#i hope everyone likes this small snippet so far

[florelia12]

Bridgerton AU

Since I have the patience and self-control of a 5yo child (i just turned 19), here's the first chapter to a fic I'm working on that's more of an introductory kinda chapter. I won't post it on A03 or FFN until I've got a few more chapters done or maybe after I finish Untamable since its a fairly shorter story.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Lady Eldora

Society Papers

Dearest Readers,

Tonight we celebrate the beginning of the social season. After two years of suffering through the plague that has ripped the world of happiness and life, we can finally step out into the world and reunite with the people around us. The time has come to forget the past while we honour the loved ones we have lost and find joy once again.

Let us enter the social season with our hearts and minds open to new experiences, friendships and of course, love.

On that note, shall we begin with the introductions of our lovely debutantes for this season…

Firstly, we have our dear Princess of Solaria, Her Highness, Princess Stella. Although the Princess is now two and twenty, a year late for her debut due to the plague that unfortunately put a pause on social seasons for the past two years, we have no doubt that she will shine her way through her first season. An abundance of matches is for sure waiting for Her Highness, but who will the Princess choose? Will her childhood friendship with the Prince of Eraklyon — who has finally returned from the War victorious — blossom into something more? We will find out soon enough. 

Secondly, we have the spare of the Dominian royalty, Princess Bloom. Her sister, Princess Daphne, who successfully enraptured the Duke of Eraklyon, Prince Consort Thoren, is now expecting her second child in the coming months — what wonders being trapped in the castle without being allowed to leave for two years does for the fertility of young couples. The charming pair that found love and were the first to be married by the end of our last season are a testament to true love. Will the same fate await Princess Bloom this season?

As if this season could not get more special, we will get to bear witness to the first ever public appearance of the Princess of Andros. Princess Aisha’s beauty and grace has been spoken about plentifully throughout the commonwealth, yet no one has been lucky enough to lay eyes on her. I must say, her debut is the one I am looking forward to the most. Let’s hope we shall not be disappointed, and I’m sure her parents, the King and Queen of Andros share the same apprehension after all the efforts they put into defeating their neighbouring country that waged war on us all during an already terrible time. The pressure is on, Princess Aisha, I wish you good luck. 

Princess Isobel of Dyamond, who like our Princess Stella is debuting late at the age three and twenty, has already garnered quite the reputation with her…escapades during the plague. While the rest of us locked ourselves in our homes for the safety of others and ourselves, Princess Isobel hosted soirees and parties that admittedly endangered the lives of many. While she was granted with impeccable care when she unfortunately caught the plague, her guests suffered a different and more lethal fate. I have my reservations about allowing such a careless Princess debut, but I am simply a gossipmonger who shall not interfere with the decisions of Queen Luna who so kindly is hosting the social season in Solaria this year. I am no one to talk about the irony of a divorcee conducting the upcoming matchmaking season now, am I?

Now, we sure have many more beautiful Princesses who will be debuting tonight, but I must admit I am already bored of them. I place my wager on these Princesses to be named as the Diamond of this season.

A lady who will be making her debut tonight that deserves my honourable mention and our warmest thanks is Miss Flora of Linphea. Born to Sir Rhodos and Mrs. Alyssa in a humble village south of Linphea, she enters the season as the daughter of the man who has saved us all. We owe Sir Rhodos, a talented healer and scientist, for the invention of the cure that has abolished the plague. The family of four, including their youngest daughter Miss Miele, has officially moved their residence to Solaria, the head of the commonwealth after an influx of well-deserved money. Many suitors are indeed waiting to snatch up the young lady as it would be a fine honour to marry the daughter of the world’s hero, but we shall see if the men are simply hungry for the new money or if our debutante will find a beautiful love-match.

Talking about the men, let’s see who are our eligible bachelors of this season, shall we?

Of course, we have Prince Sky of Eraklyon, who is now two and twenty and ready to be wed. It is no doubt that the young ladies of society have their eyes set on the biggest prize there is to offer; a War hero and the future King of one of the most powerful kingdoms of the commonwealth. His Highness is indeed a lucky man and we can only wait and see which of these beautiful flowers laid out for his choosing that he will pick to be his wife and future Queen.

This spring, we also welcome the new Duke of Aquila, Duke Helia. God bless the soul of the late Duke, whom we lost to the plague a year ago and my deepest condolences to his son who was away fighting for our safety in the war against the barbarians of Omega Island when his father passed so suddenly. His Grace has inherited his father’s title that was bestowed upon the young knight twenty five years ago by King Radius, and a worthy inheritance indeed for a War hero who was released from duty with highest of honours after sustaining an injury. The Duke, who had spent his growing years from the age of fifteen in the City of Magix, studying the fine arts, will now officially reside in Solaria once again as he takes up his new role. All the best to the artist turned soldier turned Duke in settling into his new life, and my word of advice is to take advantage of all this season has to offer and find himself a lovely maiden to call his home.

With that, I shall bid you goodbye for now and let you continue with your preparations for tonight’s debutante ball. Good luck to the debutantes, may your beauty shine bright and lead the way to promising futures. Do not worry, my dearest readers, I promise to aid in keeping up with the debutantes when I return with new delicious stories of our society in a few days. Until then…

Yours truly,

Lady Eldora

#it’ll focus on florelia mainly with hints of other couples #yes it has references to covid #shoutout to kat @alwayswriting101 for the reuinted fic that i’ve reread all the time #now idk if this is spoilers but i think the story’s pretty similar (but not really) to The Duchess Deal by Tessa Dare #i havent read the book but ive been seeing it on tiktok and the story kinda feels similar #idk but the book’s on my tbr #anyways i feel like chapter is pretty confusing #ill explain it more in the notes when i post the chapter on the fanfiction sites #until then #i hope everyone likes this small snippet so far #also just so no one has any expectations there is no lady whistledown (lady eldora in this fic) #simply because I terribly wanted it to be bloom but the story i have for her just can’t seem to fit in with the whole #anonymous scandal paper writer #i need to stop rambling in tags #im sorry

[yeyinde]

omg if you could, would you please write literally anything about soap?? If not then would you possibly write some jealous ghost? (,,: maybe the reader and Soap are really close and fuck around together and ghost just watches from a distance until it's taken a little too far and he does something drastic ? Reader and Soap are goofing around and end up in a compromising position and ghost just yanks them apart and at first they're like "that was so unprofessional I'm in trouble oh no" but it turns out ghost was just enraged with jealousy lmaoo

i absolutely write for Soap (and Price, and Alejandro, and Gaz, and "Alex"... honestly, all these COD boys got me simpin something fierce). 

i'm so sorry this took so long—i had a lot of ideas about Soap, but i mostly wanted two pining idiots in a pub! i tried to add elements of the Ghost request as well (messing around, blink and you'll miss it Ghost jealousy), but i really just enjoyed that almost comfortably claustrophobic feeling you get when you're with someone who ensnares your full attention until everything just completely goes away. that "oh, are we still in public?" dazed feeling.

i really hope you enjoy this! 🖤

tw: none, mostly just fluff and banter; gratuitous use of Scottish slang

Ghost’s Version

He slides you a glass filled with amber, eyes dancing in the low, golden glow of the pub. Fairy lights. They catch on the green in his irises; a boscage in hazel. 

There is something warm in the air—the taste of victory, of scotch (Price insists, buys two bottles, and offers up Maduro cigars to anyone who looks at him)—and you cling to it, wrapping your hands around this feeling, and tucking it close to your thudding heart. It's comforting. 

Everyone is together again. Price knocking his hand against Gaz's shoulder, loudly telling anyone who'll listen about the time the kid was hangin' out a helo. Fuckin' nutter. Laswell nursing a glass, pad in her hands. Ghost beside her, eyes drawn to the names of men you'll eventually have to go after flashing in his dark eyes. 

Gaz shoots you a glance. Help me, it says. 

Your return smile, a wave. No way. 

If you get close to Price now, you'll never get loose. You'll end up walking away with the taste of a battle on your tongue, scotch in your belly, and cigar smoke clotting inside your lungs. He always leaves you feeling dazed, whiplash sick. 

It's best to avoid your captain when his voice is a raw scrape, a wheeze, after yelling in the trenches for so long. 

It might, of course, be said bottles of scotch that permeate inside of you; a low heat in your belly. You feel giddy with it. 

"A'right, bonnie?" His voice is a thick fog in the morning. A blanket of white over the pastures. Sun peeking through. 

"Aye," you murmur, riding a very thin line between that confidence only being a shade away from drunk can bring, and coy—coquettish. Teasing. It's been like this all night. 

(Maybe even longer—ever since he knocked his knuckles to your shoulder, bottom lip between his teeth to stem a grin, and said, not bad for a bonnie lass.)

Soap's hand jerks. The glass scratches across the tabletop. 

"Oh, aye?" He thickens his accent, lets the twang of the highlands congeal in the space between you. 

"That's it, bonnie."

He's close—leather, plastic; he smells of polymer and oak—and the flecks of caramel in his eyes remind you of the sun. So close, you can feel the rays scorch your cheeks when he leans in, when his white teeth flash, blinding, in your periphery. 

"That right?" 

"We'll make a Scot out of you, yet." 

It happens in between everything. 

A break in the clouds between rainfall—turadh. 

That's how most things happen with Soap, you find. Small moments here or there; little snippets. They stack up slowly, a steadily filling dam until the levee begins to crack, and crumble. 

It spills over; a splash. A lull.

He's meant to be teaching you cuss words that you can hurtle at your enemies, or a secret language meant for the two of you if you'd ever gotten into a tight spot together. Maybe, even a way to annoy your Lieutenant. It's slipped in somehow—between it’s a dreich day and whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye! —and sits heavy in your chest.

Turadh. 

(Is there even a word out there more beautiful?)

His chin is pointed up toward the arching ceiling when he mutters it softly, a ghost, perhaps, from his childhood. It slips out like it wasn't meant to. Like it was lost somewhere in his mind, his memories, and slowly buoyed the surface, captured between trembling hands. A forgotten piece of home dipped in the evanescence of nostalgia. 

It feels like the end of a storm when his eyes drift to you. A crooked smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

"Heard it from me granny," he says, shrugging, bashful. "Heard a lot more than that, too. Cussed like a sailor." 

He says nothing more. His past, like most of the men whose company you keep, is a secret. Held tight to the chest under a thick bulletproof vest. Untouchable. Unreachable. 

Your fingers itch all the same.

"She definitely raised you well."

"Is that an insult?"

You flash a light smile his way. "If I wanted to insult you, I'd call your haircut naff."

"Cheeky little—," Soap huffs. "No one appreciates the mohawk anymore." 

"Did they ever?" 

He leans down, eyes honeycomb golden in the gloaming, and smells of alder and wych elm. "I happen to think so." 

The fissure splits. Water leaks. You wonder if he'd taste of the highlands. 

"You happen to think a lot of things," tremulous words, barely above a whisper, slip from the seam of your wobbling lips. "Doesn't mean any of them are right." 

"We'll see, bonnie." He motions for you to take your drink. "I'm sure you'll find I'm always right."

"Is the clause in that always ironclad?"

"Aye, and you best know it, lass."

Another word is learned— fadachd —when he smiles at you; a soft crook of his lips, shadows catching on the jut of his mouth. His eyes are warm honey; molasses. If you stare too long, you think you might just get stuck. 

A shudder, then, rolls through you. 

(You've had worse ideas, really.)

"You're not teaching me the good stuff," you pout, thumb brushing over the curve of the cup, dragging through the impression of your mouth left on the rim. 

"I'm not much of a teacher," he shrugs, bringing his glass to his lips. 

Your throat is dry. Eyes locked on the way his Adam's apple buoys with his swallows; on the smooth column of his neck, on the stubble that falls beneath his chin, jaws. 

You can't look away quick enough when he turns to you. His eyes burn into yours. The glass clinks against the table. 

"What do you want to learn?"

"Everything—," you choke, fingers curling over the cup. "I—I mean… what are some, y'know, stuff I can use on a date."

His voice is thick, raw from the alcohol he drank. "A date?" 

You nod. The glass is cool against your palm. You bring it to your lips, and let the sharp liquid sit on your tongue. 

"With who?" 

You mimic his shrug, swallowing. His eyes are on you. You try not to tremble. 

"Anyone. Just—," your voice is a rasp; a shade under a whisper. 

You take another swig—liquid courage—and try not to grimace. The alcohol burns through you. 

(His eyes are suns. Dizzying. Blinding.)

When you turn to him, you flash a slow grin; eyes lidded. Teasing. Kittenish. You feel a little bit like an imposter. "How do I get myself a Scottish man?" 

You can see him swallow. Hear the click in his throat. 

Beside his sternum, you watch his vein tick. Wonder, dazed, what it would be like to sink your teeth into his skin. To mark him as yours for the world to see. 

Soap— Johnny —MacTavish: all yours. 

You shiver. 

"A Scottish man, aye?"

"Well, if you teach me right, I'll know how to seduce one."

His elbow rests on the tacky tabletop, knuckles pressed into his chin. He leans over you until all you can see is him. 

"And if I teach you wrong?"

In the triangle of his arm and jaw, you find Ghost in the corner—sitting beside Price and Laswell (you wonder, for a moment, if any of them ever really stop) as they pour over documents—and tip your chin toward him. 

"I might end up with an Englishman."

Soap raises his head, peering over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting between his Captain and Lieutenant.

It's satisfying to hear him huff through his nose. A heavy exhale. You wonder if he's jealous. 

It makes you think of Madrid. Of that stunning woman draped in Chantilly. 

Aye, lass. It was a pleasure to meet you. 

You turn to your glass, mulling over what he might say in response, your comeback, but his grip on the glass catches your eye. 

His knuckles are white. Nails red, flat against the surface. 

"Soap—"

He turns back to you. The tight grip around the glass eases. 

When he smiles, it feels like a cloud cover, hiding away the blaze. "Lt? Might be good for him."

"Yeah…" you murmur, words quiet in your slurred panic. You don't know how to salvage this. The teasing, the banter—it was bordering on flirting, and now—

Distance. 

He's just Soap. And you're just you. 

(Aye, lass—)

It stings. Prickles between your ribs and your heart, and the ache of it makes the alcohol in your gut churn. 

"I doubt he'd go for it." 

"What? He's been keekin' you all night." There is a divot between his brow. When he turns his head, the fairy lights behind make his stubble look darker. "Yer aff yer heid!"

You blink, a small smile growing. "D'unno that one, yet, professor."

"It means: you're talking rubbish. He can't stop lookin' at you." 

He enunciates the words for you, even adapts a spiteful English accent to go with it, but it's the burn in his gaze that makes you feel like you're floating. Bubbly and light and reaching for the stratosphere. 

You don't want to lose this.

