a tender moment in the garden

My softness is radical politics;
is brave vulnerability, vulnerable bravery;
is fist filled with seed, and soil, and tenderness;
is chin raised defiant to a world determined to bury words I know have meaning.

I know my words have meaning.

I’ve found them in hearts I look to for guidance -
hearts bleeding beating their way through moments too ready to cut the palms of hands trying to tend to desert gardens -
hearts that tend to this desert garden heart.

I was raised by a disabled, ill, trans woman -
6 years my senior, more a girl still learning the stutter of her steps, of her tongue, of her heart.
She taught me what it means to be soft,
to sit in that softness and find its value,
to hold space for all of it and what it brings -
all my broken, all my sad, all my try and fail and give up and try again.
She gave me space to find love for all my broken, all my sad, all my try and fail and give up and try again.

My softness is radical politics;
is this body -
this disabled, ill, trans body;
is loving bodies like and unlike this one;
is learning the ways we are broken under this world determined to bury our meaning.

I know these broken bodies have meaning.

We are told we are too much to be enough, too messy to find our place, too whole to know this pain.
We are told not to seek comfort in the ways our ancestors survived -
the ways our brethren are still surviving -
through our messy, painful, broken wholeness.

I am not always soft,
but I have learned to find my softness in everything I grow -
in my bitterness, my anger, my frustration -
there is still soft, still broken, still brave vulnerability, vulnerable bravery.

My softness is radical politics;
is learning this world is rarely kind to softness;
is funerals and memorials and celebrations of life and refusing to go to any of them;
is passing on words found in hearts buried by a world scared to learn their meaning.

Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not

This took me so log and it’s only like 700 words, but i typed it all on my phone so o well. Dedicated to the best No Sloop Boy there is, @mari-monsta

Summary:  A fic based loosely on the song Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not by Thompson Square. Part 1 of 2. Alyanette.


The night was warm as Marinette’s gentle hands led Alya to her balcony. Over time, the balcony had evolved into more of a garden, and had accumulated many fairy lights, flowers, blankets, and even a porch swing. Latticework had replaced the old metal bars, and vines of ivy grew over and through it. The comfort of the swing combined with the smell of honeysuckle, roses, and Marinette’s perfume made Alya feel at home, and that feeling only grew when the fairy lights were plugged in, blankets were brought out, and Marinette finally joined her on the swing.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Marinette breathed, shifting in her spot so that her shoulder brushed Alya’s each time either of them breathed. Her loose hair tickled Alya in a way that gave her butterflies.

Her hand twitched as she looked at her best friend, the urge to grab onto Marinette’s own too strong for her to resist. The smaller girl didn’t show any surprise at the contact, and instead initiated more by lacing their fingers together and leaning into Alya’s side.

Alya took a slow breath, and as she continued to watch Marinette, she answered, “Yeah, you really, really are.”

Marinette didn’t tense or pull away at the words, as Alya sometimes feared would happen. No, she only turned to face her, a sweet smile on her lips and love in her eyes that danced with the reflection of lights. Her cheeks were dusted with pink, soft and warm as Alya’s hand somehow found its way there. She leaned in ever so slightly, eyelashes fluttering. “You are too, you know. Incredibly, irrevocably beautiful,” she commented.

Alya beamed at her, the adoration she felt towards her best friend blossoming in her chest alongside the warmth. Both were silent then, Marinette watching as Alya searched her face, eyes lingering on Marinette’s lips every so often. Alya’s thumb caressed the cheek she had cupped in her hand, slowly making her best friend melt into the touch.

Finally, Marinette broke the silence. “So… are you gonna kiss me or not?” she asked in a sweet voice. A peal of laughter rose from her lips at Alya’s surprised expression, and her free hand fell lightly on Alya’s knee. Her eyes held a daring spark in them that made Alya’s breath hitch.

She tried to speak, but every word died on her tongue. If there was ever even the slightest of signs that Marinette would say something like that, Alya would have prepared for it. But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t even completely sure Marinette liked her in that way until just now.

The words she wanted to say almost came, but lodged in her throat when the hand on her knee left in favor of her face. Fingertips brushed over her lips, which Marinette had shifted her gaze to. When blue eyes flickered to meet hazel, Alya’s heart skipped a beat, and she took a shaky breath.

“I like you a lot,” Marinette admitted, as if her actions hadn’t already screamed it. As if the way she touched her forehead to Alya’s just then could be interpreted as anything other than love.

