#the inking one..its free……wink

[canneddolts]

ARGH

[edensrose]

꒰ ݁˖ꫂ᭪ ꒱ 𓂃 GUYS MY AGE

˚₊‧꒰ა older boyfriend jjk men ﾉ f. reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

guys your age just don't know how to do it, do they? nothing to worry 'bout when he's nearly twice your age hunny. ⌇ based off guys my age - hey violet

starring ᝰ.ᐟ✧ g. satoru, n. kento, g. suguru

broadcast ᝰ.ᐟ✧ minors dni, age gap ꒰ 40s/20s ꒱, semi-public, fingering, brat taming, praise, degradation, overstim, orgasm denial, pussy spanking, thigh riding, spanking, sweetnana, meantoru, meansugu 𓂃 wc ⌇ 2.7k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ older bf brain go brrr . . . really hope my toru bias ain't obvious. art cred ⌇ yamada_souko, ru_ka_night

˖ 𑣲 Don't know how to treat me ᝰ.ᐟ✧ N. Kento

Silk slipped through your fingers like liquid gold. Velvet kissed your skin in whispers you could barely afford. Each sapphire along the silver bracelet hugging your wrist winked at you. Don't even get started on your heels, your earrings, the fourth shopping bag laid idly beside its friends from three other stores.

The cherry on top? Two large hands scorned from years of work yet ever gentle in their smooth trace down your curves.

"I think this dress suits you well, don't you, darling?" Even Kento's kisses felt expensive. The grandest of jewels laid over your shoulder as if you deserved each one. Hell, as if you deserved every store your pretty little self stepped into it.

"Well . . ." you roved over the mirror's scene. Your beloved was behind you with his hands worshipping every crevice and crook of your body, his lips painting affection across your shoulders and neck. The dress was gorgeous, comfortable, the finest material only for his darling.

Instead of the silk, your eyes drew to the price tag written in invisible ink between the creases.

"It's a bit pricey. I don't think I'm worth all this expense."

His lips paused. Glued to the junction between your shoulder and neck. One comment and suddenly, his gaze flickered to you. As if that alone would reverse time and have you gulping the words down instead.

Kento stilled, then asked — even if it didn't sound like a question. Low, quiet:

"Come again?"

Silk was the least of your concerns. Slick became all you knew. Pooled around his palm and messing up his favourite watch you're sure. Not that you could see with your vision impaired by his chest. Your front flushed into him while his hand worked endlessly behind.

Fingers tremble in his shirt. Each twitch another apology to his digits pumping fluidly into your syrupy slit. They fucked until the knuckle, withdrew every few shallow thrusts, then slammed back in until you were drooling all over his blue fabric.

"K-Kennn - please," you hiccuped, forearms flushed tighter to his chest as you peeked at the mirror behind you. Panties pulled to the side and hanging on a limb while his hand pistoned into your pretty, swollen pussy.

"Sssh darling. You're too pretty to be talking about yourself like that." His drawl rumbled into your ear after a soft kiss pressed against it. His wrist rotated and you choked a moan as he braced speed.

"Too pretty to beg. Don't want to hear that ever again. You hear me?"

Nods were all you could manage. Your thighs squeezed tighter, but it didn't matter to his large hand. His free one caressed your side with his strong arm steeling you against him. Trapping you as he fucked all your insecurities out in splutters and squirts.

Kento crooked into a spot that made you bite down on his shirt, whimpering. Your hips bucked helplessly with your pitiful little — "Ken - Kento 'm gonna - I'm cumming, please? Please can I cum? Pleaseplease?"

He huffed again. This time his thumb joined on you clit. Flicking up to reprimand the nub together with his now ruthlessly pumping fingers. You keened and limped into him. Legs shaky on designer heels surely messed with your cunt gushing juices.

"Come now darling. Ask, don't beg."

You hiccuped and pressed tighter into him. Tears heavy on your lashes as you squeezed your eyes shut and mouthed on his already damp shirt. "Please - please make me cum? Kento - hngh!"

He circled on a bundle of nerves he knew would loosen the knot. Your pussy throbbed and with one final burst of heat, you bubbled cream all over his palm. He eased you into a slower grind, his thumb circling your clit a few more times before finally halting.

Your face is pulled into his free hand. You found comfort in his palm and whimpered as he brushed your tears away.

"Look at me, sweetheart." When you did, a tender kiss met your glossy lips. "Never want to hear that from you again, alright?"

"Mhhm."

"There's my good girl."

˖ 𑣲 Don't know how to touch me ᝰ.ᐟ✧ G. Satoru

You wouldn't consider yourself a shittalker, but when it came to boys, you were never the type to hold your tongue. If you had a dollar for every asshole with a god-complex you encountered and ten for each one you dated, you'd be able to pay off your student loans. But Satoru's got that covered.

Ah yes, Satoru, who sat beside you with an idle scroll of his phone. His long arm draped over your shoulders as he fell into yet another cat video trap. He was freed from his third-going-onto-forth loop when whatever video you stumbled upon caught his ear.

"Ladies, best believe. The second orgasm is a myth."

His pale brow arched and he sneaked a sideways glance to garner your expression. What's with that look? "Kinda bs, huh sweetheart?" He tested the waters and immediately burned when you shrugged your shoulders.

"Dunno. Guys can barely give one, let alone two."

His smile froze and the sideways look turned into a small stare. The thumb that had paused in its lazy circles on your shoulder started up again. As if trying to coax a correct answer out of you.

"Can't disagree with that. But cut us some credit yeah?"

"Nah, boys can't do shit."

His second brow joined as they both raise further. His smile tightened at the little scowl you present him, as if he represented every male on earth. Satoru knew that look well. It's one you've been testing him with for the past couple of weeks. This was aimed.

Yes, Satoru hadn't made you cum more than once, but not due to lack of skill. You were young, sensitive, one was enough for now. He had to ease you into everything he knew — but there goes that brat again thinking she can take it rough.

"But not me though, right sweet girl?" He hoisted you closer, his shades falling down the bridge of his nose. Blue eyes dimmed to a murky ocean and the pattern of his thumb ran firmer. He was giving you an out —

Yet there you were, smiling sarcastically. "Not sure, Satoru. I think you're just like all these other boys in my phone."

And that's how you wound up eating those words in the form of pitched moans and drool. Back to his chest, legs hooked over his knees that locked them open like a clamp. A strong arm flexed around your middle where he bundled you so easily in his lap. Steeling you still and helpless to the mess you're squirting everywhere.

"Toru - toru!" Your voice quaked brokenly as you chased air like a luxury. Head hung back on him as you pitifully bucked into two fingers fucking another slew of slick from your raw pussy. Swollen and stringy, spraying squirts and cream with every deep plunge to the knuckle.

"So it's 'toru' now sweets? That you or your pussy talkin'?" He was relentless. Would his arm ever get tired? It hasn't lost pace since he shoved into you. It's been three orgasms, going onto a devastating fourth.

Squelches poured when he stuffed them to the knuckle and shallowly stroked on your sweetspot. His fingertips expertly circled the bundle of nerves then come-hithered until you were keening. The arm on your middle shifted and he bunched on your shirt, yanking it up over your tits with a grip that showed off every vein on his strong hand.

"Oh, what's that? You cummin' baby?" Satoru grinned against your ear, pace speeding to something blinding. "Yeah? What number's that?"

"Dunno — hngh!"

Your lips formed a pitiful pout that split with drool when his thumb attacked your clit and a third finger shoved in simultaneously. You squirmed, but he yanked you back with a greedy tit grope. "Yeah you do, don't wanna hear it."

His wrist flicked, the new position brought an even more brutal pace. He angled specifically to exaggerate your pussy's lewd sloshes and squelches. Another sweetspot became his target and you spewed slick all over his palm, coating his silver watch in gloss. That's fine, he'd make you lick it off later.

"Gimme the number, brat." His hiss punctuated with added pressure, your clit's trapped once more. "Or is all you're good for creaming my fingers? Messing my watch up baby. Pretty pussy's not caring one bit huh?"

His chuckle bordered something cruel. Cruel like his fingers that crooked and abused whatever spot he could find. Who cared if your messy juices painted the couch, his sleeve, hell — the floor with your last squirt?

All he cared about were your whining sobs, your pitiful grinds into his hand that was wayyy too big for you and the wet throbs of your pussy.

Slams pistoned on your gummy walls. You squirmed to no avail and choked another sob as you shivered back onto him. "Toru! T-Toru please!"

"How. Many?"

Your jaw's snatched next. Face squeezed between his flexing fingers as he wrung your head to face him. Teary eyed, drooling, looking like his sweet girl rather than that smart lil' brat. His glare earned your whimpers, but he was still grinning. Still pumping his fingers endlessly. Sharply. "Tell me how many times I made this pussy cum, huh? Tell me."

