the stitched-up knife wound on his muscled arm. Otherwise, all in one piece.

“Would you… want to meet my mates sometime?” he asks as you’re getting dressed for work Monday morning.

“Of course,” you reply instantly. Realize that might be too eager. “If you want to introduce me, that is.”

“I want to show you off to the bloody Queen, babes.”

You giggle, crossing the room to drop a quick kiss on his lips. He tries to draw you in for something deeper, but you wiggle and swat at him, complaining that he’ll make you late.

It’s good, you think. Blissfully good. Honeymoon phase, maybe, but considering how far off your actual honeymoon is, you feel like you deserve this. Kyle is a wonderful partner - kind, attentive, respectful. He listens, he cares, he’s independent of you and respects your boundaries. Sometimes you can’t believe you were ever nervous about this open relationship thing in the first place.

On Wednesday of that same week, Kyle tells you that Soap is going to visit and is eager to meet you. He was thinking dinner and drinks, come back to Kyle’s apartment afterwards. You readily agree.

The next day, a bouquet comes in. It’s a beautiful, though not extravagant, arrangement. Calla lilies, roses, and hydrangeas. The note that comes with it says, “Wanted to make a good first impression in case Kyle told you lies.” It’s signed “Johnny.”

You send a picture to Kyle, amused and a bit endeared. It brightens the rest of your day so much that you barely notice Lucy’s usual snide comments.

On Friday night, Brandon is unexpectedly home. Usually he doesn’t even come home from work on Fridays anymore - or at least he didn’t before you met Kyle. Lately, you only pop in if you’ve forgotten something for your overnight bag. You had to stay late at the office today, though, and your apartment is closer than Kyle’s.

“Was thinking we could go out tonight,” he tells you.

“Oh,” you say, taken aback. Not just by the invitation, but by the mix of emotion in your gut. Some of it is excitement and relief, but not as much as you’d expect. It’s warring with unease and reluctance, a bit of frustration that now of all times he wants to reconnect.

“Um, raincheck?” you offer, smoothing down your dress. It’s a new one you picked out with Kyle; you’re hoping he (Kyle) will notice. “I have plans.”

Brandon’s brow furrows, smile going tight. “You can’t reschedule?”

God you hate confrontation and he knows that, doesn’t he? Why is he pushing?

“Well I don’t know when I’ll get to see them again,” you explain.

Suddenly the tension in his shoulders eases. “Oh, is it a few people then?”

“Just a couple. I’m meeting one of them for the first time.”

“Have fun then,” he says, fishing his phone from his pocket. Like you’re not even there anymore.

You blink, then your phone buzzes with a message from Kyle and you hurry out the door.

“I knew you’d look terrific in that dress,” he says as soon as he sees you.

Thoughts of Brandon, that strange interaction, and those churning feelings all disappear in an instant. Kyle just has a way of soothing you.

The restaurant is one that has quickly become one of your favorites with Kyle. Good food, good drinks, quiet and relaxed atmosphere. You like the funky artwork and squishy booths.

Soap (Johnny?) has already gotten your party a table, and stands as the two of you approach. You nearly stop right there, and then almost trip a bit as momentum urges you onwards. Manage not to make a fool of yourself, but you still boggle at him.

Because Kyle? You thought he was a fluke. Just too handsome to be real, never mind tall and fit and friendly and— well, anyway.

You thought he was a fluke.

But Soap/Johnny is goddamn handsome too! Trim stubble, pretty eyes behind thick lashes, a soft-looking Mohawk that gives him a boyish charm without seeming immature.

“There you two are, thought ye stood me up!” he greets, drawing Kyle into one of those friendly man-hugs with the shoulder pats that look like they hurt.

“Youre a cheap date anyway, MacTavish,” Kyle replies, gently easing you forward with a hand on the small of your back.

“Och, don’t bad mouth me in front of a lady,” Johnny/Soap complains, then turns his twinkling gaze to you and offers a hand. “John MacTavish, but this bampot calls me Soap.”

“Not Johnny?” you ask curiously.

You take his hand, find callouses similar to Kyle’s. But his palm is a bit broader, a scar along his thumb - from a burn it looks like. Just as warm, just as careful. A firm, but not tight shake.

“You can call me anything you like, lass,” he says. From the corner of your eye, you see Kyle choking back a laugh. Johnny it is, you figure.

“Wait ‘Soap’ is a callsign right?” you ask as Kyle herds you into the booth.

“Right-o,” Johnny replies, smiling.

“Does Kyle have one?”

The grin that he gives you would make the devil sweat. As it is, Kyle groans and shoots you a betrayed look.

“Oh does he, lass.”

You light up, grin right back. “Tell me?”

“As if I could say no to a pretty face like that!”

And so begins a long, warm, perfect night. Johnny is great company. Welcoming and friendly, quick to smile, sharp witted. You could sit all night listening to him and Kyle quip at each other, but they’re so careful to keep you included and engaged.

Johnny even offers you some of his chips when his order comes, and you’re too delighted to say no. Not that Kyle seems to mind, encouraging you to steal a couple for him since Johnny keeps whacking his hand away.

The night ends back at Kyle’s. You whip up another batch of cookies with some suspiciously new-looking baking ingredients. The boys keep you company while you work — Kyle mixes the batter when your arm gets tired and Johnny keeps your wine glass full. In the end, you let them each get a lick of the dough spoon.