Something in her words gave Alya the push she needed to do something. Her eye fluttered shut, and she closed the distance between their lips, going slow enough for Marinette’s fingers to move out of the way.

There was no electricity when they kissed, and no clap of thunder accentuated it, but the lack of them made their kiss no less significant. It was tender and short, but both would swear the moment lasted for an eternity before they pulled away.

One glance communicated what both thought, and they each drew the other into another, longer kiss. Marinette’s hands moved to cup Alya’s face between them, holding on with firm care as their bodies moved so both were laying down on their sides. The swing rocked gently with their movements, adding to the calm that enveloped them. Their kiss slowly came to an end, leaving them to watch the other with wonder, embrace still intact.

Under the moonlight, and beneath the many little lights that decorated the balcony garden, Alya felt the love emanating from Marinette and found home.

I dream of Djinni

Originally posted by samgirlsclub

Sam x Reader

Content: Fluff and light smut

Word Count: 3226 (Sorry, this one was really long, but I kept it as short as possible and I for one found it really interesting, but, hey, I’m bias).

Sun danced through the cream lace curtain kissing the dangling crystals and casting colors about the room. You shifted, body thick with sleep, yet oddly energized as if you didn’t spend half the night killing vampires. You wiped the sleep from your eyes, crisp clean cotton sheets slid over your naked skin drawing a tendril of confusion. You perched up on your elbow, startling as a mass jumped up onto the bed, bright green eyes staring inches from yours. The cat mewed, ducking is fuzzy head to nuzzle against your cheek.

“Baby?” A soft husky voice matching the gentle morning light vibrated against you.

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Wes hummed lightly, watching with fascination as forget-me-nots sprung up underneath his fingertips. Even though it had been years since he discovered this ability, it still took his breath away every time.

“Heya, Wes! Whatcha doing?”

Wes turned around, smiling serenely at his young neighbor. “Hello, Edison. I’m just working on my garden.”

The boy peered over the fence, trying to catch a glimpse. He wasn’t quite tall enough, and Wes wasn’t quick enough in hiding his laughter when Edison nearly fell over the fence in his impatience.

Edison sent him a dirty look, an embarrassed pout forming on his face.

“Y'know, you can actually come in if you want to,” Wes said amusedly, lifting a delicate hand to hide his grin.

Edison’s scoff made it clear that he had noticed, but he still unlatched the lock and walked into the garden.

“Careful,” Wes advised, though he wasn’t really worried. He went back to his own task, listening to the sound of Edison’s light footsteps as he drew nearer.

“Which ones are these?” he asked once he had fallen into place next to Wes, his eyes blinking inquisitively.

Wes smiled, more than happy to explain. “They’re Myosotis scorpioides, commonly known as forget-me-nots.”

“Do they have any uses?” Edison cocked his head to the side, studying the light blue pedals. “I think I heard scorpion in there. Are they poisonous?”

Wes shook his head, but then thought better of it. “Well, not to you or me. Fae aren’t fond of these flowers, but it’s not because of any poison. The Fae don’t like any kind of sentimentality in general, after all…” he trailed off, realizing that Edison had stopped paying attention.

The boy’s gaze was downcast, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Is something wrong?” Wes inquired gently, taking off his gloves so that he could take one on Edison’s hands in his own.

Edison shrugged, giving him a sideline glance that was almost wary. “…People are talking.”

Wes stiffened, though a smile remained frozen on his face. “Oh? About what?”

You know,” Edison said accusingly, nodding down at the vibrant flowerbeds by their feet. “You weren’t going to get away with it forever.”

“Edison,” Wes said seriously, gripping the boy’s shoulders. He looked him right in the eye, trying to impress the importance of this information on him. “What exactly are they saying?”

“Nothing about you, really,” he admitted, turning away from the penetrating gaze. “Just, in general. The deaths couldn’t have gone unnoticed for long.”

Wes relaxed. Well, as long as it was nothing specific, it hardly mattered. He had backup plans, just in case.

“And the other children?” Wes asked, curious despite himself. “What are their opinions?”

Edison let out a heavy sigh, and dropped to sit on the grass. The child leaned into his side, and Wes softened against his will. He combed his hand through Edison’s hair, letting him take the time that he needed to find an answer.

“…It’s a bit divided,” he said finally, eyes closed as he basked in the care Wes was bestowing on him. “The younger ones aren’t really sure what to think. They’re not hostile, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But the older ones… I think most of them have figured it out.”

