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vanderilnde · 3 months

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a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands.

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges.

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable.

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos.

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips.

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car.

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist.

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride.

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate.

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway.

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose.

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him.

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves.

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled.

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes.

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back.

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings.

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different.

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles.

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt.

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews.

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend.

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–”

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters.

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night.

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?”

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock.

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants.

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back.

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls.

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls.

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up.

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters.

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all.

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago.

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava.

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head.

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock.

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick.

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face.

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked.

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed.

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long.

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth.

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response.

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way.

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it.

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

#my writing style here is so old and gross and clunky #ghost/soap #ghostsoap #soap/ghost #soapghost #ghoap #simon riley x john mactavish #ghost x soap #ghoap writing

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buqbite · 1 month

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I like to imagine that her gentleness is genuine

#Havent used this brush in forever #it's usually too soft for my generally very... jagged art #ill write down some thoughts later lemme write the fandom tags first lol #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr robin #hsr spoilers #implied... its hella subtle tho #my art #(pulls out the plastic chair) ok listen up.#first of all i leaned a bit into the old timey tv style bc i felt like itd fit her vibe ykno #second of all the little pinkish thing behind her is meant to resemble a) a blood splatter and b) xipes fucked up halo #penacony is so fucked up and twisted and all while robin has been genuinely kind so far #Like even firefly was kind of weird and suspicious but she appears so earnest #and Im really curious how the story is gonna go for her. Im expecting her to still be alive in some way #Esp so we can find out why she left penacony #and her connection to the family #my hope is for her to be out of place in the place that should perfectly fit her vibe #alternatively itd be rlly funny if she was like. evil. not evil evil but more like Hey Remember How The Harmony Is A Hivemind

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smiggles · 7 months

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Damien [He/Him]

#wanted to revisit my old manga style #i used to write manga a lot lol #as a kid tho #but im too tired these days #damien dawson #smigglesart

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didhewinkback · 10 months

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good morning

a something old blurb !

---

He’s been walking for over an hour, meandering down cobblestone streets while sipping on the cafecito he got from the local bakery, relishing in the early morning quiet of the city. Feeling like one of a million as opposed to one in a million, blending in with the other early risers gently reacquainting themselves with the world. How nice to feel so human, to get to live in this paradox of a day that starts this gentle and ends with him on stage in front of a stadium full of people.

There’s only three shows left, which is just mental when he thinks about it. When he thinks about the man he was at the start of this tour versus the man he is now - more like the man he was trying to be at the start of this tour versus the man he is now, feeling like he’s lived a thousand lifetimes since he first stepped foot on that stage in Las Vegas two years ago.

It’ll never be this way again, which has a certain comfort to it despite how utterly devastating a thought it is. A certain comfort to how ever changing life can be, how you can’t hold on to anything before time pulls it from your tight grasp. How all you can do is just be present and be grateful and take it all in.

And he is. And he does.

He’s quite proud of himself, if he’s honest. The way he’s been able to manage this whirlwind by surrounding himself with the greatest people to travel the world with - talented, respectful, on top of their shit. How he’s let himself celebrate the wins - and some of them have been massive - while not letting his head get too far up his own arse. How he’s abandoned his former all-or- nothing lifestyle, the way he used to let all of his relationships fall to the side when he was focused on work and touring. Instead, he has seen those relationships flourish and thrive, making him feel more complete and whole and loved than he has in ages and full of pride that he’s once again someone people go to when they need a friend, someone his friends trust will answer the phone, will be there to listen, to care, to help, to love.

He’s feeling quite sentimental as he heads back up to the rental, pausing at the gate to lean up into the sunshine one more time, taking a deep breath before slipping inside and shutting it tight behind him. He’s careful to be quiet as he slips inside the door, silently toeing his shoes off and taking off his hat, running his fingers through his hair before he hears a small clatter and a muffled curse coming from the kitchen.

He smiles, softly chuckling to himself. You’re up, then.

He follows the noise, pausing in his tracks when he finds you in the kitchen, standing there in nothing but an old t-shirt of his, sleepily frowning at the fancy tea kettle, the beams of the morning sun just beginning to peek through the windows. It’s the type of view men write songs about and he can already hear the opening notes of a fresh melody playing in his head as you tinker with the kettle, your distaste for mornings rendering the activity useless.