(The ever in that is ironclad.)

"How do you say I'm drunk?"

Soap shakes his head, tension dissipating. It's a relief when humour cuts into his grin. "Too many ways to count, lass."

"C'mon," you slide forward on the barstool, elbows perched on the table, palms cupping your warm cheeks. They feel blistered, sunkissed. "Just one? It'll even be the chef's choice."

"Oh, aye?" He mimics your pose, leaving only one hand to grasp the glass between his palm. He rolls it between his thumb and fingers for a moment, eyes downcast as he thinks. "Yer mad wae' it." 

You roll the words around your tongue. "Mad with it?"

"Aye." 

"I like it."

"Are you?" 

"Am I…?"

"Mad wae it?" 

"Just a little…"

Soap levels you with a look that knocks the wind from your lungs. "You're blootered, bonnie."

"Awa' an bile yer heid!"

Something sits in his brow at the sharp words that spill, unpractised, from your lips. A rumble in the distance warning of approaching rain. 

You think the deluge might drown you. 

"Careful, bonnie," his breath smells of scotch. Tastes like a sunburn. "You might just bite off more than you can chew."

The burn of the alcohol does little to abate the itch in your throat. 

"Bonnie," you murmur, numb. You can't hear much past the thudding in your chest. "Why'd you call me bonnie?"

(Aye, lass—

Bonnie. Bonnie. Bonnie—)

His head drops when he huffs, a soft laugh spilling—almost reluctantly—from his chest. He stays like that for a moment, head bowed and the corner of his mouth twitching. When he raises his head, his cheeks are stained rubescent. 

The alcohol, you think, dizzy. The world spins, and then narrows into a pin-drop where only the ruby smear on the bridge of his nose exists. 

"'Am no diddy, but—"

"Sergeant." 

There is a misty cloud surrounding you; a gossamer spooling over your eyes. You blink the cobwebs away, but they're stuck to your retinas. 

Ghost stands shrouded in the smog. His dark eyes slide to you. Endless black. Unfathomable. 

"Soldier." 

The command is clear. Stop muckin' about.

His voice is a warble when he speaks. Gruff, low. "Lt, comin' to learn some Scottish, too?" 

"Negative." He says, clipped. Then: "can barely understand these pissed Glaswegians as it is." 

"It's a lovely accent," you murmur, grinning. Stupid, dopey. It feels like waking up after a long nap on the beach. 

His eyes are liquid pools of black when they slide to you. "Bloody hell. Must have knocked your head one too many times if you think that's lovely."

"It was more of a smack." 

"Christ. With a rifle?"

You like it when he's loose like this. Relaxed. When he isn't barking out commands, and orders, and keeping a chasm between everyone. 

"No, with a hand." 

"Better see the medic. Don't need you suffering any more brain damage."

It's on the tip of your tongue— aw, you do care —but his words stick to the gummy lining of your scotch-filled head. Any more. 

You pout. "You're a stone-cold bastard, you know that?" 

Somewhere under the mask, you like to imagine that he's grinning. "Never said I wasn't." 

"What do you need, Lt?" 

Liquid eyes slide to him. "We're heading out. You stayin', MacTavish?"

He nods, sharp. "Aye. Might wander around Glasgow for a 'mo."

"And you, soldier?"

Ghost stares down at you. Soap's words surface—keekin' you all night—but you see nothing when you match his stare. When the heavy brunt of his full attention falls on you. 

Soap glances at you, eyes a half-sun. Your hands prickle. You wonder if wandering around might include a trip to the Cairngorms. 

(You imagine you could reach up and kiss the sun. 

Maybe, him, too, if he'd allow it.)

"I—," you tilt your head, nervous suddenly. "I'd like to learn more Scottish. If you wouldn't mind the company." 

"Aye, bonnie." There is victory in his grin. 

Ghost gives a sharp nod, and doesn't wait. 

You watch him leave, suddenly tense. Soap hasn't looked away from you yet. It simmers inside; another fissure. Another crack. The levee wobbles. 

"So…," he says, his voice a tickle in your ear. "About wantin' to seduce a Scot…"

"Not just any Scot," you murmur, eyes low. Framed by the hazy fairy lights, his grin feels like the sun cresting through a storm cloud. 

"Got my heart flichterin‘," he mutters. His hand is warm when it touches your wrist. "Wanna feel, bonnie? Feel what you do to me, hen?"

It feels like you're underwater when you nod. Like you've been dragged below the surface, then spat back up on the sandy shores, drenched in the rays. 

The heat kisses your palm when he presses it flat to his chest. His pulse hums under your lifeline; the grand wings of a bird fluttering in his ribcage. Your nails sink into his shirt, curling over the fabric until it's knotted in your fist. You could hold on to him forever. 

His eyes feel like a dawning sun when they land on you, wrapped in that equinox between day and dusk when you can still bask in the warmth that curtains over you. Liquid honey. Melted wax. It seeps over you, filling the cracks. 

(You, the earth; him, the sun: a perfect perihelion. You bloom under his cosmic heat.)

When you were younger, you'd stand on the hills, and gaze up at it in the aether. Your eyes narrowed into slits, watering from the blaze. The smile on your face was warmed under the rays. 

They warned you, then, when you'd come home with a headache, rubbing your tender eyes, that you'd go blind for it. That the sun would ruin you, that it wasn't meant to be stared at so nakedly. 

You think of it, now, when your eyes begin to crease. When the blistering intensity of him—luminous, bright, blinding –stares, open and raw, back at you. 

—you fucked in the upper car park at the Cairngorms, nestled near the base of a hill. he took you under the setting sun, and whispered how pretty you looked bathed in ochre and desperate for him

—it was Price who bailed you both out after getting slapped with public indecency ("haven't you two ever heard of doggin'?")

—he takes you to a football game for a proper date, your well-won Scottish man, but spanks your ass at home when you cheer for ManU over the Celtics; it's blasphemy in this household

—Gaz doesn't even want to know why you're barely able to sit in the chair, and why Soap looks so damn satisfied whenever you wince

(you tell him, anyway.)

translations (forgot these, oops)

—turadh: A break in the clouds between showers | dry spell

—it’s a dreich day: miserable day

—whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye: what’s meant to happen will happen, or what will be will be

—naff: boring, rubish

—fadachd: yearning, longing

—keek: looking

—yer aff yer heid: acting stupid, someone that's too drunk or talking nonsense

—blootered: drunk

—diddy: coward

—flichterin‘: soft fluttering, as in the wings of a butterfly, or the flame of a candle.

—bonnie: used by older gens; used to describe someone pretty or attractive (is actually gender neutral - could be bonnie lass or bonnie lad)

—hen: used for a younger lady (can also be patronising) but kind of like sweetheart or honey)

#requests #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap x you #john mactavish x reader #john MacTavish x you #john mactavish #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod fanfic #soap call of duty

[dreamingcricket]

Hi Cricket! I soaked up your Tav/Halsin snippet, about them being injured and shrugging off Halsin's advances, it's absolutely sweet! I kindly request another Tav/Halsin if you don't mind... My Tav is a naive little sunshine and as a tiefling bard loves to dance, sing along and play on her fiddle, I imagine her having skirts that flow around her feet whenever she danced and plays around camp or inn's for some coin. Halsin being in love with Tav and like totally unable to hide it and it's obvious to everyone but Tav themselves. I would love for him to join her dancing, maybe something slower, more intimate with meaningful touches. He loves seeing her so at ease in rare moments like this, even when he's a clumsy dancer. 🤭

I'm so happy people are enjoying these!

Halsin was unused to revelry. 

He couldn't speak for every druid, of course, their kind ranged far and wide in both calling and temperament, but the Emerald Grove was prone only to subdued rites. He certainly couldn't fault the refugees for wanting to release some tension, however, and he wanted to show his appreciation to the small band that had saved him and his grove alike. Her, especially. 

And of course she was at the center of it all.

She reminded him of a celestial center, the hub of a wheel around which everything else turned. She glowed in the firelight, all orange and gold and purple, skirts flying as she fiddled. Music seemed to follow her everywhere. She danced like water, one pattern to the next without pause. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

“You’re staring.” Shadowheart was difficult to read, as she appeared behind him, goblet in hand. He couldn't tell if her observation was meant to be an admonishment or not.

“I know.” He was usually reserved, if not stoic, and his developing feelings bubbling to quickly to the surface was alarming, but it would do no good to deny it.

"We all know. You're not subtle, Halsin." 

His attention was drawn back to Tav as she laughed. The sound was like the sun on his face.

Shadowheart followed his gaze. “Nobody blames you, Halsin. But she should know.”

“I don’t want to rush her.”

“Under any other circumstances, I’d agree. But we’re running out of time, and…” She shakes her head, clearing the morbid thought. “Just… everyone knows.

She finishes her number with a bow, and yields the stage to Alfira, who begins to pluck a lively tune. Her eyes lock onto Halsin’s and she bounds over, holding out her hands.

“Come, dance with me?”

He could feel the eyes of the camp upon him. Knowing. Halsin coughed. “I’m not much of a dancer. I may trample your feet.”

“That doesn't matter!” She giggled, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Everyone’s too drunk to notice anyway.”

Suddenly, she was pulling on his hand, tugging him to the wide patch of dirt that served as a dancing circle in the middle of camp. His heart hammered against his ribs, and it wasnt from embarrassment. 

He could vaguely recollect the steps, some hazy memories of his youth floated back to him as they began to whirl. A tavern dance, not refined in the slightest, but light and fast, more momentum than intent. While there was something to be said for his particular brand of ursine grace, it didn't lend well to dancing, and he let her lead. Her hands were so small in his, and she flitted around him, almost birdlike. 

“You’ll have to slow down, Tav, I’m not as young as I used to be.” 

She giggled, twirling under his arm. “I think you’re a fine dancer.” 

“The wine has apparently gone to your head, as well.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it's just good company.”

The music slowed, and their pace changed. They circled each other, hand in hand. She held his gaze, not defiantly, but with tender trust. He hoped beyond hope he wasn't reading too far into her gaze. 

There was an ease to her here he hadn't seen before. The weight she carried throughout the battle at the goblin camp (and how fierce she had been, she had torn through their ranks like a diving hawk) had seemingly lifted. She wasn't a warrior, her hands were gentle as they gripped his, and so small. He loved her already, but even more so like this, when she was unburdened.

He wondered if this was what she was usually like, sans tadpole. There’s a terrible pang in his chest at the thought: that her days were numbered, that she might be doomed. It's quickly followed by a wash of righteous fury. It wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it. 

She stepped in close. Their palms pressed together, chests nearly touching, and he nearly stopped breathing. She was so close, if he only leaned down, their lips would touch. He was halfway to her, his rational brain screaming to stop and his instincts screaming to kiss her until she couldn't breathe.

And then she pulled away, dropping into a curtsy. The song was over. 

There was already a  buzzing flock of people vying for her attention. Halsin released her hand and bowed out of the center of camp, excusing himself as she leaped onto a rock to begin a new number. 

It had been a long, long time since anyone had made him feel this way. 

He rolled into the grass, reveling in the coolness against his heated skin, and prepared to trance. 

Halsin smelled her before he saw her. Lilac and honeysuckle and musk, and the scent of the open road. She moved to lay beside him in the grass, and whispered, "Can I join you? Everyone is quite drunk, Karlach is sleeping in my tent for some reason, and I’m getting really tired."

"Of course."

He didn't expect her to nestle into his side, his heart began to hammer in his chest, his skin became hot. 

She gazed upwards, and pointed into the sky, at a smattering of stars. "That's the huntsman." Her hand drops back down. "At least I think it is. We didn't have much time for stargazing at home, and the city lights are so bright. But here? I feel I can see every single one."

Halsin pointed upward himself, “The… spine of the dragon? I realize… I don’t know exactly how to say it in common, that’s as close as I can get.”

She hummed. “I can see it. With the wings, there.” She gestured lazily, and he became aware of how close she was for the second time that night. He was less intimidated by his own feelings here, without the watchful eyes of the party, and only the music of night time insects, the grass rising around them like a shelter. She turned her face toward him, blinking slowly, and clearly holding back a yawn. “I think… I’ll just sleep here.”

“That’s fine by me.”

The rhythm of her breathing slows and evens out, and he brushes a stray lock of hair away from her cheek, running his thumb over the apple of her cheek. 

Tomorrow, she would take up her burdens again. She would brave her future with the noble ferocity he had come to admire, he was sure, but he would miss this carefree night. 

Whatever it took, he’d ensure she had many more to come.

#baldurs gate 3 #halsin x tav #halsin #bg3 x reader #bg3 #halsin romance #ask

[svnflower-writes]

i could never give you peace

description: James reached his hand out, gently cupping Regulus’ cheek and moving some hair out of his eyes. “Hey, little star.” Regulus leaned slightly into the touch, but didn’t speak. “Let’s get you to your room, yeah?”

or

in which James comforts Regulus after a particularly bad fight with his parents.

relationship: bodyguard!james potter x regulus black

warnings: mentions of child abuse, secret/forbidden relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, james may be slightly out of character but idk maybe he's just sad 😭

requested: yes!! @allyeardepression requested this about 4 months ago and i am SO sorry for taking so long writer's block has been kicking my ass omg i started writing as soon as you requested it but it sat there unfinished for far too long. anyway i hope you like it!!!

note: uh ok hi. this is the first thing i've posted in MONTHS and i wrote most of it in class so it's not great but fuck it i had to post something. also... sorry. the first thing i write in five months and it's heartwrenching angst, which is very typical of me. also based off a taylor swift song which is also very typical of me

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54453148

marauders taglist: (lmk if you want to be added or removed) @lovefolder @gu1lty-as-sin @dandelions-fly-in-summer-skies @a-beautiful-fool @optimizedchaos @qwerty-keysmash @lost-in-reveriie @tulips-best @nqds

James had to pretend that it didn’t affect him, seeing Orion and Walburga treat their children like they did. After all, he was there to work for all of them. But Merlin, he felt bad. The looks that flashed across the younger brother’s face were subtle enough that anyone else would have missed it, but James didn’t miss any small details—especially when they were to do with the little star.

This was one of these moments, James was positioned outside the closed door as he heard the screaming match going on directly behind him. He heard snippets of conversation, words such as ‘useless’ and ‘pathetic’ making their way to his ears and crushing a little bit of his heart. He supposed he was lucky not to be in the room while it was happening, but all he wanted was to rush in and protect Regulus from the harsh words and actions of his parents.

James allowed his head to rest against the wall, exhaling slowly as his eyes trailed over the dark tiles on the ceilings. The decor on the house was not to James’ personal taste, a combination of dark brown, green, cream, and black. He glanced down to the floor, the extravagant geometric tiles making him feel claustrophobic and sick to the stomach. Harsh black wallpaper covered the wall, the dull gold picture frames making a pathetic attempt to soften the unharmonious glare. The paintings in the frames were judging him, the upturned noses and narrowed eyes made that obvious enough.