“Oh?” Wes barely resisted a chuckle, his amusement rising back up. He had expected this to happen. Children at the Happy Forest Orphanage never stayed ignorant for long.

He would know.

“This is serious!” Edison protested, sitting up and scowling at him with his arms crossed indignantly.

Wes suppressed the urge to coo at the cute image, but only just.

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Edison complained, having clearly caught Wes’s lapse in attention.

“Of course, of course,” Wes soothed, reaching out to pat him on the head. “Well, if what you say is true, there’s not much I can do, is there? Do you have any suggestions for me?”

“You could try not being so obvious about the scene of the crime,” Edison said dryly, not impressed with the man’s attempts at placating him.

Wes became cold at that. For a moment, the whole garden seemed to shrivel inwards, plants curling in on themselves. The blue blossoms by his feet all strained away from him, trying to escape.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said softly, though his eyes had lost all of his previous warmth. “This is to send a message, after all.”

Edison looked at him for a long moment. Under the intense scrutiny, Wes couldn’t help himself— white heathers erupted into bloom around his clenched fists, and a single gladiolus weaved itself through his dark hair.

“I love you,” Edison said, even more quiet than Wes had. “We all do. That’s why we worry. You know that, right?”

Wes blinked, a bit surprised, but then a tender smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Edison. That means a lot to me.”

Edison huffed and looked away, though he seemed a bit pleased. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Wes hummed a light note, and the garden breathed a sigh of relief. The flowers inched forwards once more, and he reached out, plucking a few from the flowerbeds.

“Here,” he said, handing the bouquet over. “Give this to the matron, will you? You can tell her that it was from me.”

Edison studied the mixture of flowers. Petunias, Marigolds, and Monkshoods.

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” he said flatly. Nevertheless, he took the dismissal for what it was, leaving the garden to head back into the forest just beyond its gates.

“Be careful! Don’t stray from the path!” Wes called out, and then because he just couldn’t resist, he teasingly added; “You never know what kind of monsters might lurk in the forest!”

Wes could practically feel the eyeroll from here.

“Remember what I said!” Edison called out, disregarding his last comment.

Wes chuckled, but didn’t reply. He wasn’t worried. After all, his garden had become so beautiful in these past few years. And if none of the other villagers had discovered him yet, he doubted they ever would.

It wasn’t really that much of a surprise. They were all quite practiced at the art of ignoring inconvenient things.

Wes shook his head, pulling himself out of those memories. Instead, he opened his mouth to sing.

Wandering child of the earth…”

His haunting melody rang through the area, traveling into the forest and through the trees. Not far away, a man with an bloody ax shivered in fear of something he couldn’t quite grasp, and the earth moved in time with Wes’s song.


Wow! I love this one, I’ll definitely be continuing it. I have so many plans already… (you can’t see me, but I’m doing an evil cackle). Another Caffeine Challenge! These are seriously the best thing, I churn out awesome work when I have a strict deadline like this. Cheers!! And hey, if anybody’s interested, I was listening to this song, by Adriana Figueroa

“Story artists continually clarify the reasons for a character’s actions and development. When Chris (Sanders) wanted to make audiences understand the love Mulan has for her father, Fa Zhou – a love that compels her to defy tradition and put her own life at risk – he devised one of the film’s most eloquent and tender moments. In a lovely garden setting, embraced by the delicate beauty of flowering trees, Mulan’s dispirited mood is gently lifted by her father’s love, understanding, and faith in her.”

The Art of Mulan by Jeff Kurtti

can i get uhhhhhhhhhhh ike holding hands w soren on their way through the gardens of crimea castle in the very last vestiges of sunlight when the sky matches the pink and orange hues of the blossoms along the pathways


Little self-indulgent illustration sketch I decided to make of a tender little moment between Cyros and Mal in one of the meditation gardens at his house.

Being a god of exceptionally fine tastes, Cyros has a VERY swanky temple/mansion somewhere in Greece that he uses for training, meditation and recharging his batteries. It also is used for hosting massive fetes and parties that, due to there being a portal door to his condo in the Traverse, spans multiple dimensions over multiple nights. Lots of verdant rooms and views, too! He built most of the place by hand over millenia, so it’s uniquely his style haha.

Cyros and Mal are mine, as is art.