He creeps up behind you, placing his cup down on the counter before gently pulling the kettle out of your hands. He slides a hand along your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscles while he plays with the kettle, finding the two connectors on the lid to get it to seal shut properly.

“Hmm, the magic touch.” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist and nuzzling your face into his chest.

“Think you’d know about that more than anyone,” he says, giggling when you groan. He squeezes your shoulders once before hugging you close, using his other hand to put the kettle on the burner and turn it on.

He leans back against the counter, pulling you into him as he spreads his legs slightly to let you settle in between, rubbing your back up and down when you melt into the embrace.

“Sleep okay?” he asks softly, smiling when you nod.

“Yeah, just slooow to wake up this morning.” you say, blinking up at him, the soft look on your face making his heart clench.

He loves you at all times of day, but there is something about the quiet intimacy of your mornings together that make them his favorite. The way you’re never a morning person but always try to be for him, where he can jump out of bed first thing, a habit formed from years of work based necessity, you take your time, sleepy pliancy making your more malleable to his touch, clinging onto him more than you usually do. Where he is more physically affectionate than not, always needing his hands on you in some capacity, you are usually more selective, except for the mornings. In the mornings, you’re all over him and he lives for it.

“Still have some of this left, if you want.” he says, handing the cup over to you. “Couldn’t finish it.”

You arch your brow knowingly at him as you take the cup from his hands.

“Oh? You just couldn’t finish it?” you gently mock.

“Mhmm,” he says back, a light flush blooming on his cheeks, knowing he has been rightfully called out. You’ve had this conversation many times, you never want a full coffee but always end up wanting a little bit of his, never wanting to order a whole cup to just take a few sips but also not wanting to steal any of his much needed caffeine. So, he’s taken to ordering a slightly bigger size than usual and not finishing it, always sure to leave some for you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, eyes aglow with affection as you smile up at him before taking a sip, humming when he tightens his arms around you and plants a kiss on your head. “How was your walk?”

“Was good, yeah.” he says, your rapt attention warming him to his toes. “Got quite emotional at parts of it. ‘S a big week.”

“Big week.” you agree, corner of your lip twitching up. “Can’t believe after Saturday, I’m going to be the breadwinner of the family.”

That shocks a laugh out of him, a full belly, head tilting back kind of laugh, relishing in the way he can feel you giggle against him, clearly proud of your own joke. You’re saved from his squirming hands poised for retaliation by the whistle of the kettle, dodging out of his hold to turn off the burner, heading over to the large selection of teas you packed, thoroughly studying your options while you finish off his coffee.

He leans back against the counter and watches you in action, mulling over your last words in his head. He knows it was mostly for the joke but it’s not the first time you’ve referred to him as your family, a slip of the tongue slowly becoming routine for you, second nature.

Words fail whenever he tries to articulate how it makes him feel. It surpasses any of the many accolades he’s been lauded with over the last decade or so of his life, the stadiums full of people chanting his name, the critics praising his work. It’s different than that, it’s somehow more than that, the feeling of someone knowing you entirely and still choosing you anyway. It’s like how it feels when he finally gets the lyrics right to a long elusive chorus, the pieces fitting right into place, impossible and inevitable all at once.

All he knows is he will do everything he can to make sure he is worthy of the title, being your family, of building one with you.

He’s closing the distance between you two before he can think about it, gently spinning you away from the counter as his hands come up to frame your face before bringing your mouth to meet his. It’s a hell of a kiss, your hands clutching at his biceps as he drags his lips against yours. It’s an “I love you,” a “thank you,” a “you’re my family too and I’m going to ask you to marry me in a few weeks” kind of kiss, doing his best to convey everything he’s feeling with each slide of his tongue against yours.

He pulls away slowly, both of you catching your breath as he kisses along your cheekbone, resting his lips on your temple before pulling back to look at you, eyes grazing across your features, his favorite face he’s ever seen.

“Bloody hell. What was that for?” you ask, laughing when he does. Being able to see the effect he has on you stoking the fire burning in his belly. The simmering look in your eyes, the way you’re biting at your swollen lips.