Eventually, you move to the couch, climb on together. Kyle, for some reason, scooches you into the middle instead of one of the ends, but you don’t mind and neither does Johnny, it seems. They argue over a movie to put on, but it doesn’t matter because the three of you talk through most of it anyway.

The second movie is your pick, which is your downfall. You barely get halfway through before dozing off. End up stirring to muffled laughter and harsh whispering. You’ve slumped into Johnny, you realize, seeing Kyle’s broad smile.

“Oh,” you hum, trying to sit up. “‘M sorry…”

“You’re alright, lass,” Johnny murmurs, gently nudging you back down.

“Kyle?” you ask, yawning.

“Still watching the movie, sweetheart. You can go back to your nap. Soap’s nice and warm, yeah?”

You hum, snuggle in again. He is comfy. “So are you.”

Another quiet chuckle. “I know, love.”

He rouses you later — the movie must be over, you think blearily. Kyle scoops you up, plants a kiss on your cheek as you tuck in.

“Say good night to your teddy bear, baby.”

“‘Night, Johnny,” you mumble, nuzzling your face into Kyle’s neck.

“‘Night, bonnie.”

You wake first the next morning — rare and precious. Kyle is lying behind you snoring softly, arm around your waist. You wiggle around to watch his sleeping face for a minute, appreciating the peace in his features. Drop a whisper-soft kiss on his cheek and then slip out of bed.

He grumbles a bit, but you coo at him to go back to sleep and he subsides quickly. Once you’ve freshened up in the bathroom, you pad out to the living room. Johnny is up as well, watching tv on low volume with a coffee on his knee.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Good morning,” you chirp back, continuing for the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” he observes, following.

“Slept well,” you reply, grinning. “Thanks in part to you. I hope that wasn’t uncomfortable.”

He ducks his head a bit, a light flush blooming across his ears and cheeks. “Nah, can’t complain about a pretty girl fallin’ asleep on me. Means I must have made a good impression, eh?”

“Oh! That reminds me - those flowers were gorgeous. Did you know calla lilies are my favorite?”

“Aye, Kyle’s been talkin’ about ya nonstop since ye met.”

It’s your turn to flush, and much brighter. You hurriedly turn to the cabinets.

“Well, thank you. I loved them.”

“Yeah? I’ll send you more then.”

Startled, you whip around on him, mouth stupidly open as you try to find a response. “You really don’t have to do that!”

“But what if I want to?”

And if you were struggling for words before, you’re hopeless now. So you just throw your hands up with a little “gah” sound and turn back to gathering ingredients.

“What are we making?” Johnny asks, taking mercy on you. Not that using that sly “we” isn’t devastating to your composure.

“My super special flapjack recipe,” you answer. “Could you get that big bowl down for me?”

He steps past you to do so while you dig out the measuring spoons from the dishwasher.

“If they’re as good as your cookies, then I’m gonna need extra PT after this weekend.”

“Good,” you reply, smug, “that’s my goal.”

“Dangerous woman.”

You snort, holding up a wooden spoon. “Oh yeah, I’m a real threat brandishing cooking utensils at a special ops guy.”

“Och, don’ sell yourself short - my nan used to be a menace with those things!”

Kyle exits the bedroom fifteen minutes later to the smell of cinnamon and his best friend with a face full of flour.

“…Do I even want to know?”

“Just be glad she’s on our side, Garrick.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[callalillywrites]

Made-up fic title: Play the game

Based on this ask meme.

Thank you so much for this ask. I love, love, love this title and all it's potential.

It instantly called up some fluffy stories that involved Jake and even a little bit of Steve and Bucky. It would be so easy to come up with something for each of them. I swear it's almost sickening how fast I came up with something cute for each of them with this title.

But...then, I got hit with a bit darker story that I don't typically write, and it's for this guy. It was so good (to me at least) that I had to make this one the answer to your title.

Play the Game

Everyone knows that Curtis Everett is all hard, sharp edges. You'd have to be to live in the train's tail section. There's not a lot that affects Curtis, either, in a way that others would ever readily see with their own eyes. They'd have to be almost overly observant to notice that softness exists within this man.

Sure, he takes care with the children and with Edgar due to their history, but no one really believes this is a true softness of this man. He's a good man to them, but he's not soft.

No, he's only truly soft with you. The time lasts milliseconds and they are few and far between, but they happen on a regular enough basis.

You are his only ray of sunshine in the dark, dank tail section. You remind him of life before the train, and it's enough to want to protect you. Only a couple years younger than him, you'd seen him at his absolute worst, but you've never judged him or feared him as some of the others did for a long time.

It's that need to protect the lifeline and redemption you provide that lands him in the hot seat as it were.

The rebellion takes place much the same with Gilliam passing messages back and forth with Wilford. Of all those in the tail section, Gilliam doesn't miss a thing. That includes that few short moments of softness Curtis shares with you. Neither of you ever see him, but that's the way he wants it. It all comes to be part of his plan with Wilford, too.

When someone from the front comes demanding you, you do your best to hide, but you're soon ripped away from Curtis's side. His fingers lose their grip on you, but he swears he'll get you back. He has to get you back.

