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yanderedrabbles · 6 months ago

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Yandere Christmas Special

Christmas festivities featuring your local kidnappers Yandere! Soldier and Yandere! Sugar Daddy.

Yandere! Soldier who spends all Christmas morning at mass. And when he comes home, snow thick on his uniform, he smells like incense.

"Come see. I've brought you something."

There's a bottle of strong vodka and a frosted fruitcake waiting for you on the counter. You watch him unwrap the cake, your mind wandering to your family, to Christmas mornings when you were still an angsty teen. Did they think you were dead by now? Were they still looking for you?

He cuts a thick slice and holds it to your lips. It's sweet and dense and leaves your mouth sticky.

Yandere! Soldier who tilts your chin towards him and casually runs his thumb across your bottom lip to catch any stray crumbs.

"Let's drink, yeah?"

The vodka is icy cold and bitter. But the taste makes you think of friends and university and late nights when you were too tipsy to stand but oh so warm inside. You throw back more shots than normal, trying to chase the memories.

It's only when he gently pulls the bottle away that you realise you're far past tipsy. You're straight hammered.

You stumble when you stand and he's quick to catch you, one strong arm around your waist.

"You've got no head for drink, моя любовь."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's time for bed."

You swat at him, irritated. "No. The Russian you used. What does it mean?"

He gently steers you toward the bedroom. "It means my love."

You twist around to face him. "Do you really love me?"

He raises a brow. "Alcohol loosens your tongue, doesn't it?"

He's quiet for a moment, studying you. The flush of your cheeks, the curve of your neck... You're everything he's ever wanted.

"Yes. I really love you. Я клянусь, что да."

I swear I do.

You stand on your toes and kiss him. Cradle his face in your palms and feel the heat of him bleed into you. You're so awfully cold, so awfully lonely. You'll regret it in the morning, but for now you press into him and chase the taste of vodka on his lips.

He pulls away and presses sweet, ticklish kisses against your inner wrist. He can feel your pulse racing.

"я полагаю, это мой рождественский подарок."

I suppose this is my Christmas present.

He grabs your thighs and picks you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, terrified of falling. Your breath ghosts across his neck and your nails dig stinging crescents into his muscles.

He doesn't say it out loud, but it's the best gift he's ever gotten.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy has a tree stacked high with gifts. On Christmas morning, he wakes you up with a kiss and a mug of your favourite hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon sticks.

At first, you assume most of the boxes are just for decoration. There's over a dozen boxes waiting for you - they can't all be gifts, right?

But you should know him better by now. You unwrap present after present, gasping at each one.

A set of custom perfumes from a high fashion brand. Ten different pieces of Tiffany jewellery. A genuine fur coat. Your first pair of Louboutin heels.

Keys to a new car.

You sit in the middle of a treasure trove, struggling to wrap your head around it. He rests his chin on your shoulder and pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes! Yes, it's incredible." You turn to face him. "But babe, this must have cost a fortune. I can't accept all of this."

He tilts his head. "Of course you can. I got it all for you."

You're about to argue when he cuts you off. "You said you got me something too?"

You nod and hand him two packages. Your dollar store wrapping paper is glaring cheap next to his.

He unwraps his gifts slowly. The first one is a journal you picked up in a thrift store, weeks before your argument left you trapped with him. Back when you still had your freedom.

You got your artist friend to emboss his name in gold leaf on the front cover. He flips it open to the first page.

To my tech genius boyfriend. This is what we normies call paper. You use it to record all the times your girlfriend is just absolutely incredible, got it? -y/n

He smirks and rubs the page between his fingers.

"I've only heard distant legends of this 'paper'... How fascinating."

You groan. "It seemed funny at the time okay?"

His next gift is a pottery vase, with elegant fluted handles. It's a deep cream with flecks of reddish iron bleeding through. He stares at it, his expression blank.

Your heart drops.

The truth is, you spent months looking for that specific vase. And when you finally found someone willing to sell, the price they named made your jaw drop. You haggled like hell for it. Practically begged the seller on your hands and knees to let you pay it off over a few months. Until this morning, it was a gift you were proud to give him.

But his gifts to you took all morning to unwrap, while all you can offer is a shitty notebook and some amateur pottery. You hate not being able to return his generosity in equal measure. You hate feeling like you're always giving him the short end of the stick. Even now, when you have every reason to hate him, it hurts that you can't spoil him like he does you.

He finally looks up at you, dazed. "This is an original Murazaki. How did you know I wanted one?"

"You mentioned it a few months ago. When we were having dinner together in my apartment."

He puts the vase down carefully.

"You remembered?"

It's your turn to be confused. "Of course? You were really upset about it. You said he was your favourite artist but that you could never find any of his stuff for sale."

He stares at you like he's trying to pick you apart. You look down, embarrassed.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get you more gifts. I feel like an ass. Like the world's worst girl-"

He grabs you before you can finish and pulls you flush against him. He buries his face in your hair. He takes a deep breath, like he needs to control himself.

"You remembered."

He kisses your temple and then presses his forehead against yours. His voice is low and loving and just a little shaky.

"Oh y/n, you're the best gift I could ask for."

Bonus: a yandere who only has one thing on his Christmas wishlist - you.

You wake up under his Christmas tree, cold and confused and still groggy from the sleeping pills he slipped you.

Your hands are tied behind your back and there's a cherry red gag in your mouth. You squirm, trying to pull your hands free. The floor is icy against your naked skin. Wait, naked?

You look down, horror clawing it's slow way up your throat. Most of your clothes are gone. And you're almost completely wrapped in ribbon.

Your thighs are held together with an excruciatingly tight bow. Two green rosettes are pinned to the lace of your bra. You can't see it, but there's a cute red bow stuck on your head too.

The door opens and you hear heavy footsteps on the basement stairs. You squirm, increasingly desperate to get loose.

"Wouldcha look at that? Santa brought me exactly what I asked for."

Your kidnapper squats down next to you, his eyes roaming your body. Taking in all the curves and dips. Mapping it out like it's his to explore. He reaches out and tugs at the ribbon tied around your throat.

"My girl all wrapped up under the Christmas tree."

He grabs your chin and tilts your face up towards his. His eyes are dark - the pupils blown out wide with lust, with hunger.

"Merry Christmas baby. I promise it'll be one you never forget.

#Inspired by the many brilliant Christmas asks I received #Yandere Christmas #Yandere Soldier #Yandere sugar daddy #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #yandere x reader #Reader insert #Yandere oc #X reader

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gia-d · 9 months ago

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Back in October last year, I started reading This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja.

By the time I had made it to chapter 5, I had already started typesetting this story as I read because I knew this would be one of those stories that I needed to have on my shelf.

When I finally caught up to the story at chapter 31, I begged the author to let me bind this when it was finished.

Nearly a year later, and what is probably the most important bind of my life is finally finished. Check out these glamour shots, and if you want to hear more about the actual binding process and about how this fic actually changed my life, see below.

So funny story, before I get into the technical side of this bind, but this fic actually changed my life. Not as in I was greatly emotionally moved by the story, though don't get me wrong I absolutely was, but genuinely this fic introduced me to some of the best people I have ever had to privilege of knowing (Hello Class, you know who you are 🩷), and also, it introduced me to Freyja, the incredibly talented author, who, as I type this, is curled up in bed next to me fast asleep after flying half way around the world to go on a two week long date with me.