“Thinking about what you said,” he says, sliding his thumb along your cheekbone before trailing his hands down your body, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking down to drag his lips across the skin of your neck. “About y’ being the breadwinner of our family -”

Your nails dig into his shoulders ever so slightly, breath hitching. So you had realized you said it, then. He pulls back from your neck to kiss you, your hand sliding up into his hair as you kiss him back, the phrase “our family” rattling around both of your heads.

“And was just thinking…” he continues, pulling back slowly to kiss along your jawline. “y’ know, with me out of work next week, ‘m gonna have to start really pulling my weight in other areas.”

He emphasizes his point by sliding a hand down to squeeze at your arse, living for the way you gasp in his ear.

“Been told ‘m a good interview,” he says, “‘nd I’ve got a list of special skills I’d think you’d really enjoy -”

“You are such an idiot,” you say, as he giggles into your neck, pulling back to stare at you, living for the way you’re softly laughing at him, his favorite sound. “But you do make some good points. Think you’re gonna have to take me to bed to be sure you’re a good fit for the job.”

“Hmm, ‘s that so?”

“Gonna be a tough one, innit?” you say, a soft smile growing on your face as you rake your hands through the hair on the nape of his neck. “My very own stay at home boyfriend.”

“”S my dream job. ‘S the dream -” he’s mumbling nonsense, praise and ramblings about his dreams against your lips, something snapping in him as he crashes his mouth to yours. He slides his hands down your thighs, encouraging you to jump into his hold as he starts to carry you back towards the bedroom, biting down on the urge to correct you, to make you say fiancé or husband, the title boyfriend not feeling like enough for him anymore.

The calm energy of the morning has given way to something electric, something that makes sparks shoot up his spine every time you moan into his mouth when he kisses you just the way you like it, a type of chemistry only the two of you create.

He wants to spend the rest of his life just like this, just right here, he thinks, as he lays you down on the bed, hastily pulling off his clothes when he watches you do the same. The morning sun making you somehow more luminous than usual. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen and you’re all his and he’s all yours and in the early morning hours, you’re not beholden to anything but each other. No interruptions from the outside world, nothing but the two of you right here. He wants to live in this forever.

A lifetime of mornings with his girl. What could be better than that?

---

taglist:@tobesolovelysstuff, @louyoursins, @daydreamingofmatilda, @jojo-blog53, @marzhshaim, @devilsqueen722, @just-happiness-only,@lomlhstyles, @feestyles, @spock4presidnet, @sunshinemoonsposts, @indierockgirrl, @jerseygirlinca, @kissitnhekitchen, @goldnrry,

#these pics did something to me okay #im quite proud of this actually #continuing my challenge i set for myself to write a blurb for each of the final shows #i missed the last show so this is counting #harry styles blurb #something old #harry styles fic

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non-un-topo · 11 months

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More clothing studies, this time from my fic Axis. I was aiming for authenticity while also trying to have each of their personalities show a little bit in their clothing choices. Two for Nicky, to show his layers.

#tog #the old guard #for reference the fic takes place in 1625 in iceland. i still don't think they're bundled enough though lol.#nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #andromache of scythia #no quynh :(#these were a n i g t m a r e to crop correctly. tumblr why are you like this.#hence the cropping might look a little weird #siggy draws #i think these sketches took a month and a half lol. now i will be quiet about this fic and focus on writing something else.#what do we think about this style? the differently coloured lineart and the slight lighting? and the rough colours?#also i forgot my siggynature on ALL of these but that's ok. you know who i am sdfghf #my new obsession is clothing details i guess!! could always make it more detailed though! with lots of practice i can try.#no real director's commentary on these drawings like i usually write for my sketches asdsfgfd #just that this is mostly what they wear in the fic. add a coat for andy maybe and some mitts for joe.#and more weapons and bags and stuff #can't really see nicky's braids but he's got one big french braid and a few tiny ones on the sides of his head connecting to it.#his hair is like shoulder-blade length. it's about the symbolism!! of not making a change for a long time!! until he does cut it!!#and andy is wearing quynh's necklace under her shirt of course </3 #joe rolls his pantaloons above the knee for maximum movement (horseriding) and fashion (gay)#i have a crush on the first nicky sketch like he's so cunty for no reason #well. he's possibly supposed to be having a serious conversation/argument with andy #kudos to the ref picture i used of luca just standing Like That

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bleaksqueak · 4 months

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Okay, if you like fromsoft games or love bloodborne/love a challenge/love horror juxtaposed against endearing whimsy, please check out Lies of P.