The next message that Gilliam receives from Wilford has the words, "Play the Game," written in bright red on one side. On the other, it said, "To reclaim your prize," in the same sickening red color.

It reminded Curtis of blood, something he'd seen his fair share of and would shed plenty to get you back.

He's not just going to try and win some ground on that train. He's going to burn it down if it means getting you back. The violence and the anger are going to be a thousand-fold to what we see in canon as he'd been merely fighting for a sense of justice or purpose before. Now, he's fighting for something more, for someone who truly means the world to him.

Curtis is a man that plays for keeps, and Wilford has taken one of the last few precious things that Curtis claims as his own.

The only question that remains at the end of this is if you continue to be his ray of sunshine, his redemption, or will his quest to reclaim you finally turn you away from him?

Oh, man, I kinda really like this idea. I already have so many though, and could I really pull something like this off? I don't know, but I kinda wanna try? Would anyone be interested?

Curtis Everett Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[callalillywrites]

It really is.

Warnings: Explicit, sexual language - 18 + only - Minors DNI

"Oh god, here comes Ransom," your friend groaned. You looked up to see him walking aggressively across the outdoor reception, making a beeline right for you. You knocked back the half glass of champagne in your hand and steeled yourself. This would only be annoying.

Within just a few seconds he was standing in front of you. As always, you hated how good he looked, how it made every part of your body stand at attention. He barely looked at your friend as he said, "Leave."

She looked at you but you just rolled your eyes and gestured for her to go. You knew he'd just throw a bigger fit with an audience.

"That was very rude," you said.

"I can't believe that's the guy you're fucking now," he said, gesturing to where your boyfriend was patiently waiting in line at the bar.

"We're not fucking," you said. "It's serious. We're moving in together."

He had the gall to laugh, head tipped back with his hands on his hips like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "No, you're not."

"Excuse me?!"

"Living with that guy? You'll be bored to death within a week." He took a step back and looked you up and down. "You already are, aren't you?" He grinned. "Yeah, I can see it on you."

"Ransom!" you said, trying to keep your voice down but your frustration, and something else you didn't want to name, was threatening to boil over. "We fucked for a while, and it was good, fine. But we were both very clear about what it was. And now, this," you said, gesturing to your boyfriend, who you prayed would stay at the bar for at least a few more minutes, "is what I need. What I want."

He took a large step forward so he was fully in your space. "No, it isn't," he said, his voice dropping a full octave. You could feel it in your knees. "He's what you think you're supposed to want. And if you wish hard enough, you think you'll be able to make yourself satisfied with that. But if you were really honest with yourself you would know what I and your delicious cunt already know. The only one who will ever be able to satisfy you is me." And with a final, dirty smirk, he whirled back around and sauntered back the way he came, his scarf floating out behind him.

You took a deep breath. Then another. Your thighs were clenched and you were worried your ankles might give out in your heels. Another breath. Then you straightened and headed over to the bar to rejoin your boyfriend and get another, much-needed, glass of champagne.

Ahahaha! That was fun. Thank you, Navy!

[crossbackpoke-check]

about to be sooo nosy so. my apologies. but. morgan frost? girlfriend? do share (or don’t! again this is so nosy i’m sorry)

for legal purposes i can neither confirm nor deny anything about morgan and his girlfriend but afaik i think he’s single right now? at one point (within the past four years 😭) he did for sure have a girlfriend and that is the extent of my wag knowledge

[moriwood]

Flower Puff Boy — p.js

park jongseong x male reader fluff with very lil angst 2.3k words

Over the past year, people have come to know you as the guy who always gives flowers. You’ve used every occasion as an excuse to purchase flowers from Jay, your neighborhood florist, and each time you walked in, you always ended up with a free flower from him. As Valentine’s Day nears, you realize what flowers truly mean to him and you.

includes: flower language! (might be wrong, i’m not good with flowers myself); a call back to my other xo era-inspired fic (pls read it too if u haven’t yet :’3) warning: n/a

You were never well-versed in the language of flowers. No special fascination, no favorite blooms nor scents growing up. But over the past year, you have come to be known as the guy who gives flowers. For friends who started new jobs, relatives who celebrated their birthdays, and even your coworker who merely complained about the blandness of her beige desk, flowers had become your go-to gift.

You first stepped into Flower Puffs on a whim, a small shop tucked into a side road with little traffic. Despite its humble appearance, its color always stood out against the dull low-rise apartments beside it. The chalkboard outside boasted seasonal arrangements and flower meanings scribbled in neat, cursive letters. It started simple: a gift for your mother on Mother’s Day.

—

Behind the counter, a young man arranges a bouquet. His sleeves were rolled up, and the veins along his arms were like vines growing on a trellis. He glances up at the sound of the bell jingling above the door. His eyes lock onto yours, lips stretching into a smile as charming as the flowers that surrounded him.

“Hey there. Mother’s Day?”

You hesitate by the entrance. His directness catches you off guard, though it makes sense—most of his clients for the day were probably here for the same reason.

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Good call,” he replies, his smile reaching to his eyes. He wipes his hands on his apron and steps around the counter. “Something classic or something unique?”

You shift on your feet, glancing at the rows of flowers neatly arranged on wooden displays. “Uh… I don’t really know flowers.”

