an earth moon’s heart is full, but she is hard like a forest floor. yet, every single day, new things grow in the forest, and form treetops and flora. it gives a home to forest animals and humans that dare to adventure into it. it’s alive and thriving, and so are earth moons.
an air moon’s heart is empty, but only because she is up in the clouds, running, dreaming, flying. she’s breathing in new experiences and emotions that don’t even exist yet. she’s found peter and she’s on her way to neverland as we speak, she doesn’t ever want to come down.
a fire moon’s heart is overflowing, you cannot keep her contained. she needs release, spirit, adventure. she’s sprinting through cities and setting everyone and everything in her way ablaze with stories, emotions and life. she’s reaching for the clouds and burning the planet to it’s core. she’s everywhere, everything and more.
a water moon’s heart is waiting at the bottom of the ocean. she’s seen everything the world has to offer and she’s not done yet. she’s catapulting into space. she’s created the oceans. she’s filled herself to the brim and she’s filling others too. she has so much to offer that her own tiny body cannot contain it all.
(this is probably gonna be a long oneshot and once there’s more it’ll be on ao3 but for now, let me know what you think?)
There are things that Kent can handle, and then there are things that Kent cannot, under any circumstances, in any universe, even begin to handle.
As it turns out, watching Jack Zimmermann, Alexei Mashkov, Randall Robinson, and Sebastian St. Martin attempt to build a deck is one of the things that he can’t handle, because holy fucking shit.
It’s about a million degrees out, and they’re all shirtless and covered in sweat and, yeah, it’s the off season, but they’re still professional fucking hockey players, for fucks sake, and Kent realizes then and there that accepting the invitation to spend the week at Jack and Bitty’s new cottage was definitely a mistake because, really.
Except for Mashkov, everybody brought their families, and they’re all friends, and they’re all teammates, and Kent is 99% sure that his invite was a pity one prompted by the Aces losing the Stanley Cup in game seven against the Stars, and he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t belong there at all, and he can’t help but think it’s because he doesn’t.
A man enters an office supply store. He was a mere mortal seconds before, but as he passes through the door he becomes a customer. His superior gaze drifts across his domain and settles on the cashier.
“Do you sell stamps?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say,” However-”
“I want one.”
“However, we sell them only in sets of ten.”
“But I want one.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t sell you a single stamp.”
“Can’t you just…” He (skillfully) mimicks the act of ripping apart paper.
Clearly, I have never thought of this. My simple mind grapples with the idea. I realize I am dealing with a genius, and yet, I regretfully inform him, “Sorry. They come on stickersheets, and anyways, the barcode–”
“Well that’s just rubbish,” he informs me. He is right. I realize this now. His genius ignites a spark within me.
“You are right,” I tell him as I take fifteen sheets of stamps into my hands and begin to tear them apart. I type 0,019 stamps and press a non-existent key on the register. I hold out a quarter of a stamp to the customer (with a smile), but he shakes his head (without a smile). I rip apart all the stamps I can find, desperate to please him, for he has gifted this humble store with his presence. From the pieces, I begin to assemble a perfect, custom-made stamp. It is worth exactly 66,66€. I single-handedly reprogramme not only my cash desk, but the entire system. It can now scan any stamp in (or out of) existence. It is raining stamps. I am smiling.
Two hours later, it is done. Beaming, and covered in the torn remains of hundreds of unfortunate stamps, I hold the perfect stamp out to The Customer. He accepts it. I rejoice. It might just be my high fever and blurry gaze, but I think the right corner of his mouth moved upwards for exactly half a second. I am blessed.
He licks the stamp and slaps it onto a letter. He wants to lend a pen. I lend him a pen. When he is done, he holds the letter out to me expectantly. He does not say a word, my silent angel, but I can tell what he wants. Thus is our connection. There is nothing, I assure you, nothing I would have rather done than to accept his letter, on my knees, with tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks… But alas:
“I want to send the letter,” my dear customer finally says, after the silence has stretched into infinity and back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,” I say with a polite smile, brushing stamps off my shoulders, “We don’t accept mail. We only sell stamps.”
After all, you can’t make exceptions to a well-established rule in the workplace.
The customer doesn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s okay,” he says with a disarming smile. “I wouldn’t ask the impossible of you.”
As he turns to walk away, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off with a stamp that wears his majestic face, hand-stitched by me.
I don’t tell him there’s a mailbox around the corner.