The part of me that couldn't stop laughing at the game's name and the concept of "Edgelord Pinnochio Bloodborne Clone" can no longer fathom thinking of the game as anything other than "AMAZING!!!!!!! SO GOOD!!!!!!!! THAT TEAM SHOULD BE SO PROUD!!!! WHAT AN ASTONISHING CREATIVE ACHIEVEMENT!!!" I already knew I was on the "i'd recommend this to anyone who likes these types of games or wants to try them" team, but now that is 10000% And even better, it has filled me with so much art inspiration after exploring its world and collecting beautifully designed costumes. The world building/world design is so, so so so very actualized and charming.

#yackin #my favorite way to describe the story/writing of this game is #that it vibes like one of those fanfics that is written by an exceptionally talented 17 year old #because it's full to the brim with nothing but earnest whimsy and heart on its sleeve cringe #as in the type of cringe that wraps back around to being endearing due to how honest it is #because the cold hard world and bitter critics haven't stomped it out of them yet #so it's a real treat to see a polished game that plays smooth as butter have that sort of story #it's shocking how good the experience is with such a tiny team #it's just nice to get to read/experience a story with great gameplay that feels very Untampered With by moneybag CEOs #it might be my favorite souls style game now #anyway hi I woke up at 3 am today

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writeouswriter · 1 year

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Reading a fic that's so well written I wish I could close my eyes and just let the descriptions and atmosphere wash over me, but the dilemma with closing my eyes is, well, I then would not be able to continue reading this fic, now would I.

#fanfiction #fanfic #reading #i don't read longform fic very often but this one is so good wow i'm in awe and clicking next chapter next chapter #the movie it's for I'm not even a particular major fan of itself but I am a fan of the character and the ideas and oh my god #they perfect it to a tee in every way even better than the movie could and yet keep their characterization spot on in line with the og #it's amazing the way they balance the humour and banter with the suspense/tension and drama/horror #and their descriptions are gorgeous/pick out just the right details #their follow-up is more canonical to me as a sequel than the actual official sequel which is wrong in so many ways #and I am in love with their writing style so much my god #i'll say the fic if asked probably will honestly make a rec post for it when I'm done just because wow but here i'm just vague posting #i mean it's 10 yrs old and I've been reading fic for 8-9 yrs and it is truly one of the best I've read in all of that #from all my tags I mean you can labour a guess for the fandom or fic and if you were to guess it wow good job I'd be impressed #but anyway !!! love finding masterpieces I hope this person decided to become an author in those 10 yrs almost *sobs*#I'm gonna say the fic anyway whatever it's From Out the Ocean Risen by Bluestar god it's good (for p/acific r/im)

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coldflasher · 4 months

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was rewatching the pilot again yesterday for fic reasons and thinking again about the sherlock-style screen annotations they had when barry was doing CSI work that they literally only did in the first ep and then never revisited again, presumably because they realized it'd be far too much effort to work out the details on such a precise level

and thinking about like. that barry allen with the hyper-precise exact measurements that he did by eye (with joe shaking his head in awe so you know that he's a CSI supergenius) vs. the leonard snart who timed his heists to the exact nanosecond (which again, presuming they ditched because it's a logistical nightmare to write dialogue that nitpicky and obsessive, and would be such a fucking pain to do on a week-to-week basis). like. yet another reason they are soulmates tbh. is audhd4autistic a thing the same way t4t is a thing? if it isn't then i'm making it a thing