He chuckles softly, approaching the nearest display to you. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

He hums as he gestures at his different floral arrangements, voice filled to the brim with enthusiasm. It’s quite captivating—the way he spoke about flowers—detailing their scientific properties, from colors to scents, then unraveling the messages they somehow conveyed without words.

He picks up some delicate stems, their green, fuzzy leaves adorned with tiny yellow flowers that spiral upward along its length. Oddly, they remind you of the herbs you use to season food. “Agrimonias mean gratitude and protection. Old legends say that if you sleep with agrimonias under your pillow, they ward off evil.”

He then picks up another few bright yellow flowers, bigger than but as slender as the agrimonias. “These hawksbeards here mean something similar—protection and contentment.”

“And some Peruvian lilies,” he says, picking up some flowers in a darker shade of yellow, with lines of purple decorating its petals. “They mean a lot of things: wealth, fortune, and devotion. If it’s for your mom, you probably want the most for her, right?”

You nod. There’s a strange intimacy in the interaction, listening to someone speak about something they’re clearly passionate about in such a quiet environment. You reach out to take the bouquet he’s begun assembling, and for a split second, your fingers brush. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his eyes flicker to your face in amusement then he steps back with a grin. He plucks a white flower from one of the nearby displays and twirls it between his fingers.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you. “A calla lily. Consider it a welcome gift.”

“What does it mean?”

“Magnificent beauty,” he replies smoothly, “like you.”

You freeze, caught between surprise and amusement. The confidence in his delivery makes you think that this is a regular schtick he does with his customers; however, for a beat too long, you consider if he could be as genuine as the flowers that he sells. 

A laugh bubbles up in your throat as you notice the board on the counter that reads Flower Puffs in colorful chalk.

“Well, thank you… Flower Puff Boy,” you finally reply.

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” he cackles, slapping a hand over his eyes. “But Jay would probably be better,” he corrects. “And you?”

—

It all began there, and you kept on coming back. Every occasion has become a perfect time to come visit Jay’s shop.

And each time, he gives you a flower. Even on days where you decide not to purchase anything and just pass the time at his shop, you always leave with a single flower in your hand. You keep them all, pressed in between pages of your books, tucked into vases by your windowsill, like tokens of each visit. In your mind, you’ve authored a tiny dictionary of all their meanings.

Wood sorrels for joy, when a childhood friend came to visit you in the city.

Mayflowers for perseverance, when your boss just recovered from a major surgery.

Lemon geraniums for unexpected meetings, when you welcomed a new guy in the workplace.

Then he gave you a lily of the valley for the return of happiness, because he hadn’t expected you to come back so soon.

Then milkvetches, because, as he put it, your presence softened his pains—something he didn’t explain further.

Then French marigolds for jealousy, after you mentioned to him how attractive the new guy at work was.

He didn’t seem to lie about what his flowers meant, yet you never took the time to question if the flowers really meant anything to him—to you. After all, he’s just a merchant, and you’re just a customer. Assuming otherwise would be foolish, especially when, after nearly a year of frequenting his shop, you knew nothing much other than his name and his line of work.

What do you do outside the shop? What else do you like other than flowers?

Were those even questions you could ask?

And yet, you still return. Not exactly for him, but for the giddy feeling you get when you learn something new about a flower—or so you tell yourself.

The bell rings as you step inside, and as always, the familiar florist stands behind the counter, carefully arranging a bouquet. He’s leaning over the counter, speaking with a customer—a guy around your age, donning an oversized sweater and smiling brightly. Jay notices you, glancing at you, but his attention is swiftly drawn back to the man he was talking to.

You really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the shop is too small not to overhear everything. Turning to the wooden displays, you pretend to browse through the flowers, testing yourself on the meanings you’ve learned.

“With a love letter and everything,” the guy says.

Jay chuckles. “Sounds… romantic… Who’s the lucky guy?”

Mustards. Greenish-yellow, as in the plant with the seeds that are used to make the condiment with the same name. It meant indifference, Jay said, when you wanted to buy something for a leaving coworker who you really didn’t care about.

“No idea. The flowers had me thinking they got it from you.”

Jay hums. “Sunoo got one. Then I think Heeseung?”

Cobaeas. Large, bell-shaped, and violet. Gossip, like you tuning in more to their conversation. Who are these people that they’re mentioning?

“Heeseung?” the guy repeats.

“Said he’s getting ‘em to cheer someone up. Maybe it’s him?”

The guy laughs. “I don’t think he swings my way. If it’s Sunoo or Heeseung, then this person probably bought it elsewhere.”

Goldenrods. So small, Jay just uses them to fill up his flower arrangements. He said they could mean precaution, but for what exactly?

“I hope you find out soon, or maybe not. Then I’ll make you a better bouquet. No secret messages though, just a delicate arrangement of flowers from your favorite florist.”

French marigolds. Jealousy. Huh.

You turn back to the couple by the counter, finding the guy chuckling and shaking his head. “I’ll take that offer when the mystery turns exhausting. But I’m pretty invested right now.”

Jay smiles at him, all easygoing and warm as usual. “Let me know how it turns out then.”

The guy waves goodbye, taking one last look at the bouquet in his hands before heading out. Jay then exhales, fingers tapping against the wood. He notices you again, now with his full attention, and grins.