"T-Two - no - nooo," you whined as your wrong answer came with his fingers yanked out, sticky strings connecting to his hand that soon slapped back on your raw pussy. You jolted, whimpered — but it's cut off into a keened moan when he shoved them back in. "Three - three 'toru -!"

"Thaaatt's it. What's it gonna be?"

"Four - oh god!"

You clenched on his fingers and throbbed over his knuckles. Mouth falling open as he shot his other hand to grip your thigh and ruthlessly ground your shaking self down onto his relentless thrusts. He knew all your signs. The moans caught in your throat. The crossed eyes and drooling, spluttered, ah ah ah! as he fucked the brat right out of you.

The knot in your tummy tightened one more time. Your head tossed back. Body clenching altogether as he trapped you in an endless, devastating bliss. You splattered all over his hand with a broken gasp of his name. Stuttering your thighs as if you had any control. Squelching, gushing, until trickles of cream oozed around his still pistoning hand.

"There she is. There's my sweet girl." At last his affection laves over your neck in kisses. Not that his hand ever stopped. He only shallowed again and started curling more cruelly. Holding you down as you struggled around in his grasp with pitiful lil' 's too much' and 'toru pleaassee'.

You're hot. Bothered. Sticky and whiney as you choke on heated air. He slipped his other hand down to pinch and play with your clit. Egging on your whimpered sobs.

"Boys can't do anything, huh sweetheart?" Satoru crooned into your neck, grinning like the devil before he whispered low and rough in your ear.

"Good thing I'm a man, yeah?"

˖ 𑣲 Don't know how to tease me ᝰ.ᐟ✧ G. Suguru

Younger guys never put up much of a fight. Too impatient to deal with your bullshit, too many years ahead of them to fight you on it. Frowns, huffs, the occasional smart comment broke them quicker than they could make you cum on fingers or tongue.

But Suguru? Suguru had patience he wielded in weaponised denial and a handful of years dangling over your head. Acting out with someone nearly twice your age should have been easier.

He should be tired, irritable. Too old to deal with your audacious eye rolls and bratty tongue. In seconds he should have you over his lap, or at the very least his desk. Stuffing you with his fingers, mouth, dick, making you beg for it — putting you in your place.

Only one of those came true over the week you put on your spoilt princess persona and donned your petty crown of attitude. Every snide remark only earned a low a hum, your huffs were returned with his smile, and when you attempted to rile him up with a slutty little skirt and three images to his phone; well, throwing you around was an option only in your imagination, it seemed.

He didn't toss you over the sofa, nor threw you over his shoulder. No, Suguru only smiled. Leaned back into his seat and watched with slithered eyes as you flushed down over his knee.

Your cunt thrummed against your damp panties, hovered over his black jeans with your hands trembled around the same skirt you attempted to drive him wild with. Pretty nails that he paid for clung tight on the fabric, tighter than the line your lips pressed into.

"You really haven't been good to me this week." His sigh came with a calloused thumb tracing down your thigh. You tensed and whimpered. If you gaped at him with those pitifully teary eyes, maybe he'd give in?

"Don't give me that look."

Nevermind. Violet solidified into a patient glare, even with the serene smile he displayed. "Where's my good princess gone? She still in there?"

He drummed atop your cunt and you whined. Wishing he'd go lower - wishing he'd touch you. He only instructed that you lifted your skirt higher and you did so with pouting lips.

"Sugu . . . "

Smack! "Don't wanna hear it right now baby." Your thigh heated under the sting and he withdrew his touch altogether. Greedy, infuriatingly calm eyes roved you entirely before he hummed.

"Tell me what you want."

"You . . ."

"Be specific, brat."

You whimpered when his tone dropped and fiddled with the skirt. You couldn't meet his steady stare. "Wanna. . . wanna grind on your knee. Want you to touch me, please Suguru?"

He breathed deep, another sigh before motioning aimlessly with his hand that laid outstretched together with his arm on the back of the sofa. "Go on then. Grind that pretty pussy down on me. Don't deserve it but, you're lucky you're pretty."

The invisible restraints shattered and you flushed into his knee. Whines broke from your throat as you slowly rocked down on the perch. The angle caught you clit just perfectly but you struggled to maintain it.

Still, you wanted to be good for him. Your throbbing, leaking cunt begged you to. So you reached out for his shirt to stabilise yourself and took up a rocking rhythm. The friction was all you could ask for after a week of denial.

"Hngh - Sugu —"

"There we go," he crooned, that gentle smile returning as he set a hand on your hips. He aided you with small glides, but still let you do all the work. Brats don't get what they want, after all. He leaned his head back onto his fist and drawled deeply. A sharp look returned as he glanced up at you beneath his lashes.

"If you want something, you ask for it. I'm not one of your boytoys."

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

TYRANT- J. MILLER

day twenty four of the june bug masterlist

pairing: older! dilf! joel x fem! reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: you're home for the summer and the local bar is having a western night- and a certain older cowboy catches your eye. good thing you know how to lasso them in and ride them good...

warnings: SMUT- reverse cowgirl ofc, heavy praise kink, petnames, swearing, size kink, daddy kink, hair pulling, joel lowkey mocking and being all condensending, truck sex in the parking lot (kinda exhibitionism?), heavy flirting and sexual tension, intoxication

this is inspired by the time my local bar was hosting a country night and i made a "cowboys only" tramp stamp... yeah

“tyrant every time i ride it, every time i ride it/ make it look so good, try to justify it- boy, i know they're lookin' for me, how we gonna hide it?/ ride it like hydraulics, i am such a tyrant"- tyrant, beyonce

It had started as a joke.

And then, it hadn’t.

You had no marks on your skin, free of ink. Except for the eyeliner that had been used instead, for tonight.

It was Western Wednesday at the local bar- the go to spot back home surrounded by hay bales and tumbleweeds. Without a question being asked, you and your group of girlfriends had gathered at your house to get ready, talking over each other with excitement, catching up as you had all retunited from time away at school.

After a few drinks had been tossed back and rollers had been placed in heads of hair, you brought up the idea. It was silly, and you couldn't get through it without bursting out in giggles.

What if… what if I got a tramp stamp? Just for the night?

It had ended with you flat on your stomach, your friend scribbling your request in pretty font, just above where your thong poked out from your low rise jeans.

Cowboys Only, with a little bow under it.

It was teasing.

Poking out from under your little tank top whenever you lifted your arms up, throwing your head back to laugh and dance with your girls.

And it had gotten you exactly where you wanted to be.

On top of an older cowboy.

He had taken his time before he approached you. Heavy, heated gaze latched onto your figure as you slid past the wooden swinging doors, chatting with your crowd. Your eyes had met his instantly. Heat pooled in your panties and you knew.

That one. I want that one.

He was older, you could tell by his weathered hands and salt and pepper hair that framed his deep, dark puppy dog eyes. That had narrowed in on you.

Like a predator had found its prey.

You waited. You never claimed to be easy, even though you had spent your time gushing about how attractive the stranger in the corner was to anyone who’d listen. You had always joked to your girls about how badly wanted an older man to sweep you off your feet one of these nights.

You hoped tonight was the night.

It had taken a drink or two for you to let yourself relax a bit more, to get used to the buzz of the chatter and the neon lights of the bar. It was then you could dance, swaying your hips seductively side to side, feeling his eyes on you as he sipped on his beer.

Observing the little font that graced your lower back.

Your eyes met his again as you made your way up to the bar, sliding up next to him as you ordered a whisky sour.

“What's a pretty lil thing like you doing here on a Wednesday night?” he murmured lowly, breath smelling like mint and tobacco.

You hummed, watching as the bartender made your drink. “Western night. I like the cowboys.”

His eyebrow raised, a ringless hand drumming the oak bartop.

“S’that so sweetheart?”

You smirked, turning to flip up your shirt, exposing the font, and a good chunk of your little thong in the process. He had already seen it, of course. You had felt his eyes on you the whole time you had danced for him.

“You haven't seen?” you giggled seductively, throwing him a flirtatious little wink as you grabbed your drink from the bartender, tossing him an extra tip as you took a sip.

The mystery man leaned in close, a hand slipping down to cup the dip of your spine. You savoured the touch, his large palm covering the ink, warm and soft as he gripped you in place.

“You’re playing a dangerous game darlin.” he grumbled, southern drawl sending a shiver down your spine.

You hummed. Teasing him, as you leaned more into his touch. Letting his hand slide down to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze. Letting him be a disgusting pervert, when he knew he was so much better than that.

He was a gentleman. But you made him want to be anything but.

“How so sir?”

The name sent him spiralling. Fuck it.

“Because I’m twice your age, if not more darlin. And you’re making me think about dirty things.”

You battered your lashes at him, leaning down to rest your elbows on the bar, showing full cleavage. Doe eyes wide and innocent- while your actions were anything but.