#never noticed it before i became obsessed w autism but pilot barry is SCREAMING “stereotypical tv depiction of white male autistic savant”#like even the cadence of his speech and the level of clumsiness and social awkwardness was ramped up to an 11 in the pilot #literally i only watched half the ep and he accidentally bumped into like 4 people.#like... the lack of spatial awareness... he's so me. they really did go “the speedforce cured his appalling proprioception"#part of me is glad they dialled some of it back cos like. tv loooves to code characters as autistic in that very specific #way that's like. a big old stereotype. but then be like “wdym you interpret him as autistic. disgusting that you'd say that. die.”#but idk i also kinda liked it... again im ultimately glad they didn't stick w the sherlock-style annotation bc it would make writing casefi #SO much more difficult than it already is just in terms of like. how do you show that kind of thought process in a non-visual medium #in a way that's not incredibly boring and info-dumpy?#but i do have a soft spot for like. early seasons disaster barry allen who can't walk across a flat surface without crashing into something #and has no idea how to have a normal human conversation #my meta

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martindeservedbetter · 9 days

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expectations

Farkas x F! Dragonborn! Reader

word count: 1438

triggers: none

summary: The Companions are invited to a celebration up in Dragonsreach for the Dragonborn, but he ends up having a better time then he thought he would.

prompts: from @writings-of-a-hufflepuff List #1 prompts 4+8

4. "God, you're pretty."

8. "Why are you looking at me like that...?"

Farkas was well aware of the resurgence of the Dragonborn. He knew that this person, whoever they were, was going to help Skyrim. He was also aware of the Jarl’s celebration for the Dragonborn, one that the Companions were required to go to.

“Why is Kodlak making us go to the keep? We don’t exactly fit in with those people.”

Farkas sat on Vilkas’s bed, watching his twin make himself more presentable.

“‘Tis an honor to be in the Jarl’s presence. And it’s not like we have to dress up, he wants us there as the Companions, not nobles.”

“Then why are ya doin’ your hair?”

“Some of us don’t want to look like dogs.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No no, you mentioned my hair.”

Vilkas let out a sigh before muttering,” It could use a wash.”

“See, ‘s not hard. And my hair’s fine, maybe I’ll even tie it back.”

“If you say so."

The twins fell into a comfortable silence, Farkas continuing to watch Vilkas try to pull his hair back and ultimately failing.

"Do you need some help brother?"

"I'm fine Farkas," Vilkas muttered.

Farkas got up anyways, and Vilkas reluctantly placed his small bit of twine in his brother's hands.

"Just don't make me look dumb."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He got to work, pulling his twin's hair into a small ponytail that sat just at the nape of his neck.

"There you are, brother."

"Oh. Thank you, Farkas…"

He muttered, staring at his reflection on his blade.

"It's nice… how did you?"

Farkas just shrugged and got up.

"I'll be in my room if you need me to fix your hair again."

"Alright then. Oh, Farkas," he turned to face his brother," we're all going up to the keep together so just wait in the hall when you're ready."

"Aye."

Farkas sat on his bed, having already decided that he would 'do his hair' as Vilkas suggested. It wasn't much, but he twirled the hair between his fingers, making a small braid that sat to the right of his face.

Content with his 'dress up' he left his room to wait in the hall with the rest of the Companions. Few had done anything to, as Vilkas would say," look more presentable to the Jarl."

As far as Farkas could tell Aela hadn't done anything to change herself. The wheels seemed the same, although Torvar did seem a little soberer.

"It seems none of us knows how to look at a Jarl's party."

"It does seem that way Sister."

"Except for Vilkas," she muttered, a grin right smack on her face.

"Hmm?" Farkas turned to look in Aela's direction, muttering an "oh by the Nine…"

Vilkas had dressed up, a lot. He had put some sort of grease in his hair to slick it back and took off his warpaint.

"Vilkas."

Aela greeted.

Vilkas responded with a curt nod.

"I see you've dressed up," Aela uttered.

"And I see you have not… nor any of the rest of you."

"It was not necessary. You would-"

"That is enough from you two. We have a formal invitation to attend Jarl Balrgruuf's celebration as the Companions. It was not an invitation to argue amongst our ranks!"

Kodlak immediately cuts off their bickering, not allowing his children to cause any further issues.

"I apologize, Harbinger. It will not happen again." Aela muttered.

"I'm sorry Kodlak…"

Kodlak gave a sharp nod, before bringing everyone to the doors, preparing to make their way up to Dragonsreach. And upon their arrival at the entrance, the guards welcomed them quickly, ushering the Companions inside.