Moral of the story folks is comment on the fics you like. You might accidentally meet the love of your life on, and I can't believe I'm saying this, AO3.

Anyways, about the bind!

This bind was a challenge from day 1. I had to do the typeset for this 300k word fic 4 times, and had to split it across 2 volumes. This was the longest fic I have ever attempted to bind, and it was so thick I couldn't get it in the paper trimmer.

To make this book as durable as possible, I attempted a few techniques. I secured it with 3 tapes, I made an Oxford hollow, I rounded the spine, I made a slipcase and I used 2.3mm boards where normally I use 1.8mm.

The slipcase is covered with embossed faux leather, buckram and plain ribbon, and lined with gold satin fabric. I've never made a slipcase before so this was an experience.

The books are covered with an emerald green silk finish bookcloth which really gave the books the luxury they deserved. I foiled custom end papers as well as every chapter title page using heat reactive transfer foil on toner ink (never again I am never doing that again omg it took days). Huge thank you to @la-sera for letting me use her artwork which helped inspire this fic!

The grey flashback chapters I had to use HTV for the border decoration and I'm very happy with how that turned out because it was so easy and straight forward, unfortunately it just wasn't viable for the whole book.

It feels weird to finally have these books done. They have my blood, sweat, tears and my heart poured into them, and I've been working on them for so long that it's odd to actually have them finished. I'm so proud of this bind, and feel like I've grown so much as a fanbinder by making these.

Anyways, if anyone has any questions about the process, please don't hesitate to ask!

(and if you are an Linked Universe fan and haven't read Adjuration yet, this is your sign!)

#linked universe #bookbinding #fanbinding #ficbinding #this is an adjuration #my binds #ivyring bookbinding #hi freyja!

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hoshinasblade · 1 year ago

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your wedding to hoshina soshiro is tomorrow and although the elders have forced to put you in separate rooms - the superstition specifies that the groom is to not see the bride the night before the ceremony - your restless feet had found themselves in front of the suite your husband-to-be is staying at. after all, it won't be the first time you had broken tradition for love and you can feel it in your bones that it won't be the last time either.

you knocked at the door thrice, hoping that's enough to call hoshina's attention; praying that he is actually inside, and not at some bachelor party where you are well aware almost always involves indecent acts.

"hey," hoshina greeted you as he beckoned you to come in. "i missed you today," he said and the confession painted your cheeks pink. "did you need anything?" hoshina's hands attempted to capture yours but upon noticing you were holding a box in them, he settled in noting the slight tremble in your movements. it offered him a little consolation that it seems he isn't the only one anxious for the event the next morning.

"i have something for you", you told him as you presented the box. the box was a bit bigger than your own torso, covered in brown paper that tore easily as he opened it. inside is a tantō, custom made, he realised as he noticed the embossed name near the handle of the blade. the metal is cold to his touch, and perhaps if he applied more pressure, he could cut himself. "do you like it?" you asked giddily.

hoshina couldn't answer right away. in the past, people had certainly given him gifts, but not as thoughtful - as breathtaking - as this one. "you didn't have to -"

"it's a gift," you interrupted him as you closed the distance between the two of you. when you started dating hoshina, you had always been annoyed at the height difference - you hated having to always look up to him. that's fine, that just means i get to look after you all the time, he answered you. "don't think i won't use it to dice you down if you mess up though," you added which earned a chuckle from hoshina.

"i thought i already promised that i won't break your heart." hoshina grabbed your hands now and he can feel the loud pulse on your wrist. even our heartbeats are in sync, he wanted to say. "i'll take care of you."

your silence was enough of a response. the tantō remained in the box on the floor that night, a symbol of how you had given hoshina soshiro a literal weapon - to protect you or to hurt you, only he could decide on. maybe love works exactly like that, you'd like to think - giving someone the key to destroying us all the while praying they do the opposite.

the elders scolded you the next day, endless mutters of bad luck because you stayed the night with hoshina but you didn't care - you had made up your mind that you will spend your lifetime with him anyway, what's one more night to add to forever?

honorary tagging my bestie again @umafanfiqueiraqualquer 😁

#i have way too much feels about this #imagine hoshina saying he will take care of you #i too would pledge my forever for him #hoshina soshiro x reader #hoshina soshiro #soshiro hoshina #lian's thoughts

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out-there-tmblr · 3 months ago

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WIP: Zaundads2EB (2)

ETA: Nope, that's it. I'm committing to tagging this story as "wip: Zaundads 2 - Electric Boogaloo" now. It amuses me too much to resist (and I only needed the slightest amount of encouragement to decide.)

I'm struggling to get traction on this, so I'm posting a snippet to see if it sparks something.

***

It's not the first time they've had trouble with the enforcers. At the start, when it was just the market, Babette's and a few shacks, no one bothered them. No one cared when they got the elevator to riverside working, and more customers came to Babette's, or when five shacks became twelve buildings. But when it became twenty, when the miners started taking a few days off every week – when they could afford food and a roof over their heads without working every day – then the enforcers started showing up. They'd walk around during the day and demand people's names, checking it against their list of indebted miners, threatening to escort them back to the mine.

They tried to bully people out of their homes, looking for a fight, looking for an excuse to lock people up, but no one was stupid enough to fight back. They would stand there, silently, and ignore the threats the way they ignored any other topsider foolishness.

Vander still remembers the enforcers stomping around the market, claiming everything they'd built was illegal and that they were clearing the land for the owner. Vander remembers clenching his fists, ready for a fight but Silco had gently touched his wrist and then stepped forward.

"For the owner?" Silco asked, smooth voice deceptively calm and polite. "Did the owner give you an Authority to Act?"

"Of course," the taller one snarled through his mask. In his goggles, Silco's reflection seemed thin and fragile.

"That's very confusing. He also signed an Authority to Act over to me," Silco says, pulling out the carefully folded piece of paper from inside his jacket. The paper itself is thick and creamy white, embossed with the red wax seal of the land office. "We have permission to build here."

The enforcer snatches the page out of Silco's hand, and then makes a show of reading it. "Who would give you permission?"

"A generous benefactor. He saw the conditions at the Kiramman Home for Foundlings and wanted to give them hope of a better future. A home."

When Silco insisted on spending money on more land office forms, Vander thought it was a waste of time. Why would they need to get pieces of paper signed and certified? As he watched enforcers angrily shove the page back at Silco and stalk away, he's thankful for Silco's careful, pessimistic planning.

***

#zaundads #my current wip #i need a working title for this #something that isn't Zaundads 2: Electric Boogaloo #which is how I'm thinking of it in my head and might be why I keep opening the file and snickering and not actually writing anything #wip: Zaundads 2 - Electric Boogaloo #WIP:Zaundads2EB

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snek-panini · 10 months ago

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Book time! I want to post all my new stuff but don't want to flood people with them, so I waited a bit after my last one to put this one up, but I can't wait any longer to show it off. This is The Rose and the Serpent, a Good Omens Beauty and the Beast AU by Atalan. I know there's some kind of fairy tale fic event going on in the fandom right now but this one is from a few years back, so if that's your thing and you're impatient go check this one out.