“What’re you doing over there? Come tell me your excuse for visiting today. Don’t tell me it’s Lunar New Year.”

You force a chuckle, stepping closer. “Birthday of a friend. Was just testing if I remember the botanical stuff you’ve taught me.”

Jay tilts his head. He points to some oxeye daisies, petals white with a yellow center. “What do those mean?”

“Patience. Purity. The he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not flower.”

“Correct,” he replies, picking one and twirling it between his fingers. “Is this friend you’re talking about a friend-friend or…”

“Or?”

“Friends with ulterior motives,” Jay laughs. “Friends from a different dimension.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “No. A real, very existing friend.”

Jay studies you for a moment, an embarrassing warmth creeping into your face. You might make every occasion an excuse to visit Jay, but you won’t stoop so low as to invent stories about imaginary people. 

“You have to stop giving out flowers on a whim like that, your friend might misinterpret,” he says.

You hesitate briefly, then you roll your eyes in realization. “I could say the same thing about you giving free flowers to all your customers.”

Jay furrows his brows. “I don’t?”

“Huh?”

A beat passes.

“I don’t give free flowers to all my customers,” Jay repeats.

“Just me then?”

If not all customers, then maybe just the ones who buy a lot. That makes sense. Definitely not just you, don’t be delusional.

“Just you, yeah.”

“Oh.”

The guy from earlier left with his bouquet and nothing else. Another beat passes. Then Jay claps his hands together.

“So! A birthday bouquet. Got flowers in mind or you want my floral magic again?”

You blankly nod, mind still reeling from what Jay has just told you. “You do your magic, I’ll watch.”

Jay begins to work, slow as he selects the first few flowers, then fingers moving more efficiently as the flower arrangement grows into something more colorful and “meaningful.” You shift your weight from foot to foot as you watch him, letting the faint snip of scissors and rustling of wrapping paper fill in the silence.

After a moment, you find yourself asking: “Do you really believe in it?”

Jay glances up, pausing from cutting a length of pink ribbon. “In what?”

“Flowers and their meanings,” you clarify.

“Well, they mean something if you want them to,” he replies, before resuming what he was doing with the ribbon, gently tying it around the bouquet. “I mean,” Jay hesitates. “Flowers are just like any other gift or gesture. They only matter as much as you let them.”

He pushes the finished bouquet towards you, giving you a warm smile. “Or maybe you just like giving beautiful people something beautiful, and that’s as valid as any other reason,” he adds. “I’ve never been good with words anyway, so I’d appreciate flowers even if they really meant nothing other than pretty, colorful things.”

You nod, smiling back in understanding. Then the words tumble out before you can think too hard about them, a joke too sincere, a humorous statement that’s been stripped of its humor. Because you’re just that good with words unlike this Flower Puff Boy.

“Would it be fraternization with the enemy if I brought you flowers for Valentine’s?”

Jay stills, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then he catches on. “I guess I’ll give you white catchflies then. Betrayal!”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, prodding at the bouquet on the counter. “Have to check out the competition.”

Jay gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “After all the free flowers!?”

Your lips twitch. “Wasn’t exactly a fan of such a manipulative business tactic,” you joke.

He clicks his tongue in mock offence. “Guess I’ll have to stop the freebies then.”

The playful banter comes easily, but your heart stutters, thumping in your chest and wavering your voice in the process. For almost a year, you thought that Jay’s easy charm was just part of customer service. Maybe it was, but now, it definitely doesn’t feel like it.

“Valentine’s, huh?” Jay grins. “Receiving flowers on that day instead of selling them would be a change.”

You glance at the long-forgotten bouquet for your friend, your fingers idly brushing over the brown paper wrapped around the flowers.

“Actually,” you start, voice a little quieter, “could you make another bouquet for me? To pick up on a different day? Forgot something.”

Jay lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? What occasion?”

You smile, keeping it light. “Secret.”

Jay playfully narrows his eyes. “Am I gonna be jealous of another ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Should you?” you laugh, making Jay grumble in fake frustration. “I’ve got specific flowers in mind.”

“Okay, tell me what flowers you want,” he sighs. “I’ll prepare them by the date you need them.”

White chrysanthemums. Moss rosebuds. Peach blossoms. And lastly, yellow jonquils.

“Do you know what these flowers mean?” Jay slowly asks, as if he’s still processing the list of flowers you just gave him.

You nod, heat once again rushing to your face. “Do you?”

Jay shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We might have different dictionaries. Spell it out for me, please?”

You take a moment, the words spilling as if it came from a script, though your voice shakes. “I’m not lying when I say that this is a confession. You have captivated me and I desire a return of this affection.”

“That’s quite a specific message,” Jay replies, exhaling. “Who’s it for then?”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of what this scene means. “You.”

Jay shakes his head, but you see the fondness in his expression. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters. “When will you be picking it up?”

“On Valentine’s, of course.”

He laughs. “I’m a florist. Wait for my reply in flowers by then.”

A sense of ease washes over you. “I’ll see you by then, Flower Puff Boy.”

Jay watches you with a smile as you turn toward the door, the familiar chime ringing once again.