“Ah! The Companions of Jorrvaskr! Welcome to Dragonsreach, please enjoy this celebration in honor of the Dragonborn!”

‘Well… these guards seem too excited…’

“Thank you,” Kodlak responded, leading the Companions further into the keep.

“You all may disperse, please, mingle, meet the townsfolk as well as the nobility.”

---

“Disperse… I can’t disperse. Look at these people, I’m totally out of my element…”

“Me too. Too many rich people.”

Farkas turned to the source of this voice.

It was a woman, who like him, was not very dressed up but held this warm smile as she looked up to him.

“Hmm?”

“You were thinking out loud, and I agreed with you.”

“Oh really? Damn…”

There was a tint of pink dusting his cheeks.

“Happens to the best of us,” she paused,” I’m Y/n.”

“Farkas.”

“Well, Farkas, I see that you have this really pretty greatsword on your back… How’d you get that in? Wait no, let me guess…”

Farkas just chuckled. This girl had just found Farkas and decided to talk to him of all people.

“...You’re a secret guard! Jarl Balgruuf hired extra muscle to keep his party safe.”

“Ha, no, I’m not a guard.”

She frowned, scanning the throne room.

“Wait, there’s more of you! Like her! She’s got a bow! Oh and he- well he,” she glanced back up at Farkas,” he looks exactly like you? I get that you came with a group, but a clone?”

Farkas couldn’t contain himself and burst into a hearty laugh.

“A clone! That’s the best twin joke I’ve heard in a long time.”

“Oh! He’s your twin? He looks,” she frowned,” he looks really dumb. Did he put grease in his hair?”

Farkas was taken aback. Vilkas the dumb one?

“You think… you think he’s dumb?”

Her face became increasingly crimson as she quickly tried to cover her tracks,” No! I mean…”

“It’s a nice change of pace, I’m usually called the dumb one.”

“What? But you’re so nice?”

“...thank you… but people don’t usually see me the way you do.”

“What do you think of me? Do you see me differently than everyone else?”

“What?” Farkas couldn’t figure out what she meant.

“Are we different then what everyone else thinks?”

Farkas smiled down at her, finally understanding her question,” You’re spunky, and I believe that you’re a warrior. But a kind woman, so for whatever reason the Jarl has invited you for, you are more than your job.”

The fact that he got so much out about a woman he’d never known before now was groundbreaking in his eyes.

“Then we’re different together. Follow me outside and away from all these people?”

She held out a hand.

“Of course, lead on Y/n.”

And he took her smaller hand in his.

She dragged him behind her down to the main entrance and gave a smile to the guard who let the pair escape into the fresh air.

“This is much better… and the sky is so pretty tonight, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, it is…”

The auroras were more vivid tonight, dancing across the sky as if they were a gift from the Nine themselves.

“So Farkas… you live here in Whiterun, yeah?”

“That’s right.”

“So you can point out what these buildings are then?”

“Of course.”

She grinned, giving their still clasped hands a squeeze, before looking around, down at the Hold below.

“So… what’s that building? That upside-down boat?”

“That is where I live with my dumb twin and the others.”

“And?”

“That’s Jorrvaskr. Home to the Companions.”

“And what does being a Companion entail?”

“It means fighting for people who can’t fight for themselves, fighting for honor, fighting for the many people of Skyrim.”

“Is there an opening?”

“Only if you want in.”

“Then I’ll just have to prove myself.”

Farkas paused, watching the way her eyes lit up as she talked of joining the Companions, watching the way she pointed out buildings all over the hold, the way she talked about himself… and then there was more. More than her amazing personality, there was her gorgeous eyes and the adorable smile...

“Why are you looking at me like that…?”

“Gods, you’re pretty.”

She was thankful for the darkness of the night, hiding the flush of her cheeks.

“Farkas, you’re-”

“My thane! What are you doing out here?! The Jarl is about to announce that you’re Dragonborn!”

Y/n’s face fell, and Farkas watched as all of her expectations arose again.

“Well… I guess this is goodbye Farkas…”

She let go of his hand. And he quickly realized how he missed her warmth.

“Y/n.”

The female turned around to face the man.

“You’re always welcome at Jorrvaskr, Dragonborn or not. I hope to see you again.”

The smile returned to her face again as she heard Farkas.