I'm totally in love with how this one came out. It's like, if you had a cartoon character who's reading a plot-relevant book of fairy tales, this is the book you'd draw for them. Belle has this book. It's perfect for its niche. The front cover is burgundy cardstock with brown faux leather on the spine, and antique-brass-finish photo corners to protect the edges. The rose was done with gold embossing powder and a stamp, since I can't draw and those lines are too fine for the cricut. The batch of books I'm working through now is my first time experimenting with legal quarto size (legal size paper (8.5x14 in.) folded twice) and everyone who raved about it is right. It's very satisfying to hold and was a joy to make.

Check out the rest of my photos under the cut!

Close up of the photo corners and a view of the spine. I've never used photo corners before, partly because I don't ever see them on commercial books, but they just felt right for this project so I felt it was time to experiment. I didn't glue them down, just clamped them closed with jewelry pliers, and I was worried they wouldn't stay in place but they seem to be fine. Cardstock isn't a very hard-wearing material, and if it has a white core it tends to show at the corners of the book where it rubs against things, even under light handling. Hopefully the metal corners will protect it.

The spine title came out well. I was worried about matching the color with the embossing powder color on the front, but they came out fine and I'm very pleased.

Top view, with handmade red-and-green endbands and a green ribbon bookmark. Both of these were chosen to match the absolutely gorgeous endpapers with this mosaic flower pattern. They're chiyogami from ChibiJay and they're stunning; the photos don't do them justice. I bought them because they remind me of the stained glass windows in the Disney Beauty and the Beast. CJ has this great deal where you can make custom paper packs in pre-cut sizes for a discounted price, and they've got hundreds of patterns. This isn't sponsored, by the way, I just think they're awesome.

Some photos of the title page and first page of the story. I'm experimenting with DaFont some more. The one on the title page and for the chapter numbers is called Christmas Card, and the drop capital is called Floral Capitals, both free to use for personal projects. I've only done drop caps on a couple of projects, because for purely personal aesthetic reasons I don't like when they sink into the paragraph, but if I can mimic them by just making the first letter huge? Love that. Defintely going to keep doing that. Can never get the kerning to look right when I do it the regular way, but with this it isn't an issue.

The graphics on the title page are re-used from an older project, but they were so perfect for this one that I just went with it.

As I said above, this is my first legal quarto but it for sure won't be my last! There are three more in this batch, and they're so pleasant to hold that I'll for sure be making more before too long.

#good omens #bookbinding #fanbinding #snek makes books #god look at it i love it so much #i know i always say that but dammit it's always true #fic rec

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leiawritesstories · 10 months ago

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Stunning

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 7: All Dressed Up @rowaelinscourt

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: flirting, swearing, rich people talk, badly concealed horniness, NSFW content, a few fun little hidden jokes teehee

A/N: hi hello this is technically for tomorrow BUT it's getting posted now because i'm taking the LSAT tomorrow and i'm going to be way too mentally exhausted to function, yayyyyy 😃 also, i might disappear for a little while after the exam, bc i also just started my senior year of college and it's a bit busier than i thought lol. anyway.....enjoy!!! at your own discretion please :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If the club was fancy, its VIP lounge was a study in luxury. A pair of black-suited bouncers flanked the door, their dark-shaded eyes constantly scanning the club, scrutinizing each and every person who approached the lounge doors. Rowan handed over the thick square of embossed ivory paper from his tux jacket pocket and nodded amiably at the bouncers as they checked his invitation and waved him in. Conspicuous as he’d felt before, when he was walking through the club in a custom three-piece designer tux, he felt positively unremarkable among the sea of haute couture that thronged the VIP lounge, all of them centered around a tall, elegant woman in a fitted sheath dress of molten gold with a slit that crept dangerously high up her right leg. Her head tipped an inch sideways with the echo of her laughter, and she rested one graceful hand on the forearm of the handsome man she was talking to, crimson-tipped fingernails contrasting sharply with his black jacket.

Aelin Galathynius.

The only daughter of perhaps the most influential voices in Terrasen’s political scene, Aelin filled the spotlight like she was born to it. Which she was. She’d been appearing in front of press cameras and journalists practically since her birth because Evalin Ashryver, the first female secretary of state, had wanted to show the world that a woman could have both a successful high-profile career and a family. Furthermore, her father was Rhoe Galathynius, the deputy prime minister, and he had personally taught his only daughter how to handle the press.

At twenty-nine, Aelin was one of the most recognizable faces in Terrasen, though that was mostly due to her success as a former professional volleyball player and current coach, as well as an incredibly generous philanthropist, rather than her parents’ collective renown. Rowan had known Aelin since high school, had harbored a crush for her practically as long, and since he was also a retired athlete and the head of a foundation that supported talented young athletes whose families couldn’t afford their sports, he often crossed paths with Aelin at events like this one.

She was chatting with Dorian Havilliard, the oldest son of Prime Minister Havilliard and a childhood friend of hers, when Rowan strolled over and nodded cordially at the dark-haired man. “Good to see you again, Havilliard. Do you mind?”

“Not at all!” Dorian air-kissed Aelin’s cheeks. “Whitethorn, good to see you as well. I’ll have my assistant reach out to yours to schedule a proper meeting, yes?” He had recently indicated his interest in sponsoring one of Rowan’s foundation events.

“Sounds perfect.” Rowan shook Dorian’s hand and pretended not to notice as the other man stage-whispered “he’s so hot” to Aelin before he left the two of them alone.

“Rowan.” Aelin’s crimson lips curled into a smile. “What brings you here? I thought you usually avoided these little parties like the plague.”

“I try,” he said dryly. “Unfortunately, there are several key donors here, and my VP practically threatened to strangle me if I didn’t show up and have a drink with them.”

She chuckled and took a delicate sip of the champagne in her hand. “I wasn’t aware I was one of your key donors, Rowan.”

“Maybe I’m using you as a human shield,” he teased.

“I’m afraid I’m more of a spear than a shield,” she said with a wink. “That means I’ll charge at your big scary donors with you if you can work up the balls to ask.”

“Can you blame me for hesitating?” He swiped a glass of champagne from a passing server’s tray and locked his gaze onto Aelin as he took a deep sip. “You look stunning in that dress, Aelin, and I’m afraid that’s all anyone will see.”

“Ah, stop it.” She swatted his arm. “I’ll get their attention, and you’ll capture it like you always do with your cute little big-old-shy-guy smile and blush.” His cheeks heated, and she grinned. “There, you see? One of your usual protests that you ‘don’t do as much as you want to do’ and you’ll have those donors eating from the palm of your hand.”

“I’d like to eat you from the palm of my hand,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “You’re sure?”

“Of course.” She set down her champagne and looped her arm through his. She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “And if you want to eat, Whitethorn, all you have to do is ask.”

His pants tightened. He swallowed thickly, forced himself to think about the donors in order to control his traitorous body, and covertly poked Aelin in the ribs. “Quite a naughty thing to say, Aelin.”

She winked lazily at him. “We’re at a club, Rowan. Certain things happen at clubs.”

“Such a brazen woman.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, and his lips just barely brushed her neck. “What kind of things are you thinking about, hmm?”

“Schmoozing with donors, for one.” She laughed softly at his disgruntled expression and brushed a megawatt smile across her face as they approached one of the couples who were frequent donors to his foundation. “Connall, Sorscha, delighted to see you here!”

Connall had been one of Rowan’s teammates, and he’d retired a year before Rowan so he could spend more time with his wife, Sorscha, and their family. “Surprised you made it, old man,” he joked as he clasped hands with Rowan and affectionately thumped him on the back.

