Hiii I'm sorry if this sounds weird but I want to eat your writing >-< It's such a treat reading your posts every time they pop up on my feed, they make me smile so much and they brighten my day even on very bad days so thank you for everything that you do dear author :')
haiiii hehe feel free to eat my writing ✍️!! It makes me so happy that I can lift your spirits just a bit on bad days. I love spreading good vibes and fluff (and yaoi) 💞💞 much love towards u, im very thankful for the support 🤭
haii can i request for alphonse x gn! reader - maybe something wedding or marriage related? :3
A Promise With Both Hands
Pairing: Alphonse x gn!reader
summary: Marriage is brought up.
a/n: gang im so sorry for some reason I can’t find a pic of Alphonse when he returns to his og body.
When Alphonse Elric speaks about marriage, it is not in the way most people do. There is no grand declaration with nervous laughter and teary eyes.
Doing the dishes is the least romantic option of all but he chose to do it that way.
The kitchen window is open. Evening air drifts in howling a happy melody, carrying the distant sounds of a townsfolk. You are standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, soap clinging to your wrists. Behind you, seated at the small wooden table is Alphonse. His chin resting in his palm as he watches you with an expression that has always warmer than sunlight.
“You’d look nice in white,” he says.
You glance over your shoulder. “White what?”
“Wedding clothes.”
You nearly drop a plate.
When you turn, he isn’t flustered. And he isn’t teasing. He is simply looking at you the way he always does openly, sincerely, as though whatever he feels has never required disguise.
Or subtly!
“Al,” you say carefully, drying your hands. “That’s not a casual topic.”
“I know.” He smiles, sheepish but steady. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Of course he has. Alphonse has always been the contemplative one, the boy who weighs ideas and carries his burdens before offering them to anyone. Even in a body of steel, he had been soft-hearted. Now, in restored flesh and bone, that softness feels almost miraculous.
You move to sit across from him. “You’ve thought about marrying me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” you ask, not because you doubt him, but because you want to hear him say it.
“Because when I imagine my future,” he says slowly, “you’re already there. By my side if you’d have me of course! Like it would be stranger if you weren’t.”
He reaches across the table, lacing his fingers with yours. His hands are sweating, solid, and unmistakably human. Sometimes you still think about that—the years he spent without feeling warmth at all. The years he could not hold someone like this and feel their pulse against his skin.
“I don’t want a big ceremony,” he continues. “I don’t think. Maybe something small. Flowers, cakes, friends… and Ed pretending not to cry.”
“He’d absolutely cry!”
“He would deny it forever.”
“You really want that?” you ask. “Marriage?”
Alphonse nods. “I want a home that’s ours. I want to cook with you and argue about curtains and complain about neighbors. I want to wake up and know that no matter what happens outside, we chose each other.”
He squeezes your hand slightly.
“I spent so long not knowing if I’d even grow up,” he admits quietly. “Not knowing if I’d have a body. Or a future. So now that I do… I don’t want to be careless with it.”
Your throat burns.
Marriage, from him, is not an abstract romance. It is gratitude. It is intention. It is a promise shaped by someone who knows what it means to lose everything.
You stand slowly and walk around the table. He watches you with mild confusion until you take his face gently in your hands.
“You’re serious,” you murmur.
“Very.”
“You’re not just daydreaming.”
“I am daydreaming,” he corrects, grounded by your touch. “But I’m also serious.”
You lean down and press your forehead to his. He exhales, hands coming instinctively to your waist.
“You know,” you say, voice trembling faintly despite your smile, “you’d look nice waiting at the end of an aisle.”
His cheeks flush pink. He has always been easier to fluster than his brother.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Probably trying very hard not to smile too big.”
“I wouldn’t,” he protests weakly.
“You would.”
He laughs at you, it’s bright and loud, the sound fills the small kitchen.
“I don’t have a ring,” he says after a moment, almost apologetic.
“You don’t need one.”
“But I will,” he insists gently. “When I ask properly.”
“This isn’t proper?”
He shakes his head. “This is me telling you I want that life. The asking part… I want to do right.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone. “Alphonse Elric, are you promising to propose to me one day?”
He beams at you, open and radiant. “Yes,” says Alphonse Elric. “I am.
Outside, the evening deepens. Inside, in a small kitchen with soap still drying on the counter and dishes half-finished, a future quietly begins to take shape.
Not with spectacle.
But with both hands held, and a promise already meant.
what's amazing about "the other bennet sister" is that the show managed to portray a compelling unconventional heroine while avoiding falling into the easy misogynistic traps of:
"the ugly duckling transforms into a beautiful swan"
"this girl is not like the other girls and therefore she's better than the other girls"
"this girl was secretly special or superior all along" and the mary sue trope
"love is the answer to all problems and a good marriage solves all problems"
"true love and a kind man cures a woman of her insecurities and desire for independence"
"marriage was the worst outcome for a young woman during this time period"
My request is Edward elric x a Reader who teases, flirts, and generally pokes fun at him as their love language.
I feel like he’d either be losing his mind constantly, be dumbfounded, or maybe even try and get the reader back for it lmao. XD
(Feel free to skip this one or swap him with a different character since i asked for Ed last time)
Hopes u have a good day/night~! 💗-snowed in/mint anon
The Art of Provocation
Pairing: edward elric x gn!reader
summary: Teasing Edward is your favorite hobby.