James and Regulus had been quick to subtly remove the paintings in the hallway outside Reg’s room—Orion and Walburga didn’t tend to go up there, so no one noticed. Sirius had given them a knowing smirk when he’d caught them sneaking down a hall with a covered portrait of one of Regulus’ great aunts, but he had said nothing. Sirius held an undeniable feeling of respect for James, he could see how much he cared for his little brother, and for that he was eternally grateful.

A sharp, high pitched shout broke James out of his trance, and he glanced at the door with a grimace.

Walburga Black was his least favourite person in the whole world. He couldn’t clearly hear what followed the shout, but he had a few ideas of what it could be. He had been in the room when this had happened a few times before, and Sirius had always seemed indifferent to his parents actions—James knew he wasn’t, of course.

It was all just an act in the Black family, everyone simply pretending to be okay and pushing their feelings to the back of their minds. Regulus was less numb to the pain, and while Sirius just sat there sprawled out on the couch, ignoring his parents, Regulus always looked unnaturally stiff. He was trying to copy Sirius, that much was obvious. But it was clear that the words got to Regulus, the way his brows furrowed and he blinked quickly or looked away with fiddling hands.

Then again, maybe there was a reason that James noticed these things—not that he could take much notice of whatever underlying feelings there were anyway, since Regulus might as well be his employer. He knew Regulus felt the same, of course. There were signs, there had been since a mere two months after James started the job. Fleeting glances, brief touching of fingers as James passed him something to eat, waiting for him in the halls— the list could go on and on.

Regulus knew that James liked him too, as James wasn’t exactly subtle. He tended to forget himself when they were around others, such as Sirius or Pandora—which made for a lot of teasing from the two. Barty and Evan couldn’t say much, as they were in much the same situation.

So the two had kept up the secret whispers and hidden gazes, neither boy making any more to further the relationship, even behind closed doors. There was only so much they could get away with, and they were not embarrassed to admit that they were terrified. They were terrified of the nature of their world, the judgements and the prejudice that came with merely trying to exist. They would prefer to be open with each other about their relationship, but they would take whatever they could get at this point.

The door next to him flew open and Walburga stormed out, not even sparing James the slightest glance as she walked past him. Orion followed close behind, the harsh glare painting his face giving James an idea of the severity of the fight. After the brother’s exchanged short hushed whispers, Sirius walked through the door, offering James a small, polite smile. He walked past and James stopped him quietly. Sirius’ eyes narrowed slightly.

“Is there anything I can do?” At James’ words, Sirius’ expression softened.

“Talk to him. I’ve done as much as I can, but I think we both know that you’re better at this stuff.” Sirius pulled James into a quick hug, “and thank you. It means a lot that you try, seriously. It’s not exactly part of your job description.” Sirius being Sirius, he laughed, but it was obvious that he wasn’t actually amused. James had known Sirius for three years, and if there was one thing he had learnt about him, it was his use of humour as a coping mechanism.

“You go sneak out to Remus, I’ll take care of him.”

Sirius grinned slightly, reaching out to ruffle James’ hair, “aw, you know me too well.”

James groaned at his now messy hair—as if his hair wasn’t always a mess—pushing Sirius away and waving him towards the door, “go find your lover, Pads.”

Sirius was out the door without another word.

James glanced down the hallway to ensure it was empty and walked into the room the fight had just taken place in. Regulus was sitting on the ground and had his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, and head leaning against the cushion of the couch. He didn’t look up when James entered, nor when the older boy crouched down in front of him. His face wasn’t betraying what emotions he was feeling, but James knew.

James always knew.

James reached his hand out, gently cupping Regulus’ cheek and moving some hair out of his eyes. “Hey, little star.” Regulus leaned slightly into the touch, but didn’t speak. “Let’s get you to your room, yeah?”

Regulus nodded, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before looking up. “Good idea.” he took James’ outstretched hand to help him up off the ground. Even well after he had stood up, he kept his hand in James’, determined not to let go.

Regulus clearly had something he wanted to say, but his brain was not connected to the rest of his body, still in autopilot from the fight. His eyes were empty and his hands were clasped together in front of him as James gently rested his palm on his lower back to guide him up the stairs. Regulus subtly leaned into the touch, his heartbeat slowly calming and the goosebumps littering his skin beginning to fade.

Merely being near James brought him an unparalleled sense of peace.

James let his hand rub up and down his lower back comfortingly, and for a brief second he considered taking Regulus’ hand in his own but he decided against it. His brain was plagued with guilt, wishing he could rescue Regulus from the cruel reality that was his family. But no matter what James wanted, it wasn’t that simple. It never was.

James could never give Regulus peace.

Regulus stopped walking and James looked up from where his gaze had been fixed on the floor in confusion. He soon noticed that they were in fact directly outside the door to Regulus’ room. Regulus seemed to take notice of the fact that James was lost in his head and he squeezed his hand reassuringly.

After checking if the hallway was clear, James quickly opened the door. He wasn’t really supposed to enter any of the private rooms in the house, but Regulus had insisted many times that it was alright. No matter how safe Regulus felt around him, he couldn’t risk Orion and Walburga spotting him. He really was Regulus’ only source of comfort.

Regulus sat down on his bed with a blank expression on his face. James sat down next to him and pulled a bottle of water out of his bag. He handed it to Regulus with no words spoken, because the pair didn’t need words. This routine was very familiar to the two of them now, it was almost a second nature.

James quickly checked for any injuries—he hadn’t heard anything to make him suspect that there could’ve been a physical nature to the fight, but he had seen enough bruises on the Black siblings to make double checking an automatic part of the procedure. There was one on the side of Regulus’ cheek, and James pulled out the healing ointment from his bag and carefully put a little bit on the bruise.

James pushed the guilt at being unable to protect Regulus from his parents aside, knowing that this was not about him.

Once Regulus had finished, he slowly leaned into James’ side, letting out a sigh as he closed his eyes. The crook of James’ neck was like a puzzle piece that was made perfectly for Regulus’ head, and as the two slowly relaxed into each other's presence, James let his hands drift up to Regulus’ hair. His fingers slowly entangled themselves into the dark curls as he comfortingly stroked Regulus’ forehead.

It was clear to James that the support Regulus needed right now was not someone to tend to his wounds, but someone to hold him. So hold him he did. James’ right hand moved slowly up and down the small of Regulus’ back soothingly, showing an undeniable caution not to startle the younger boy with any quick movements.

He cared more about the little star than was possible to admit, and he prioritised his safety over everything else. The two lay in each other’s arms for what felt like (and probably was) hours. Suddenly, Regulus shifted in his arms, mumbling something under his breath.

James tilted his head like a confused puppy, gesturing for Regulus to repeat himself. Regulus cleared his throat and glanced away.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For…” Regulus trailed off, and James was about to let it go—he wasn’t going to push for him to open up more than he was willing to do.

“...for keeping me safe.”

The dark haired boy’s voice was merely a whisper, head buried into James’ shoulder as he refused to meet his eyes. He was embarrassed, James realised. He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent.

James thought that the two were about to fall back into their silence, when Regulus spoke. “It’s peaceful.”

Giving him an inquisitive look, James turned to face Regulus.

“Being here with you. You’re peaceful.”

James stiffened slightly before slowly nodding, “yeah, I know what you mean. You’re peaceful too, little star.”

You deserve more peace than I can give you.

Regulus smiled up at him, entwining their fingers reassuringly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more at peace than I am when I lie here with you.”

Merlin, it’s like he can hear my thoughts.

Finally, James responded. “You mean more to me than anyone else ever has, little star.”

There was a raw honesty in his tone. He may not love their situation, but he loved the boy in front of him with his whole heart.

No matter where this road was leading, James knew it was where he wanted to go. Whatever the roadworks along the way, he was in this for good.

#luc posts #luc writes #jegulus #james x regulus #james potter #regulus black #i'm so sorry this took so long #also its unneceseraly sad so uh #angst #hurt/comfort #marauders #sirius black #wolfstar mention #james potter x regulus black #marauders era #harry potter marauders #harry potter

[emry-stars-art]

I hate drake so much i hope he dies a painful death in your royal AU 😡

Fairly certain this is gonna be a common agreement yes

Honestly in one version of events I just imagine Drake making a stupid mistake in a battle or border dispute and getting himself killed like a coward or an idiot because he is both of those things

In ANOTHER version I was talking about with @jtl-fics and @paradoxolotl we can make it as dramatic as we want ✨

And honestly I’ve been meaning to write it! I even started writing it, but as I went I realized it has the potential to get wayyy out of hand by way of scenes (in that it would become several scenes bc there’s so much to cover) so instead of waiting to be fully finished, I am going to give us all an early sparknotes or summary of events

What I DID write all the way was what might happen when Abram and the prince run into Spear at a ball/event: here.

(⬆️POV you are a very stupid baron and you’ve just made your very last mistake)

Find the royal au writing masterpost here 💕

After all that (the snippet) goes down, Spear is probably very angry. How dare the prince act so ungrateful to his family, how dare he be threatened by the Evermore mutt, and how dare he be publicly embarrassed like that. He’s too proud to even go fume about it on his own. He’s always had people and things to take his anger out on. So he reverts back to what he knows.

No one in the castle stops him on his search of the halls. They all recognize the Spear family - of course the Spears visited often, at least before, and often enough to send their prince to live with them. The twins and anyone else in the know about the prince’s time there are extremely private about it. The staff that see Spear have no reason to think anything of his presence at all.

But Abram is still standing watch at Andrew’s door, and he doesn’t seem about to leave. Spear likely thinks it doesn’t matter much - the brat is small and unassuming except for those nasty scars. Abram even gets distracted by a small crash coming from the direction of the stairs, wandering a little way down to see.

It should have been obvious not to underestimate an official royal bodyguard. Spear hasn’t even touched the door before Abram is there, pinning an arm behind his back as something sharp again presses to Spear’s jacket. The surprise knocks Spear against the prince’s door before Abram pulls him up and back a few steps.

Andrew does answer. Likely he thought it was Abram knocking, but as soon as he sees Spear he freezes. Spear doesn’t even have time to revel in the fear he caused - Abram uses all his weight to swing Spear around and shove him hard against the far wall. What Spear vainly thought was an empty threat before feels suddenly much more real, the way Abram doesn’t try to be at all gentle or careful. The blade is biting into Spear’s clothes.

And Spear is angry. The Evermore filth on him, the gall to treat Spear like this when Spear should be allowed to trample this brat under his horse. The brat thinking he had any say over the Palmetto prince.

He snarls, “Andrew, control your dog!”

And he doesn’t see it, but that snaps a little of Andrew’s panic. The only thing more potent than Andrew’s memories is his white hot anger at Abram’s, and even though Abram doesn’t react, Andrew absolutely refuses to let that slide.

Spear hears, “Dont let him touch you,” and then he’s released. Finally, he can get a little justice for this treatment. He turns and raises a hand to strike Abram.

Abram takes off his hand as he swings.

Andrew gets full oversight on Spear’s punishment. They have him convicted of untoward behavior, trespassing, and then Andrew allows ‘attempted destruction or harm of royal property’ only when he’s told it adds heavy consequence.

Really, it doesn’t matter all that much. Everyone in that room for the proceedings knows why he’s really there, and maybe those three charges wouldn’t always add up to a death sentence, but Aaron has been waiting for this chance. He adds ‘intention of treason’ to the trespassing charge and tells Andrew to do what he will.

Andrew doesn’t let Abram near it when they carry out the sentence. He does go through with some of his plans for Drake - he won’t ever make Drake pay 1:1 for what he’s done, but the magnitude would have been similar, had they gotten that far. They don’t, though. Andrew is doing just fine watching the proceedings, letting it pass through his eyes and ears and only be remembered when he really wanted. He had been sure he wanted this, he’d been sure it would be satisfying and cathartic. But he wasn’t feeling those things as much as he should have been.

Part of the punishment for treason is flogging. Andrew sees the strikes fall and it looks vaguely familiar. He’s seen those wounds and scars before. And suddenly it comes to him all at once; he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to watch this. He just wants Drake dead. He wants Abram.

So he moves for the first time in several minutes.

“Enough. I’m finished.”

Aaron gives him a look but gestures to the soldiers or whoever else. Andrew stands and goes to leave and there’s a scuffle behind him, yells and pounding feet. Something unsheathed and then a heavy, sickening thud. Maybe even a cut off scream.

Even then he doesn’t turn around. He can’t make himself. Spear had charged him, he understands distantly. He doesn’t know who was just struck, but the only person that should have been so close to him was his brother.

He whispers, “…Aaron?”

“Go, Andrew,” Aaron says quietly, and Andrew finally breathes again. “Abram is waiting.”

So Andrew does go, and he spends a long time holding Abram, assuring himself that Abram is there in one piece and isn’t being harmed, Drake is no longer there and can’t harm anyone else. Maybe this is far enough in that Andrew can even let himself be held, too. So he does find the catharsis and satisfaction, but not in watching Drake suffer. Just in the fact that Abram allows him close enough to hold, to play with his hair, to fall asleep there curled up in the middle of his bed. Unused mattress to every side and no space between them.

#this man.... angers me #and yeah I still don’t have a read on the Spear house’s title #like I had them as Duke/Duchess #but I think Baron is a little lower on that totem pole #and there’s just something about Drake and Abram being the same rank that… I do not appreciate #ANYWAY that’s why this is very much a wip #we don’t gotta worry about it now #all that matters is that Drake is ✨gone✨ #also rest assured if Abram wasn’t between them and Andrew had a weapon #Abram would not have been the one taking off Spear’s hand for the dog comment #and also also #ash the ‘curled up in the middle of Andrew’s big ass royal bed’ just for u #bc it’s SO sweet #but I must be done here #fan art #my art #my writing #aftg #all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #royal au #dan wilds #aaron minyard #drake spear #asks #anon

[boytoyhalo]

Your Selkie au is super compelling! Plus you are a very good writer. A question, will you ever go into more detail about Pac's previous captive situation? I'm very interested in how you will adapt Fuga's lore into your au. ( Specially bc of Cell and Cellbit stuff)

I'M SO SO SO LATE BUT IM USING FITPAC WEEK DAY 3 (WHICH IM ALSO LATE FOR) AS AN EXCUSE TO FINALLY, FINALLYYYYY GET THIS POSTED THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT ANON AND EVERYONE ELSE WHO'S AN ENJOYER OF THIS AU I PROMISE IT ISN'T ABANDONED IVE JUST BEEN IN AN END OF YEAR SLUMP

selkie au snippet #4 (i think) || T || slash (ambiguous) || @fitpacweek day 3 (belated its actually day 4) AU day!!!

read the rest of my posts about this au here

"Can I ask you somethin' personal?"