“Trust me, we both are,” Rowan deadpanned. “Sorscha, you look lovely as always. How are the little ones?”

“Growing up too damn fast,” Connall sighed.

Sorscha nodded in agreement. “Lyla started walking the other day; I turned around for five seconds and she made it into the other room. I almost had a heart attack.” She laughed. “And Gray has been obsessed with taking care of the garden, except that he doesn’t know the difference between the weeds and the herbs.”

“Little guy brought his mama a fistful of ‘bad weeds’ that were actually dill,” Connall added, snickering. “Oh, and James is doing fantastic at the football camp.”

Rowan smiled. “That’s amazing! How is it having him stay with you?” One of the projects he was trying to start involved pro athletes having orphans and foster kids stay with them when they participated in training camps for their sports.

“We love it.” Con grinned down at his wife. “He’s still a little shy with the kids and he basically lives out of his duffle bag, but he’s a lot more talkative now.”

“He seems more at ease,” Sorscha said. “It could be that he’s made friends at the camp, or that my son pretty much idolizes him because he’s a big boy who plays sports, but I think he’s also just more… comfortable.”

“That’s almost exactly what we were hoping would happen.” Rowan squeezed Aelin’s hand, and she beamed up at him. “Good. Well, I hope this helps convince the board.”

Con thumped Rowan’s shoulder. “We’re in your corner, man. I’d be happy to tell the board about our success if you need.”

“I just might take you up on that.” Rowan shook Con’s hand and accepted Sorscha’s hug. “Thank you so much.”

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Aelin teased as they walked away, heading for another donor that Rowan had spotted. “You’re a natural—just get them talking about how much they want to help these kids or how much they love what they’re already doing, and they’ll give you their support.”

His hand slid to her lower back, guiding her through the throngs of people. “Wish I had half as much confidence as you have, Ae.”

“Stop that,” she chided. “Rowan, your foundation is hugely successful because of you. That much is evident, and I’ll keep trying to convince you of that until you accept it.”

“I know a few ways you could convince me,” he murmured, half to himself.

Her smile melted into lazy dangerousness, and sparks kindled behind her stunning turquoise eyes. “Do you, now?”

His hand curled possessively around her hip. “I do.” Heat raced through her blood at the weight of his touch. “Dance with me.”

“Of course.”

They stepped into the swirl of couples dancing in the middle of the lounge, and Aelin gasped quietly when Rowan pulled her so close that she was almost flush against him, wrapping one arm around her waist with his hand on her hip and lacing his free hand with hers. So close she could feel the thrum of his heartbeat, she draped her free arm around his neck, fingers toying with the collar of his pressed black shirt. The song changed, shifting to a deep, pounding bass and sultry vocals, and her body moved in near-perfect tandem with his as he led her through the dance.

“All that hockey training certainly gave you good moves, Ro,” she teased, flicking her gaze up to his through her lashes.

He smirked languidly and rotated his hips in a borderline lustful circle. “And all your volleyball training probably gave you strong legs.” He tipped his head down and purred his next words into her ear. “But how long until they start shaking?”

“Dream on, hockey boy,” she whispered, even as desire uncoiled between her legs at the sinful rasp of his voice.

“Every night.” Her breath caught at the admission in those words, and when he brushed a thumb across her lips, she leaned into the touch. Her nod was confirmation enough, and he replaced his thumb with his lips, kissing her softly at first and then deeper, slower, the stroke of his tongue almost too slow for the heat pounding in her blood.

In a hazy blur, they were in the club’s bathroom, Aelin sucking in a sharp breath as Rowan yanked her dress up around her waist and planted her bare ass on the marble countertop. He chuckled, a low dark gravelly rasp that curled up her spine like smoke, as his eyes traced down her body and discovered her lack of underwear. “Dangerous move, darling,” he murmured, attaching his lips to her neck and pressing his calloused thumb directly onto her clit. “No panties? Anyone could see you, Aelin.”

“Anyone—ahh, Rowan!—isn’t going to see,” she panted, her words broken up with gasps and hitched breaths. “Just…fuck, just you.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Free hand reaching down the front of her dress to tease her hardened nipples, he thrust three fingers into her, reveling in her broken moan and the way her eyes scrunched shut in pain-edged bliss. “Hold still for me, pretty girl.” Wordlessly, she nodded, bracing her hands on the countertop to stabilize herself. He smirked and kissed her hard, swallowing her moans, and pumped his fingers roughly, bringing her to her first orgasm of the night within a few minutes. He worked her through the high, teasing her sensitive clit just enough to make her whimper when he withdrew his glistening fingers and licked them clean, gaze locked on her the whole time.

“Please, Ro.” She whispered his name, her plea a raspy breath. “Need you to fill me up.”

“Good girl.” He pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, and her eyes went wide and dark as she stared at his size.

“Th-that…” Her mouth went dry. “That’s not going to fit.”

He brushed his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “It will, pretty girl. Trust me, it will.” He pushed one of her dress straps off her shoulder and palmed her breast. “Your pretty pussy took my fingers so well, Ae, getting all ready for my dick.”

Her breath escaped in a shuddering groan. “How is it so hot when you say filthy things like that?”

“Because you’re my dirty little good girl.” He smirked and tilted her chin up to brush a bare feather of a kiss over her smudged lipstick. “Can you stay quiet for me?” She nodded, and he kissed her as he dipped his fingers into her cunt again, working her in long slow strokes. When she wrapped her hand around his wrist and whispered that she was ready, he lined his cock up and pushed into her slowly, savoring the tight grip of her pussy around his dick and the muffled whimpers she made as she struggled to stay quiet while accommodating the size of his velvet steel schlong.

“Rowan,” she choked out, near desperate. “Please!”

“Good fucking girl,” he groaned, and he rocked into the cradle of her hips, thrusting with increasing force. Gripping her waist, he pinned her to the counter and fucked her hard, and she buried her face in his shoulder to muffle the uncontrollable moans that tore from her throat. The soap dish clattered to the floor, and he just kicked it underneath the sink and thrust harder, hurtling them both towards climax. Aelin tipped her head back and rasped out his name as she came, ecstasy written all over her features, and he groaned her name as he came inside of her. As their bodies stilled, he gently pulled out, smirking at the sight of his rowillymilk dripping down her legs.

She trailed a finger between her thighs and lifted it to her lips, licking their cum off and humming softly in pleasure. “Delicious.”

He growled and pulled his pants back up and lifted her off the counter, stopping to fix her dress before he laced his fingers with hers and led her out of the bathroom and back through the flashing strobe lights of the lounge and out a side door. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine.” She flicked a heated glance at him from under her darkened lashes. “Got a few toys I like to use in my bedroom.”

“Get in the car.” Rowan pulled the passenger door of a sleek black SUV open with more force than strictly necessary, the muscled lines of his body tense, the gleam of his eyes predatory. Aelin touched the smudged lipstick at the corner of her mouth, wiping it away as she slid gracefully into the car. He closed the door and went around to the driver’s side, and she sucked in a half-surprised, half-aroused gasp when he accelerated down the dark, empty city streets with a hand splayed on her thigh. Heat pulsed between her legs, radiating outward from the warm, firm weight of his palm atop her leg.

She at least had enough of her wits to direct him towards her townhouse. “Turn left here,” she directed, guiding him down the familiar path to her home. “First right, then second right.” He navigated the turns with expert precision, and it was only minutes before he’d pulled into the single parking space marked out in front of her property.