Stay Your Tears - Thranduil

For the anon who requested Thranduil fluff: Person A is trying to show person B how much they love them and they overhear that they like roses so they go to a rose bush and grab a handful and end up hurting themselves. When person B walks up and notices the blood on their hands they ask them what’s wrong and person A reluctantly shows them the handful of roses. How person B reacts is up to you. (from otpprompts)

A/N: I SAW THIS PROMPT AND AWWW. And I apologize, but I have a problem with writing just fluff, because it always seems to not really have a plot. What I’m trying to say is I threw a bit (a lot) of angst in there, but it still ends in fluff… Sorry if that was not what you were looking for anon. 

Translations: Meleth: love, Gornon, valiant one, Meleth e-guilen, Love of my Life, Miluis, lovely one. 

Warnings: Thranduil tears (they are sacred and need to be preserved) and mentions of blood and minor injury. 

Words: 1600

Ever since the Battle of Dagorlad and the War of the Last Alliance, Thranduil attended to the duties forced upon him with a frown upon his lips and sorrow in his heart, his father’s crown weighing heavily upon his luscious platinum locks, and mourned the loss of his king and father under the light of moon and star, weeping to the roses in the gardens, all memory of me, his lover, having faded from his beautiful mind the moment Thranduil had seen the point of a sword pierce his father’s heart, and protrude from his chest. I was supposed to be at his side, ready to offer comfort the moment he was in need of it, to clear his mind with the gentlest and most tender of touches, but alas, he refused me, insisting that I should not see him in the state he was in, insisting that no one should. And contradictory to his wishes, I wanted to show him how much I loved him, how much he meant to me, and how I couldn’t stand by and which his heart whither and die.

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But what is certain is that in five, ten or twenty years, this problem unique to our time, according to him, will no longer exist, it will be replaced by others…Yet this music, the sound of this rain on the windows, the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside, this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war, this will never change, not this, this is forever.
—  Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky
A Simple Warmth

I’ve been sitting on this for a while.  I had some grammatical issues, rewrote it once or twice, and then just shoved it aside for a couple of months, mostly due to anxiety.

Now I’m just saying “to hell with it” and posting it because I think I might actually like it now.

Female Mage Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford (pre-relationship)

Read here on AO3

The headache had begun early that morning, even before the sun rose, but the meeting had set it thrashing against his skull.  The sun streaming in through the stained glass windows only strained the tense feeling and made him wince whenever he looked up too quickly.  He missed the darkened chantry room they held war meetings in while they were in Haven.  Skyhold was too open and too bright for his liking.

He had done his best to restrain his hands from rubbing at his aching head during the meeting, setting them instead on the pommel of his sword with a fierce grip.  Now that the room was emptying of witnesses he allowed himself the comfort of pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, anything to stop them from watering and burning.  His little tower home was not far.  It was dark and somewhat quiet.   He needed to make it there before the pain took further root in his brain, but the thought of striding through all those chatty nobles and across the sun baked embattlements only served to make him more nauseous.  With a frustrated groan he turned and leaned back against the heavy war table.

“I agree.  It was a long meeting with few decisions made.”

He started at the sudden voice, dropping his hands away from his face.  He had been certain that everyone had fled after Josephine had called the meeting to a close.  But standing a few feet away from him was the Inquisitor, her arms crossed loose across her body.  She was watching him, unsure, but smiled when he looked up at her without reproach.

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Honey Works Just As Well

@lynnialljohnson asked: Loved the latest Ian and Jenny. I think its about time Claire learned something naughty from Jenny! Maybe using a bit of honey to make things sweeter? ;)

Weel! I loved this. So so much. This is a canon divergence where Wentworth didn’t happen and Jamie’s pardon came through. Hope you like it darling!

I walked around the garden, observing the growth of my herbs. They were doing well, I thought. Wiping the dirt off my hands onto my skirts, I turned to the house. I stopped when I heard voices.

“Ian, Come and sit a while. I can see from here how much yer leg pains ye.”

“Ach, dinna fash, Jenny. I’ll be fine.”

“Sit. Down.”

I heard him groan and ease himself onto something. I felt like an intruder, listening to them this way, but these tender moments with Jenny were rare. And I had it on good authority that Jenny herself had observed some of my own interactions with Jamie. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

“Mo maise,” Ian whispered. “Mo ghaol.”

I wandered around the corner, careful to keep out of sight. Ian sat on a wooden bench, his peg leg stretched out to one side. Jenny stood in front of him, looking down at him with a fondness that brought tears to my eyes. No matter how prickly she might be toward me, she loved Ian as deeply as I loved Jamie.

“I wish ye wouldna work so hard, mo luaidh.”