Pac paused, hand suspended halfway towards the checkerboard that was currently serving as him and Fit's way of passing the long hours up in the lamp room of the lighthouse. He kept his eyes on the round piece he was holding as he deliberated on how to answer, sure that if he met Fit's gaze his face would give away his nervousness; "personal" could mean a wide range of topics, most of which would spell disaster for Pac and his poorly constructed web of secrets. He slowly placed the piece in it's spot on the board, fighting to keep his voice even as he responded.

"Mmm, you can ask, yeah. I might not answer, but you can ask." Fit hummed bemusedly, absently flipping his own game piece between his fingers and he contemplated his next move.

"What happened to your leg?" Pac's breath caught in his throat, and Fit rushed to continue, "It's ok if you don't wanna talk about it, I get it. I just- I mean, you've probably figured out how I lost my arm, right?" Pac looked up at the familiar, mechanical clacking of the veteran's stiff wooden fingers flexing in and out of their open position, eyes involuntarily darting to the gnarled pink scarring that crawled from under his collar and up to the side of his head. He quickly returned his gaze to the board, face reddening a little in shame. Thankfully though, Fit seemed far from offended. "Heh, it's okay, I know. It's pretty obvious. And besides, you're a smart man. I'd be surprised if you hadn't assumed correctly. Me though - I'm just brawn, I don't have a whole lotta brainpower up in this thing." He knocked his fake knuckles lightly against his temple, a light smile on his face. "So if you are okay with me knowing, you're gonna need to tell me."

A small, nervous laugh bubbled it's way out of Pac's chest, his face properly flushed now in a mix of embarassment and flattery. "Don't - don't say that about yourself Fit, you're smart! Smarter than me, probably-" He cleared his throat, redirecting his focus to the topic at hand (ha.) "I can tell you, I don't mind. It's just a, it's a tough topic, you know? I need to get my head in the right place." Fit nodded easily like he understood, which Pac supposed he did at least somewhat.

"Take your time, I'm not going anywhere." The selkie chuckled a bit, tracing the edges of the paneled glass walls that surrounded them as he considered the best way to talk around the subject; he knew, or at least had decided, that he owed it to Fit to give him some semblance of the truth. After all, they had been growing steadily closed for months now and yet Fit knew so little about his life. Which was out of necessity, or course, but his friend had been so kind and so patient with him, never demanding more information than he was given. Pac needed - no, he WANTED to let him in as much as he reasonably could. He deserved it.

"I..." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steeling himself to sort through the painful, tangled memories and hoping he would be able to hold himself together. He starts at the beginning, where he won't have to omit too much of the truth, though if anything that makes it harder to talk about. "Mike and I were on a merchant ship off the coast of São Paulo that was attacked by axis submarines a few years back." Fit winced sympathetically, patiently waiting for him to continue as he picked his next words. "We avoided the worst of the blast, but... Mike was in really bad condition, and I had to hang onto him with one arm and a piece of the wreck with the other while I waited for help to come. By the time someone found us, I was too tired and too um- too relieved to realize that we were being taken as prisoners and not as refugees."

It was all technically true so far, just with some important details omitted: like how they were only on the ship in the first place because their pelts were being imported as merchandise by a fisherman who believed himself to be incredibly lucky, and how they weren't taken as prisoners of war as Fit was no doubt assuming. Pac fails to suppress a shudder as he remembers the smug, taunting grin of the man that stood above him on the deck of his supposed refuge, two familiar seal pelts clutched in his meaty fists.

"I'm so sorry you went through that, Pac. You don't have to keep-" Pac cuts him off, already committed to opening up.

"No, I want to tell you. We," He clears his throat again, pushing down the memories of too-small tanks full of too-salty water, of needles and IV drips and white lab coats and pencils scratching on clipboards as he writhed in pain. "We woke up in some sort of facility, I'm not sure where exactly? I think the men who had us were European but that's all I remember, it's all blurry you know? And that's where we met Cellbit and Felps actually-" The image of frenzied black eyes claws its way to the front of his mind against his will, but he can't help a small smile at Fit's attentiveness as his eyebrows raise in intrigue, the checkerboard between them completely forgotten.

"Anyway, we were there for- months, I think. And long story short Cellbit ended up, um. He tried to- to eat my leg off?" It comes out sounding uncertain, Pac having realized there was no way to say it that wouldn't raise more questions. Sure enough, Fit's mouth drops open.

"Wait he- He tried to eat you?"

"Not- it wasn't- aaaaugh, he wasn't himself ok? They were- they were cruel to us, and they injected him with these drugs that made him all crazy and violent and they kinda just. Let him do it? It wasn't his fault, is what I'm saying." Fit looks disturbed, although significantly less so than Pac would expect from most people. He supposes bearing witness to the horrors of war would give you a higher tolerance to this sort of thing.

The thing is, it really wasn't Cellbit's fault. He had been there the longest of any of them, starved and beaten and forced through their cruel experiments since he had been a teenager. He was angry and desperate and hungry, and it was pure bad luck that Pac had happened to be the closest to him when the "researchers" had decided to test the effects of whatever combination of steroids they had injected him with. The ghost of his leg twinges in pain as it remembers the feeling of sharp teeth tearing through it's flesh.

"Wait so did Cellbit..." Fit hesitates, like he can't quite put together what he means to ask. "So he, bit your leg off? but how does that even-" He's interrupted by Pac giggling, and after a moment he joins in quietly with a confused laugh of his own.

"No, no he- he just did enough damage that the sci- that the jailers had to amputate it. And it wasn't that bad honestly, I mean, they weren't kind enough to knock me out before they started sawing but at least I didn't die!" His amusement at Fit's horrified reaction to his nonchalance almost drowns out the echoes of grief that his heart sounds for one of his fellow prisoners who hadn't been so lucky. Pac puts on a wide grin, forcing himself to perk up from his slumped posture. "So anyway, that's the story! Pretty cool don't you think?" Fit sputters a shocked laugh.

"Pretty- Yeah, sure, Pac. That's- *cough*- that's cool, yeah." It's a joke, obviously, but warmth washes over him anyway at the way that Fit lets him control the weight of the conversation like always. He wouldn't be able to handle trying to talk about his past seriously, and he's grateful to whatever higher power may or may not exist for bringing him Fit, who not only cares but understands despite being a human, and who always without fail meets him wherever he needs to be at. Pac doesn't know what he did to deserve a friend like him. "So, okay," Fit's voice snaps him out of the appreciative haze he had fallen into. "How did you guys get out? Were you released, or rescued, or..." He trails off, eyes imploring him to go on. Pac feels his face light up at the opportunity to discuss his favorite part of the tale - the only part, he likes, really.

"Oh, you're not gonna believe it. It was Richas! He actually saved us!"

"What?" Fit exclaims in elated disbelief.

"Yeah! So ok - they were keeping him prisoner too, but he was just a baby, like a, a toddler right? And the guards that were assigned to him treated him like their own kid-" Minus the horrible inhumane experimentation, of course. "- and he somehow, he figured out how to use their sympathy to get them to tell him where they kept all their keys," - and all the pelts - "and then managed to convince them to let him play with us alone. So he came to me and Mike and told us, so we told him to steal us some guard uniforms and figure out where the breaker box was, and after some planning and waiting for the right time we were able to escape by having him shut off the power and filing out with the rest of the guards! Mike wanted it to just be the three of us but I told him we weren't leaving the others behind." For all the suffering they had been put through it had honestly been comically easy - the facility they were at was small and not well guarded, probably funded independently considering that if any powerful government had proof of the selkies' existence everyone including the scientists would have been in a much bigger mess - the world was already at war, Pac doubted anyone was eager to add another variable to the conflict.

Fit crosses his arms and sits back, nodding in amazement. "Huh, so little Richarlyson is a hero! That's crazy"

"What, you don't believe me?" Pac shouts in mock offense.

"No no no I believe you! That kid is a fighter, I know it. So you guys all just stuck together after that? What about Bagi and Forever?"

"Ah, so- Bagi and Cellbit, they're brothers, or uhm- they're brother and sister, yes? And Bagi had been searching for Cellbit since he was taken, and somehow she ended up at the place we were being kept just a few days after we escaped, and she was able to track us from there. She's crazy smart, Cellbit and her both are. And Forever," Well, truthfully, Forever had just swam up to their pod and started playing with Richas one day while they were searching for a new home, and then the two had become inseparable so he just... stuck around. But Pac wasn't sure how to spin that into something that sounded reasonable for a human family, so he just went with "Forever just showed up one day and wouldn't leave." Fit laughed again at that, and this time Pac laughed with him.

It felt unbelievably good to tell Fit about his story like this, even with parts of it changed. Still, he wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth of what he was - he almost did, right then and there, swayed by the sound if his laughter and the mirth in his eyes. But, he reminded himself, that had to be a family decision; it wasn't just his secrets at stake. It was all of them, and as much as he loved trusted Fit and would be happy to gamble his own safety on that trust, he wasn't willing to risk his whole family.

...But, it would be so much easier if he could just say the whole truth. He wonders if Fit would react with the same attentiveness and amazement he gave to Pac's storytelling.

The rest of the day passed with little more of note, mostly filled with idle chit chat and card games. As Fit tries to teach him how to play Kings on the Corners for the third time, Pac finds himself thinking about how much Fit was changing his life without even realizing. A few months ago, Pac had never wanted or even tolerated human company that wasn't absolutely necessary. But now, he couldn't imagine not having the veteran around to occupy his time. In fact, when Fit had taken his first two-week relief back on shore after two months of service, Pac had felt inescapably lonely even when surrounded by his pod. Not even Richas, who had also been upset over the Ramon's absence, had been able to completely cheer him up. And while Pac's always been somewhat fascinated by humans, and had enjoyed watching the previous lighthouse keepers as they went about their work, he had never found himself as interested by any of it as he does when it comes to Fit.

"What is it?" Fit's voice snaps him out of it yet again, cards abandoned as he looks at him curiously. "You're staring."

"Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing! Just thinking about Richas and Ramon - what do you think they're up to?"

"They should still be hanging out with Cellbit, right? They're probably doing puzzles or something." Fit looks at the clock over on the left side off the room. "It's almost six, Bad should be here soon to take over for the night. Do you want to go join them and I can catch up?"

"Um-" Pac flusters, face heating up slightly. He's not sure why the emotional exhaustion of talking about losing his leg is what's bringing all these revelations to his mind, but he can't seem to pull his thoughts away from how much he appreciates the man in front of him. Which.... "Yeah, I think I'll go find them now! I'll see you soon?" Fit nods.

"Sounds good, Pac. I'll see you in a little bit." With a nod back at him, Pac shuffles out the door and makes his way down the tower. Instead of going to find Cellbit and the children, however, he beelines straight to the rocks where his pelt is stashed and hastily wraps himself in it's familiar comfort, sliding into the water before his limbs have even finished morphing into flippers. Surely a nice, solo swim is what he needs to clear his head.

...If only he could take Fit with him.

#stumbles out of the drafts covered in blood #my ass is gonna be late for every single fitpac week prompt at this point cuz dawg why did this take me like 5 hours to get done #anyway. i hope you like it. scream at me in the tags if u like it #ps i have begun outlining and drafting the full fic of this au #most of these blurbs probably wont be in it in full tho just for the sake of not making it 10billion words long #fitpac #selkie au #fitpac week

[thehighladywrites]

I had to come off of anon to say this bc I’m so angry so for every hateful anon out there here’s what CANONICALLY happened between Eris and Mor as far as we know in a little bulleted list so everyone can understand-

-Eris and Mor are engaged to be married (Mor is unwilling we have no idea if Eris wanted/didn’t want the marriage)

-Mor not wanting this marriage CONSENSUALLY sleeps with Cassian to get rid of her virginity so Eris calls of the marriage bc “she holds no value to him anymore” shitty thing to say but again it’s stated that Eris has to put on a mask in his court (kinda like someone else we know *cough* Rhysand *cough*)

-Keir finds out Mor did this and KEIR drives the stake into her stomach/womb saying that she was Eris’s problem

-Eris sees her bleeding with a group of soldiers at the border and leaves her there claiming that they can’t touch her

-We get a small snippet of what happened in ACOFAS from MOR’S Pov

Here are some quotes for that:

-“Don’t touch her.” Those steps stopped. It was not a warning to protect her. Defend her.

“No one touches her,” he said. Eris. “The moment we do, she’s our responsibility.”

- “I take it you do not wish to live here, Morrigan.”

He must have read it in her eyes. A small smile curved his lips. “I thought so.”

Also about the situation in ACOWAR (quotes from Eris from Feyre’s Pov)

-Eris looked between them, smiling faintly. Secretly. As if he knew something that Azriel didn’t. “I wouldn’t have touched you,” he said to Mor, who blanched again. “But when you fucked that other bastard—” A snarl ripped from Rhys’s throat at that. And my own. “I knew why you did it.” Again that secret smile that had Mor shrinking. Shrinking. “So I gave you your freedom, ending the betrothal in no uncertain terms.”

“And what happened next,” Azriel growled.

A shadow crossed Eris’s face. “There are few things I regret. That is one of them. But … perhaps one day, now that we are allies, I shall tell you why. What it cost me.”

-So basically none of the IC was there to witness what actually happened. Azriel rescued Mor from autumn a few days later, and that’s all we know about the situation.

Eris never RAPED anyone, he shouldn’t have left Mor in the woods, but my literary analysis (this is just my opinion) is that if Eris would have helped Mor she would’ve had to have married him and been trapped in Autumn. I’m not saying what Eris did is excusable-it was awful but

THIS IS THE CANONICAL EVIDENCE WE HAVE OF THE SITUATION

could Eris have alerted Tamlin or Rhys or someone? yes but it’s heavily implied throughout the series that Eris has to play by the rules of his court and if we can all forgive Rhys for that then I don’t see why Eris can’t be extended the same courtesy.

Anyway I’m sorry this is long but I feel like it needed to be said because there’s so much hate going around and I’m not here for it so I’m bringing in the receipts❤️

I hope you have a great day love and keep writing professor Eris bc I know I go feral for it ❤️‍🔥

phoenix you’re so right, i literally have nothing else to add, this is perfection thank you babes!!

also professor eris is coming out tomorrow 👀👀

#talkswithamara #acotar #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar imagine #eris vanserra acotar #eris #eris supremacy #eris vanserra

[heyiwrotesomethings]

Hi hi i hope im not lateee. Since you know chainsaw man and you're caught up in the manga, may i request makima with an F!reader? Im thinking of a scenario like makima controls everything except her s/o idk idk smth to do with that. Thankyouu and have a nice day!