There are many ways to say I love you. Some people whisper it in the dead of night. Some people prove it through sacrifice, bloodshed and tears. Some carve it into the bones of their lives and call it worship and grace and praise the very soul they desire,
You, however, poke it directly into Edward Elric’s ribs.
It is very fun to do so. A passing comment about how the great Fullmetal Alchemist cannot reach the top shelf without a stool. A gentle pat on his head delivered with a smile too soft to be malicious yet too bright to be innocent. You lean down when you speak to him sometimes, a cheeky grin making its way to your face as you poorly hide your amusement.
Ed’s never been great at keeping his cool.
“I am not short,” insists Edward Elric, bristling in the kitchen doorway, golden eyes blazing with familiar indignation. “I’m still growing.”
“Of course you are,” you say, reaching past him to retrieve a cup he could not. “Just like a doll.”
He splutters. The flush that spreads across his face is magnificent, a slow blooming red that creeps up his neck and settles triumphantly along his cheekbones. You live for that color. You have, if you are honest with yourself, cultivated it.
He is a prodigy, a State Alchemist, a survivor of unspeakable things in the harsh, militarized world of Alchemists. He has transmuted steel and stone, faced down homunculi without surrendering. And yet, when you lean against the counter and say to him, “You’re cute when you’re angry,” he looks as though you have dismantled him molecule by molecule.
“I am not cute,” he snaps, which would be more convincing if his voice did not crack on the word. To be hitting those notes at his age is an embarrassment of its own.
You step closer, tilting your head as though studying an artifact of great historical interest. “No? Could’ve fooled me.”
There is a precise moment, each time, when his brain ceases to function. You can see it happen. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Quite similarly to a goldfish.
He is brilliant in battle, devastating in debate, articulate in philosophy. But when you trail a finger lightly down the sleeve of his red coat and say, “Careful, Fullmetal. You’re blushing again,” he becomes a cathedral struck silent.
You tell yourself this is affection. It is. You are simply fluent in a dialect of love that relies on provocation. You tug on the end of his braid when he walks ahead of you. You call him heroic with just enough exaggeration to make him suspicious. You lean into his space when he least expects it, your shoulder brushing his arm, and watch him short-circuit.
Sometimes he attempts retaliation. These attempts are valiant and catastrophically transparent.
One evening, as you sit beside him on the couch, you feel his gaze heavy on you. You pretend not to notice. “You know,” he begins, affecting nonchalance so poorly it almost pains you, “you’re kind of… loud.”
You blink at him. “Loud?”
“Yeah. Always talking, constantly teasing and making jokes. It’s distracting to some people.” His eyes flick to your mouth and away again. “Some of us are trying to concentrate.”
“Oh?” you say sweetly. “Am I distracting you, Edward?”
“No.”
You smile at him. “That’s a shame. I was trying to be.”
He makes a strangled noise in surrender. “You’re annoying me.”
“And you adore me.”
The words land between you, playful but edged with truth. He goes quiet. The room seems to draw in a silent breath. You have stepped, perhaps, a shade closer to something vulnerable.
He studies you as though recalibrating, as though he has mistaken the nature of the experiment and must now adjust his variables. You watch the realization dawn: you do not tease to belittle. You tease to touch. Every nudge, every grin, every exaggerated sigh is a small reaching.
You bump your knee against his. “What? Cat got your tongue?”
He moves suddenly then, faster than you anticipate. His automail hand catches your wrist not roughly, but firmly enough to startle. His human hand comes to rest at your waist, fingers splayed as though proving a hypothesis.
“You think this is funny?” he says, but the heat in his voice is different now.
You meet his gaze, unflinching. “Extremely.”
He leans in, close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek. For once, it is you who falters, just slightly.
“You’re the one who’s distracted,” he murmurs. “You watch me all the time. You wait for me to react.”
“Maybe I enjoy the view.”
His blush returns, fierce and immediate, but he does not retreat. This is new. This is him learning the rhythm of your language and choosing to speak it back.
“You like making me lose my mind,” he says.
You consider denying it. You do not. “Maybe.”
His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse betrays you. “Then it’s only fair,” he adds, eyes darkening with shy determination, “that I get to do the same.”
It is unfair, how quickly the ground shifts. How easily the tease becomes tension. The boy who once sputtered at a compliment now holds you as though he has earned the right.
“Still think I’m cute?” he asks, and the faint tremor in his voice makes the question intimate rather than defensive.
“I think,” you say, lifting your free hand to brush his hair back from his face, “that you’re extraordinary.”
The sincerity quiets him more effectively than any flirtation. His expression shifts, anger dissolving into something gentler, almost bewildered.
“And I tease you,” you continue, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, “because it makes you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I matter.” His forehead rests briefly against yours, a gesture less triumphant than tender.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.
“You’ll survive. You always do.”
He huffs, but his arms tighten around you, and you feel the quiet concession in it. He may grumble. He may threaten retaliation. He may attempt, poorly at first and then with increasing skill, to unravel you in return.
But he understands now. Your teasing is not a weapon. It is a hand extended, mischievous and warm.
And if he occasionally plots to make you blush just as fiercely, well, that is simply the art of equivalent exchange.