“What things?”

“I wanna take you back to my truck and show you how a real man fucks. Cause I bet that pretty lil pussy hasnt been treated right by anyone your age.”

Well. That was the truth.

You wanted to find out what it was like, just once- to see where this could lead you. His dirty words sparked that flame in your lower belly, squeezing your thighs together.

Finishing your drink in one big swig, you slammed the glass down on the wood and whipped the remaining liquid that trickled from the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Well, what's stoppin you old man?”

゜✭・.・✫・゜ ゜✭・.・✫・゜

“Fuckkkkk. Joellll-” you moaned, gripping his thighs as you slid up and down. He was so fucking big he nearly split you in half. And it hurt so good.

“Watch that pretty mouth of yours honey, you know daddy doesn't like when you use dirty words.” he chuckled, admiring your pretty form swallow him up, a creamy ring formed around his base and grey pubes.

It took everything in you to not fold, your legs already quivering from the multiple orgasms he had given you already. Your brain felt incoherent.

“Mmm s’sorry I didn't mean to-”

“I know sweetheart, you're such a sweet girl. Heads just gone all dumb f’yer old man eh? Poor thing.” he cooed, taking your hair in his hands, tightening his grip on you.

Your head leaned back, still continuing to ride him in reverse cowgirl as he taunted you.

He was right. You hadnt been fucked like this before. And you never wanted to go back.

“Need s’help daddy please-” you cried, as you clenched around him again.

He knew your body like it was his own, making it sing and hum for him as he played it like an instrument. Despite him just meeting you tonight. He knew how to make you scream for him. Your voice was hoarse, and he could feel your legs start to quiver.

“Awh sweetheart I thought my lil cowgirl knew how to ride?”

You moaned as your pace was interrupted by his hips pummeling up into you, taking full control. Your back arched , your hair tugged on as if he was holding reins as you bounced from his thrusts.

Your nails dug into his thighs, a sharp cry leaving your lips that echoed off the fogged up windows of his pick-up.

“There you go darlin, just needed your daddy to help ya out yeah? My sweet girl just needed someone to take control of this tight lil cunny.” he whispered, a cocky smirk on his lips as he watched you squirm for him.

That damn ink flashed back at him- and he couldn't help but feel proud of himself for fulfilling the claim.

“S’good Joel, you feel so damn good…” you moaned, sweat trickling down your body, the smell of sex clinging to you like a second skin.

“Yeah baby? You gonna cum again?”

“Please, need to-” He chuckled lowly.

“Go ahead baby. Askin so nicely, always with the manners. M’gonna keep a sweet thing like ya around, ya understand?”

You nodded feverlishy, cuming around his cock with a cry as it hit that one spot that had you seeing stars. Basked in the comfort of his strong hands as they left your hair, finding their way to rest on your hips.

“Joel..”

“M’almost there sweetheart, just gonna use you for a lil okay? That sound okay baby? You just sit there and be all pretty.”

He moaned, letting his head roll back as you clenched around him tightly, biting his lip so hard he almost tasted copper.

“Fuck you're so tight. Such a sweet little cunt. Knew she’d take me so good.”

A few more sloppy thrusts into you and he was spent, filling you up to the brim, cooing sweet nothings at your worn out frame. He had fucked you so hard you knew it was a closed case.

He was the only cowboy you wanted. 

[florencemtrash]

The Graveyard Shift: Chapter I

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Author's Note: Credit goes to @gloomwitchwrites and this specific post for inspiring this fic! This idea has lived in my mind rent free for weeks now, so I'm finally just going to do something about it.

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA in later chapters (not explicit)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Next chapter ->

Y/n mourned her husband until the end of the funeral for propriety’s sake. Then, she had to start making plans. 

There were few opportunities for widows, and even fewer for those of illegitimate birth and in possession of inhospitable family members. But though her husband had been of the London variety with soft hands and grotesque manners, she knew the cost of labor. Hard work was a familiar, necessary friend. Perhaps she was lucky her husband had never divorced her from her harsh upbringing — never made her a stranger to toil. 

 Her husband was a week in the grave when an opportunity finally came her way. She was perched on her stoop, loaf of bread clutched beneath her arm, and scarf flying into her mouth as she fought to keep the newspaper flat enough to read. 

Simon Riley.

It was a simple, sensible name, printed in plain text and crammed in the bottom right corner of the second page. It was a cheap ad, and because space was so expensive, all the lines were written one after another. Sentences forced to lay side by side like coffins in a pauper’s grave. 

Simon Riley. 33 years old. Grave keeper by trade.  In need of a wife. Never married. 18 shillings/week.  Contact Father Hughes. Chilham, Kent. 

There was an additional line asking for a photo or description of appearance, age, and a handful of other pertinent information, but she skipped over it hastily. It mattered not what she could offer this man, only what he could offer her. Safety. Food. A roof over her head. A chance to escape her pitiful existence in London. She could give him whatever else he wanted. She had no other choice. 

She’d investigated every page of the paper for five days now for a position or a household that might take her. She was bastard-born and though she could read and write well enough, no self-respecting family would hire her as a governess. She could cook and clean and sew and mend and do whatever the factories required of her, but those were skills easily found in women. Desperation — that too was easily found in women. But unlike many other women, she had no husband who might make the task of finding work easier. Her deceased husband had stolen what little else might make her appealing to an established man. 

But… a grave keeper? He might just be lonely enough to take her. And a second marriage could save her. 

It could be better. She realized with a shock of hope, holding the paper flat against her heart. It has to be better. 

That evening she carefully cut away the advert with a pair of kitchen scissors, keeping it pressed between two scraps of fabric in the seam of her waist to keep the ink from smudging, and threw the rest of the paper in the fire. She watched as the edges of the print caught, words quickly swallowed up by fire as the paper curled in itself and flickered into dust. 

Micklethwaite’s Photography was a bustle of activity on the Saturday afternoon she went. Wheeled out to the south corner of Bunson St, its pitch black curtains stared out at the penny shop across the street like a pair of pupils. Faint camera flashes from within gave the impression that the cart was winking at passerby as they bustled between shoppes carrying groceries and freshly pressed shirts from the tailor’s. 

Y/n stood fourth in line and anxiously stared at her reflection in the dusty glass display where a small mirror had been set up beside rows of sample tintypes. The eyes that stared back at her were bright and glassy, and it took many moments for her to truly recognize herself. Her husband, being the kind of religious man that he was, had covered the mirrors in the house, declaring that only God should look upon her and see her soul. Now that he was dead and she was free to stare as she pleased, she realized how solemn she looked. How frightened. 

She smoothed her hair for the fifteenth time and adjusted the frilly collar of her most handsome dress. There were two men in front of her, both dressed in their Sunday best as they combed through their neat beards with their fingers. They discussed business, pointing with some interest at the paper ads covering the brick wall of the butchers a few storefronts over, paper peeling away from the wall. 

They only regarded her once, tipping their heads in slight, empathetic bows as they noticed her black dressing gown. These were gentlemen, and they would give a widow her due course… in public of course. Private matters were private matters. Little did they know she was already planning her second marriage. Or maybe they did know. She imagined their phantom judgement so fiercely it became real, until she was wringing her fingers beneath her shawl. But they moved quickly inside the photographer’s studio, and left shortly after with tintypes in hand. 

Then it was her turn. 

She slipped behind the curtain, stifling a cough as dust shimmered in the artificial light. Developing chemicals leant a sharp, acrid smell to the air, burning her sensitive nose. A plain grey curtain lined the back wall, held up by nails hastily hammered into the wood. Cramped along the sides were bins of discarded tintypes and strange liquids swishing in glass bottles as the photographer hurried over from where he’d been bent over a tray of solution. 

Brown, flash blown eyes and a tobacco-stained smile greeted her, nestled beneath a rather impressive mustache. “What brings you in?” He asked, ignoring her obvious mourning clothes as she carefully folded her shawl and removed her hat. 

The question jarred her, but a lie spilled out her lips with surprising ease. “My husband recently passed, and it was his wish that a picture of mine be laid with him.” 

Richard Hall had made no such request. He was already buried. And if he knew his widow was engaging in as indulgent an activity as having her picture taken he would have asked the good Lord to send him back to earth. That or he would have asked the devil to climb out of hell for an evening.

The photographer only nodded in understanding. Widows and widowers were a dime a dozen as far as he was concerned. 

He had her sit before the wall, slipped behind the camera, and snapped a photo before Y/n was truly ready.

“Wait!” She called out as he busied himself with dunking the photo in one of the many chemical baths laid out beside him. She twitched her nose at the sharp smell. “Can we… Can we do that again?” She stammered, “I wasn’t ready. And my husband—” 

“I charge by the tintype. I’m afraid it will cost you extra.” 

“I can pay.” She responded a touch too quickly. 