Out of Her Control

Makima x She/Her Reader

A/N: I wasn’t sure where I should have gone with this one so it’s mostly snippets of before they got together and then ending with them as a couple. It’s mostly me trying to figure out how Makima would act if she had feelings for someone. I’m pretty sure everyone should know that something is off about Makima by now, but if you haven’t read the manga yet, probably skip for now just to be safe. Thanks for the request, hope you like it! Word Count: 3,564

Humans were just too easy to manipulate, to bend this way and that. More often than not, Makima could get what she wanted without using the full extent of her power, sometimes she didn’t even have to use it at all. And as much as she loved humans and their amusing little moral nuances and loyalties, it could be rather dull leading them on a leash, there was no challenge.

When Makima was informed of a few prospective team members applying to join her division of the Public Safety Commission, she scanned over their files and résumés as if paging through summaries of animals looking for their forever homes. She let out a disappointed hum, unsure if any of them were worth taking under her wing.

She would give them all a job, of course she would. Devil Hunters came and went as surely as the tides changed each day. They needed all the bodies they could get, but Makima definitely played favorites when it suited her.

Perhaps she’d get a clearer idea once they began their new profession, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

And for the most part, the new recruits were exactly as she imagined them to be, people pleasers, Makima pleasers, to be specific. Always doing as she asked without another thought in their heads. Reasonable people would say it was because of her senior standing among most Devil Hunters, but Makima knew better. If any other senior Devil Hunter sent one of their juniors off on a thinly veiled death march, they would not be half as successful in getting what they asked for.

“And that is how we will take down the devil in position of this sizable piece of the Gun Devil. Any questions? Concerns?” Makima asked with a overtly saccharine smile. She expected no resistance, but she always asked anyway, an illusion of choice. She inhaled to speak again, to dismiss the small group to what would likely be their last job, but an important one nonetheless.

But then a little ways across the table, a woman loosely raised her hand from where it had sat over crossed arms, without waiting to be acknowledged, she spoke,

“Miss Makima, I do have concerns. This plan will undoubtedly lead us all to an early grave.”

The rest of the table cast the woman dirty looks and grumbled under their shared breaths, judging the woman for not only questioning Makima’s plan, but even going as far to say that it would fail them so spectacularly. Makima subtly grinned.

“Ah, Miss…” Makima trailed off, she hadn’t bothered memorizing any of their names in the three weeks since they had arrived. If she had been anyone else, she might have been embarrassed by that now.

“(Y/n).” The woman supplied, her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows angled ever so slightly downward, conveying a mild annoyance that made Makima’s own eyes light up in response. No one ever looked at her with even the smallest hint of disapproval, wariness, sure, but never disapproval. Unless you maybe counted Kishibe, but he had been in the business forever so it was to be expected from him.

“(Y/n),” Makima tested the name on her tongue, “please do share what you mean.”

The other juniors in the room jumped in before (Y/n) could say a word, assuring Makima that her plan was perfectly acceptable and that they could handle everything just fine.

Makima raised her hand, motioning the group to quiet, which they did almost immediately. No different from her dogs at home, really.

“There is no need to become so defensive on my behalf, we are all working towards the same goal and have humanity’s best interests at heart. I would be remiss if I didn’t take the thoughts of others into account before possibly making a grave miscalculation. So that being said,” Makima’s eyes found (Y/n)’s again, “the floor is yours, (Y/n).”

“Thanks, anyway,” (Y/n) pushed her office chair away from the conference table and strode over to the city map projected on the wall near where Makima stood.

Her peers shot her questioning and displeased looks as she went. Makima stepped back to give her room, hands clasped behind her back, waiting, intrigued.

“This route makes no tactical sense,” (Y/n) pointed out, “It would bring too much attention to us if we were all grouped up like this. The devil would see us coming and with its Gun Devil enhanced power, it would wipe us out in a single attack. I strongly suggest…”

(Y/n) went on to mark three separate routes on the map and even went on to share the strengths of each individual in the room and who should be paired off and take which route.

“…Finally, if all goes smoothly, we should all converge near this point, and take care of the devil then,” (Y/n) looked over to Makima who’s face still wore a ghostly smile, “Of course I’m open to more discussion, but if you insist on your initial plan Miss Makima, then you can count me out.”

A few strangled sounds of disbelief littered the room, but Makima simply tilted her head to the side, eyes boring into (Y/n)‘s.

“You would quit?”

“Perhaps. Private Sector makes more money anyway. And despite my clear lack of popularity with my coworkers’ at present, I would rather them not die if it can be helped. What do you say?”

Makima chuckled at that, leaning into (Y/n)’s personal space. (Y/n) didn’t fluster nor back away, but she did raise an expectant eyebrow, a curious expression visible as she waited for Makima’s denial or approval of her idea.

She had Makima’s approval alright, in more ways than one.

“Very well,” Makima nodded, unblinking, “let’s give it a try.”

***

(Y/n) stared down bitterly at the graves long after the service had concluded. Then she heard a rumble roll across the sky accompanied by the rustling of grass and approaching footsteps. The dark shadow of an umbrella fell over her head and a long, black coat came into her periphery as the first drops of rain began to fall around them.

“Would it really have killed them to listen to me?” (Y/n) murmured without thinking.

“It certainly killed them not to listen.” Makima provided, tone neither one of mirth nor despair, simply apathetic. “For what it’s worth, I thought your plan was better. At least their sacrifices hadn’t been for nothing.”

“I suppose.” (Y/n) sighed wearily.

When the day of the mission had arrived, (Y/n)‘s stubborn peers acted on the original plan detailed by Makima. (Y/n) had linked up with some of the senior hunters from another unit and together they killed the devil and retrieved the fragment of the Gun Devil that it had coveted, but not before a good chunk of the city block had been destroyed. Several civilians as well as her peers littered the street crushed and mangled.

“The rain is getting stronger,” Makima noted, twisting the umbrella that hung over their heads, “I’d like to invite you to my home. I’ll make you something warm to eat and we can drink our sorrows away.” Allow me learn what makes you tick.

(Y/n) surprisingly shook her head, “I appreciate the offer Miss Makima, but I need time to reflect on my own I think.”

Makima’s lips parted, a honeyed insistence already on her tongue, but then she stopped herself, a small smile painting her lips instead.

“I understand. Perhaps another time then.”

“Sure. Well,” (Y/n) paused awkwardly, then flicked up the hood of her coat, “see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Makima confirmed.

She made a move to press her umbrella into (Y/n)’s hands, but she was waved off as soon as their hands touched, (Y/n) thanked her anyway but she had still denied the silent offer, order? Makima watched on as (Y/n) walked briskly out of the cemetery, a taxi already waiting for her to climb into it.

Makima watched the car roll off before starting to walk to her own. She could have easily persuaded (Y/n) to join her, but she found it much more compelling to let the chips fall where they may, for now at least. It was rather exciting.

***

Makima never used her power on (Y/n). A self-imposed rule. That didn’t mean she didn’t have little eyes and ears on her almost constantly. She enjoyed checking in on the unsuspecting Devil Hunter, watching what she did when she wasn’t working. It seemed silly, but Makima felt like she might have been falling for the young woman.

Perhaps it was an unhealthy amount of self-confidence provided by her constant stream of admirers, but she couldn’t have been more surprised when (Y/n) politely declined her proposition. It wasn’t obvious, the biggest hint of her bafflement being two blinks in rapid succession.

“I’m sorry Miss Makima, I just don’t think it would be appropriate for the workplace. Not to mention how dangerous this job is. It’s not a good idea to get too attached to anyone here. I learned that pretty quickly…”

Makima squeezed her hands behind her back, reminding herself that (Y/n)’s will, free from her own, was what drew her to her in the first place. Besides, who really knew what the future would hold for them.

“No need to apologize, I understand your concerns. However, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be here.”

(Y/n) shook her head, a sympathetic smile on her face, “Don’t wait for me, Miss Makima, you do deserve to be happy with someone, but it probably isn’t going to be me.” Then she left Makima’s office, closing the door quietly behind her.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Makima leaned back in her chair, smiling to herself.

She was still committed to not using her influence, and she was confident that she wouldn’t need it. She’s seen many questionable human couples, if they could stumble into a courtship, she certainly could. She would just need to be patient and drop subtle reminders of her availability.

One might argue how Makima studied (Y/n) so thoroughly to know exactly what to say and do to get her heart pounding would be just another form of manipulation, but Makima would say that this way took a lot of time and effort and was much more heartfelt. In fact, as the months stretched on and the longer it took to win (Y/n)’s favor, the more Makima felt for her.

It had been a particularly hard day for (Y/n) when she had gone to Makima asking if she wanted to go out for drinks. She had grown out of the rookie position by simply surviving a few months and had been assigned a couple juniors of her own to look after. They had went as quickly as they had came, but it still weighed on her.

Makima made sure not to seem too eager. She would be a shoulder to lean on, but anything (Y/n) wanted, she could have it if she went for it. Truly not knowing where the night would go, excited her.

Makima ushered (Y/n) into her car and took her to a restaurant she had remembered her mentioning in passing as one of her favorites. They got a cozy little booth in the corner. The ordered their meals and drinks and quietly conversed, letting the warmth of the room and the gentle clinks of of cups and chopsticks against ceramic.

It was the most loose Makima had witnessed (Y/n), she had a couple drinks, but she wasn’t drunk by any means. Maybe a little tipsy at most, but her smile looked more genuine than it ever did at work, and she sounded so relaxed, she even laughed! But then she began hiding yawns behind her hand and final calls could be heard from the bar. It was getting late.

Makima hated the thought of having to drive (Y/n) home. She never wanted to let her go for even a moment, but that wasn’t her choice to make. How irksome it was to play by the rules of a game she had created. A game that only she was aware she was playing.

Makima scooped up the check an paid for everything before (Y/n) could even think about reaching into her coat pocket.

“Hey, I’m the one who invited you out. What do I owe you?” (Y/n) asked, cracking open her wallet.

Makima reached over the table and put her hand on (Y/n)’s to stop the motion.

“You owe nothing. It’s been difficult for you these last few weeks.”

Makima noticed a look of gentle longing, but it left as quickly as it came when another yawn passed (Y/n)’s lips.

“Let’s get you home.”

Makima ushered (Y/n) outside and into the passenger seat of her sleek black car before maneuvering around to get in herself. The ride was quiet save for the ac blowing a constant stream of warm air to offset the chill of the night. When Makima parked the car outside of (Y/n)’s apartment complex, she turned to smile at her and waited for her to unbuckle her seatbelt, but instead she just sat there, looking pensive.

“What is on your mind, (Y/n)?” She asked, inching her hand over the center console while she debated if it would be a good idea to touch her or not.

(Y/n) leaded back against the car door, halting the slow journey Makima’s hand had been making. (Y/n) bit her inner cheek and looked out upon the streetlights casting the sidewalk in a yellowish glow.

“I think I’m failing for you.”

Makima’s eyes lit up with an excited gleam, but still she left the decision of what would happen next up to (Y/n).

“What will you do about it?”

(Y/n) leaned over the center console, her hand resting atop Makima’s. She leaned in further still until her lips found Makima’s. It took a lot of control on Makima’s part to not chase her when she pulled away too soon for her liking.

“Was that okay? I’m sorry, I know you said you liked me, but that was awhile ago and I still should have asked first.”

“It was fine,” Makima assured, “No need to apologize.”

“…Just fine?” (Y/n) asked, almost incredulously.

“Could have been longer,” Makima smirked.

“Well, I could rectify that, if it’s okay with you.”

Makima was more than okay with it, she had been waiting for a development like this for what felt like ages. The longer they continued to kiss in her car, the more she began to wonder,

“What made you change your mind about us being together? I recall you not finding workplace relationships favorable.”

“That’s true,” (Y/n) agreed, between trying to catch her breath, “But I decided after attending my third junior’s funeral that I’m done with devil hunting. I’m quitting. I did leave the resignation paperwork on your desk last week, did you not notice it?”

(Y/n), leaving Public Safety? That would make watching her so much more difficult, limit their time together drastically. This both annoyed and exhilarated Makima because she could not have foreseen her making a choice like this. She would not have had her make a decision like this. It was almost enough to make Makima use a bit of persuasion to have (Y/n) sleep on that decision and think it over, but she couldn’t. A (Y/n) under her control was not really her (Y/n) at all, oddly enough.

“I guess I was too busy admiring you, to think about what you were there for.”

“Ever the charmer,” (Y/n) unbuckled her seatbelt, “Well… you have my number, let me know when you get home safe and then maybe we could exchange schedules for next week?”

“You already have a new job?”

“Family Burger,” (Y/n) groaned, “Just until I finish the degree I left hanging. I hope.”

“I guess I know where I will be getting lunch for the foreseeable future then.”

“You cannot eat Family Burger everyday, It’ll kill you!” (Y/n) laughed.

“It would take a lot more than a a little grease to kill me.” Makima grinned, maybe (Y/n) would learn that someday.

“Trust me, it would be more than a little grease. But I wouldn’t be opposed if you came by every once in awhile.”

“It’s a date.”

“No way! I’m gonna take you on a real nice date the next time our schedules sync. Mark my words!” (Y/n) promised. She pressed a quick kiss against Makima’s cheek, then opened the car door to let herself out.

“Good night, Makima.”

“Good night.”

Makima watched (Y/n) wave to her from the door and when she walked inside and shut the door behind her, Makima drove home. She was sure to text (Y/n) of her safe arrival as soon as the dogs stopped jumping all over her.

They texted back and forth for a bit, sharing possible times to meet up, and then Makima decided to take a shower before getting into bed. She stared up at the dark ceiling, going over the night’s events in her mind.

It all felt so very peculiar. Makima wasn’t quite sure she had ever felt so many emotions in such a short time. (Y/n) appeared to return her affections, she kissed her. Multiple times. She only wished (Y/n) would stay with Public Safety. It was something that she could easily remedy, but she had restrained herself yet again. Though Makima wondered if she would be able to continue that trend if she had reason to believe that (Y/n) could be in danger. It was easier to look out for her when they worked together. She may have the birds and rats to keep an eye on her, but the proximity was stretched much too thin for her liking.

Hopefully the next steps in their relationship would follow quickly now that the ball was finally rolling. She wanted to come home to see (Y/n) curled up with her dogs in the worst way.

“Soon,” she promised herself, “soon.”

***

The day did come when (Y/n) suggested moving in somewhere together. It took longer than Makima would have liked to get to that point, but at least it was finally happening. She would have liked to have a talk with whomever gave her the impression that it was customary that women moved in together on the second date. It would have humiliated even Makima if (Y/n) had known she came to pick her up with her trunk full of collapsed boxes to help her move, only to learn they were going to the aquarium.

