Sillystrawwie

you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.

When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.

"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.

"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.

"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.

"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"

"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"

Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."

That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.

"Until next time."

He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.

(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)

none of the gifts come with a note.

one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.

the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.

-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.

The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.

"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."

You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.

-Dearest husband,

Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.

Your patient and thoughtful wife

A second letter arrives within the week.

-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?

The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.

-Dearest, sweetest husband,

A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your family name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.

Your less than patient and less than adoring wife

The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.

tortured wife,

I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.

Two people do not decide that they are "courting". One person decides to "court" someone else. It's an action, not a stage in the relationship. A man decides to court a woman because he wants to encourage her to have romantic interest in him. He's trying to win her favor. It's not an exclusive relationship--a woman could be courted by multiple men at once. She'll spend time getting to know the guy who's interested in her, but they won't officially define their relationship as one where they only show romantic interest in each other. If they reach a point where they want it to be exclusive, that's when you propose.

How could they not? John price is a man to be respected if not feared. Even higher ranks than him know he's only still a captain because he prefers to get his hands dirty himself. No one wants to mess with a man like that.

Then there's....you. the new secretary.

"John. Your paperwork." You tell him every morning, dropping the files on the table in the mess hall without much thought. The first time you did it, people genuinely flinched.

No one calls captain price john.

You have no care or respect for his rank, treating price as a casual coworker and not the weapon he is. Always a "john. I want my vacation time approved by this weekend." Or "your breath smells like coffee, john. You want some gum?"

People are convinced price is planning to kill you. No other option when you keep blatantly disrespecting him.

Of course the team notices it too. Worse though when they notice you still call ghost "lieutenant" and kyle and soap "sergeant"

"Doesn't it bother you, sir? The blatant disrespect?" Kyle asks one night at the bar, after price had mentioned you again.

"bother me? Why the hell would it bother me?" Price snorts, takes a bite of the crisps from ghosts plate "My wife can call me whatever she wants."

...

......

March Comics˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

my shaylaaa, he would be so cute trying to hide that he's flustered 😭 ohh i will eat him alive p.s. not proofread

You hadn’t meant anything by it.

That’s what you told yourself anyway as you crossed Zayne’s living room with the throw blanket in your arms and your socks whispering against the hardwood. He was on the couch, glasses low on his nose, reading something dense and medical-looking.

The sight of him there, soft and home-clothed and yours in this new, breakable way, made your stomach flip the way it had been flipping for weeks now.

Months, really. If you were being honest. Possibly years, if you wanted to spiral about it.

Which was the problem with dating your childhood friend.

You’d known Zayne since you were six. You’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during long car rides, pressed bandaids onto his scraped knees, swiped macarons off his plate without asking. Touching him had never been a thing you had to think about.

Until nineteen days ago, when he mustered up the courage and kissed you on his front porch and politely, devastatingly asked if you’d consider being his girlfriend.

Now, every gesture had a different gravity and weight behind it.

You’d been keeping count of the kisses like a fool. Four. You knew you were ridiculous for doing so, but you simply didn’t care.

So when you reached the couch and he looked up at you with that half-soft, half-questioning expression, the blanket felt like a flimsy excuse for what your body had clearly already decided to do.

You climbed into his lap.

Zayne went perfectly, completely still.

You felt it instantly, the way every muscle in him locked, the page frozen between his fingers. You settled your weight against his thighs, draped the blanket over both of you, and tucked your head under his chin like you’d done this a thousand times before, even though you hadn’t.

You daydreamed about it, though. Wanting to finally take matters into your own hands before you could chicken out.

“...Hello,” he managed to say after a long beat of silence, voice a full octave lower than usual.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His ears were red. The tips of them, just barely, but you saw it. His glasses had slid down further on his nose. His hand, the one not holding the book, was hovering in the air beside your hip like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do, or if he was even allowed to touch.

Oh.

The realization slid down your spine warm and slow. He was flustered. Doctor Zayne, ice-cold composure, hands-steady-in-surgery Zayne, was sitting beneath you with his entire body locked up like you’d hit pause on him.

You felt yourself smile slowly, a little bit wickedly and delighted at the outcome.

“Comfortable?” you asked sweetly, settling your weight a little more deliberately into his lap.

His jaw worked, voice dry as bone, “Was the couch full?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. There he was. Even flushed and short-circuiting, his timing was unfairly good.