He nodded once more and she took the few precious moments she was afforded to try lifting her eyes and her cheeks a little more. She stretched her neck, overcoming an innate urge to curl up into nothing. She wanted to look gracious. Kind. Lovely. The kind of woman a certain grave keeper might be enamored with. 

In the end she left the photographer disappointed with the two tintypes hidden in the folds of her skirts. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Had she thought the camera would capture some feature she wasn’t aware of? Create a beauty out of thin air where there were only sad eyes and a shrunken face? She’d entered the booth knowing the years had not been kind to her, but she’d hoped… 

She took the remainder of the pin money her son-in-law had given her for the day’s outing and paid the postage on her letter to Mr. Simon Riley. She tried to keep things brief and straightforward, for the cost of every sheaf of paper ate away at her meager allowance, but she couldn’t help the small personal details that ended up in the final letter. 

Y/n Hall of London, though originally born of Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, where the weather is no better or worse than anywhere else. 25 years of age. Can sew, knit, cook, clean, read, and sing (passably). Would enjoy gardening if given the chance. Of small upbringing. Quiet and of respectable countenance.

She’d struggled with the last line for hours. Tossing and turning in bed all night as she wondered at the lie that might become trapped on paper. But in the early hours of the morning, before she took leave of her house with pin money and letter in hand, she’d padded over to her vanity and written the last line of her letter to Simon Riley. 

Never married. 

Next chapter ->

[mariasont]

THE BIMBO RECEPTIONIST WAS SO CUTE

now id like to introduce, goth/metalhead!bimbo!reader x spence ( more of the opposites attract vibe )

super dark clothes and jewelry and looks like elvira a little bit, maybe a few piercings and tattoos for spencer to oogle at

Brooding - S.R

a/n: EEK i hope u love this as much as i loved writing it :)

bimbo reader has my heart <3

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x goth!bimbo!reader

warnings: mmm none! fluff! just two cuties being cute!

wc: 0.6k

Your pen was a flurry of motion, streaking bold lines upon the sketchpad. Technically, you should be sorting through the endless stack of files, keeping them pristine and accessible for the agents. You were always ahead of your tasks, and this job, while not earth-shattering, mattered to you. But when you had a muse as captivating as yours, it was hard to put the pen down. 

That muse being the man rifling through the files before you, his face a masterpiece of pretty lines and angles, unaware of the intensity of your focus. You contemplated expressing your admiration aloud, but the idea seemed a little too forward. So, you poured that impulse into a portrait, tracing the contours of his handsome face.

But it proved difficult to accomplish with his relentless pacing. Each step he took sparked another round of redos on the pad. Your tongue, tipped with a silver piercing, unconsciously found its way to your lip as you wrestled with the proportions of his nose, erasing furiously to get it just right.

You let out a sigh, louder than intended, and it was enough to pause his steps. "Sir, can you please stand still?"

He looked utterly baffled, lifting his brows toward his hairline. As your eyes met, he pointed to his chest, his question simple and unsure, "Huh? Me?"

A quick nod sent a ribbon of dyed hair fluttering before your eyes as you beamed at him. "Yes, you! Please, if you don't mind," you murmured, your fingers racing over the paper. "I just need, like, one more second."

He stood frozen, brows remaining quizzically raised. Why he complied, he couldn't say, but the sight of you, so engrossed in your art, your necklaces chiming in time with your movements, and how your bold makeup seemed to frame your face perfectly kept him rooted to the spot.

You peered up through your lashes, giving him a sheepish grin, cheeks lightly flushed as you set the pen down.

"All done! You're free to go. Thanks for being so patient," you chirped, gently waving the paper in the air as if to dry the ink faster.

"Can I at least see the result of my patience?" Spencer asked, his approach casual yet expectant. 

You hugged the sketchpad to your chest, a gentle laugh escaping you. "Well, I don't usually just let anyone see my work, especially strangers."

Spencer's smile was tinged with amusement.

"Considering I'm the subject, I think I have some claim to it," he joked. "And by the way, I'm Spencer Reid. There, we're practically acquaintances now."

You couldn't contain the goofy grin that spread across your face, and a giggle bubbled up from your throat.

"Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I can make an exception," you said, drawing out the last word with a wink.

The portrait made Spencer do a double-take--it was him, but as if seen through a gothic, moody lens. His usual composure cracked, and a deep, genuine laugh broke through. 

"I never knew I had such a brooding side," he commented with a smile. "I look like I stepped out of a Brontë novel. Perhaps Heathcliff on one of his better days?"

Your head cocked to the side, hair cascading over one shoulder, looking at him through lashes heavy with mascara as you shrugged.

"Heathcliff, huh? I'll take your word for it, but I get the brooding part," you said, with a bubbly laugh. "Come on, it's so you."

Spencer fiddled with his tie, raising a brow.

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he felt a pleasant heat rise to his cheeks.

You squinted sightly, pretending to mull it over.

"Flattered, for sure," you said. "Broody types are just secretly plotting world domination, right?"

He grinned. "Well, maybe not world domination, but certainly plotting something."

Your voice was light, but your question was pointed. "So, what are you plotting, Spencer? Should I be worried?"

He tried to remember what Morgan had taught him.

"Absolutely. But some things are worth the wait--patience, you'll see, can be quite rewarding."

And with a promise like that, you found yourself more than willing to wait. 

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[v6quewrlds]

Omg if you want dad!Tee inspo maybe Tee tattooing his kid's drawing on his arm

this is so cute bro

"Those sunglasses are not hiding your big ass," she muttered, nudging Tee playfully as they stepped out of the parked car and into the warm embrace of the schoolyard. He shook his head, that brilliant smile of his breaking through his lips.

"Man, I'm just tryna pick my son up in peace," he replied, reaching for the handle of the front office door.

Tee's hand remained on the small of her back as they navigated through the crowd of eager parents after checking in with the front desk. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the concrete playground and the brick building of Shai's elementary school. As they approached their son's classroom, the sound of buzzing children grew louder, a pattern of young voices sharing tales of the day's adventures with their parents.

"Mommy!" Shai squealed the moment he saw her, a white piece of paper clutched tightly in his little hand. Tee laughed out loud, removing his sunglasses to reveal his warm brown eyes. The five-year-old came tumbling down the hallway, his oversized backpack bouncing behind him as he clutched his lunchbox in both hands.

"Look what I made!" Shai exclaimed, holding out the drawing with a beaming smile. She took it, her eyes widening as she took in the stick figures. "Wow, baby, this is amazing!" she said, her heart swelling with pride. She knelt down to his level, examining the crude figures with feigned scrutiny. "Is that you throwing the football to Daddy?"

Shai nodded, his head bobbing up and down so vigorously his coils bounced. "Yeah, and that's me!" he said, pointing to the smallest stick figure with a giant smile and football in hand. "And that's you, Mommy." she looked at the stick figure with a heart drawn over its head, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Okay, lil man!" Tee exclaimed, offering Shai a high five. "Picasso type vibes, I see. I like it."

Shai looked up at his father with a puzzled expression, and she couldn't help but laugh. "Picasso was a famous painter, baby," she explained, taking his hand as they turned to leave the school.

The drawing remained pinned to the fridge for the next week, much to Shai's excitement. Every morning, he'd run into the kitchen just to ensure it was still there, grinning ear-to-ear when he saw it. She couldn't help but feel a tug at her heart each time she saw it, a tangible reminder of their little family's love. Tee evidently had a plan brewing.

When Tee returned home one Saturday afternoon, his normally confident gait was accented with a hint of secretiveness. Shai abandoned his plate of half-eaten Dino nuggets, sprinting to the door as he shouted a greeting, throwing himself into Tee's arms. She watched from the couch, curiosity piqued as she took in Tee's newfound air of mystery.

"I got a surprise," Tee announced, Shai practically vibrating with energy in his father's arms. He looked over at her with a wink before her eyes fell upon his freshly exposed bicep. In stark black ink against his rich brown skin, she saw the unmistakable outline of their son's stick-figure family carefully wrapped.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Tee, what the hell did you do?" she whispered, her voice laced with astonishment.

Tee gasped with feigned innocence, using his free hand to cover their son's ears as the boy giggled. "I just had to get it done, you know? Masterpiece, ain't it, Shai?" He asked, tickling their son until he squealed.

Shai squirmed in his arms, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Can I see, can I see?" He begged, bounced up and down. Tee set him down gently and rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the tattoo in all its glory.

The tattoo was a perfect replica of Shai's drawing, right down to the tiny heart hovering over her head. She felt her eyes well up with tears as she stared at the permanent reminder of their love etched into Tee's skin. Shai's grin grew wider as he recognized the image. "It's my drawing!" he exclaimed, pointing at the figures with a sense of pride.

Tee looked over at her, his gaze softening. "You know I had to, right?" he said, his voice low and earnest. "This is us, forever."