“Awww, this is the sea lion plush I got you when we went to the aquarium, isn’t it? We should go again sometime soon.” (Y/n) smiled, placing the stuffed animal back on the bed.

Makima nodded in agreement. Despite her initial disappointment, she did have a good time and she did like the sea lion (Y/n) had gifted her. They’re like the dogs of the ocean. Makima never really understood the novelty of such toys, but she had to admit there was something desirable about this one at the very least.

After hanging the rest of (Y/n)’s clothes in the closet, they heard a few whines and a pawing at the door. The dogs had been shut out to keep them out of the way as they unpacked (Y/n)’s belongings.

“The sweet babies,” (Y/n) chuckled, “so lonely.”

“They are simply excited about your indefinite stay, as am I.”

(Y/n) walked around the bed to hug Makima, melting when the embrace was returned.

“Me too. Should we let them in now?”

“Only if you are ready to be buried in seven heavy, wiggly, fluffy dogs.”

“Oh, I think all the other times I came over to visit prepared me for this moment.”

“Fair enough.” Makima smirked at (Y/n) over her shoulder before releasing the dogs upon her.

“Nooo!” (Y/n) laughed.

She was immediately overwhelmed and shoved to the ground. Wagging tails and slobbery tongues hitting her from all sides.

“Makima,” she wheezed, “Help!”

“I thought you said you were prepared?”

“I was wrong!”

“Sit.” Makima ordered. Her voice was soft, but the dogs listened without delay, each looking up at her expectantly. Makima made a quick motion with her hand and the dogs stampeded out of the bedroom.

“Thank you, my hero.” (Y/n) reached her hand up towards Makima, while still laying flat on the floor.

“You’re very welcome,” Makima reached further than (Y/n)’s hand, instead grasping her above her elbow to pull her up so they stood chest to chest. “Is this better?”

“Much.” (Y/n) clung to Makima again, smiling contently.

“So affectionate today,” Makima teased, though she was being just as touchy.

“I would argue I’m always affectionate with you, but I am especially happy right now,” she nuzzled Makima’s jaw, planting a quick kiss against her skin, “I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time (Y/n) had told her so, but the effect was always the same. A warm feeling in Makima’s chest like a warm summer afternoon always bubbled up. It felt so strange, but she enjoyed it.

“And I you.” Makima cupped (Y/n)’s face in her hands. Her stare was as intense as it was tender. She wasn’t sure she had ever been quite as close to happiness as she was right in that moment.

That something out of her control could love her, would choose to love her, it was euphoric.

#chainsaw man oneshots #chainsaw man x reader #csm oneshots #csm x reader #csm makima x reader #makima x reader #requests #anonymous

[loserdiaz]

tagged by the lovely @daffi-990 🩷

here's another moodboard from my hunger games au and a lil snippet!

"Is he the one behind you? Can I get a few words from him?" Taylor raises an eyebrow, trying to peak over Eddie's shoulder. "Buck, is that how you called him?"

He crosses his arms defensively against his chest. "No."

He'll be damned if he lets Taylor fucking Kelly make a spectacle out of Buck (or any of the tributes, for that matter) just for a few giggles and views from the Capitol citizens that have nothing better to do than watch her atupud, cheesy, pathetic News Channels.

"You never make it easy, do you, Diaz?" Taylor still has that charming, toothy smile plastered on her face but Eddie notices the slight pinch in the corner of her eyes and how her gaze flashes with annoyance and dislike.

Eddie gets a weird sense of smugness and satisfaction bursting in his chest at the sight.

Then, one of the kids pushes forward and reaches a hand inside the cage, his tiny little fingers wiggling as if willing a tribute to come close.

To Eddie's horror, Buck does.

"Hey there." He says, soft and caredul. A small, weak smile tugging at his lips.

Everyone else falls silent, a mix of weariness and worry from a tribute being close to a kid, and a sense of curiosity and anticipation hanging in the air.

If anyone would be able to stop time like that, Eddie thinks, that would be Evan Buckley. Brave and reckless like no one he's met before. "I saw you on television." The little kid says, his face glued to the cage. He's probably not older than six or seven, if Eddie had to guess. "I saw you defending your sister?"

"You did?" Buck lights up a bit at the mention of Maddie.

"Yeah. I have a sister too." The kid says. "Her name is Annie."

"That's a pretty name." Buck whispers. "My sister is Maddie. She is pretty cool. My favorite person in this world, by far." Eddie swallows thickly at that.

The kid reaches until he's softly barely ghosting his fingers over Buck's cheek. "I hope you win." He says, more somber than any kid should be at that age. "So you can go back to your sister."

At that, Buck's breath catches and he blinks rapidly, his eyes looking awfully glassy. "Thanks, kiddo."

Everyone is so enthralled by the moment happening in front of them that they don't notice Buck never says "I hope so, too." or the way his voice sounds defeated, resigned. Sad.

Eddie does, though, and he aches with the weight of what it means.

He promises himself he'll do anything in his power to make sure Buck does go back home to his sister.

tagging (no pressure): @buddierights @hoodie-buck @monsterrae1 @gayedmundodiaz @hippolotamus @honestlydarkprincess @malewifediaz @spotsandsocks @spaceprincessem @the-likesofus @underwater-ninja-13 @watchyourbuck @jeeyuns @jamespearce9-1-1 @exhuastedpigeon @tails89 @rainbow-nerdss @giddyupbuck @wildlife4life @housewifebuck @maygrantgf @bigfootsmom @eddiebabygirldiaz @thewolvesof1998 @buckaroosheart and anyone else who wants to do it <33

#evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #buddie #buddie fic #my wips #my writing #hunger games au #tbosas au #911 fic #911 abc #911 on abc

[holmesxwatson]

The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes dir: Billy Wilder, 1970

I only watched The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes for the first time a few days ago but it lights my brain up in that special way that I know I’ll revisit it a lot. Don’t get me wrong, it’s far from perfect, for one thing Colin Blakely’s Watson is a little too shouty for me, but it’s very worthwhile to check out despite its shortcomings, which I think mostly come from the fact that so much was cut from the intended script.

I absolutely love Robert Stephens as Holmes. His face is so good, he has a way of looking at Watson when he doesn’t know he’s being observed that is very soft. I thought I was hallucinating the beginning of this movie with Holmes telling the ballet dancer he’s gay and in a relationship with Watson. I thought it was going to be played for a joke, and it was a bit, but it didn’t just end there. Holmes and Watson have a conversation about the repercussions in a lengthy scene that turns very serious by the end. I can’t believe this was 1970 and no one has since tried to build on this specific dynamic in a more meaningful way. Someone needs to remake this into a mini-series exactly how Billy Wilder intended it to be, here’s hoping public domain can make it so.

[above: script page from the cut story The Curious Case of the Upside Down Room, where Watson creates a fake case to make Holmes feel better]

Also, the backstory of the making of this film is so out of control: Robert Stephens’s nervous breakdown and suicide attempt during the production, the amount of years Billy Wilder was trying to write it and get it made, the interference of ACD’s son, the Loch Ness monster prop that the crew lost in actual Loch Ness, the immense scope of the episodic story they were going for, the way it got cut down from its original 3 hour 45 minute runtime and how that cut footage was lost forever! (this is crazy! everyone go check your attics and storage lockers right now).

In one of the interviews I found, Robert Stephens says “if something is boring — if it’s three minutes long it’s too long, but if it’s interesting it’s never long enough…you don’t want it to end.” Big same Toby Stephens’ dad, big SAME. I didn’t want it to end. I read the uncut script and I am just floored at what we missed out on. Thankfully some footage and audio remain of some of the cut scenes (but still! check your basements too).

Just fully let it settle into your brain that they filmed all of these stories in the script, and then cut most of it away. Like that is mind-blowing to me, it existed at one point as it was fully intended to be. If this was made now during home entertainment times, they would have no problem releasing an almost four-hour movie, but at the very least there would be a big director’s cut dvd release and we would be enjoying all the small Holmes x Watson moments we deserve.

Anyway, in pretty short order I found a bunch of interesting links to stuff, details below. I also consulted my very well-thumbed Conversations with Wilder book by Cameron Crowe, but there wasn’t that much more information in there. I have Robert Stephens’ memoir Knight Errant and the TPLOSH blu-ray on order so I’ll add to this post if I find any more good resources. Let me know if I’m missing anything, and enjoy!

Full movie on YouTube (x) <-update: this link went private, but it's also streaming for free on Tubi and Freevee, and available to rent on YouTube, Google Play, and Apple TV

Original roadshow draft of script on Internet Archive (x)

Missing footage: Prologue [sound only plus stills] (x), The Curious Case of the Upside Down Room [sound only plus stills] (x), The Dreadful Business of the Naked Honeymooners [footage and soundtrack only, no sound dialogue] (x), alternate ending [sound only] (x)

Making of documentary that includes behind-the-scenes snippets of some of the cut scenes [this doc is in German, but you can turn on the auto-translate to English in the YouTube settings] (x)

Interview with Ernst Walter, film editor of TPLOSH (x)

Interview with Christopher Lee “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Wilder” 2003 (x)

My YouTube playlist with all of the above links in one place plus an excellent fan vid by Just Bee that I added to the list because it’s just so good (x)

Missing Movies: A Case for Sherlock Holmes from 1994 BBC Radio 2 on Soundcloud [includes interview with Robert Stephens and folks involved in the production] (x)

Articles about the lost Loch Ness monster prop (x) (x)

The soundtrack by Miklós Rózsa (x)

#sherlock holmes #the private life of sherlock holmes #robert stephens #billy wilder #tplosh #sh movies

[the-kingshound]

Seeing all of these angsty snippets makes me wish I could romance everyone 😔 I feel like ive seen you answer this somewhat before, but what will everyone's boundaries be when it comes to physical contact platonically? Or I guess my question is how far can you go platonically with the other ROs while in a relationship? Hope that makes sense lol cuz my goal is to romance Arthur and kiss every RO basically

I feel you🥺

Ok so platonically the ROs have similar boundaries as in a romantic relationship (in terms of tolerance/enjoyment of physical contact outside of possible intimate closeness).

Arthur: is more than fine with any kind of contact. If MC is very tactile, that is fine with them (and they enjoy it a lot).

Evaine is maybe more tactile when they are a bit vulnerable and need comfort. Or, in turn, when they are offering comfort. That applies both to lovers and platonic partners.

Yniol needs time to get comfortable with casual physical touch. Because Yniol is an intimidating person, they are very rarely touched casually, and they tend to startle when someone does so. So, Yniol needs to become comfortable with MC before they can not flinch/freeze when touched.

Morien is quite touch averse. In platonic, or even romantic, relationships Morien isn't fond of contact most days. They often flinch or freeze when touched unannounced (unless in a small space where they are aware of where the other person is and can hear them coming). Hugs are fine if they are comfortable and in the mood. Kisses on the cheeks too only for special occasions.

Gwyar is fine when they are comfortable and close with MC. Even close contact is fine, but only in private because Gwyar takes their public professional appearance and work very seriously.

#ask #i hope i answered in a somewhat satisfactory way #if not ask more! #arthur #gwyar #yniol #morien #evaine #ros

[heyidkyay]

Oh my god now you’ve got the image of G and Birdie with a little baby girl into my head… you can’t not write it now! I’d love to see maybe them introducing their baby girl to the rest of the band… or anything else you can come up with 🤣

I guess I'll take this pain, instead of your name | The aftermath

A little snippet:)

--

My due date was March 23rd. Which meant that George would be getting quite the birthday present (if the baby had perfect timing) and that they’d most definitely be an Aries, which were two things I couldn’t quite get behind, but something G was ecstatic over. 

Matty had been hoping the little one would arrive a little late, two weeks late to be precise, just so that he could get one over on George and have the baby share something in common with him instead. He really had been an absolute sweetheart throughout the entire pregnancy, but my God was he pushing it trying to get me to extend the absolute hell I’d endured. 

I’d gone through almost every symptom pregnancy had to offer, from day one I’d felt absolutely vile and then when my second trimester had rolled round I’d had to deal with Braxton Hicks, an undeniable appetite (I’d felt like an actual monster), and dizziness that rivalled anything I’d ever felt before. Including the time when I’d been hit by a fucking car. 

Still, all of Matty’s efforts appeared in vain now seeing as though I went into labour on February 13th, five whole weeks before I was even due. 

To say I’d shit myself would have been an absolute understatement. I was fucking terrified to give birth, let alone that early, and to make matters worse, George had been set to play a show, which meant that he’d had no idea my water had broken until I was high as a kite on fucking gas and air, and he was finally off stage. But thankfully, I’d also been at work and Delia had been the one to walk me through the whole process, we’d headed straight to hospital, due to the fact that I should not have been going into labour this prematurely, but also because she was afraid I was going to give myself a sodding aneurysm simply down to the amount I was panicking. 

But who could blame me?

Anywho, the whole thing seemed a bit small in comparison to when I finally did give birth. We’d been blessed with a tiny, little baby girl- 7 lbs 4 ounces and with a head of thick unruly hair. But before George and I could even get a look in the doctor had told me to start pushing- again.

“They’re coming along quite quickly now, just a few more deep breaths.” 

“You what?” I ask the man in scrubs settled between my legs. Baffled wasn’t even a word I’d begin to use to describe the emotions that hit me right then, having thought I’d heard him wrong until I saw the alarming look on George’s face.

“We need you to push, you can already see baby’s head.” A midwife informs me, ushering George to once again take my hand, to comfort me. He does but he’s caught in a daze. 

“But, but I just did that bit.” I say, mostly stunned, delirious almost for a moment. 

“I know, and you did wonderfully. But baby two isn’t too far behind.” She replies, smiling down at me sincerely even as her attention diverts between a handful of other people stood in the delivery room. 

Her words seem to startle G back into reality, “Baby two? As in twins?”

“Twins! What the hell do you mean, twins?” I feel dizzy once more, head darting between the nurse beside me, G, and the doctor who’s seen a little too much of my insides for my liking. I think I start mumbling then, rambling off a ton of questions, a mile a minute, to anyone and everyone who will listen. Twins. “Are you sure? Twins?”

The nurse laughs, not unkindly, then nods, “Definitely sure, even saw it for myself.”

I’m still not really pushing, too confused, too stunned to really do much, in truth. “Are you having me on? Is this a prank?”

She appears to realise G and I aren’t messing about here and I watch on, frozen, as her whole demeanour shifts before my eyes, “Yes, sweetheart, twins. You really didn’t know?”

I shake my head and am just beyond grateful that George is here with me, holding my hand so tightly that I can truly feel it start to numb- because, what?

Things seem to take a turn then, the entire atmosphere in the room drops when beeping starts up and lights start flashing worryingly. The doctor at the other end of my bed is coaching me through it again, his voice high and harried almost, and I know then that something’s wrong and that it’s all my fault.