“Aye, I ken that. It’ll be easier now wi’ Jamie and his wife here.”

Jenny’s eyes rolled.

“That wee trollop hasne run a house afore.”


“Aye, Jamie loves her, only God kens why.”

“Janet Murray, that is no way to speak of your good sister.”

Ian’s arms wove around Jenny’s waist, pulling her closer to him. The fondness and adoration in his own eyes was just as deep as hers.

“Ian, ye’ve gone soft. Why the hell would he marry an Englishwoman? After how they’ve treated us?”

“Oh ye just dinna like another woman having power o’er him. And ye can see clear as day that he’d lay down his life for her.”

“Aye… He would.”

“He’s happy, mo nighean dubh. Try and be happy too?”

Jenny’s lips pursed, but she nodded.

“I say again, ye’ve gone soft, Ian Murray.”

“Not all soft,” he said, his mouth pulling into a wolfish smile.

“Oh? Aye, ye’ve a head as hard as Jamie’s.”

I felt my own cheeks flush when Ian’s hands slid down to squeeze Jenny’s backside.

“Ian! What are ye doing?!”

“Fondling my wife’s sweet arse, what does it look like?”

“Here?! Wi’ yer leg hurtin’ ye?”

Ian’s smile grew.

“Ye’ve always taken such great care of me, Jenny. Making me walk again because ye’re so damned stubborn. And look at all the bairns ye’ve given me. I have loved ye all my life, Janet. Coming home to ye takes the pain out of my leg every time.”

“Weel,” she said, brushing hastily at the moisture on her cheeks. “When ye put it like that.”

“Come here, my love,” Ian said, his hands drifting even lower.

I ducked away quickly, not needing to witness what came after such declarations. Without thinking, I went in search of my own husband. 

I’d only told him that I loved him the night before, something I hadn’t expected to say to him. Words of affection weren’t things that came naturally to me, but I could make an effort.

The first place I looked for him was the stable. I found Rabbie putting fresh feed in the stalls.

“Rabbie, have you seen Jamie?”

“Aye, he’s out at the miss, mistress.”

“Has the wheel stopped working again?”

“Aye, mistress. The laird said he’d get it working in no time.”

“Thank you.”

The lad smiled at me and I picked up my skirts to hike out to the mill.

His coat, sporran, and sword belt hung on a peg by the door. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, his broad shoulders flexing as he worked on the wheel. I watched how his kilt swung around his legs, perfectly pleated as always.

He turned around after a moment, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Sassenach! I didna expect to see ye out here.”

“I finished with my planting a little early.”

“Aye? Did Jenny leave ye enough space?”

“Oh plenty. Thank you. It feels good to be working with plants again.”

His smile radiated at me from the darkness of the mill.

“Good! I kent ye’d feel at home here. I’m glad Jenny hasne scart ye off yet.”

“This isn’t my home,” I said, walking toward him.

His face fell and he looked at the ground nodding.

“I ken it isna an easy life, here; that ye’ve things ye miss from your own time. I just thought… Maybe… If I loved ye enough, ye might not miss it s’much.”

I put my hand on his chest, just over his steadily beating heart.

“This place isn’t my home because you are my home, mo ghaol.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment before his smile returned.

“Was that the Gàidhlig?”

“An attempt at it, at least.”

“And where did ye learn that one?”

“Well… You’ve said it. But I heard Ian say it to Jenny.”

He looked happier now.

“We really need to work on your Gàidhlig.”

I took his hands, which had wound around my waist, and placed them on my stomach.

“Perhaps you can teach us.”

He frowned down at me.


“Well me and… our baby.

His eyes went wide as he looked between my face and my stomach.

“A… A… A bairn?”

“Yes. Jamie, I’m pregnant.”

“But ye said…”

“I thought, but…”

“A bairn!”

“We’re going to have a baby!”


“I can’t believe how happy I am!”

He picked me up and swung me around in circles. When he set me back on my feet, he crushed me against the wall with a heated kiss.

“Wait,” he said, pulling back so suddenly I nearly fell.


“Is it… Is it safe? Wi’ the bairn?”

“Is what safe?”

“If we… Ah… Ye ken.”

His hips nudged mine, unconsciously I thought, and I felt the stiffness beneath his kilt.

“Oh yes. It’s hardly bigger than the head of a nail right now.”

“But it’s growing? You’re sure?”

“Yes, I am. My cycle is very regular and I should have bled a few days ago. It’s really happening.”

My bodice sprang open and his hands moved up my torso.