“Mhm. Didn’t seem to be as comfortable.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“I see.” His hand set the book down on the armrest with the precision of a man defusing a bomb. Maybe for him it really was that serious. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop but find him utterly adorable. Red as a tomato, he might as well be the bomb in question.

His hand finally landed on your hip, warm and a little too gentle, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed yet. “And the rest of the house?”

“Hostile environment.”

“Naturally.” his thumb stroked once, experimental, against your hipbone. You felt his exhale against the top of your head. “Then I suppose I can allow this. I can’t have you feel uncomfortable in my house, now can I?”

You laughed into his throat, and felt him relax beneath you in increments, the tension melting out of his shoulders, his arm sliding properly around your back to pull you flush against his chest. His heart was beating slightly too fast under your ear. So was yours.

“Zayne,” you murmured, fingers playing with the seam of his collar.

“Hm.”

“You know,” you said softly, tracing slow patterns over the fabric, “you could’ve just told me to come over here. You don’t need to be embarrassed if you want to hold me, Zayne. I am your girlfriend after all, am I not?”

He was quiet for a moment before you felt his hand spread warm across your back, certain now, no more hovering.

“I’m aware,” he murmured into your hair. “I was working up to it.”

“For how long?”

“...Approximately nineteen days.”

You smiled into his throat, warm all the way through.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Simon didn’t pay attention to you at first, why would he? There’s always noise on base—boots against concrete, distant shouting, the metallic clatter of equipment, radios crackling with half-heard orders. It all blends into one long, dull hum that Simon learned to tune out years ago.

But your voice doesn’t blend.

It cuts.

“—I’m jus’ sayin’, there ain’t no reason to get all bent outta shape over it, sugar—”

Simon pauses mid-step.

It’s not the word sugar that does it. It’s the way it sounds—drawn out, warm as summer heat, wrapped in something soft and sharp all at once. Your accent rolls over every syllable like honey poured too fast, sticking to everything in its path.

He turns his head.

You’re standing a few yards off, hands on your hips, talking to one of the newer recruits. Talking—fast. Too fast for him to catch all of it. Your words blur together, vowels bending, consonants slipping like they’ve got somewhere better to be.

“—ain’t sayin’ you did it on purpose, but c’mon now, use your head a lil’, yeah? No need for that attitude, darlin’!.”

┈┈───╼⊳⊰ 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮 ⊱⊲╾───┈┈

Why not make movable wings in a sketchbook?

I thought about it and started going through all the stages of hell, how they can be done at all.

My suffering was not in vain, because now: 1. They open by pulling the thread. 2. They can be folded. 3. they are thin and do not interfere with drawing on other pages 😁

Here the inscriptions are better visible

(gender neutral)

your personal little straight jacket is what you've started referring to mammon as inside your head, because once the sun sets, and you two are comfy under the covers, you aren't getting up til it's absolutely necessary to do so.

he nudges his way into your arms like a puppy, curling up against your chest with a happy little grunt and wrapping his arms around your middle like a vice. if you two didnt see each other much that day, his legs will find their way around your hips, and you'll be held in a bear hug tight enough to just be a little uncomfortable, but you can't really complain. then, the bargaining starts. "ill rub yer back if ya play wit my hair," he'll murmur against your collarbone, pressing a few kisses there to sweeten the deal before blinking up at you with wide blue eyes and a sleepy smile. of course, you agree, but only after getting a few more kisses thrown into the deal along side your back rub.

curling your fingers into his soft hair, you scratch at his scalp and gently pull apart any knots you find while trying to figure out whatever nonsense he's tracing on your back. most times, it's just circles and zig zags up the length of your spine and back down again, or little hearts if he's being cute. if he's got a story to tell, you'll notice him spelling out the words he's saying as he talks, even adding little exclamation marks after some of them if it's an important detail. on special nights, you catch him spelling "i love you" in the spaces between your ribs, over and over again until his hand goes limp with sleep.

if he's had a bad day, he won't say much at all, just climb on your chest and tuck his face into the crook of your neck with a quiet sigh. "talk to me..?" he'll ask sweetly, and you'll wrap your arms around him tight as you start talking about anything and everything that comes to the forefront of your mind until his breathing evens and you hear those little snores he denies making. he'd admitted once that he loved falling asleep to the sound of your voice, that sometimes the sound would follow him into his dreams and it was like getting to spend even more time with you while sleeping.

immediately after admitting that, he'd buried himself underneath so many blankets to hide from his embarrassment that he'd nearly suffocated, but still, probably the cutest thing you ever seen.