“What’s going on?” I ask, eyes immediately snapping over towards the nurse standing beside me but she’s gone, fiddling with the oxygen machine behind my head and then the heart monitor. “G, what- what’s happening? Are they okay? The baby. Are they?”

“You need to push. The baby is losing oxygen, we need to get them out as quickly as possible.”

My heart plummets. I start to panic. It’s my fault. My fault. I’m doing it wrong. I’m to blame. It’s all my fault. I’m messing up and they’re not even really here yet. I’m doing it all wrong.

“We need you to push harder.”

“Breathe.”

“Come on, mum. We need you to really push now.”

“That’s it.”

“Birdie, it’s alright. You’re okay, love. The baby is okay. You just need to push a bit more. Just a little longer, okay?”

I feel my head move- nod?- but the room is spinning, I reckon I’m screaming too. Sobbing, even. My mind so focused on the baby I hadn’t even known I’d been housing, let alone created. My baby. 

Two babies! Two.

I let out a loud groan. Barely even aware of the careful fingers on my temple. 

“Good girl, B.” George whispers to me, lips pressed against my cheek as he brushes hair from out of my face. “You’re doing so well. So good.”

I cry harder, I push harder.

Time seems to have stilled in its entirety, the minutes won’t move, the seconds don’t count. I am lost in this moment, my mind screaming at me to just try harder. 

“And it’s a boy!” I finally hear and then I’m weeping again, crying and clinging to George before he too is dragged away from me by nurses to cut the umbilical cords. I stare up at the ceiling, unable to do much else, chest heaving, thick tears streaming down my cheeks, and all I hear is an overwhelming buzz. The kind I’d grown so used to, starting in my left ear before it soon echos in my right. Jumping, back and forth.

“A boy, Birdie. A boy and a girl.”

I blink and George is there again, hovering over me. He takes my face in his careful hands and holds me so close that we are nose to nose. I realise then he’s crying too.

“Twins.” I whisper breathlessly, every inch of me burns, but I itch to get up, to move and see them.

“Twins.” George repeats with just as much disbelief. “Twins, B. Ours.”

A baby boy, he’d told me. A tiny thing, so full of surprises. He was born smaller than his sister, an even 6 lbs and only ten minutes behind, but his eyes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen, huge and so very innocent, placed between a scattering constellation of tawny freckles that dot his cheeks and kiss his lids. 

A girl and a boy. All ours. 

I’d been taken with them both the moment I’d set my sights on them, ‘the twins' people had dubbed them. ‘Let’s go see the twins!’ ‘The twins are finally crawling!’ ‘Somebody grab a camera, the twins are being cute again!’

Never did I ever believe I’d have a family of my own, let alone a husband or these two beautiful beings that always seemed to stare back up at me with an incredible amount of innocence. It stirs something deep within me each time they do, both the thought and the very sight of them, and when their tiny little hands wrap their way around my fingers I know that I’ll never feel this type of love again. I don’t think I could even begin to describe it.

They are beautiful and they are ours, and I know from the very bottom of my heart that I will protect them until the day that I die. Because, how could I not?

How could anyone not?

#the 1975 #george daniel #george daniel the 1975 #george daniel fic #george 1975 #george daniel x reader #matty #matty healy #george daniel x you #1975 #best friend matty #the 1975 band #fic #adam hann #ross macdonald #carly holt #1975 band #matty 1975 #series #work #exes to lovers #y/n #reader #multi part fic #x you #x reader #angst #fluff #humour #drama

[frozenjokes]

mermaid mumscarian. that’s all. I actually forgot to post the first chapter when I finished it, so congratulations tumblr, you get TWO helpings of dumbassery today.

snippet

***

When Mumbo returned, hungry and irritated about still being hungry, Scar was looking for clams. That seemed to be his favorite activity, sifting through the sand, digging up clams, piling them up, then at the end of day, scattering them back in the sand. Today, Scar was lining up his clams on the shore, letting them sit in the sun for whatever reason. Mumbo wondered if he ever planned on eating them, or if the clams were just toys to humans. Maybe Scar didn’t understand how to get inside them? Mumbo snorted, bubbles floating to the surface. Humans probably thought the clams would just open up for them if they waited long enough.

But not even his sour mood could withstand Scar’s bright smile as the human spotted Mumbo returning; its entire body lit up, every single encounter met with the same excitement as the first time it saw him. Sure, Mumbo was more easily flattered than most mermaids he knew, but anyone would break under the weight of that joy. Was Scar that excited to see everyone, or was it just him? He hoped Scar knew he felt similarly. He wished he could tell him.

Scar’s attention quickly shifted back to the sand though, bending over to sift through with a hand then plucking a clam out of the water. “Oooh this is a big one!”

Across the water, sitting on a rocky outcrop, Grian rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure you’ve shown me that same clam every day since you first got here.”

“It’s big though!”

“It is pretty big.”

“Do you think she’ll win?”

“The- did you finally remember to bring nail polish? And I don’t know, I’ll have to take a look at all of them before I decide.” Grian went back to fishing (and Mumbo was keeping a closer eye than he’d like to admit on the line), but Scar seemed satisfied, taking his bounty to the shore to line it up with the ten or so other clams.

“Well you’d better get ready, because our athletes are all lined up! They’re revving to go, Grian! You should look before they speed away! They’re chomping at the bit I tell you, they’re gonna run right away if you don’t come and look right now.”

Grian made a small noise of assent, not moving. “I'm in no rush.” He re-cast his line.

Scar huffed, trotting to his bag (which Mumbo couldn’t help but notice was placed very far from the shore, what was up with that anyway? Did they not trust him? They could trust him. Come on, no harm in putting them a little closer to the water..) and producing a small vial. Mumbo dragged himself a little closer to inspect it as Scar sat back with his clams. It smelled weird.

“What,” Mumbo said in human, another very useful word he’d learned, and Scar smiled, unscrewing the top.

“We paint our..” he paused, thinking, before gesturing to his dull claws, “Nails.” With the brush attached to the cap, he drew some of the brightly colored liquid inside across one of his ‘nails’, coloring it. Huh. So humans painted their skin just like mermaids did sometimes, very interesting. Unfortunately, Mumbo didn’t have the materials to show him. Scar examined his hand thoughtfully when he finished, throwing Mumbo a soft smile. “This won’t last. I’ll save it for the clams.”

With great care, Scar began to examine his clams one by one, picking them up and spinning them in his hands, saying something about names to Grian, then painting little symbols on the shells once they were dry enough. But why? Mumbo got the sense Scar was preparing them for something- to eat, maybe? Mumbo have never actually seen either human prepare any food; they seemed to bring pre-hunted meals with them every day. Was this.. part of the process..? Why in the world would they name their food?

Well. It was possible Scar wasn’t trying to eat and Mumbo was just thinking about food due to his own hunger. But then what was the point!

Apparently, the painting activity piqued Grian’s interest despite his previous dismissal, a common trend for that human it seemed. Despite holding a somewhat stubborn facade of disinterest, he was quick to contribute a name, and eventually, stopped fishing altogether to check out what Scar was working on.

“This one will be Jellie, the cutest, prettiest, fastest clam,” Scar said, practically shoving one of the clams in Grian’s face. Mumbo couldn’t quite make out the symbol painted on it, (none of the human symbols meant anything to him) but Grian seemed to understand, reaching insistently for the paint in Scar’s other hand. Scar held it out of reach, leaning away, but not without a smile on his face. “What? You don’t like Jellie?”

“Let me make one.”

“I thought you didn’t care about clam racing,” Scar grinned as he shoved back, Grian stumbling a bit in the sand before scrambling back to Scar, throwing himself across the other’s arms in a way that made Mumbo’s fins stand on end. What were they doing? Why were they fighting? Was it about food?

“You can’t put Jellie in the race without Maui and Pearl. At least one of them! I want to draw them.”

“There’s only so many slots for the race, Grian. I’m afraid your cats didn’t make the cut, very sorry, very very sorry.”

“You haven’t even painted all of them yet!” Grian said, in a tone that could have been a growl, though Mumbo had never heard a human make that noise before. Grian pushed at Scar’s face, and Scar laughed(?) hurriedly trying to cap the paint before he dropped it. Grian climbed onto Scar’s back, but as soon as the paint was secure, Scar fell backwards, howling as he crushed Grian in the sand behind him. Grian squeaked, the breath knocked from him, but it wasn’t long before he was squabbling under Scar’s weight, clawing and pushing and being very loud in tones that made Mumbo’s skin crawl. He had to stop them somehow- they were going to hurt each other!

#hermitcraft #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #grian #mumbo jumbo #mumscarian #hermitshipping #tagging scarian and redscape as well because there will be focus on them before the Big Bang #scarian #redscape #mumscar

[abarbaricyalp]

Tell It to the Bees (and the birds)

Hi all! This is my beekeeper!Bucky birdkeeper!Sam meet ugly neighbors au. I am so enamored of this little story and I hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it! There's a second snippet here as well

The way onto the roof was extremely inaccessible. Bucky was only missing an arm and could barely manage it, much less if someone was in a wheelchair or had muscle issues. Apparently the building had once housed families and, back before ADA laws, the building manager had decided cordoning off access to the roof was safer than trusting kids not to go up to it. So, every few days, Bucky had to clamber his way into a discharge closet that was barely wide enough for his shoulders, climb up a ladder he swore inclined past a 90 degree angle, shove open a hatch door that weighed more than a small child, and then lift himself onto the roof. He hadn’t figured out how to manage it without his prosthetic arm on and he was about two more attempts away from suing for access. The only thing stopping him was that he didn’t know how much weight the “Roof Access Strictly Prohibited” sign actually had.

But it was all worth it once Bucky got outside. He was not the first tenant to utilize the roof. In fact, he’d inherited his current raison du climb from one of his neighbors after he found her hard at work on it one day. When she left to move in with one of her children, she left it to Bucky to maintain.

“Guys, you will not believe what Leo said at group today,” he greeted as he walked across the roof. In the middle of the roof, far enough away from the HVAC vents and under a shade tarp that had seen better days and less extreme summers and winters, a small wooden beehive waited for him. The bees were always buzzing, but Bucky liked to think they got louder when they heard his voice.

“He clearly focused all of the topics on me and made sure to get a dig in about how group can’t help if not everyone wanted to be a group. That’s ridiculous, right? I mean, I totally consider myself part of the group. Just because I don’t talk doesn’t mean I’m not present.”

He sat down in the small wooden slatted chair that was half as comfortable as it should be but leagues above the metal folding chair. Especially in the summer. The hive was, apparently, typical sized: three boxes tall and Bucky was only allowed to mess with one of them, the honey super, it was called. One was for the bees themselves and the other was for the eggs and maturation of new bees. Each box had a glass fronting, so he got to see inside sometimes, depending on how they built the combs that year. It also probably meant that someone smarter than him could guess how many bees were in it at which point of the year, but Bucky hadn’t gotten around to memorizing all the facts and figures yet. Melinda had taught him everything about caring for them–“We maintain them, we don’t keep them”–but what Bucky knew, he knew by muscle memory, not logical thought. Now, they were just coming out of their winter easement and the lower box was full of eggs and pupae.

Mostly what Bucky and Melinda used it for–other than an ever full donation crate of honey and beeswax–was less the maintaining of the bees and more the telling of the bees. The first time Bucky had come up to the roof–after ignoring many dubious signs–was a day where he just needed to find some quiet from the noise in his head. What he found was an older woman speaking in soft dulcet tones about what fools her children were. When Bucky tracked her voice down, he found her talking to a very large beehive. And that was that. He was hooked.

Bucky had been in a dozen kinds of therapies since he’d gotten medically discharged from the army, but nothing felt the same as talking to the bees. Nothing felt as real or as safe as this.

The bees didn’t argue with him. They never did. A few flew out to greet him, buzzed around his head until they were sure he only smelt like a flower but wasn’t one. He waited patiently to pass muster before he pulled a small water bottle from his bag and poured some into his palm. It was Melinda’s sugar water concoction and the bees loved it. He wasn’t supposed to give it to them too often. He tried to limit himself to once a week. But the bees got so excited over it and he loved the way they felt walking over his hand.

A few bees had braved him to come crawl over his palm and drink the sugar and Bucky was just beginning to relax into this lovely moment when a massive hawk suddenly dove at them. Bucky made an unbecomingly high pitched screech and went sprawling backwards in the chair. The bird squawked back and startled into the air. The bees droned a frenzied buzz and disappeared.

From flat on his back, Bucky stared into the sky and wondered what the hell had just happened. His shoulder ached from where his prosthesis had jared into the skin and the air was failing to come back into his lungs. Also, he was having entirely too vivid day-terrors of his eyes being plucked out by a razor sharp beak.

The hawk circled around in the air some twenty feet higher and then swooped a little closer and glided around the HVAC system to the far side of the roof. Bucky kicked himself free of the chair and checked to make sure there were no wounded bees on the ground around him before following the bird.

Since Melinda had left, Bucky had rarely seen anyone, or anything, else up on the roof. Occasionally someone braved the absurd ladder and door, usually young people with friends, but it had been pretty quiet for the most part. So he was more than surprised to come around the HVAC to find an entire bird coop constructed and well maintained.

Granted, it had been a while since Bucky had explored other parts of the roof. It was a large complex and the roof was littered with curbs and dips and trash, so it was safer to just sit next to his bees and then go back inside. But he was certain there had been no bird coop on the roof at any point recently.

Casting a glance around before he could give further fodder to his neighbors that he was a few crayons short of a box, he leaned forward and smelled the wood of the coop. Like he expected, it was fresh. So who the hell had been up here? And how hadn’t Bucky noticed? How hadn’t the bees noticed? They hadn’t expressed any agitation. 

Within the coop, a variety of birds cooed at him and shuffled around with a scraping of talons and ruffling of feathers. It was mostly pigeons but there were a few crows, a few colorful birds, a few finches. The hawk that had swooped down at Bucky was sitting outside of the coop, on a fake branch. It stared at him in an entirely too judgemental way. When it tilted its head at Bucky, Bucky tilted his back. The bird ruffled its feathers and turned around on the branch. Bucky turned around too.

#sambucky #bucky barnes #sam wilson #captain america #sambucky fanfic #the falcon and the winter soldier #writing #onlysambucky

[megistusdiary]

Very small snippet of the oneshot without spoiling anything and a reason why it's reached 4k (i eat up description for breakfast):

Arlecchino is referred to with they/them from the reader. Idk why or how that happened. I use she/her for arlecchino, but I'm too many words deep to change now lmfao

Enjoy the crumb

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark bemusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds.