“Then I’ll see you soon Farkas.”

And then the Dragonborn slipped back inside. Y/n was the Dragonborn… and if anything, he knew the world was safe with her as its sole protector.

#farkas x reader #farkas x f!reader #farkas fic #farkas skyrim #farkas #farkas x dragonborn #farkas x dovahkiin #skyrim #tes #martindeservedbetter fic #martindeservedbetter #my farkas fics are so old that my writing style has evolved #its almost painful to read these #but they are still of fine quality imo #edit: is my vilkas fic too long or smth bc no one is liking it and that is sadness

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rinsvg · 4 months

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Cw: no sorcerer au, high school au, best friend gojo, angst

You were currently walking through the halls of your school in search of a vending machine so you could buy a drink to quench your thirst. When you heard a name, you knew all too well the name of your best friend, Gojo Satoru.

"Gojo, are you sure you're alright with this? I know that she likes you, and I just don't want to hurt her feelings." Rin Akari, a girl from class 1-B who Gojo had a crush on for months now, spoke softly, and by the way she was staring at him, the feelings were obviously recuperated.

"Yeah, we talked about it last week; she knows that my feelings for her are purely platonic, nothing more, nothing less." Gojo spoke in a whisper-like tone while pushing her hair awkwardly behind her ear, since he's never liked a girl to this extreme before.

"Oh, okay, as long as you talked to her about it first, I guess we can start dating now." Rin said this while blushing and moving her hands in an awkward manner.

"Yeah, I guess we can." Gojo followed up with a blush just as bright as hers on his face.

A tear fell down the side of your face as you turned to walk back to class, forgetting all about your troubles and now filled with the start of a relationship that's built on your pain.

You were now walking up to your house; normally, you would walk home with Gojo, but you left as soon as the bell rang, not wanting to be in his presence in case you fell into a tearful mess.

You unlocked the door, and the first thing you heard was your mom calling out to you as you walked into the house and shut the door.

"Hey, how was school?" your mom asked as she pecked around the corner of the kitchen to see you. "It was eventful." You spoke in a hoarse tone from the crying you did earlier and on your walk back from school.

"What do you mean by event?" Your mom continued to ask until she stopped at the site of your flushed face and bloodshot eyes, making it obvious that you've been crying for a long period of time.

"Why were you crying, honey? Are you okay? Did somebody hurt you?" Your mother ranted while dropping everything she was doing to run over to examine you for any injuries.

"No, mom, nobody hurt me; I'm okay; I just want to be left alone for right now." You said this while grabbing your mom's hands to stop her from examining your body. "Okay, are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" Your mom questions.

"Yeah, I'm sure I just need to sleep it off, then I will be okay." You nodded your head, trying to get your mom to understand you will be fine, even though you know you're just going to go up there and cry yourself to sleep.

"Okay, then I will tell your dad you're going to be late to come down for dinner, okay, but just know I'm always here to talk when you need me, okay." Your mom spoke one last time before she kissed you on the head and headed back to the kitchen to continue dinner.

"Okay," you softly sighed before you took off your shoes and headed up the stairs to go cry yourself to sleep, just like you planned to do earlier.

#➶ ͙˚ ༘✶ ( 𝒥𝓊𝓅𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀𝓈 )#no sorcerer au ꒰੭⸝⸝´`⸝⸝꒱#gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #going back to my old writing style (2021-2022 era)

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emily-mooon · 5 months

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Ahhhhh yes a title card. For that one au I said I would write, then didn’t, said I would write for again, then didn’t, then written part of chapter one for and then didn’t finish it on my three days off.