Here are all the illustrations for my 36k Dean/Cas fairy AU Our Garden Home, which is finally completed after 19 months!! Hands-down, it’s the most personal (and cutest) story I’ve ever written, with lots of hard topics all wrapped up in a childlike narrative. If you crave some flowers, cuddles, or “tiny disabled fairy vs. society” adventures in your life, this fic is what you need.
blanket forts galore! they move furniture around and make a space big enough to fit a kid (later kids), two fairly tall dads, and one or two dog(s)
they lie on their stomachs with flashlights and read stories in excited, lilting voices of different characters until the whole group falls asleep on the plethora of pillows strewn on the floor
they may or may not wake up with giant red marks on their faces, but it just makes their mornings full of laughter
they have frequent family movie nights! they all sit on the couch with popcorn in their laps and enjoy the movie, but it always ends with three or four people asleep on the couch, huddled together in an extra big and warm blanket– and the dogs, of course. can’t forget their dogs
victor and yuuri love to hype up breakfast, especially! pancakes have syrup and fruit and bacon piled on top of it in the shape of a face, and waffle houses may or may not be built
victor and yuuri are soccer dads. whether or not their kid ends up picking up soccer is up in the air (its their choice and victor and yuuri will support their interest no matter what), but they’re definitely the first parents to volunteer to drive around their kids’ friends around when need be
their fridge is covered from top to bottom in various arts and crafts, and victor and yuuri love to sit down and just color with their kid(s)
can’t call it one of my headcanons unless i bring up the fact that victor and yuuri scrapbook everything! yet another scrapbook slowly but surely fills up with pictures from the first day they adopted their kid, to their first day in school, first time winning the spelling bee, first time on the ice… a lot of firsts, and a lot of birthdays, for sure
this is a little more personal, but i have an aunt who keeps a poster with the words “love yourself” by her kids’ bedside, and that’s absolutely something that victor and yuuri would do. like my aunt, they both remind their kids how much they love them, and above all, how much they should love themselves because self-love is incredibly important
You asked for it. When the Scot Ties The Knot AU. 😜
okay, bit of background. we were talkin in discord about scottish twitter, which then transmuted into a talk about scottish romance novels, and then i brought up the greatest romance novel premise i’ve ever heard of: when a scot ties the knot by tessa dare. i’ve never actually read this book besides the back cover and some choice passages from my friend @galpaladvns who got it for her birthday or smth (all i really remember from that night was @funnythingsandphysics hunting through the pages for the smut which apparently took ¾ths of the book to get to?) but basically….. what happens next is the rough premise of the book, but viktuuri. and (very heavily winged) historical, because @kazliin and i are in agreement that there should be more period drama viktuuri anyway
When a Russian is Rushin’ to Marry: Or, the Unexpected Consequences of Inventing a Boyfriend
“I’m so jealous of you,” Phichit laments as he helps Yuuri get ready for the evening’s events. “I remember my first season like it was yesterday. Everything’s so exciting and bright your first time around; I wish I could experience it again!”
Yuuri says nothing, only turns slightly to watch the way the light catches on his blue brocade waistcoat in the mirror. “I don’t know,” he admits after a moment. “I’m probably going to be dreadfully old, especially in comparison to young Mr Plisetsky who’s also debuting this season.”
“Well, sometimes people like a late bloomer,” Phichit chides, patting his forearm. “Now turn, so I can help with your ascot.”
Yuuri lets him adjust the silken material with a weary sigh. He’d been putting off his entrance into society for as long as could be deemed socially acceptable, mostly for his nerves. But with each passing season, his parents would get more and more concerned that he wouldn’t marry and settle down, and eventually he’d caved. Tonight’s soiree would mark his debut, and it was about as quiet an affair as he could manage. Still, the thought of being approached tonight with potential suitors continues to threaten to overwhelm him at any given moment.
“Deep breaths, Yuuri,” Phichit offers kindly as he pats at his now properly-tied ascot. “You’re going to be just fine.”
“You sound more confident about this than I feel,” Yuuri retorts. Phichit helps him into his tailcoat with a grin.
“You’re a divine dancer, Yuuri,” he points out. “Who could say no to you?”
andreil going on roadtrips is literally??? just the?? warmest thing ever????? they werent able to do it before, for spring break, because of all the bad stuff that happened…but just imagine like sometime in the summer. for 2 weeks or so they get to be together, alone, free of worry leaving it all behind ((including kevin much to his distaste bc he didnt want to have the court so far from him but hes able to stick with his dad so its ok. also andrew pulled out the knives))
having just the road beyond them!!! they travel for hours with no real destination in mind, only the feeling of being able to be with each other like this
with their fingers loosely laced together in the middle of the console and the windows down with the wind blowing through their hair. sometimes neil will stick his head out to really breathe in and feel his blood rushing because freedom is right here in front of him in the palms of his hands and it feels so good
andrew glances at him before turning back to the road again and his heart is clenching and burning with this entirely new feeling because neil still feels like a fucking pipe dream even though he is right there with him. and he always will be.