For the first time, you leave the shop with no free flower to take home. And for the first time, you’re comfortable admitting that it wasn’t just the flowers that you were always looking forward to.

author's note: it’s over 2 weeks too late for valentine’s but hey i made it! would y’all believe me if i said i broke my arm a few months ago and it stalled everything for a while 😭 i hav a lot of drafts ongoing so let’s hope i don’t disappear for another few months ADF:gpzicvbpzpvo sorry for always slacking y'allllls

references: Flower language taken from the 1867 book “The illustrated language of flowers” by Mrs. L. Burke: https://archive.org/details/illustratedlang00burka

— moriwood.

[chrryblsssm]

calla    stares    at    steve    for    a    moment,    brows    knitting    together,    just    a    bit    puzzled    by    the    suggestion.    ❝    sorry,    i    don't    actually    know    the    definition    of    the    word    normal.    not    in    my    vocabulary    at    all,    in    fact.    ❞    she    tells    him,    shrugging    her    shoulders.    ❝    i'm    down    if    you    wanna    be    batshit    fucking    insane,    though.    ❞

@theha1r

[callalillywrites]

For a fever dream, it’s fantastic.

omg not me freaking out that i am part of the group that gets bait gifs! FRIENDS!!!!!!! i'm fine. i'm chill. don't leave me!

This took me a minute to figure out what I wanted Sir Dorksalot to have done that was sketchy enough to have him make this face...

Watch The Fish, Jake Jensen x reader headcanon wholeass fic in bullet format because my god this got long

Warnings for mentions of masturbation and porn, accidental then totally intentional voyeurism, awkward and oblivious!Jake--so just Jake, yeah?--and smutty implications...

🥹 roommates to lovers 😊

you rent a pretty large house maybe even with one or two others at first, but they move out

jake has to use it as a crashpad sometimes because he'll be away for so long at a time, but he pays rent and the entire electrical & internet bill no matter what

you keep a fish tank in the living room

after jake comes back from months in hiding abroad away, he gets so excited to be home and spend time with his niece that he hosts an after-game pizza party for her soccer team

someone practices headbutting the ball inside and nearly topples the tank

jake catches the whole thing with his broad arm-span and a decent amount of strength just in time when it wobbles the whole table beneath it. his heart nearly stopped, and he's so grateful the glass didn't break. thank god you weren't home.

however, you insist on moving the fish to your room instead once he tells you.

jake's a little sad to see them go. he pouts so much you decide to take pity on him, buying a web cam to mount beside the tank so jake can watch them whenever he wants. he loves to do voices for each one, personalities, soap-opera-like dramatic storylines, the works

as an aside you ask him if the sound can be turned off on the camera. jake says yeah but he mostly means he can turn it to mute on his computer.

which he does, for the record, but he has to remember to do it each time he pulls up the feed of da fishies. honestly, half the time he's wearing headphones and the other half you aren't home while he puts the Marauders (because there's just one fat one) onto his third monitor for background.

so he forgets that the sound is on and a thing he might need to avoid

weeks later, maybe months, jake finally removes his headphones after a very long stint of coding, completely unaware of what time it is and that you are home in your room

at first, jake is dead convinced that some porn ad has popped up in a window behind his work, something he would go apeshit about and ransomware bomb the shit out of whoever wrote such slippery spam

the fish are peaceful as ever, blooping away whilst jake frantically closes program after program trying to find the hot chick moaning on his desktop...until it's all closed and the buzzing remains though his tower's fan stopped...then the squelching noise starts

jake is frozen in place, looking away from the fish like they're the damn problem, but he doesn't cut the feed

he...he shouldn't

he should turn it off or just mute it like he promised

and he tries

he tries really hard, gang

it's the cursor's fault that it hits the command to send the audio to his bluetooth headphones instead of mute

and he sets the headphones down on the keyboard, gnawing on his bottom lip and watching his closed bedroom door in anticipation of...getting caught, maybe? he's not sure

he watches the fish putter around like it's no big deal

which it isn't, right?

you're human. he's human. humans have urges. they touch themselves--they touch each other, too--and there's no harm in that. if anything...jake encourages it, or he would...if you knew that he knew about this

the noises are so faint from the itty bitty speakers two feet from his face, but he doesn't pick them up, still debating what to do

because there's a big difference between what jake should do in this situation and what he wants to do

he mutes audio and then cuts off the livestream

at least, that's what he did the first time it happened

he knows he's a perv. jake can't help it.

it becomes a game of sorts. it's like practice recon for learning a target's routine. not that jake needs practice at the job he already fucking has but that's how his brain justifies laying on his own bed in the glow of the fish tank feed with his headphones turned way up

he knows your bed is on the other side of your room from when he moved the fish tank in

he knows what your underwear look like from the laundry room downstairs

he knows what you smell like from the shared bathroom and the products lining your shelf

he now knows there's a bottle of toy cleaner in one of your sink drawers

and he shouldn't but he absolutely touches himself listening to you, fists himself when you're fucking a toy he imagines six-shapes-to-Sunday, teases himself when all you're doing is breathing softly from across the whole house and he's cold and covered in cum by the end

to be fair, jake hates himself because of all this, but he is now mildly addicted

he doesn't even exit out of the livestream anymore. it just stays up on his monitor like a screensaver, but he doesn't realize that once he takes his headphones out of range, the audio transfers to his speakers again

so jake goes on a mission for a few days, and at some point while you are cleaning up your room, playing music, you find two pairs of jake's socks in your load of clean laundry and go to toss them in his room...where the same music you're listening to way down the hall is playing...in sync...