Her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks. She nodded, unable to form words as she took in the sight. Shai looked up at her, his excitement momentarily paused. "Mommy, don't cry," he said, his voice small and concerned. "It's not sad, it's cool!"

Tee chuckled, a gentle rumble that made his chest vibrate. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You like it?" he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear.

"I love it," she managed to say. "It's perfect," she whispered.

[astra-ravana]

Obscure Spell Components

A small collection of things you don't see every day in magick. I can definitely add more to this list and may in the future, I am open to suggestions.

Coffin Nails

• Traditionally made of protective iron

• Anoint front doors for home protection

• Carry in pocket or bag for protection from tricks, bad luck, and harm

• Binding magick; hammer through a name paper to specify a target

Wasps

• Improves accuracy of magick (ensures curses "hit where it hurts")

• Can be used in a petition to end pregnancy

• Hang near a door to cause loss, discord, and constant troubles for who lives there

Black Feathers

• Seeing one is a sign from the ancestors

• Used in workings to cast out malevolent forces

• Burn a message and sweep into the air with a black feather to get an answer soon

• Protects from nightmares

• Can be used to fan away negative energy and unwanted visitors

Lucky Hand Root

• Great for drawing money, often added to mojo bags

• Can be used with a name paper to draw a specific lover

• Boosts charisma, power, and self-discipline

• Ideal for manifestation and drawing magick

Ashes

• Carry in red cloth to bolster your courage

• Scatter around a purple candle for healing

• Bury spell ashes to seal a spell

• Carve a name into hardwood and burn to ash for a targeted curse component

• Must always be instructed in the working

• Versitile; can do everything from road openings and protection to destruction and chaos

Charcoal

• Used to make black salt and ink for grimoires

• Use in bath magick to cleanse yourself of negative energy

• Used in spells related to protection, warding, banishing, unity, and purification

• Can be used to add "fuel" to a working

Peach Pits

• Are often carved

• Worn to protect one's life, safety, and health

• Wards against negative energy

• Magickal aspects include longevity, protection, love, and vitality

Chalk

• Used for its power to claim, anchor, and control

• Write your target's name on an out bound train/boat/truck to make them go far away

• Write your name on the bottom of a lover's shoes to keep them coming back

• Trace your hand on a property to claim it for a time

Spiderwebs

• Capture a spiderweb on black cloth and hang over your door to catch a thief

• To keep someone away hang their name in a spiderweb and ask the spider to bind them

• Roll target's hair in a spiderweb and sprinkle with grave dirt. Bury in their yard to hex them.

• Roll a red/pink candle in webs to capture the heart of an attractive lover

• Used in magick for opportunity, obtaining, binding, and ensnarement

Coffee

• Used in poppets to inflict insomnia

• Makes a spell work faster

• To get a message from someone rub their name with coffee and attach to a mailbox

• Spinkle in purse, wallet, or cash box to bring money

• Said to improve a man's varility and stamina

Shoes

• Put sigils in the soles of your shoes

• Pair of shoes: health, protection, wealth, fertility, travel, banishing, fidelity, home, marriage/couples

• Right shoe: will, success, dominance, banishing, skill mind

• Left shoe: destiny, accidents, come to me, protection, love

• Cleanse with Florida Water for protection

• Put target's name in your right shoe to dominate, left to draw them, both to bewitch and control

• Dirt from the yard in a loved one's left shoe will keep them coming home

• Put hot foot powder directly in someone's right shoe *wink wink*

Lock & Key

• The lock is symbolic of blocking, stopping, protection, keeping people/energies out while keys represent access and entry

• Lock and key together offer protection and guarding/sealing with the option of unlocking, unbinding, freeing work and energy

• Utilized in magick for safeguarding treasures, information and secrets, opening doorways to other realms, dream work, "unlocking" psychic abilities, and in love magick (unlocking someone's heart)

Magnolia

• Brings luck, power, and success to women

• Hang over a door/window to bring luck to a home

• Place under couple's mattress for a happy relationship

• Used in sex magick rituals for fidelity and devotion

• Add to a bath to attract honor ans recognition

• Hexing, cursing, and banishing men

• Possess ancient wisdom and the power to bring peace, abundance, self-reliance, growth, and feminine love

Chocolate

• Corresponds to wealth, lust, passion, and bliss

• Add to any spell to speed up results and add power

• A spirit offered chocolate is more likely to grant a wish

• Rub on hands before spirit work; draws good spirits, good luck, and faster results

• Sprinkle chocolate in someone's shoes before they go to work and they'll make more money

• Chewing chocolate and hot peppers increases gambling luck

Chicken Feet

• A powerful protection charm/talisman, hang in home or car

• Can be used to rid negatives, clear crossed conditions, stop bad thoughts, guards against hexes and spiritual attacks

• Often painted and/or decorated with beads, bones, feathers, shells, or bones

• "Feed" with protection oil

Sulphur

• Also called brimstone

• In alchemy sulphur is one of the 3 elements that make up the Philosopher's Stone (sulphur: love/soul, mercury: mind/spirit, salt: will/body)

• Used as an offering, especially for demonic and chthonic spirits

• Used by root doctors for enemy tricks

• Excellent component for use in baneful magick, crossing/uncrossing, banishing, protection, beauty, and love

• Used in fire magick

Sunflower

• Add to ritual baths to increase joy and lift sorrow

• Can be used in spells to strengthen friendships or find new friends

• Burn sunflower petals to reveal the truth

• Used in ointments and oils to see/work with the Fae

• Feed someone sunflower seeds to increase their loyalty

• Also associated with success, nobility, partnership, charisma, luck, and integrity

Milk

• A hot bath with milk and eggshells stirred in counterclockwise will uncross you

• Favorite offering of the Fae, keeps them happy so they are less inclined to play tricks/move your stuff

• Drinking milk from a black cow protects you from enemies

• If you find a black cat at your door make a wish and offer them milk. If they drink the milk your wish will be granted

Orchids

• Symbolize feminine energy, sexuality, feminine power and control

• Used in lesbian love spells

• To gain power over a man bury his name at the base of an orchid, he will become docile and obedient

• Helps women take up positions of leadership, be doted on by men, and be respected as living goddesses

Mercury Dimes

• To win at games of chance wear a Mercury dime on your left wrist/ankle

• Powerful money drawing and success charm

• A Mercury dime in your shoe protects you from crossing powders

• If one turns black, someone tried to curse you

• Place at the bottom of a sugar bowl to draw money to your home

Bread

• Burnt bread ash sprinkled in someone's path will cause them poverty

• Bake a couple's names in a loaf of bread to make their love grow deep and strong

• Wonderful offering to spirits and deities

Vinegar

• Sours, erodes, repells, cleans, removes, punishes, and deters

• Used as a base in sour jars and as a component in spells to cause bitterness, suffering, negative associations, anxiety, and conflict

• Can help clear up addictions and habits

Railroad Spikes

• Place one in the 4 corners of your home for protection

• Can be used to "nail/anchor" something in place

• Often used in making war water

• Used in workings to prevent/stop eviction

• Symbolizes strength, power, safety, good luck, defense, and protection

Snake Skin

• Reverse hexes, jinxes, and curses

• Curse component; works well when added to goofer dust

• Carried for protection and good luck

• Also represents change, transformation, and new beginnings

• Can be given as an offering to serpentine deities (Lilith, Medusa, Loki, etc.)

[ssaeri]

the moon as our witness

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, established relationship, reader is farmer, moonlit beach picnic, alcohol mention, drunk shenanigans, silly people in a silly relationship, I quite like the location of elliott’s beach house, I wish we could keep it when we marry him ☆

When Elliott invited you to his home for a picnic under the full moon, you said yes immediately. He’s the writer, not you, but there was something to be said about the feeling of wind in your hair, salt on your tongue, and sand beneath your feet.

And when it came to beach picnics, Elliott could not be beat. At ten o’clock exactly, you walked around his house and arrived at a scene taken straight out of his romance novels. He offered you a glass of wine as you slipped off your sandals and settled onto the checkered blanket next to him. The only thing he let you do was provide the ingredients; he insisted on doing the rest himself. Lemon butter lobster, glazed potatoes, garlic stir-fried string beans, chopped kale and parsnip salad, steamed cauliflower, wild rice, and—he promised with a wink—a strawberry and rhubarb pie waiting in the oven.

The epitome of spring in a meal. You thought that the night was going to be perfect.

However, a bottle and a half of pomegranate wine, split between both your glasses, was all it took for your sweet picnic to devolve into something else entirely.

You wrestle the wooden oar from his hands, and Elliott honest-to-Yoba pouts at you.

”It still counts as operating a vehicle under the influence,” you say, pointing the handle of the oar at his flushed face. “As much as I love you, I am not continuing a relationship behind bars.”