#but I will write for cause hours at work have been shortened for me (fine cause I don’t have bills to pay)#only work one day next week so I’ve got time to write the rest of chapter one #I will use this title card (and maybe more if I make more) when posting chapters #also style experiment with using some colours commonly used in old comics cause I saw a post about it and I liked the look of it #also a bit of the Scott pilgrim art style is in here cause I noticed that my style has some similar stuff in it #stranger things #jonathan byers #steve harrington #stonathan #itakiss au

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hearts4pearlescentmoon · 21 days

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Watercolor practice

#Art #x’s art #traditional art #the crane wives #the fool in her wedding gown #tfihwg #My first art post got a few likes recently and I remembered I had kept a small packet my English teacher gave us to write an essay on #The story being Icarus and Daedalus I obviously was thinking “TFIHWG” the entire time reading it so I kept the packet so I could draw the #Album cover on it and because my first post got some likes I remember it and actually did it #It goes well with the style that I’m going for in this new sketchbook :]#Don’t look at my old art on here it’s SHIT

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bizarrebazaar13 · 4 months

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if there’s one thing fallen london fans will do, it’s be way more dedicated to historical accuracy than the creators are lmao

#james speaks #me writing my fanfiction: how popular would this style of coat be in 1890s india?#fbg making character art: yeah this looks vaguely old fashioned. drop it.

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elderberries-and-honey · 3 months

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.・゜゜・𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺 ･ﾟﾟ･｡

Dear Diary,

I have been spending much of my time with Beth and Ozzy lately; I'm hoping to get Ozzy to be more comfortable around me. He was still a bit uncertain whenever I walked through the front door every morning and it would take him awhile to warm up to me. But, today, I think my daily visits have officially paid off!

My little boy walked right over to me, giggling and smiling as he neared where before he looked so timid, and said in the sweetest voice, 'Mum! Mum!' with the biggest smile on his face. I nearly wept with joy and when I looked over at Beth's face, I know she felt it too.

During most of my visits, Ozzy and I have been practicing learning more words while Beth stays nearby, usually busying herself with her knitting or reading. It doesn't seem like it now because he's so little but someday sooner than I liked, we'll be sending him off to school and I want him to have a better education than Lawrence or I had.

Most of the time though, it seems he is more interested in playing than learning.

Winter is approaching rather quickly and from what Lawrence tells me, it seems like it will be a harsh one. He spends most of his time in the field these days trying to prepare but even though he tries to hide it, I can tell he's running himself ragged. I worry about him very much.

Despite how cold and windy it's been though, we've all been trying to savor every remaining warm day. When the weather proves well-enough, Beth and I have been taking Ozzy to explore the bramble wood. He's a curious little boy and I love watching him discover things.

I can tell though that Ozzy's favorite days are the ones where Jackson can join us and brings his granddaughter, Nellie, along to play too; his son is studying to become a medical doctor so Jackson and Louise take care of Nellie often, which makes me feel sad for her sometimes.

She's a sweet little girl but she's a few years older than Ozzy and doesn't like to share. More often than not, they will start arguing over a toy and won't let up until an adult steps in to calm the situation. I worry about this sometimes and how it will affect the way Ozzy thinks he can treat this little one growing within my belly.

I am happy he has a friend though. It warms me up to hear him laughing, and I don't think anyone gets him smiling quite like Nellie, and it is sweet to watch them chase each other through the fallen leaves.

It does make my heart ache sometimes though, that in the moments where Nellie hurts my poor Ozzy's feelings, he still seeks Beth out for comfort over his Mother. And even though I try my best to hide it, Jackson still noticed my long face and asked what was troubling me.

After I rambled on for awhile, he confessed that he supposes if I only asked Beth, she would come help me raise Ozzy.

At first, I was hesitant to truly believe it, it feels like I'm yoking her with my troubles too much already. But he reassured me that Beth always wanted a large family after being the oldest of eleven girls and being with my little family helps with the lonesomeness she has now that her husband has passed on.

.・゜゜・𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘩'𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 ･ﾟﾟ･｡

The Baudelaire's have asked me to move in with them to help take care of little Oscar. How I fretted over the day when I would have to part from the little one and now, I won't have to.

Oh, how relieved I am! So many nights I prayed for God to light the path and guide me through my worry of being alone once again, and He has answered my prayer with his His love!

I could not find the strength to ask, but in his wisdom, he passed it onto Winifred and I am so grateful for that.

next / previous / first

#this was really heart-warming to shoot and write!#also i think i'm going back to my old editing style now that i like my lighting more #i'm sorry i keep changing stuff ;~;#ts4 historical #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 storytelling #sims 4 storystelling #ts4 legacy #sims 4 legacy #the baudelaire legacy #1890 #winifred baudelaire #oscar baudelaire #beth herbert #jackson mcadams #eleanor mcadams

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