“I thought these were a wee bit larger than usual.”


“More sensitive too.”

His mouth found mine while his hands continued to play with my breasts. I was pressed hard against the wall of the mill, his body nearly trembling beneath my hands.

“Jamie,” I very nearly moaned.

“Aye?” he asked, breathing hard.

I held his face between my hands and looked in straight in the eye.

“I love you.”

“I canna tell you how long I’ve wanted to hear ye say that.”

“I said it just last night, didn’t I?”

“Oh aye, ye did. And it sounds just as good today as it did then.”

He fumbled for a minute with his kilt and my dress until we connected. Both of his eyes closed slowly, his mouth slightly open. I couldn’t resist my urge to kiss him, smiling a little at the sound he made.

“Did you fix the mill?” I asked.

“Why do ye care about the mill just now?” he asked, grinding against me roughly.

“I just don’t want someone walking in on us.”

“Sometimes I think ye talk too much, Sassenach.”

Just as I opened my mouth to complain, he stole it. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been quite so excited. His body was practically vibrating while he took me, his breath hot on my neck. I surrendered to it, to him.

We hit a soft conclusion together, neither of us needing more than that. He held me to the wall still, both of us breathing heavily from our exertions. But he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glittering with joy.

“I can scarcely believe it, Sassenach. A bairn of our own.”

“I can’t believe it either. I think you’re going to be a brilliant father.”

If it was possible, his smile got wider.

“Aye. And I ken the sort of mother you’ll be, my own. You’ll be brilliant as well.”

“Laird? Laird, I’ve the man who can fix the mill here. Are ye still here, laird?”

Jamie groaned and stepped back, helping me shake my skirts back into place. He eyed my open bodice and hastily rushed to the door while I tied myself back up.

“Aye, I’m here. I havena got it working just yet. Something’s still stuck, I think.”

“Aye, I’ll just take a look inside and-”

“No, I think something’s stuck in the wheel again. I’ve just checked inside. Verra weel, I assure ye.”

I bit back my giggle and waited for Jamie to come back. While the other men inspected the mill on the outside, he ducked back in.

“Ye best go now, Sassenach, or I’m like to take ye again. Just thinking of ye breeding wi’ my child… Christ I can hardly take it.”

“Well I’ll leave you to your work then. Perhaps we can talk about this again later?”

“Oh aye. We’ll have to tell Jenny and Ian. They’ll be verra pleased.”

“I’m sure. I’ll see you at dinner then.”

anonymous asked:

Hello! I love your art, but I really like it when you write these short snaps when someone send you an ask! so I thought maybe I should send one? What do you think Lizzie would say if after marriage, she see seb with Ciel?

Well, hello to you too, nonnie. Thank you very much! I like it when people send me an ask like that too! I don’t consider writing as my strong suit but I like to write these snaps. As for your question, let’s see, shall we?

Day in and day out, she didn’t say anything.

From the first moment she’s set a foot in the Phantomhive manor as its supposed lady, she knew, knew that she was never to be more than a guest, a welcomed one might she be, but a guest nonetheless.

She didn’t say anything.

Not when he didn’t touch her on their first night, not when he gave her a kiss that was never meant for a wife, not when he left her to sleep in the huge bed alone.

She wasn’t surprised when she saw them kissing in the garden, Sebastian’s hand cradling Ciel’s face with such tenderness she felt it like a knife in her heart. She hated that more than anything, more than their passionate rendezvous, more than lying awake in her empty bed.  Just like she hated the nights when they made no sound, when she heard nothing. Because at times like those she wouldn’t be able to lie to herself, she couldn’t say it’s just sex. They’re kissing and they’re holding each other and she’s in a cold bed alone and it’s not about sex.

She didn’t say anything.

She knew a lot, about herself, about Sebastian and about Ciel, but she didn’t know why was Sebastian so violent, so possessive, so scared. He leaves marks on Ciel’s skin, marks and marks and marks, and she wanted to ask him, What are you trying to prove? What are you so afraid of? He’s not mine, I get it.

And she wanted to hate him for that, she wanted to hate every kiss mark and every bite and all the purples and blues, the fingers shaped impressions and the scratches but she couldn’t. She couldn’t hate them, not when Ciel wore them so proudly; like she wore her favourite dresses and most expensive jewelry. She couldn’t hate Ciel either.

So she kept going, she kept waking up to their love making, she slept in a cold bed alone, she accepted the kisses that didn’t taste like Ciel and she didn’t say anything.