you're horrified and then embarrassed and then quickly realized it might mean nothing

you have to test if it means something

jake returns from his mission on complete autopilot

just so damn tired

throws down his duffle on top of some socks he doesn't remember leaving out and just hits the shower for a long, long time

he hasn't talked to you yet

he hasn't even seen you except your car is home and your door is shut

he goes about his business

the volume on his speakers isn't high but he hears you speaking and assumes you're on the phone

he pays it no mind. he is glad to be home, glad you're fine since he's just been in a part of the world where most people are not safe.

in a weird sort of way, he feels he's earned the mundane sort of comfort that comes from "the same ol'" of this house

he's wiped out, so he crawls into bed with his headphones immediately, hair barely toweled dry, not bothering with boxers because...why make more laundry?

and then the worst thing happens

there's a man's voice coming through his headphones, and jake scowls in frustration and rage

did you go and get a fucking boyfriend? in a couple of days? or goddamnit is this some tinder shit in his home right now?

but it only gets worse

he can hardly contain himself, what with the gagging sounds and this dude telling you to take it like the whore you are, and JAKE WILL LITERALLY BURN THIS PLACE DOWN

now his ass is putting on clothes

now his ass is ready to riot

the sex gets more and more degrading; spanking noises and even choking, but not in a seemingly consensual way, which is when jake rips his headphones off, storms down the hall and barrels straight through your bedroom door

where...you...aren't

no one is. no you. no man.

just your laptop sitting on your desk near the fish tank, playing the money shot of a porn video he was just listening to

get the fuck out. get out. get out. his brain screams, and he bolts

he makes it three feet before stopping short

you're standing at the top of the stairs, a bowl of ice cream in hand, licking the spoon unbelievably slowly with your whole tongue

you're fucked. you're fucked. you're fucked. his brain adds helpfully.

"hey, jakey," you say with a smile. "whatcha doing?"

A/N: this cat is officially my reaction to pretty much everything because...well...it's very accurate.

[Main Masterlist; Jake Jensen Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

THERE'S A SEQUEL!

[cwritesforfun]

Hey can I request an emporor geta x reader, like them growing up together, maybe reader is the daughter of one fo the senators. As they become teenagers they fall in love with eachother, like cute first kiss and first time kinda thing

Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader: Teenager In Love (Request)

Y/N - Your First Name

They will not follow the Roman style of speech - it will be written in modern language.

*I do not own the Gladiator 2 characters or plot.* I do change some of the plot and add new characters. *

Your POV

You grew up living in Rome with your father, Senator Titus. (Yes, a new character!) Your father was good friends with Senator Gracchus and met with him many times in secret about how to overthrow the senators.

You spent your days braiding hair, drinking wine, dancing, socializing, and entertaining guests. You were a pianist, and your talent was in demand by whoever sat on the throne in Rome. Your father let you go and play for guests as long as you took 2 of your security guards. So you did.

This experience of playing in the palace introduced you to Calla and Geta. You met them at a young age as they were both maturing. They were lanky and pale and soon to rule. They intimidated you.

One day you got close with Calla after talking to Dundus and giving him snacks.

You became friends with Geta quicker. He trusted you and you would help him throughout the day. You were often at his right hand side much to your father’s dismay. Your father disliked your closeness to Calla and Geta.

You were intrigued with the relationship between Calla and Dundus because you had never seen someone so trusting and needy of a pet.

Then there was Calla and Geta’s relationship. It was not one you wanted for yourself. Geta watched over Calla to where it took a toll on him. You could see the light dimming from Geta’s eyes day by day.

…

It was to your surprise that one night, when you were already asleep at home, you were awoken to your guards announcing Geta’s arrival. You quickly threw a robe over your pajamas, slid your knife into your pocket, and ran downstairs. Geta was pacing at the bottom of the steps, and he looked worried. You bow and quickly ask, “Geta, what may I do for you this late?” He answers, “I need to talk to you.” You nod and lead him into the sitting room closest to you. You sit on the couch next to each other, and he confesses, “I’m not fit to rule. There are so many things I haven’t done and so many things I still haven’t learned. I’m not ready for this.” You place your hand on his rubbing circles on it and say, “Geta, you are ready. You’ve always been strong and confident in your ability to lead. Whatever is shaking you up tonight, push it aside because you are fit to rule.” He says, “I haven’t even kissed a girl yet.” You reply, “Oh well, that’s easy to check off. It also does not affect your leadership... You should just kiss me.” His eyes widen, and he asks, “Really? Do you mean it?” You answer, “If it’ll help you sleep tonight and make you feel fit to rule, yes, I mean it. I will kiss you.” He smiles, leans in, and kisses you.

…

If people thought you two were close before, then that is nothing compared to after the kiss.

Geta never failed to find you in a crowd. If you were there, he would know and he would request your presence.