after a while they’d stop at a rest area, or maybe just the shoulder of an empty road. andrew would step out and go to neil’s side and lean against the hood of the car while lighting 2 cigs
they both breathe in the smoke while they lean back to stare at the starry sky which is extremely clear without light pollution, except its only neil doing so, because andrew is staring at him from the corner of his eye instead
the awe on neil’s face makes the realization hit him that he’d burn down the world if that meant nothing would ever be able to take this away from him again ((am i speaking about neil’s happiness, or neil with andrew? ;)))
this muddles his thoughts and almost melts his fucking brain, so much that he has to ask “yes or no?” and pulling neil in by the collar of his shirt when he whispers out a “yes. always yes.” and biting his bottom lip for the last of it in retaliation which makes neil smile against his mouth
they spend nights in shitty motels with junk food and candy surrounding them on their bed, courtesy of andrew
theyre wrapped in blankets like a cocoon and sharing kisses and nuzzles to necks and soft touches like hands running through hair, warm hands on the back of necks and sometimes barely-there fingertips grazing up and down arms when andrew is comfortable with it
neil will send a pic of them on the balcony with the sunrise behind them to the foxes’ groupchat and everyone dies from it. andrew is glaring at neil and flicks the ash of his cig towards him and neil just smiles
neil would want to go on runs in the morning, to stick to routine, to sometimes push away nightmares he had the night before, but in the end he will always come back to andrew because he knows he no longer has to be actually on the run. and andrew will be waiting for him
and he is, with takeout breakast and a 2nd cig in between his fingers for him, and the steadying presence with the feeling of home
they dont exactly have plans for their days, just whatever comes to mind and whats easy, either lazing about watching boring movies with andrew’s legs thrown across neil’s lap or andrew slowly taking neil apart bit by bit with hot hands and harsh kisses. it all works for them
((once neil asked if he’d wanna go running with him sometime and maybe check out whats around and what to do and andrew just stares blankly at him like ‘are you kidding me’ and neil has the audacity to laugh))
and even after many years that pass they’ll still take these roadtrips, a lot of them on a whim just to get away from everything and to wrap up into each other and feel how they still fit together like 2 pieces of a puzzle even after all this time
a bit of canon fluff for you, love, with a little nod to Killian’s dialogue on the horizon being calming. I hope you like it <3
93. “You have the most amazing eyes.”
“You have the most amazing eyes.”
The sentence drops unbidden from Emma’s lips, a soft string of words that breaks the comfortable silence between them and causes Killian to halt his caressing fingers.
He pulls back a little to look at her, equal parts confused and amused.
They’d been sitting pressed against each other at the balcony of their bedroom for what felt like hours. After the griffin attacked Storybrooke last week, she’d only finished with handling repairs and complaints late last night. Her dad had insisted (in what she assumed was his Royal Voice) that she stay at home for the next few days. Killian had agreed, texting David sporadically throughout the day to ensure him that she was, in fact, relaxing.
(She’ll never understand their relationship.)
Killian’s insistence is how they ended up cuddled together, watching the perfect view of the sea, with mugs of hot chocolate to keep the chill away. Emma doesn’t know when she stopped mapping the horizon and instead started mapping the planes of Killian’s face, just that she didn’t really want to stop. And then the evening started approaching, and in the light of the golden hour, well, she just couldn’t help but make her judgment out loud.
“Have you only noticed them now, love? You sure know how to wound a man,” he chuckles, voice as quiet as hers was.
Emma smirks. “Please. I was just making an observation,” she taps once at his chest with her hand that’s resting there.
He hums, resumes running his fingers up and down her arm but doesn’t break eye contact. “I’d say it was more of an opinion, Swan. Which could only mean you’re trying to seduce me with your words, and although I am a man of honour, I do accept.”
He says it with such propriety that Emma can’t help but laugh. When he breaks out into a full grin, she knows that’s what he was going for.
Emma reaches up and runs a thumb under the curve of his eye. It makes his expression soften, his eyelashes flutter. (And yeah, he’s got amazing eyelashes, too.) He doesn’t wear as much kohl anymore, only a little, and sometimes he forgoes it completely. It used to make his eyes brighter, but she finds his eyes are already a colour she can’t quite describe. It’s as though someone mixed all the oceans together to create the most striking blue.
“Your brother’s were a different shade,” she muses, knitting her brows in concentration to make sure she’s remembering Liam correctly.
Killian nods, leaning into her palm. “I took after my mother in that regard, or so Liam told me.” He smiles, and she can’t help but mirror it. When she leans into him, he doesn’t hesitate to respond with a lingering kiss that she can feel down to her toes.
“If you keep staring at me, you’re going to miss the sunset,” he says with a smirk when he pulls back. He raises an eyebrow for good measure when she doesn’t look away from him.
“I think I like this view better,” she hums.
Killian looks down and then back at the water, an adorable rosy hue tinting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. She wonders just how long he had to go without someone offering him a genuine compliment based on a simple observation. She thumbs at his cheeks for a moment before dropping her hand back to his chest, the other playing with the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck.
She wants to tell him about all the amazing things he is, and she promises herself to do just that.
Killian presses her a little closer to him. They fall back into silence, and Emma watches his gentle expression as he watches the water, his eyes like the ocean calming her like no other thing can.