Old Bones.

The vintage record player rested on the corner of the small wooden porch.

It was wedding gift from Armin 25 years ago, including three scratched vinyl records. Despite their weary and damaged appearance, the record player soundly produced soft classical music. With the tune already familiar and embedded within their minds, the younger woman hummed it while the older man had his eyes closed.

“Levi,” Mikasa called out from the garden patch, looking up from her used straw hat. Her long black hair, with a few strands of white, was tucked behind her ear and flowed down until the dip of her waist. The tattered red scarf remained around her neck. “Do you want to dance?”

Her 65-year old husband, with shades of gray dusting his black hair, lounged on the rocking chair. His cravat was in the same condition as his wife’s scarf. He opened his eyes and replied in a rough voice, “You need a lance? Why ever do you need a lance while gardening, dear?”

She laughed; wrinkles that had accumulated over the years traced her smile, “Not a lance, Levi. I said, do you want to dance?”

“You want some romance? Mikasa, you know these old bones can’t take you the way you want it anymore… Although, I could try. Hopefully my damned back won’t give out on me.”

His 50-year old wife blushed. His language remained ever so crude. They had been blessed with 3 wonderful children, two girls and a boy. It was more than both of them could have asked for and they could never be happier.

Mikasa sighed, her lips in a tiny and amused smile. She pulled off her gloves and hat and walked up the porch, “Are your ears older than you are?” She placed her hand over her husband’s, which settled on the armrest. “I asked if you wanted to dance?”

Prance, Ackerman?” He smirked, looking very much like the man she fell in love with and revealing that he had been pulling her leg this entire time. “I thought we’ve talked about these old bones.”

Her thumb rubbed against the back of his calloused hand, brushing over bumping veins and invisible stains of Titan and comrade blood, “You should be happy that my tolerance for you has grown within age.”

Levi uttered his tch and his eyes gazed at her softly, “As if you would ever leave me.”

After a moment, he cleared his throat and slowly stood from the rocking chair, “I suppose these bones may have enough strength for one dance.”

“Actually, dear, I feel tired from all the gardening I just did. Perhaps, another time?” The smile on her face was an obvious tease.

“Brat,” Levi grumbled and took her wrist, not allowing her a chance to escape. She never changed over the years, always pushing his buttons.

Mikasa held his wrist carefully as she leaned the side of her head against his. Giving a tender kiss upon his temple as they both swayed to the music.

This Is Our Home

Finally, it’s time for Omelia to move into their new home! This is a short and fluffy piece, enjoy!

This was the day. This was the day that Owen and Amelia had been waiting for the past 6 months. After 6 long months of arguing over which house to buy, what to bring over and what to sell or discard, arguing over practically every single thing, it was finally time to move into their new home.

They had been packing for the past 2 weeks ( they had so many possessions combined- considering that Owen only lived in the trailer and Amelia only had a bedroom in Meredith’s house). Amelia had wondered jokingly while they were packing, how did they manage to accummulate so much stuff over the years, enough stuff to fill a large house.

The house was a decent sized bungalow, painted pale yellow on the outside. It had a huge garden outside, with neatly trimmed grass and some flowers which had been maintained by the previous owners. There was a swing on the porch, and a lake and park within walking distance. Inside, it was spacious- the beautiful living room had a luxurious couch, a huge flat screen TV, a bar. There was a library with some books which the previous owners had left behind. Beside the library was a game room where some toys were left behind. Upstairs there was a master bedroom with an ensuite bathroom and three smaller bedrooms- all fully furnished. It was perfect.

They both picked the house one night when they were sitting in the kitchen counter of Meredith’s house while babysitting the children- flipping through a real estate magazine.

‘ Look!’ Amelia exclaimed excitedly, her index finger pointing to the picture of a yellow bungalow house surrounded by a beautiful garden . Owen looked to where she was pointing. ‘ This house looks nice’

‘ Ooh……this one looks decent’ he agreed. ‘ It’s rather pricy though’

‘ But look here, it says fully furnished’ Amelia defended. ‘ We are busy doctors, we don’t have time to buy furniture and choose designs. At least if we buy a fully furnished one- everything is already prepared for us- it saves us plenty of time and energy. And it’s not like we can’t afford it.’

Owen studied the pictures of the house and the advertisement underneath it. He had to admit- the pictures were tempting him to go check out the house right at that moment.

One particular sentence caught his eye though.

‘ Four bedrooms?’ he asked- turning to Amelia.