A sudden, thick silence blanketed the vehicle, and Aelin had the urge to caress Rowan’s face when she caught sight of the faint uncertainty nearly buried in his fiery gaze. So she did, gently tracing her fingertips across his cheekbones. “Welcome to my home, Ro.” She winked lazily. “Want me to show you my bedroom?”

His lingering hesitation melted into molten, commanding desire. “That’s my good girl.” The praise flowed over her like sunlight. “Can you get out of the car, Ae, or do you need to be carried?”

“Someone has a high opinion of himself.” She clicked her tongue and smoothly climbed out of the car. He prowled around from the driver’s side, banded one thickly muscled arm around her waist, and pressed her back against the door.

“Still so naughty,” he murmured. “What should we do about that, hmm?”

“Why don’t you come inside and show me?” she whispered right back.

He kissed her, and it would have been sweet if not for the cum sticking to her thighs. “Good girl.” Hand in her hand, he followed her into her townhouse, locked the front door behind them, and waited all of twenty seconds for her to drop her small purse before he hauled her over his shoulder and stormed up the stairs. She managed to point him towards her bedroom door, and he set her onto her bed with uncharacteristic gentleness.

And tore her dress down the middle.

She was halfway through an outraged gasp when he yanked her hips to the edge of the mattress, dropped to his knees, and licked her dripping pussy. Her outrage kindled into lust, and she plunged her fingers into his hair, shoving him closer as his tongue drew harsh patterns on her needy clit. Through the incoherent, garbled whimpers and moans streaming from her throat, she managed to reach sideways and grab her wand vibrator from her bedside table and switch the toy on before tracing the buzzing tip around her stiff, aching nipples.

“What,” Rowan growled, “do you think you’re doing, hmm?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just took the vibrator from her and replaced his tongue with the toy, teasing her cunt with too-light touches and biting kisses, ignoring her breasts altogether. “Did I say you could touch yourself, Ae?”

“N–no, sir,” she whispered. Calling him sir had been impulsive, but it felt so right.

He swore filthily and shoved his pants off, letting his massive meat pole spring free. “That’s correct. Now be a good girl and put your hands above your head.” The vibrator skimmed her throbbing pussy and dipped farther back, circling the rim of her ass, and her fists curled into the pillows above her head as words failed her. He seemed pleased with her obedience, because he kept the toy there as he returned his mouth to her cunt and devoured her, tongue spearing into her and teeth scraping her most sensitive parts. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes before stars exploded across her vision as she came so hard she shook with the force of it.

He turned off the vibrator, threw it across the floor, stripped out of the rest of his clothes, and hauled her up the bed, kissing and nipping up her body as he went. “Don’t hold back,” she breathed, the words shaky from the last waves of her orgasm but no less confident.

“Scream for me, pretty girl,” was all he said in response, and he flipped them over and pulled her down onto his cock. She was so wet that her cunt slid down effortlessly, and he didn’t give her any time to adjust before he lifted her hips up and down, helping her ride his dick at a frenetic pace. “Fuck, Aelin!”

“Fuck, Rowan!” she screamed in tandem, head falling back in bliss. He sat up, deepening the angle, and fucked her relentlessly, until she was a mess of broken cries of his name.

“Come with me,” he ordered, and he pinched her clit sharply. She screamed his name to the gods as she shattered, and he came with her, burying himself deep. He rocked his hips gently as she shook, working her through every last second of the drawn-out orgasm, milking his own pleasure. As she calmed and rolled off of him, sprawled onto her stomach, he ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing the mussed strands. “So fuckin’ good, Fireheart.”