Elliott, ever the drama queen, falls back onto the blanket and throws an arm over his eyes. “O, cruel and cursed fates! You have bound my heart to someone whose love is conditional!” he bemoans to the stars. After a beat of silence, he peeks under his arm. “Wait a minute, the Valley doesn’t even have a jail. Lewis is our only form of law enforcement, and he would simply slap a fine on my door.”

“Taking advantage of an underdeveloped justice system, I see.”

He sits up. “At this hour, you’re the only one around,” he says, slowly turning to you. You do not like that glint in his eyes.  “I’d never be caught if I just…get rid of the only witness.”

You shriek when he pounces and pushes you onto the sand. The oar doesn’t help, either; it keeps you pinned as he giggles breathlessly into your neck, his hands coming to rest on your waist. It takes some wiggling to move the oar out from between you, but once it’s free, you toss it to the side. It lands somewhere with a soft thud.

Elliott settles his head against your shoulder and sighs. After a moment, he says, “You smell lovely.”

“And you’re tickling me,” you retort, but you make no move to change positions. He smells nice, too—a curious mix of pomegranate, sea salt, and ink that’s uniquely his. You feel him smile into your skin as you thread fingers through his hair.

Distantly, waves crash onto the shore, and somewhere at the end of the pier, a leashed wooden rowboat bobs on the water, awaiting its passengers who are—much to Elliott’s disappointment—too inebriated to enjoy a romantic view on the ocean.

You’ll pass, thanks. You’ve seen the movies, you know what would happen next, and waking up stranded on a random island in the middle of the Gem Sea is not on your bucket list.

You’re enjoying the view just fine—here, on solid ground. The full moon bathes everything in a gentle hue, peeking around tree tops like a halo. And the stars. You never saw stars like this from your cramped apartment in the city. Going from the honking bustle of downtown Zuzu City to the buzzing cicadas of Stardew Valley was a hard transition for a cityslicker like you. When you first arrived here, the quiet of evening was unnerving; the silence made space for your thoughts, and the dark for your fears. Time slowed, and for seasons, it felt like you were drowning. Until you let yourself be held by the Valley’s embrace—its land, its resources, its people—and realized that maybe you were actually just learning how to breathe.

You breathe in deep, just because you can.

“It’s beautiful tonight,” you murmur, arms spread wide.

Elliott rolls to the side and props his head up with one hand. “Very beautiful,” he agrees, unabashedly staring at your face.

You push him over. “Okay, cheeseball.”

He only falls onto his back with a chuckle. “...it was also a full moon when you gave me the Bouquet.”

“How do you remember that?”

“How do you not?”

“I’m pretty sure I blacked out. I just remember chasing you after you left the saloon earlier than expected, and when I woke up, you were hugging me.”

“Well,” he hesitates, then sighs. “Yes, I must admit you made little sense at the time. Perhaps a stammer of my name as a warning before shoving the flowers into my face. But on the footbridge under a full moon? Incredibly romantic, dear. Great job; I couldn’t have done better if I tried.”

“Are you kidding me?” You sit up and gesture at the food. By some miracle of Yoba, you’ve managed to make a sizeable dent in the spread, but you hope that he has a cabinet full of takeout containers and space in the fridge.

“You deserve at least this,” he says absently, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, “if not more for making me the happiest man alive.”

You have to turn to hide the smile on your face, but you’re not fast enough—he sits up and catches your chin, earnest green eyes boring into yours. He scans your features like he’s committing them to memory, and then his gaze flits to your lips. You don’t know if you lean in first or if he does, but the kiss is inevitable either way.

His lips are soft, the movements steeped in wine and adoration, and you distantly register the hand on your chin smoothing out to cup your face. Elliott is always gentle with you. Cradling. Cherishing.

When he pulls back to pepper more kisses across your forehead, you pretend to wrinkle your nose in annoyance.

“Hey, why does it feel like I’m forgetting something?”

“I don’t know.”

.

.

.

Three or so kisses later, you both snap to attention at the same time. “The pie!”

[vesanal]

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊The 18th Day of Writemas₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Hey y’all! This winter season for me is suuuuuper hot. Currently it’s like 20 C which is absolutely insane! I guess there won’t be a white Christmas this year(just like every other year). In November it was super cold, getting down to maybeee -1 C which again, still isn’t THAT cold but for here it very much is! Anyways I won’t keep ya here long so here is the invite post if you need a  reminder of the rules and here are the prompts I’ll be using today!!!

Prompts used:

Narration: Light fought the dark, and finally, dawn broke.

Setting:  A home + Emptiness

Hurray! More Melinaaaa. WOW! 2 boss bitches who run towns in a row!? It really is Christmas! It’s too bad Melina doesn’t care about the people of Elares or just anything there in general. Like at all. Especially the prison. ANYWAYYY. I’m going pretty far back into her past for this one, and shedding some light on her ambition for getting the fame and power(that of which she wasn’t given by being born) before she gave it all up a few writemasses ago. Hope y’all enjoy younger Melina and the cunning little rat bastard she is. :). She might just learn from her mistakes one day in the future, wink wink.

Read about the WIP here!!

Hope ya enjoy!!

------------------------------

Melina popped open another bottle of alcohol to celebrate such a momentous occasion. It wasn’t every day that you sign a deal that large. Well, maybe for Melina it was.

Taking a sip from the burning dark blue liquid filled her with as much warmness as the satisfaction from getting just a little more into her grasp. She sat down on top of the desk and picked up the parchment papers to stare at the contract drawn. Right there in ink stated all of the words she needed to hear. It was hers, all hers. Completely. She could just kiss the paper, she was so happy. 

Oh, so much money! Just for a few senseless crooks. I could bathe in gold for years on this.

“Such a pleasure to do business with you. Now, I must get back to work. I’m a very busy woman.” Melina said as she ushered the well-armored man out of her office, throwing the door back onto its hinges before he could even open his mouth to say more. He didn’t mean anything now.

Hurrying back inside her room and looking out the intricately stained window, she watched over the hard at work city. Her empire. She had great plans for it. And now that she signed that deal with those shiny, Haukrosen living, castle dwelling, used to the heat, Queen-ass-kissing magic freaks to hand over all of the prisoners held within Elares, effectively dissolving the founding principles her family based the city on, she can bask in all the future glory it will generate for her. So, in her room, devoid of anything else, she stood alone to see the light creep onto the city’s streets, solely responsible for it’s existence. Without her, they were lost, and completely nothing, just fools who lived under another fool’s law. 

Light fought the dark, and finally, dawn broke. Across the horizon of Elares came new plans, huge plans. Melina was quite happy to be their benevolent mayor. She was executing the will of the people by transporting those criminals to the capitol. They always wanted for her to remove the prisons and free the people inside, that is specifically why she campaigned for it in her reelection. Melina did exactly what they asked, she freed them from damnation in the Elares prisons. She giddily poured another drink and watched the reflection of the city expand, refracting its silhouette into something better. For her own pleasure. And taking another sip of the drink was just another dip into the pool of greed she created for herself from the tears of others.

For a second, emptiness left the room. But it always comes back, starving for more. Melina knew it.

------------------------------

(PLEASE tell me if you wanna get added to a tag list here because I genuinely don't know who to tag lol. I'll edit this and add you in!! <3 )

TAGLIST SO FAR: @sunflowerrosy @seastarblue

@thebookishkiwi @viridis-icithus @corinneglass

Our wonderful host <3 → @agirlandherquill Have a lovely day everyone!!

[or13m]

Ink Wells and Dark Spells (batim) chapter 002

Bendy sprinted with all his might to the stairs, not trusting the elevator that had already failed him more than a few times. You'd think they would fix that thing already! He took the steps two at a time by jumping them, his short legs only going so far. It may not have made him any faster, but it sure helped burn some of his anxiety!

He only skidded to a stop when he reached Audrey's door, glad that no one but her had stayed late tonight. That was the case most of the time, but he'd had a couple close calls in the last week with a newbie who was trying to suck up to the boss by overworking. He didn't know why because he was clearly too tired to do his best work and ended up giving his character a tail by accident when he was technically not supposed to have one in the show.

Said tail was swinging rapidly behind him right now, as a matter of fact, getting Audrey's attention from where she was seated at her animator's desk.

"Oh, Bendy! It's you!"

The little ink demon tilted his head and rose a brow as if to say "Really?". Audrey had a habit of pointing out the obvious, he'd noticed. She liked to converse with others, so he supposed that she would do this to keep conversations going. The polar opposite of his Mouse, who only liked talking freely to him and that was only after a good week and a half of him convincing you that you weren't a bother. Bendy must have gotten a dopey smile on his face because Audrey was quick to ask him what he was thinking about. He perked up, shaking his head to indicate nothing before making his way further into the room.

