Headcanon where Severus manages to somehow insert you, 'his wife', at least once in every conversation and he's completely unaware of it until someone points it out.
Severus knew that he shouldn’t have tried the champagne, not after he’d just finished a glass of red wine, but it was a celebratory evening, and besides, there had been a toast, and it simply wasn’t proper not to have champagne after a toast.
“Have you head that they’ve finally added another exception to Franken’s third Law of Suspension?” The woman stands before him in a sparkling gown that hugs her every curve, one hand twirling her hair a bit as she leans forward and gives him a generous view of her cleavage.
“Ah, yes,” Severus says, sipping the champagne slowly before coming up for air, “well, actually, as I was discussing with my wife the other day, it’s not a true exception. More of an addendum, really. According to my wife, well, it’s hardly news at all. And I must say that I agree.”
“Er…well…that’s…” The woman’s smile begins to fade and she shuffles uncomfortably on her high heeled shoes.
“In fact, I should tell you, my wife is just the funniest, most beautiful-”
“You know what? I think my friend just called for me. I’ve gotta go.” The woman turns tail and practically sprints for the lady’s restroom.
“What did I miss?”
“Oh, nothing, my love,” Severus purrs, looking at his wife with loving eyes. “Just a buzzing fly.”
“I guess I was right when I said that they had absolutely no standards, present company excluded, of course,” she replies, smirking deviously. “Say, what say you that we ditch this place and get up to some…mischief?”
Severus is filled with a heady sense of arousal as he realizes just what she means, and he grins uncharacteristically widely, swooping her up in his arms.
“Don’t let me stop you, my beloved wife.”
“Come along, then, my sexy henchman husband.” She pulls on his collar playfully and he follows her towards the double doors to the ballroom, his mind already imagining her in a scandalous state of undress. Preferably underneath him.
After stepping through the floo connection to their home, it doesn’t take long for them to achieve an acceptable level of nudity. Severus is nothing if not efficient, even when he’s had a bit to drink.
Mum told me not to follow her steps and focus all the time on work, to find someone i truly loved, to have good friends and have kids. That kept me thinking all day long. . We, as photographers, have the mission to capture those things that seem to be really simple and usual for the human eye and give a new meaning, to stop time for a second and let others appreciate life, we are not the heroes of the society, we are the ones that are going to make you keep thinking about how beautiful life is every second. We can see the light were others see darkness. . And i think that taught me things about human beauty, because where you see an ugly scar i can see a beautiful story. And every curve i can see and every bone i can feel is something beautiful to appreciate, as i told you before, we are not heroes, we are the ones who are going to transform those tears into a smile. Let’s say we have a huge power. Just, don’t be so hard on yourself, you are loved. …..
“Today i choose life. Every morning when i wake up I can choose joy, happiness, negativity, pain… To feel the freedom that comes from being able to continue to make mistakes and choices - today i choose to feel life, not to deny my humanity but embrace it.” - Kevyn Aucoin
Pairing: Arenlor “Arie” Aeducan/Leliana Rating: G Word count: ~300, drabble written for the Warden day of @dwarfappreciationweek :)
Were she a storyteller, she would describe her with only the most lovely of terms. She’d paint her in all the colors of the surface world: in sparkling river-blues, burning sunset-oranges, and pale, petite petal-pinks. And yet, all that leaves her mouth for now is ‘friend’.
Friend, comrade in arms, a blade at her back and a body by her side.
Friend, who sits with her by the fire; whose long, elegant fingers unwind her hair from the shapeless chestnut lump on the back of her head and braid, brush it into complex shapes the likes of which she hadn’t worn since the exile, just for fun.
Friend, whose soft breaths make fine red hair dance in the darkness of the tents on those long, cold nights- nights when she struggles to fall asleep, and amuses herself with counting the long lashes that hide those pretty pale blues.
Friend, whose pupils swallow all color when she rouses at an errant sound and they exchange whimsical words made of more breath than voice till sunrise.
She has always admired the way language can condense all these meanings, this matrix of emotions and all the relations they have with one another -comrades, sisters-in-arms, women sharing their tents and food and breath with one another- into one word; friend.
But right now, as Leliana’s face lights up and her fingers curl around the stem of a pale blue flower the same color as her eyes -a silly, pretty, wonderful little thing- she prods at the word, turns it in her mouth, seeks purchase where there is none.
But she’s never been a storyteller. She can’t paint with river-blues, sunset-oranges or petal-pinks, yet she can no longer collapse all that is swelling in her heart and sweep it under the shroud of ‘friend’.