She turned onto her side and grinned, linking her fingers with his. “Happy anniversary, my love. Should we do that again next year?”

~~~

TAGS:

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#my writing #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #rowaelinmonth2024 #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fun times teeheehee #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au #rowaelin au #rowaelin modern au

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dolljunk · 1 year ago

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My biggest issue with Monster High is how often you get slabs of plastic accessories that are unpainted put on dolls, and you get these large islands of colour that flatten out the look of the doll overall. And it was done at great detriment to this Howliday set because the accessory detailing is a return to form for Monster High.

In particular, I wanted Draculaura to be accented in gold since she's in a set with Clawd, as well as the fact she rarely gets put in gold otherwise, so I thought this would be cute.

It's just small details, but I think it elevates the whole set.

The parasol was probably the worst offender as it was this large bulky piece in really garish colours. I opted to do a black wash to bring out the top details, with touches of gold to highlight the hearts. The handle was a bad shade of pink, so I painted it in gold to stand out amongst the dark hair and clipped it on Draculaura's stand.

I do think MH has been suffering this drift towards making cartoonishly silly style shoes where it's just an object as a heel or making something so character-specific that it veers into weird divorced from reality concepts.

But I really like Draculaura's pieces. All feel a lot more grounded in a reality where her heels feel like a gothy pair of shoes with bat details and some subtle swirls and designs embossed in. A few Monster details, but they still grounded enough to look like actual shoes.

With Clawd's shoes, I just opted for a gold dry brush and then afterwards filled in the crescent moons with black again, as I feel like if these were real shoes, the moons would be a stretchy matte material.

I also went over Draculaura's headpiece with gold dry brushing because I think it was very silly to make a black head accessory for a character with black hair without adding some contrast there.

I also decided to paint her bat earrings gold but dry brushed the red coffins to emphasise the detail and add contrast against her hair. It was tempting to paint the bats black, but they got so lost against the hair.

While I liked the idea of the flowers and their box, it's so big and bulky that I find it really hard to pose with the dolls. I forgot to photograph it before I painted it.

With it, I went over the spider motifs with black, painted the bow red to match the colour scheme and then stuffed it with tissue paper to contrast with the roses. For the roses, I painted the stems green and dry brushed the roses with gold to give the tips some detail.

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kalpanahandmadepaper · 11 months ago

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https://kalpanapapers.com/collections/foil-print-paper

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suprpackaustralia · 1 year ago

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kadavernagh · 1 month ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: A book store! PARTIES: Regan and Rosemary SUMMARY: When Rosemary and Regan spy and reach for the same book, who deserves it? May the bigger death stan win.

“No, I have informed you multiple times. It's called A Springtime of Septicemia. It's a rom— uh, study in septicemia. Very rigorous.” Regan watched the bookstore clerk’s expression shift between confusion, concern, and then a plastered on smile like she didn’t know how to deal with this particular customer and might discuss it with her manager. Regan’s optimism was quickly flattened. She couldn’t find this series in any local bookstore, and this one had been her last bet.

“Ma’am, we aren’t familiar with… that. We don’t have it. Maybe you should try the bookstore down the—”

“I did.” Did they think her incompetent?

“Then how about our true crime section?”

Regan just barely kept annoyance from flashing across her face. “It is not true crime. It’s a— a woman falls in love with a dying man and his infected wound. Incised, inflicted by her sister with a dagger. And the infection is medically accurate, by the way. How is this not standard issue?”

The clerk seemed speechless now, and had that look on her face like her eyes didn’t know where to land. They traced the edges of the room like she wanted to escape.

“Do not bother. I will attempt to locate it myself.” Regan abandoned the counter. She could do a much better job than the clerk. Maybe she should have worked here instead of at the Apple Store, but that was behind her now anyway. The sections were fairly basic: New Releases (she wasn’t ready for the new entry in the series yet), True Crime (foul, but…), Historical (not quite), Mayonnaise (not right now), and… Bizarre? What was that?

Regan decided to browse. Not that A Springtime of Septicemia was bizarre. But clearly this store’s sensibilities were warped to begin with. The shelves were lined with covers both lurid and faded; battered and brand new. She didn’t see anything from the Septicemia series, but— oh, what was that?

An attractive glossy black hardcover with embossed lettering: The Angel of Death. Regan pushed past a woman who also seemed to be perusing this section to grab the book that called to her. Actually, she was also reaching for the book with those slender, manicured fingers. They pulled it out together, and Regan was awed by the red-edged paper. It had been honored with a color. The book was respected. She didn’t even know what it was about, but she wanted it. Anything with death in the title surely belonged to her by right.

“Release my book.”

—

Rosemary was a woman on a mission.

One of her favorite authors had a new release out. Rosemary would have purchased the book regardless- with a title like Angel of Death, it was sure to be up her alley. She wondered if it was a bit too on the nose for a necromancer to say hell yeah, sign me up when she was presented with the opportunity to read about a sexy personification of death, but at the end of the day, it didn't matter if it was. The second she’d found out there was a limited edition of the book available with sprayed edges and different art on the dust jacket, she’d sprinted out of her house with wallet and keys in hand.

The witch was scanning the book shelves, searching high and low for Angel of Death. They couldn’t have possibly sold out already, could they? She vaguely registered another woman in the shop inquiring about a book (had she said the protagonist was in love with a wound?). She was too focused to really pay attention to the conversation.

Just when she was about to give up hope, there it was. It was as though the book shop gods had been waiting for that precise moment to reward her with her prize. She made a beeline for it, her hand outstretched to pluck it from the shelf. Her fingers closed around it and pulled it from the shelf, only for her to see another hand clutching to the other side of it.

Rosemary blinked, an eyebrow arching up onto her forehead. A please would have gone a long way, but that ship had sailed. “Um… you haven’t paid for it yet. It isn’t yours. It was still on the shelf.” Her fingers clutched tighter to the book. She did not want to have to hunt for this copy on the internet, where it would inevitably be marked up by some jerk who’d purchased multiple copies.

—

Regan stared at the blonde woman, her grip on the book tightening at the same time she felt the pressure of her opponent doing the same (yes, opponent, though not yet up the ranks with Pubik). But a wave of death surged from the book up Regan’s arm. The shock of it nearly made her forfeit her hold by mistake. Had that come from the book? No, no, it was around her, the woman. Regan could practically breathe it in, pulling the miasma into her lungs. It was the kind of death people carried — not their own imminent demise but the recent deaths of others marking their person. It often clouded around next of kin who didn’t realize they were carrying their grief literally and not only in the figurative way humans occasionally acknowledged.

The knowledge was important, but probably not useful. Now Regan knew two things about this woman: she might be in mourning, and she was not getting this book.

“I don’t see your name on it,” Regan protested, trying to remember if humans meant that exactly how it sounded when they said it. She’d cover her bases. “Not that mine is on it either. That would be biz—” Right, they were in the ‘bizarre’ section, “—Well, I suppose there might be a character named Regan, but I don’t know, because you will not simply let me read it.” Her fingers brushed against the red-edged pages as she gave the book another small tug. “It was waiting for me, not you.”

But, fine; this was clearly a professional standoff, and Regan could match this woman’s intensity. Al was practically her twin in both age and stubbornness, and the two of them had sometimes feuded for weeks. This was nothing. Just the butting of frontal bones.

“As someone who works intimately with death, I have the superior claim. I’m a medical examiner, you see.” She didn’t want to debate with herself about whether the banshee part was important. Medical examiner was enough. This book rightfully belonged to her.

“I will show you.” She managed to pry the woman’s fingers off just long enough to yank the book toward her, but she wasn’t going to run off with it. Instead (not wanting to waste time on admiration right now), she flipped the book open to a random page. She’d give a demonstration, show her expertise. Whatever this page would present her, she was sure to be an authority on the matter.

Regan cleared her throat and read aloud, tracing the words with a finger. “She had made love with many men over the years, but nothing could have prepared her for the way Angel’s immortal touch ignited every nerve ending. She gasped against him, his eyes limpid pools of desire. ‘Your pulse, it races,’ Angel purred, his fingers grazing the delicate hollow of her throat. ‘How brilliantly alive you are… for now.’”

Silence.

“Oh.” The syllable came out by itself. “I picked an unrepresentative passage, one moment.” Regan’s eyes scanned lower down the page, and she straightened her shoulders, ready to focus, as if she could will the words to be about sepsis or putrefaction.