"You know, you've been acting funny these past few months," the brunette continued, abandoning the work on her desk to focus her attention on the mischievous little demon. As she suspected, he stiffened at her words. She knew that look. She should. She drew it enough times in his cartoons. "You hiding something?" she asked, a smile pulling at her lips. She wasn't upset or unsettled. More than anything, she was curious. What could Bendy, the Dancing Demon be so secretive about?

Bendy shook his head emphatically, causing it to spin in place. He had to catch it with his hands to stop it, a wave of dizziness temporarily overcoming him. He could faintly hear the toon birds chirping above him before they vanished when he regained his balance. He noticed Audrey chuckling at him, but thought little of it. He was a toon, after all, meant to entertain even if it was by accident.

He didn't want to tell her about you. You were HIS and he wasn't ready to share you just yet. Audrey had been getting suspicious as of late, something that Bendy had taken notice of. He had to admit that he was pretty obvious about it, unable to hide his emotions as well as his darker half could. He'd been gone for long periods of time, visiting Audrey only briefly before taking off again. He had tried making more regular visits to take off those suspicions, but they only seemed to make Audrey notice MORE. Now he was visiting NIGHTLY and it was only making him antsy every time. He really wanted to get back to you...

"Oh, alright, keep your secrets. I won't pry," Audrey winked before turning back to her work. Bendy eyed her for a moment, piecut eyes narrowing with suspicion. She didn't flinch, simply continuing to work on the frames she had been tasked with. Bendy huffed before leaving the room, free to roam around the studio with the other employees all gone for the night. Ever since Wilson, they hadn't bothered to hire another janitor, simply letting Audrey take care of that since she had volunteered for such a late-night shift to take care of the last-minute cram sessions. Bendy was grateful for that since it gave him free reign in the real world--still within the boundaries of a studio, but at least this one had some color to it.

He paused midstep out in the hallway, lifting a gloved finger to his chin. He wondered if you'd ever thought about the real world and its color. Would you want to come with him? Well, he knew the answer to that, already. You always gave a cute pout when he'd leave and was always excited when he'd return. You were just happy to be with him. The thought made his cheeks warm.

Well, he couldn't take you with him just yet, but maybe he could bring you a gift? What trinket would charm you, though?

Bendy began to wander around in the faintly-lit halls of Arch Gate Pictures, poking his head in various rooms along the way. His horns wiggled with excitement when he caught sight of a little red rose beside a trash can in one room. He was quick to grab it, careful to make sure that it had no thorns to prick your delicate hands. He glanced into the trash--mostly full of crumpled papers--and spotted a small heart box. Curious, he picked it up and popped off the lid. His piecut eyes glistened at the hidden treasures inside.

Chocolates! Perfect! This was going swell for the little demon!

Hm, what else could he get you though? Rose and chocolates are the basics, but he wanted to get something personal for just YOU. Now what would--Oh! Duh! Of course! How could he be so dumb...

His heart beat a 1000 miles a minute as he raced as fast as his little toon legs could take him to the art department, keeping the gifts he already had close to his chest. Finding an empty sketchbook and some drawing utensils in a studio was ridiculously easy. You loved to draw. Whenever the two of you would stop for a bit, you would find a puddle of ink, a piece of wood, and start doodling on the wall. You had tried to use your finger, at first, but even the ink from the floor would sink into your skin and disappear. Just like his other half, he found that fascinating.

Gifts in hand, he sped back to the ink machine, completely forgetting that he was coming and going even earlier than intended.

He never did realize that he was being followed the whole time...

[hermidetta]

" hiya, bernadetta! i brought you something! "

there are certain standards one must adhere to when choosing a gift for a friend, and among those things it is typically improper to source a gift from a looted store or from a dead guy. fogado knows these rules of etiquette, not to worry, dear reader.

this did, however, mean that it was very difficult to actually find a good gift to give bernadetta, the girl who he would like to know better yet isn't quite sure how to without spooking her. talking is his main mode of friendship---what does one do, then, when it is the direct opposite of another's? gifts are what he's got next, but again, the town brought slim pickings.

the idea had dawned on him upon returning to the bunker. it's... good enough, considering their situation. fogado approaches bernadetta with the item hidden behind his back. " it's nothing much, but i thought i'd whip something up for you. just 'cuz! "

his hands come out from behind his back to reveal a nicely sized rock with big ole eyes painted on it. " this is rockinald. he likes the color purple, quiet corners, and privacy. so he's, like, the perfect guy to just kind of chill with! " fogado winks and shows off rockinald's features---a flowing mane of white rocky hair (a result of the dust produced from scraping a rock against the ground), thick rocky eyelashes (using only the finest ink) and a quartz-y crystalline interior (accidentally shown off when fogado hit him too hard against the ground, but now it's part of the package).

" the best thing is that rockinald practices bein' a projectile in his free time. if anyone is bothering you, then yeet rockinald at 'em and he'll give them a stern talking-to! "

bernadetta would have counted herself lucky if she had been able to make even one friend at the officers academy. there are still people who talk, people who leer, because students in their formative years have an insatiable appetite for rumors and gossip. the sole daughter of house varley does not have a kind reputation.

that meant far less to those overseas, however. fogado is charismatic, that much is clear. just look at him—stars in his eyes, a dazzling grin and a silver tongue behind it. she is still almost suspicious just by the principle of it. what could the center of a room want to do with the very corner of it?

"oh— hi, fogado."  she answers, voice shrinking by the end of it. her eyes naturally avert—gray clouds that rightfully steer clear of stars—and they stay averted until fogado brings out the most unexpected item.

it's a rock.

rockinald?

bernadetta gives it a slow but no less bewildered blink. her palms accept it, or rather 'him', majestic white mane and all.

"uh... thanks?"  she doesn't mean for it to come out like a question. it just does. "h-hey, he sounds just like bernie."

maybe it isn't something she can cuddle to sleep (she could, she supposed, though it'd hardly be comfortable) but it also doesn't seem like fogado is making fun of her at all.

not to mention he is right on the money with rockinald making for a handy weapon. bernadetta needs those now more than ever, doesn't she? her thumbs grazed the cracked part of the rock, imperfect but no less endearing in its own way. maybe someday she could be like that, too.

"sorry,"  she mumbles again, head lightly ducked. those colorless eyes occasionally flick up at fogado through violet lashes.  "i don't have anything to give you. is it still really okay for me to have this?"

[borabe]

━━ ☁ my life is what i make of it (moon movie by moon byul)

the sound of her heart pounding in her ears shouldn't be new to bora, and yet, as she makes her way on stage, it's the only noise she can focus on now.

not the familiar noise of milk steamers and espresso machines running. not the idle conversation amongst the other customers in the lobby. just her own heartbeat reminding her this is real, this is another chance she has to make it.

third time's the charm, right?

truthfully, she really didn't know what song to perform at first. she's written plenty of raps, verses messily scrawled in the margins of her sketchbooks or as ink hidden beneath her jacket sleeves, but it feels like a level of vulnerability she's still not ready to reveal yet. just finding herself on stage makes her want to start pacing around nervously enough.

but there's no point in running away with the mic in her hand now.

with her free hand, she plays keys on an imaginary piano to the opening notes. her eyes closed as she tries to calm her racing heart. she turns to the audience with opened eyes as she starts to rap.

"the reason i laugh, i want to brush off negativity; thoughts bite my tail and break me."

always one who wears her heart on her sleeve, her brows furrow thinking about the hardships handed to her by life.

her mother's passing.

being a helpless child watching her mother fade away day by day from illness they didn't have money to treat.

her father having to pick up the pieces of both his and her broken hearts.

leaving her home to start over from the grief.

one failed audition. two failed auditions.

all of it made her who she is now; she likes to think that it broke her down only to build her up stronger in the end. she couldn't imagine being able to get on a stage in front of people to perform once again after failing twice, and yet here she was.

she's nothing if not determined.

“take 1, take 2, flash, lights, camera, action!”

a grin comes to her lips as she gives the audience a quick wink. she wasn't scared anymore, she was genuinely having fun.

even with the anxiety running through her body previously, she had to remember one of the reasons she's continued pushing toward being an idol: she did love performing. once she got into the groove, it's almost like she wasn't scared in the first place.

"i'm too busy to even work, it's okay if i stay up all night for days; my family's happiness still comes before me, i'm okay with resting then; that's the happiness i'm looking for."

she remembers her father coming to her after her second audition.

previously disagreeing with her dreams, he told her he supported her and brought up something she hadn't even noticed herself: the way she shined on stage, the way she lit up getting to dance to songs she liked.

the red, teary eyes she had were able to be dried by tissues and acceptance.

it's because of that care that she pushes herself to working so hard; working at the cafe, working on her paintings, going to her singing and dancing lessons every week.

the reason she wanted to become an idol was to make sure they never had to feel the pain that came with losing her mother again. she was willing to make sure they both stayed safe and healthy if she could finally grasp the dream just waiting outside her reach.