Amelia shrugged. ‘ The extra bedrooms can be turned into guestrooms…..’ she answered, her voice trailing off towards the end.

‘ Or….we can actually fill them up ourselves….’ she winked at him.

Owen couldn’t believe his ears. Was she actually saying what he thought she meant? That she wanted to fill the rooms with their own children? Was he dreaming?

He cleared his throat.  ‘ You mean…’

‘ Yes, fill them up with our own children..’ she confirmed for him. ‘ I grew up in a large family and I loved it.’

They met each others gaze, and Owen slowly reached out his hand to link to hers under the kitchen counter and rub gentle circles around it. She didn’t know how much it meant to him to hear her say that she wanted children with him.

The very first time they visited the house, they fell in love with it immediately. The recent owners of the house had left almost everything they owned in the house, barely taking anything away with them. Apparently, they decided to migrate to England, and couldn’t afford to bring many items with them.

‘ Oh wow- the garden is so beautiful’ Amelia gushed, admiring the beautiful roses and tulips blooming at the front porch. ‘ How did they maintain this? We need to hire a gardener if we were to buy this house!’

‘ Let’s go inside- they’re still many things that you need to see’ the real estate agent winked at them.

They both gushed as they stepped inside the house. The entire living room was spacious and luxurious, and so was the dining room. They were both captivated by the library, amazed by the bar and awed by the playroom. But it was the bedrooms that captured their hearts the most.

‘ Look- the Master Bedroom has a huge bathtub. And a jacuzzi’ Owen gushed.

‘ And a walk in wadrobe’ Amelia added, ‘ plus a huge make up table’.

The first non master bedroom was painted in blue, with posters of superheroes all over the walls. The previous owners didn’t bother to take them down.

‘ For our future son’ Owen whispered, more to himself, but loud enough that Amelia could hear.

The next bedroom was painted in pink, with flowery corals all over the walls, and pink curtains. There was a miniature Frozen castle at the side of the room.

‘ For our future daughter’ Amelia giggled, smiling at Owen.

The third bedroom was more gender neutral- with pale green walls, a study table and some flowers by the windowsill.

‘ I guess this could be the guest room?’ Amelia suggested.

‘ So you want a boy and a girl?’ Owen asked.

Amelia shrugged. ‘ I don’t know, perhaps. Or if we have two boys or two girls, we can always repaint and redecorate the rooms. Or if we have more….’

Owen grinned and gently shut her up by pressing his finger against her lips.

‘ Shhh… I love you Amelia, but let’s not get too ahead of ourselves shall we? We are not even married yet….’

Amelia pretended to pout. ‘ But we have to plan for the future! That is why those extra bedrooms exist- to be occupied!’

At that moment, Owen couldn’t love Amelia more. He pressed his lips against hers and she met his kiss. They were interrupted by the real estate agent clearing her throat.

‘ Ermm….I’m sorry to interrupt this tender moment of yours, but we have to leave now.’ she smiled at the couple.

And now, here they were- actually moving into this dream house of theirs. It was too surreal to be true.

After all the boxes have been left in the kitchen and some boxes have been unpacked, they decided to take a break on the swing at the front porch.

‘ I can’t believe this house is finally ours’ said Amelia, looking out to the garden.

‘ Neither can I’ Owen agreed. ‘ After endless months of packing and arguing’

Amelia playfully swatted his right arm.

‘ You are the one who always started the arguments’ she playfully chided. ‘ You always want the stuff to be packed so neatly into the boxes. Why do we need to be so OCD when we are going to take out the stuff anyways after we move?’

‘ Because Amelia, careful packing can save more space so we can put more things inside..’ said Owen….’ I thought I told you that before….’

‘ Whatever’ Amelia shrugged…..’ I’m just so glad that the entire moving process is almost over now. Except for the unpacking that is…..’

‘ Let me help you unpack’ Owen said suddenly, as he pulled her closer to him and cupped her face in his hands, stroking her hair.

‘ Oh really?’ she retorted, teasing him and winking at him.

He replied by crushing his lips against hers and their tongues fought for dominance. Her hands slowly rubbed along his torso, while his traced the outlines of her curves.

They broke up the kiss temporarily, in time for him to whisper huskily to her ear        ‘ Let’s continue this inside.’

They didn’t quite make it to their bedroom that day. They christened the entire house, and made it their home.

p.s.  I always love to hear from you guys- so comments, reviews and reblogs are very much appreciated! :)