Regan continued. “’Take me,’ she murmured to the Angel of Darkness, mere millimeters from the limpid pools of his eyes. ‘I surrender my mortal flesh to your eternal embrace. My life is yours.’”

Regan blinked. Okay, not what she had expected. Again. Her voice went quiet. “Why are his eyes so limpid?”

She could work with this though. And were those passages really so bad? Was it so wrong that, maybe, she wouldn’t mind reading more? She needed to know about his limpid eyes (a pathology no doubt), and whether the woman dies, and why does this ‘Angel’ believe himself qualified to be called the Angel of Death? So many open questions.

“As you can see,” Regan said, closing the book, forgetting that the blonde might still make a grab for it. “This is obviously about mortality. It warrants further study. Study only I can do. And I did say I work intimately with death. So does… the protagonist.”

–

Rosemary scowled, her mouth pursing as she fought to maintain her composure. It was just a book, it was just a book, it was just a book. But it was a limited edition book, and from the sound of it, the stranger she was playing tug of war with over the book hadn’t read any of the authors other works. “Exactly, your name isn’t on it, and I got here first. I came here specifically for this copy of the book. It’s a limited run with alternate cover art and I need it.”

She squawked indignantly as the woman- Regan, apparently- yanked the book from her hands and started to flip through the pages. Being a medical examiner gave her no more right to a book about a woman getting seduced by death than Rosemary had the right to every plant that shared the same name as her. That would be completely asinine. And more importantly, if proximity to death was the defining factor that judged whether or not they could own the book, she should win on the basis of being a necromancer. “Ok, medical examiner isn’t the only job that deals with the dead and dying. If that’s the argument you’re going with, I work at a nursing home where everyone is actively dying, or dies while I’m on shift. I have the local funeral home phone numbers committed to memory. I write obituaries for fun as a side hustle. If anything, we’re tied.”

While Rosemary was defending her honor, the woman found a passage to read from. The witch couldn’t even be mad that the book was being spoiled for her based on Regan’s reaction. This lady didn’t know what she was getting in to, did she? She tried not to snort when they decided the passage was unrepresentative of the rest of the incredibly smutty narrative and searched for another.

“Probably because the author didn’t want to write his eyes darkened to pools of ebony as he gazed reverently upon every inch of her exposed flesh because it’s overdone. Don’t get me wrong, I love an obviously horny his eyes blew wide line, but give a girl some variety would you?” She didn’t care if the question wasn’t meant for her- Rosemary had opinions, and if this woman didn’t know what this book was, she’d make damn sure she made it clear so she could get it for herself.

The woman closed the book, holding it in her hands loosely enough that Rosemary saw an opportunity. In a flash, she reached out and grabbed hold of the book once more. She attempted to dislodge it from Regan’s hands with a good yank. “It’s only about mortality in that she gets to fuck death. That’s literally the plot. Come on- this is a collectors edition. I collect these books. All her books- she literally did a whole series of stand alones where it’s just different cultures depictions of death or death based deities, and them seducing and falling desperately in love with the main character.”

The witch looked frantically at the book shelf for options to shove at the stranger so she could have the prize she’d come for. “Look- they have the limited run of Grimm’s Soul To Reap. Don’t you want to read about the sexy grim reaper coming to take Lorelei’s soul and becoming besotted with her on the way to the afterlife?”

—

Regan's grip tightened when the woman yanked at the book, but the fight was lost — she hadn’t anticipated the strike. True, it wasn’t a dead frog or squirrel bones being pulled out of her hands (try it), but it was still tangential to death, and Regan was not going to allow such an insult. How dare anyone try to take death from her? The woman thought… what? That she was permitted to do so because she worked at a nursing home? There was a trace of death on the blonde, the kind of light touch on someone who brushed against it each day, a residue people did not know they carried (it did not wash out like the actual scent of decomposition). This corroborated her story, but a human could never surpass Regan in this domain, even during the times Regan tried to forget she had anything differentiating her from others like this woman. She might have snorted in amusement (if Regan did such a thing, which she didn’t, obviously). “We are not tied. Our footing is not equal. I am lámh an bháis, the hand of death! If anything, this book is about me! It is only right that I have it.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have said that, but the need to reassert herself won out over common sense.

Speaking of common sense, she wasn’t following what the blonde was saying. She had to admit that the woman seemed more well-versed in this, uh, literary genre than Regan was, sepsis series notwithstanding. “Eyes do not blow wide open unless there is force applied to them. I don’t understand what you are referring to.” She was not giving in, though. ‘Fucking death’ was an unusual choice to write about, but it was hardly foreign to Regan. Death was the constant companion of any banshee, with Fate completing the trilogy. Most banshees did not view death as merely some cold, clinical thing that happens. It was anthropomorphized, given pronouns, revered, prayed to, even. Of course some took it further. Of course Regan had always been curious in a healthy, completely normal way. Of course the room was heating up a little and there was no other reason for her blood to pump more quickly at the thought. “So that’s what this is about… embracing death.” Banshee depictions were always done with the utmost respect. Humans were less reliable. Her second thought was fast on the heels of the first (which was admittedly ongoing): she and Jade might actually enjoy something like this. Regan could see it now. Jade being confused for a moment, then curious, then she’d flash that smile that meant Regan had done the impossible and endeared herself even more to Jade, then they would have sex under the head of a dead deer mounted on the wall.

Regan reluctantly rocketed back to reality. “And you collect these. I see.” Intriguing, Regan had to admit. Did that mean she, too, did not see death as just a perfunctory end of life? The seed was planted in her mind that she might have written the woman off too quickly in the heat of competition (yes, that was the heat). Just the seed. Most seeds died. Still. “I did not know this existed here. My bone p— are they any good? These books, these depictions? What are the author’s credentials?” She grabbed for the book and noted the author’s name, which did not sound particularly Irish.

Regan kept an eye on the book as the woman was obviously trying to distract her with others. She knew it was a distraction. She did. But the mention of the Grim Reaper recalibrated her attention regardless. There were books about her? Grimm’s Soul to Reap was immediately disappointing, though. On the cover was a stereotypical reaper clothed in black and wielding a scythe. The confusion on her face quickly changed to offense. “That is not her. The author knows nothing. The Grim Reaper would kill whoever designed that… that thing.” She didn’t dare call it art. Somehow, she was worried Sadbh would hear her all the way from Saol Eile and turn up here with her dagger (never a scythe, point in fact). “I do not know a Lorelei, but Sadbh is too professional to even have conversational intercourse with the dying, let alone sexual intercourse.“ The possibility that the myth predated the banshee who claimed to be the Reaper didn’t cross Regan’s mind.

Regan gestured to the beautiful black volume with the red pages that the woman possessively held. She wasn’t able to just leave it be. “I need that one. Not one of these other… offensive caricatures. That one. From the pages alone I can tell that it is honored, worthy of the utmost care and respect. I have never seen that before, the red. It’s special. And the title… the subtle embossing, like the words themselves are shallow graves or skin sunken down to the bone.”

She couldn’t help but look longingly at the book, which really should have been in her hands. “Perhaps we could…” Regan hesitated, weighing what she was about to suggest and if she would really find it acceptable. She liked to think she was an excellent compromiser. “I will take that one, and you will have the others. One of the others. I will be investigating those, too, you see, so I cannot spare them all.” Okay, Jade had tried to teach her to be more flexible (in many ways). Regan huffed and tried again. “Fine. I take that one, you take… the others. And then we trade after reading.” And then trade back, but Regan left that part out of the negotiation for now. She’d share more when the book was back where it belonged: in her embrace.

—

Rosemary wasn’t entirely certain what language the title the woman gave herself was. Some sort of Gaelic- Scottish or Irish, perhaps? She supposed it was an apt title for a medical examiner. But wouldn’t the hand of death imply the woman who insisted the book was destined for her was responsible for the deaths she examined? Wouldn’t death’s overseer, or death’s handmaiden be more on the nose? More importantly, why didn’t Rosemary have a cool title. She’d have to fuss about with it later. Death’s adversary maybe. Or else death’s frenemy. Though, frenemy would be a bitch and a half to translate into Latin. “Okay, but what if you got the nice, not special edition copy of the same book? I’d happily buy it for you if you just let go of this edition and let me have it.”

The witch blinked in confusion. “What? No. Not actually blown open, oh my god. Exploding eyes is not sexy. Like, it’s just a flowery way to say their pupils widened, oh my god.” Rosemary shuddered at the image. She would not let this stranger ruin one of her favorite stupid overused romance novel terms for her. No, no, no, absolutely not. Though at least embracing death was polite way to describe it. “Yeah, sure. A very intimate, adult embrace with death.” The second she let her guard down a bit was the second the woman made a grab for her book again. She wasn’t sure what p word followed My bone. Of course that question was distracting enough for her to barely lose control of the situation- not that she’d had it to begin with. “If you like romance novels, they’re good. But if you’re looking for medically accurate or mythological sound depictions of death, they aren’t what you’re looking for. It’s fiction, and the authors take creative licenses to fit the story they’re telling, as is their job.”