-🩸  

oh my god. this is amazing 😇😇 i hope it was alright to post this to share with everyone, but lmk if not!!

i love writers, and i, too, get lost in "description land" when writing fics.

the description is literally immaculate. i can feel the emotions and visualize the details. perfect. arlecchino is so beautiful, yet so dangerous.

she really is the devil in disguise, and i need her so bad. literally the only character i ever have (maybe ever will) save for 😁

also, i bet 🎭 anon would really like this arle description. they put a fallen angel arle idea in my box, but i got so swamped with lots of good ideas that i never got around to it 😞

10/10 this looks so good so far. i cannot wait to read the full thing. i LOVE when writers use lots of descriptors and put emotion into their writing. i can tell this was written with love and care.

#🩸─ 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯˚୨୧˚⋆ #arlecchino x you #arlecchino x reader #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino #💌─𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭! ༊*·˚ #💐─𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 #i love my anons <3

[xxbottlecapx]

Another idea I had for a Steve has seizures snippet

Steve gets temporary amnesia because of a seizure. After trying to ask Eddie out on a date, Eddie gets to tell Steve that they are already dating. 

Steve was going to tear a hole in the rug if he didn’t stop pacing. 

Dustin had wanted to have a party at Steve’s house to celebrate the downfall of the upside down. From what Eddie has heard, the upside down tended to refuse to stay dead. He hoped that it would make an exception to the rule just this once. Eddie wouldn’t say it, but his greatest fear was that he would have to live through it again, which kind of made him feel like a bad person considering everyone else has dealt with it at least twice, but Eddie digresses. 

Anyways, Eddie knew about Steve’s anxiety over the party; or, better put, a small get together. 

Steve couldn’t handle the general ambiance of a loud and brightly lit party anymore unless he took some serious steps to bring accommodations along, which still made him nervous. 

Even so, he harbored extreme paranoia about having a seizure in public. What if someone that knew his parents saw and alerted them? That’s what Steve had told Eddie, at least. 

Fortunately for Dustin, the teenager truly had become Steve’s Achilles heel. Case in point: the second Dustin suggested it, Steve agreed to host a “Congrats, we didn’t die!” Celebration at his house. He even took the cover off the pool and had it professionally cleaned so that the teenagers could turn it in to a pool party, despite how hard it was for him to do so (Eddie had to calm him down multiple times during the process.) 

You would think that the party or the pool would be what was currently making him pace back and forth for the better half of the hour, or maybe his fear that he would have a seizure during the party (everyone knew about them, so it’s not like they wouldn’t know how to deal with it) no, it was none of the things you would expect your neurotic demon-killing boyfriend to get nervous over. It was honestly kind of refreshing. 

Steve made Pasta Con Patate. 

It was his Nonno Otis’ favorite recipe. Steve had a large hand-made cookbook from Otis, which was one of the only reasons Steve had ever learned how to cook. 

The problem was that Steve had never been allowed to share it with anyone. His father thought cooking was a disgraceful hobby for a man, and his mother wanted nothing to do with her Italian heritage, so openly making authentic Italian dishes was out of the question. 

Eddie and Robin were the only ones that Steve has openly cooked for so far (and, for some reason, Argyle. Which made sense upon further examination seeing as he was the least intimidating person that one could cook for. You could give the man a plate filled with stale almonds and he’d genuinely enjoy it. Indisputable fact: There was no possible way to disappoint Argyle.) 

After much encouragement from both Robin (Steve’s platonic soulmate) and Eddie (Steve’s boyfriend) Steve had finally gotten the courage to openly cook for the rest of the group. 

That isn’t to say that the others have never tried Steve’s food before. It’s just that Steve usually lied to them. 

Once, Steve made cantucci for one of Eddie’s DnD campaigns but made Eddie swear to tell the party that the lady in the trailer to his left had made it. 

Eddie was completely and utterly besotted with Steve so obviously he did it, though he didn’t want to. This was a trend that, months later, has still continued. 

“Sweetheart, if you keep stressing about this, you’re gonna cause an attack.” Eddie said as he sat a bowl of cheese tid-bits in the middle of the living room table. He walked back into the kitchen to grab some popcorn. 

“I know, I need to calm down.” Steve continued walking in the hallway, turning left then right, then speeding around the couch. His footsteps made a gentle thudding sound. “But what if they don’t like it?” He rubbed his shaking hands over his face. Eddie couldn’t tell if it was a nervous thing or a muscle spasm. 

“Well, first off, they will like it.” Eddie sat down the opened container of cookies, opening the plastic lid. In the crook of his elbow he awkwardly held two bags of lukewarm popcorn. 

“Second off, I put molding hot sauce in all the Oreos, so anything you make will taste ten times better in comparison.” 

This makes Steve finally stop pacing, taking his hands off his cheeks. 

“Please tell me you didn’t do that.” He said after a second. 

Eddie didn’t look him in the eye as he continued stocking the preordained snack table. “Have I ever lied to you, Stevie?”

Steve moved his trembling hands. “Oh my god,” he sighs, “go throw those away.” He picks up a vintage pillow and attempts to hit Eddie in the back of the head, making Eddie drop half of the Oreos. 

“I’m just!” Eddie ducked, scrambling behind the couch. “I’m just being helpful! I’m supporting my darling boyfriend!” Eddie clung to the couch and placed his hand over his heartbeat, dramatically leaning back until he was almost completing a backbend. “You can’t punish me for this!” 

“Eddie! Away!” Steve threw the pillow and successfully hit Eddie in the stomach. 

Eddie sprawled himself on the clean floor, giving out an exaggerated zombie noise in defeat before grabbing the Oreos and dashing madly towards the kitchen to hide them from Steve’s wasteful eyes. 

Fortunately for Eddie’s cookies, the doorbell rang before Steve could chase him down the corridor, and it immediately sent Steve into Host Mode. 

Joyce is here first. Punctual, as always, carrying a glass tray with her. 

Everyone had been tasked with bringing food along. Eddie thought it would make Steve less nervous if his pasta wasn’t the main course. The last thing Eddie wanted to do was make Steve so stressed that he had a bad seizure. 

Despite Eddie’s wish to continue watching Steve flutter around like a nervous butterfly, Eddie takes the large dish out of Joyce’s hands and puts it on the table in the dining room. She made chocolate babka and (Eddie had been told) Will and Jonathan made matzo ball soup. 

If the list in Eddie’s head was correct, Eleven was making sweet potato waffles, Mike supposedly just bought a tin of muffins from the store, Argyle was bringing mole, Dustin made vegan pudding, Nancy was in charge of drinks, Robin was bringing hotdogs, (he’s sure Murray was bringing vodka) and Max made dandelion salad. 

Eddie didn’t have to make food since he’s the one that made all the decorations (a large “congrats, you didn’t die!” paper banner hanging from the ceiling, a bunch of paper bats taped to the walls, and he was of course in charge of the movies and music.) 

On top of the excitement, the bubbling anxiety of what might happen if Steve overworked himself sat with striking clarity in Eddie’s gut. 

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

“Look at his cute yellow sweater vest. Isn’t he adorable?” Eddie watched as Steve argued with Dustin about whether Grease was better than Star Wars. 

Robin rolled her eyes, standing to Eddie’s side. Half the kids were already in the pool so they had both retreated to the kitchen to hopefully sneak the Oreos back on the snack table without Steve seeing. 

“That’s my sweater vest.” She said. 

Eddie nodded, hands clinging to his heart. “And I love you for it dearly, I truly do.” 

“You’re disgustingly into him.” Robin grabbed four capri suns. 

“I’m not the one actively making a wedding planner with him.” Was Eddie’s come back. It was an overwhelmingly thorough wedding planner. He should know, he helped Steve pick out his wedding dress. 

This of course sends Robin off into a rant about the normalization of platonic marriage as she cuts off the tops of the Capri suns with scissors and pours the liquid into a red solo cup. 

From the hallway, they both hear a subtle bump, followed by a heavy thud.

A second later, Dustin yells. 

“Shit, he’s seizing again!” 

Eddie is running out of the kitchen and tripping over Robin before he can even process that he’s knocked her Capri sun abomination to the floor. 

Luckily, Dustin was probably the best person for Steve to seize around. Dustin had taken to wearing a large winter coat when they hung out together so that he could use it to cushion Steve’s head. 

Despite knowing that Steve would be just fine, it was never easy for Eddie to watch his head slam back, arms shaking, eyes rolling back in his skull. 

Everyone in the party was pretty well-trained in how to help Steve through his seizures when they happened. They’ve come a long way from the first time, which was probably the most traumatic seizure Steve had ever had, simply because of how poorly everyone had dealt with it.  

It had been a focal seizure (who knew there were different kinds) and all he had done was stop moving, eyes rolling back in his skull. Everyone had assumed he was getting Vecnaed and Steve had woken up with the entire party aggressively shaking him and yelling, his favorite song blaring in Max’s headphones. Steve’s postictal confusion (Dustin had taught everyone all the proper terms) only made it worse, leading to him having a panic attack, which triggered another seizure. 

All in all, a terrible way to react. Steve had explained to them later that he was not in fact dying, he just had seizures now (since Jonathan, Eddie knew, but Steve hadn’t said it because he didn’t want to make Jonathan feel guilty.) 

Despite the fact that they were all completely okay with helping Steve through his seizures, Steve himself hated it with a passion. 

Eddie had to comfort Steve on multiple occasions because Steve would get so embarrassed that he would start crying and isolate himself, which Eddie didn’t feel comfortable with especially when Steve had just seized. 

For a while, Steve had refused to leave the house after his first seizure in front of the party. He felt such a deep shame from it that Eddie and Robin hadn’t been able to get ahold of him for a week. 

Robin eventually had the bright idea to camp in front of Steve’s front door for three days (with Eddie leaving every once in a while to get provisions) before they were able to get Steve to let them inside. 

Eddie finds Dustin in the living room, Steve shaking on the floor, having a full-blown grand mal seizure on the carpet. 

Dustin’s sweater was already under Steve’s head, but Steve was large and Dustin was obviously having trouble turning Steve on his side. Robin grabs the small stopwatch from Eddie’s pocket and starts timing it. 

Eddie takes over, letting Robin and Dustin move the snack table so Steve couldn’t ram his arms against it. 

He very gently moves Steve to his side, tilting his head to open his airway, feeling the stiff tendons in his neck. 

You weren’t supposed to hold someone down during a seizure, so though it hurt Eddie to do so, he lets Steve thrash around, grabbing pillows from the couch and placing them around him. He wipes drool from Steve’s face more so for Steve’s benefit. 

The sliding glass door laid open and Eddie could see everyone in the pool watching, but the party knew it wasn’t good to overwhelm Steve so they stayed further away. Eventually they would make their way inside to check on him once he was awake and actually able to process their presence in a positive manner. 

“Its okay, Stevie. You’re safe.” Eddie said, siting near Steve’s head. Robin and Dustin took the couch, talking softly to Steve about some board game they wanted to introduce him to. 

It takes about three minutes and twenty seven seconds for Steve’s tremors to die down, his eyes opening. 

The second Eddie feels it’s safe to, he places his hands on Steve’s head. 

“Hey darling, you had a seizure.” He explained. 

Steve squints at him, eyes blurry. Confusion was pretty common after a seizure, so Eddie doesn’t question it when Steve makes a dazed grumbling sound. 

Robin walks into the kitchen to get Steve a bottle of water and some Tylenol. 

“You’re gonna have an insane headache. You hit your head on the way down.” Dustin pipes up, not getting closer. 

“Can you talk?” Eddie whispers. 

Steve clumsily grapples with Eddie’s arm, trying to pull him closer, so Eddie helps Steve sit up and holds him to his chest. 

After a few minutes, Steve opens his mouth a few times, cuddled into Eddie’s side. 

“Who- who’ryou?” He slurs. 

Eddie lifts his eyebrows, tucking Steve’s hair behind his ear. 

“I’m Eddie.” He says. Sometimes Steve wouldn’t be able to remember things immediately after a seizure. It didn’t happen often but it happened enough for him to not be concerned about it. 

“That’s Dustin, and the one bringing you water is Robin.” 

Steve slowly moves his head, wincing, to look around at them. Eddie supports Steve’s head with the sweaty palm of his hand. 

Eventually, Steve turns back to Eddie. 

“My head hurts.” He had a heavy lisp. 

“You can take painkillers when you’re more aware. I don’t want you choking.” Eddie clarified. 

“You are-“ Steve squinted his eyes as he faced Eddie. Steve inched closer, focusing on Eddie’s features. “So pretty.” 

A baffled chuckle leaves Eddie’s lips. 

“Thank you darling.” He says kindly, and then a second later; “Why are you crying?” 

There was one small tear on Steve’s face. Eddie wipes it off. 

“I’m so sad,” Steve sloppily buried his face in Eddie’s chest. Eddie wraps his arms around him tighter. Dustin was snickering on the couch. 

“Why?” 

“Because- I can’t date you, because- I’m straight.” Steve stuttered, acting like this was the worst possible thing in the entire world. 

Now Dustin was full on cackling so hard he had to wrap his arms around his stomach. Robin was loosing it in the corner where she held the water bottle and the painkillers. 

Eddie tried to hold himself together, nodding seriously at Steve. 

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says, “you are gay.” 

“I am?” Steve squeaks, his mood changing in less than a second. “Will you go out with me?” 

Eddie couldn’t contain his smile, ducking his head to hide in his hair. 

Eddie takes a deep breath. 

“I’m your boyfriend.” He informs. 

 It takes Steve a second to process what he’s saying. 

“You are? Holy fuck.” Steve turns his head, like he’s entirely beside himself in shock. The left side of his body wasn’t moving well, so his right arm came to clutch Eddie’s shirt. 

Then Steve winces, makes another grumbling sound before resting his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder. 

In an hour, Steve would drink his water and painkillers, begrudgingly let himself get checked on by the rest of the kids, and have the entire party enthusiastically fight over who gets his leftover pasta. 

Then Eddie would give him a dramatic rendition of Steve asking Eddie out before even remembering who he is, since Steve has no memory of it. Robin will gently tease him about his terrible taste in men, and Eddie will get to successfully cuddle with his boyfriend without a post-seizure meltdown, for once.  

Sources;

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK526004/#_article-28844_s1_

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Postictal_state

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3175608/

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anterograde_amnesia. 

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Todd%27s_paresis 

https://youtu.be/dGSf3OeZrHY

https://youtu.be/xW7Bi6DoWGk

https://youtu.be/oA1uDzKBRqI

https://youtu.be/7N74EFyEhUA

https://youtu.be/rEyr4ahlj9Y

https://www.epilepsy.com/complications-risks/moods-behavior/stress-mood-and-seizures

https://www.epilepsy.com/what-is-epilepsy/seizure-triggers/over-counter-medications

https://www.cdc.gov/epilepsy/about/first-aid.htm

https://www.peacehealth.org/medical-topics/id/ty7150spec

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