Once, you had just entered into the palace into a big crowd and Geta’s guards found you just like that. When you made it over to Geta, you ask, “How’d you know I was here already? I just arrived.” He answers, "I'll always look out for you." You smile, and he softly presses a kiss to your cheek. He pulls you into a different room and says, “I’ve been thinking about our kiss, and I think we should do it again.” You wrap your arms around his neck and ask, “Are you really going to do this every day that we see each other? It’s been 6 months.” He shrugs, wrapping his arms around his waist, and says, “Why? It could be our thing.” You smile, and he presses a kiss to your lips.

That night ends differently than your usual nights. Geta requests you to walk with him in the gardens. You notice he seems fidgety and off. You ask, “Geta, what’s wrong?” Geta answers, “Nothing, I just have something on my mind.” You keep walking and reach an area with your favorite flowers. Geta asks, “Are these still your favorites?” You answer, “Yes, they’re truly beautiful too.” He nods, bends down on one knee, and exclaims, “I bow to no one. But... as tradition goes, when a man asks a woman for her hand in marriage, they should kneel. I am entranced by you, my sweet, beautiful Y/N. You bring me light, and you are always supportive. I have come to rely and depend on you. I find myself wishing you to be here every night and every day by my side. So... I guess what I’m asking is will you marry me?” You answer, “Yes!”

…

You move in within 2 weeks after Geta proposes.

Geta can hardly handle his excitement that he throws a feast to celebrate your engagement.

That night, Geta's hands don't leave your body. They're on your waist, your shoulders, and tracing your body as you spend your first night together.

[autumnrainwrites]

Publicly Owned Doll

Two witches walked side by side through the streets of the town, unaccompanied by any dolls. It was a warm day in early spring, and the shops and parks bustled with townsfolk enjoying the pleasant weather, with the occasional doll or other being mixed in. In truth, that was why the two witches were out there as well, while their dolls busied themselves back home with spring cleaning. After all, the witches would only get in the way.

The morning was getting late when the witch Raleigh turned to their friend and asked, "What is the time, Cal?"

Pulling up her sleeve, the witch Calloway checked her watch and said, "Just shy of eleven. Are you feeling peckish?"

"I could certainly go for elevenses."

An unfamiliar voice spoke up from behind them. "The cafe on the corner of Barrow and Main is packed this morning, Miss, but the one on Yrhill Lane has tables free on the patio."

The two witches turned to see a doll neither recognized. It wore a smart grey uniform, with a red sash and a red pin on its breast that read 'Publicly Owned Doll' in bold letters. It curtsied, a confident smile upon its porcelain lips.

"I don't recognize you," Calloway said, curious about the doll who interrupted them. "Who do you belong to?"

"This one belongs to the public, Miss," the doll replied.

"The public?"

"Yes?

Calloway pinched the bridge of her nose, while Raleigh giggled. Then they asked the doll, "Could you explain to us what you mean by that, dear?"

"Of course, Miss. This one is publicly owned. That is to say, it belongs to all witches and makers collectively, not just any single witch or maker."

"That seems strange to me, I admit, but do you feel satisfied with that?"

The doll nodded. "It aligns with this one's Purpose, Miss."

"And what Purpose is that?"

It tilted its head slightly, still smiling. "To make the world a kinder, happier place, Miss. This one's maker granted it that Purpose when it was first made."

"And who is your maker?" Calloway asked.

"This one was made by Master Vaughn, Miss."

Raleigh nodded at that, but Calloway gave them a questioning look, prompting them to say, "Vaugh was a dollmaker who passed away about... eight years ago or so. He helped me when I converted my Calla and Aster from cloth to porcelain, and I incorporated some of his parts into Euthamia as well."

"I see. That would have been four years before I moved here with Ash, right?"

"Just three, Cal. You've been here five years."

"So long already? Are you sure?"

"Positive," Raleigh said, then glanced back at the doll. "Well, I suppose we'd best get to the cafe on Yrhill before it gets any later."

So, the three made their way to Yrhill Lane, to a little cafe in the pleasant shade of the trees. The doll served them, while the two talked about the latest gossip in the magical community. Before long, the sun hung right overhead and the teacups sat empty. 

"I suppose it is about time I get back to Ash and Apricot," Calloway said, a smile playing across her face. "It's been a pleasure, Raleigh."

"Likewise, Cal. And I must thank our lovely doll as well." The witch reached out to pet its head, earning a sweet awawa of affection. "Though, I just realized I never asked it's name."

The doll nuzzles the hand petting it and said, "Master Vaugh named this one Rossa Primavera, Miss. He said it was from an old song."

"Ah, yes. I see. Well, Rossa Primavera, you've been a very wonderful public doll, and a great help."

"Thank you, Miss. This one is sure to see you again soon."

And with that, the three parted ways, the witches to their own homes and their own dolls, and the public doll to find others to help.

[eleysims]

Hi there! Can I please ask where the 2 potted plants in the first picture here are from? /eleysims/775458133147631616/light-airy?source=share

Hello, sorry for the late reply! (Been a while since I've played this save)

The flowers on the mantelpiece are White Callas from the Sims 4 Los Feliz Kitchen set by Pyszny.

Then the flowers on the table are Tulips from the Sims 4 Vega Living Room set by Severinka.

Both are converted 4t2 by @/pixelrysims / @/thimblesims which you can find here. (Some of my most fav flowers are also in here!!)