There was a moment where Rosemary held out hope that just maybe she could sell the stranger on the other book. But of course the moment hope ballooned in her chest, the inaccuracies of the book were presented like a needle to make that balloon pop. “Like I said, it’s a romance novel. The authors aren’t looking to write something one hundred percent completely accurate- they’re looking to write a fun, sexy, romantic story. It’s not like the author could phone up the grim reaper and ask them what they’re into in the bedroom. And Lorelei is a fictional character! If you’re not looking for offensive caricatures of death and its associated deities, literally none of these books are for you. They all take artistic liberties that people looking for complete and total accuracy will not appreciate. Which is why I should take this off your hands because I just love artistic liberties. They’re my favorite! I wouldn’t want you to have a bad time with the book! It should go to a loving and appreciative home, don’t you think?” God, she sounded insane.

Rosemary contemplated the offer. It wasn’t a terrible idea. Though there was no guarantee the woman would keep her word, and even less of a guarantee to the condition she’d receive the book back in. But if it meant in the end she got the book… “I could consider this… if, I get to keep the book permanently when it’s my turn, so it can be a part of my collection. And if you find you like the genre, in exchange I’d be happy to let you borrow some of my other books so you don’t have to spend even more money to read them. What do you think?”

—

The non-special edition? How dare she? Why should she have second-best? Once glance at the regular version of the book told Regan all she needed to know. “That edition doesn’t have the red pages, making it a deficient substitute for the real thing. The blood gives it dignity, makes it clear that it’s above lesser books. I mean, the red.” She might have been a bit fixated on that detail. Now that she knew it was possible, she couldn’t imagine reading a book that wasn’t honored in that way.

This woman seemed to think Regan had a stick up her rectum (mercifully, she didn’t, but she had physically removed sticks from the rectums of others). She was willing to tolerate artistic liberty! There were parts of Grey’s Anatomy she didn’t record in her log of errors, things that she was willing to let slide and not write in about. And if someone wrote the onset of rigor being 30 minutes off, Regan was willing to offer clemency. A Springtime of Septicemia had no such errors, of course (except for book 38, where there was a mention of the sepsis smelling like chlorine, which made little sense; this was corrected next time the scent was mentioned). That was a romance, too. If you considered necrotizing tissue to be romantic, which Regan did.

Now who was being literal? “Of course the grim reaper can be contacted for her preferences. She is difficult to reach, I grant you, but I would expect an attempt if writing about her. Also, she uses a dagger, not a scythe.” Sadbh would probably be stoically furious with this portrayal, but that wasn’t Regan’s problem, not anymore. Wait, was she demonstrating the woman’s point, getting lost in these details? “Still, I should examine the book for myself. I will not jump to a conclusion. Besides, if there is merit to this title, which the red pages indicate is possible, then I can write to the author and correct the errors, so they may rescind the book and publish it with amendments.” Jade would love both reading the book with her and penning a letter to the author. Regan could almost hear her encouragement. She needed this book.

And yet, the offer of multiple other books in the woman’s collection gave Regan pause. It sounded like a thorough library. And Regan was curious. Whether she would like it and Jade would like it, yes, but also how death was portrayed in these novels. Did the author correctly capture what it was like to be so intimate with something most people feared more than anything? Did any of these? A Springtime of Septicemia only espoused that connection as being beautiful, being good. All of the characters intuitively understood this. It was normal.

But it was not normal.

One book might offer this to Regan. But multiple were even more likely. She made a decision. She had to look away from the red pages as if she were betraying them. “You may keep it, after I have done my thorough read. And I require enough time that I can copy the text on my own if desired. But I will be the judge of whether I approve of these or not. And then you lend me others from this collection of yours.” Not that she even knew what it meant to like something. That was still a work in progress. Regan narrowed her eyes at the implication she wouldn’t offer the book an appropriate home, but decided to let that one go for now. Her home could not be more appropriate.

She held her hand out, stretching her fingers (tense from the literal push and pull of the last several minutes), expecting the book to be relinquished.

—

Rosemary bit down a groan between teeth she forced into what she hoped was a smile and not a snarl. Snarling would get her nowhere and would probably make this person want to let her have the book even less. They seemed to know the worth of a sprayed edge on a book, at least, even if they had no real clue as to the content of the book.

As the other woman launched into a rant on the true nature (and availability for questioning) of the grim reaper, who was apparently a woman (a win for feminism!), Rosemary’s grin became a bit more genuine. She was proving her right- the stranger was so focused on the finer details of what she believed to be the true nature of the grim reaper, that she was subjecting a fictionalized accounting where the grim reaper was described as breathtakingly and fatally gorgeous. “I’m pretty sure the author won’t amend it if this version has made it to the best seller list after several rounds of edits and pass pages from their publisher. Which it has. Which is another reason why I want it.” The witch curled her fingers tighter against the book, willing the stranger to let her have it.

Rosemary narrowed her eyes. “When you say copy, do you mean by hand or by copy machine. Because by hand would take ages, and deprive me of reading time. I’d likely see a spoiler for the book somewhere in the time it took you to hand write every page of it. What if, instead of that, once you’ve finished reading the fancy sprayed edition, I buy you a normal paperback edition to mark up and annotate however you want?” She was willing to eat the cost of a paperback if it resulted in her getting to read her book faster.

—

…Was Regan so strange that this woman assumed she was going to copy the book over by hand, letter by painstaking letter? Surely Regan gave a more normal impression than that. Besides, Regan was an expert at copy machines! She used them all the time at the morgue, and then before that… yes, before that, too. No hospital or medical records system could escape the need for fax and copy machines, even in the year 2025. “I will have you know that I’m highly experienced in copy machines. I use them daily. They are a hobby. I could copy something with my eyes cl— well, nevermind, that risks getting the orientation wrong. The point is, I have a reliable copy machine and know how to use it, like anyone else you might have stolen a book from.”

Regan probably deserved that glower.

She shrugged, which was a gesture that had never looked good on her, and even less so now that she was trying to dissect and emulate human behavior. Every time it left her feeling like a mannequin of a ghost. “I don’t need to copy the whole book, anyway. Only passages. Parts that may require additional attention to detail, or that my bone partner may be intrigued by.” The offer to purchase a new copy was even better though, and Regan was not going to turn it away. It seemed like they finally reached an agreement. It only took… how long had they been here? Oh, two hours.

“Terms accepted.” She replied gravely. She took this seriously; she could hardly be jubilant about getting the book first when that was only the first phase of their agreement. “I take my copy here, you will receive it back when I am finished, and then you purchase a new edition for me as well as provide me with some of your collection, for temporary reading pleasure.” Cliodhna hissed in Regan’s ear. Every deal made was a potential trap for both herself and the other party. Regan wasn’t tying this in a geas, but she still felt the opportunity pass her by, and she wasn’t sure if it had her feeling like a banshee failure or a human one.

With everything said and done, Regan’s fingers itched to reclaim her coveted, red-edged book. She cradled it to her chest, breathing in the new paper smell (unfortunately, the publisher had not sprung for the putrescine-scented pages like many of Saol Eile’s books featured). It still felt right in her hands though. It better not disappoint, after all of this. Regan wasn’t sure how she would tell this woman if the book failed her, if it spat on everything death stood for. She only liked saying I told you so, not hearing it.

“I will be careful with it.” Regan assured the woman, then realized a moment later that a splash of decomposition fluid wasn’t out of the question. That was almost always an improvement though. “Perhaps I will even introduce you to some real literature, if I can find A Springtime of Septicemia. The employee here was useless. She did not even know what genre Darkly Everskull writes.” Regan gestured to the Bizarre sign. “Not that, obviously. We will convene after some time. I have… reading to do.”

Darkly Everskull’s sepsis romance could wait another day. For now, Regan was content to return home with her prize. There were decisions to make. Where would she and Jade read it? They didn’t have a mounted deer head over their own (yet), but perhaps in the garden, by some roadkill and tulips. No, no, the mood out there was wrong. Yet the bedroom was obvious, too obvious. Not special enough for such a hard-won embrace of death. A cemetery, yes. Eternal Light had never let them down (aside from the spirals of panic). That was it. By the blue glow of fungus, they would be intimate with death. And if the book was no good, well, there was always sepsis.

#c rosemary #writing

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