“the light turns off and the tape rolls; watch a movie shoot, movie shoot.”

ending the performance like she began it, her body turned away from the audience and her eyes closed.

hearing the song end, she nervously places the microphone back on its stand and quickly shuffles back off stage.

the pounding heartbeat in her ears is back, but it's not as loud this time.

it's easier for her to place her hand over her heart with an easy smile.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Two

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warning: None :)

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“The sun’s barely gone down!” Cassian grumbled, following behind Helion, Rhysand, and Feyre as they walked the cobblestone streets of the Day Court. Every block of the small city contained at least two local bookstores, one cafe that also sold books, one flower shop that also sold books, and/or a small glass box filled with - as anyone could have guessed - more books to be given away for free. 

Helion chuckled, “You’re not in the Night Court any more. My people are early to bed, early to rise. Unless of course you spend a night with me.” He winked at Cassian, who had the sense to blush. Indeed the Night Court members had been shocked when the party cleared out not even two hours after the sun had slipped beneath the ground. 

Aside from the small scale bookstores which housed the most popular and recently published novels, every sector of the Day Court also had between one to three athenaeum’s - elaborate buildings of ivory stone laced with filigree and windows that lit up like the glowing eyes of an ancient beast. They were the pride and joy of all Day Court members. The windows flickered and shone with the magic used to protect the volumes from the sun. Even as the neighborhood lights slowly winked out, Azriel could track the diligent minds scouring the brightly lit shelves. There was a loving madness in their hunched backs, craned necks, and squinting eyes. 

As their troupe reached The Alcove, one of the smaller and cozier athenaeum’s, Azriel couldn’t help but imagine you in a similar display of passionate madness, when you forgot about the world around you and could actually relax.

The Alcove specialized in housing diaries and novels of everyday comforts - quiet, unassuming stories that could steal your heart as swiftly as the grandest tales of war and romance, but with much more discretion. Here, the knowledge pressed between pages with ink was full of warmth and subtlety. The others in your cohort had scorned you for your choice in The Alcove. Why would anyone choose such a dull place to live and work? Why not be surrounded by books on war tactics or history or religion or biology? Someplace useful and worthy of a Librarian’s gifts. But The Alcove had offered you something you’d missed since your mother’s death - a sense of home. 

You sat by the bay windows overlooking the darkened street below, breathing in the crisp and cool air that snuck in through the glass. On the other side of your apartment, a similar window overlooked The Alcove’s interior. Hundreds of mahogany shelves lined the high walls of the octagonal building with its signature domed roof. Grand staircases of gold twisted their way up from the ground, connecting to walkways that gave easier access to the volumes housed higher up the walls. 

It was a blessing in disguise that you’d chosen to sit on this side of your apartment. Otherwise you would have never seen the Shadowsinger watching you with careful consideration, his eyes faintly glowing like the eyes of a cat. He raised one gloved hand up at you in a wave, a solitary gesture as the rest of his companions and Helion walked towards the stairs that led up to your apartment entrance. 

He saw your mouth open in a shocked oh and couldn’t help the faintest smile gracing his lips as you disappeared from view.

“Oh shit.” You sprang up from your seat, eyes madly racing over the contents of your apartment. You were in the middle of a research project on magical signatures and your living space reflected the madness in your mind. Books lay open on the floor, on the desk, on the coffee table surrounded by carefully documented notes and half-scribbled ideas in equal measure. You wouldn’t be able to clean it up in time and, quite frankly, you had no interest in disrupting the chaotic organization. Did you really care about impressing the Night Court and Helion? 

The terrifying answer was, yes.

The dining room. 

It rarely saw use since you were disinclined to receive guests, and had more recently been repurposed to house stacks of romance novels… best not to let anyone see those… 

In the five minutes it took for Helion and the members of the Inner Circle to climb up the dozen flights of stairs, and knock on your door, you’d successfully managed to hide all the smutty romance books in your bedroom, throw a table cloth and candle on top of the dining table, put away the dried dishes that had been displaced on the kitchen countertops, and set a kettle on the stove. Was there anything more that could be done? 

Helion smiled brightly when you made your appearance, keeping the door slightly ajar to keep the worst of the living room out of sight. Perhaps this would be a short visit and they wouldn’t even ask to come inside.

“Y/n!” Helion said with a grin, “I present to you the Inner Circle of the Night Court.” He gestured with a grand flourish to some of the most beautiful fae you’d ever had the honor of witnessing.

“Some of us at least.” The High Lord’s voice was liquid honey and filled with enough charisma to seduce a nun.

“The most important ones.” The Lord of Bloodshed said with a boyish grin. The faint scar on his cheek pulled back with his smile.

“I’ll let Nesta know you said that.” The High Lady had swapped out her dress for a more simple pair of black slacks and a billowing shirt that cinched in at the waist, flowing over her body like smoke on water. 

“Wait, no. Feyre, I was only joking. Feyre-” 

She laughed, tipping her head back while her husband and mate looked on with a tenderness in his eyes you hadn’t expected to see. It wasn’t the love that shocked you so much as the casualness of it. High Lords and Lady’s - from the limited experience you had reading about them in books - were either unreadable or such outrageous flirts they looked ready to jump into the bones of anything that could stand upright or lay down for long enough. Both methods were appropriate to hide their true feelings, but Rhysand and Feyre seemed to take another approach entirely. 

Helion coughed when you made no move to introduce yourself, still shell-shocked at the caliber of guests currently at your door, “And to the Inner Circle of the Night Court, I present Y/n Y/l/n. My dear friend and one of the most talented researchers I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.” 

“We’ve heard so much about you.” Feyre said, moving forward on instinct to embrace you. She stopped immediately when she saw you flinch back, but recovered quickly, smiling brightly, “My name is Feyre, and this is my mate Rhysand,” The High Lord tipped an imaginary hat, “And his brothers, Cassian and Azriel.” 

“It’s an honor to meet you.” You said politely.

“The honor is all ours.” Rhysand said. He held Feyre closer to his side, one hand ghosting close to her stomach in memory of the child that had grown there not even two years ago. “Helion told us everything you did. Our daughter is alive and well thanks to you, as is my mate.” 

You blinked in surprise. You didn’t know Helion had told them about that. 

“Oh um, it was a joint effort. My High Lord is too kind.” You said with a respectful dip of your head and all at once your manners flooded into your brain again, “Please, come in.” 

You sheepishly opened the door further, allowing the two High Lords and High Lady to grace your apartment. The Illyrians crossed the threshold last. Muscular, leathery wings rippled with power and prestige and it was incredible they managed to stay upright, let alone keep them from dragging on the floor. 

You made a mental note to revisit some old anatomy texts on winged fae. 

“I um,” You hurried to the kitchen, hearing the kettle start to screech, “I apologize. I wasn’t prepared for guests.” The screaming stopped and you remembered that you didn’t have any matching tea sets. 

You reached into the cupboards, face blushing at the assortment of novelty mugs you’d acquired over the years. Hardly fit for a children’s tea party let alone some of the most powerful fae to have ever existed. 

“There will be no apologies from you, tonight, my dear.” Helion said with a charming smile, “Not after we’ve barged into your home uninvited and taken over your dining table.”

From over the island you saw that Helion had already settled down at the table, the others following suit. Everyone except for the Shadowsinger. 

He lingered by the kitchen archway, keeping a respectful distance as you poured boiling water into the teapot over a mixture of chrysanthemum and rosehip. 

“Would you like any help?” He gestured to the tray now loaded with the teapot, cups, and a platter of biscuits that shook in your hands. 

“Oh,” You stared at his outstretched hand, soft black leather molded over graceful fingers. “No, that’s alright. I can do it. But thank you for offering.” You stood face to face with him, silently begging him with your eyes to move to the table with the others so you wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of touching him.

His hand quickly dropped to his side, then slid behind his back. You caught the flash of hurt in his eyes before he masked it. 

“There are some cookies in the living room!” You said a little too loudly, “On top of the coffee table. If-if you wouldn’t mind bringing those-” The Shadowsinger was already gone on his mission and you breathed a sigh of relief. 

There were more books on the floor than swords on a battlefield. Azriel stepped over them gently, careful not to disturb the precarious arrangement. Books on anatomy, microbiology, human medicine, and magical theory flared outward, tracing the path of Y/n’s mind. Azriel walked it with wonder at the brilliance hidden within the midnight thoughts that had been spilled on paper, before being organized later on with a loving hand. Because that’s what this all spelled out to him - some chaotic, maddening love. He was almost jealous not to be on the receiving end of it… almost.

He saw the platter on the table, but ignored it for the pile of books by the windowsill. These ones were different from the rest. Older and more worn. The bindings were cracked and flexible after being read hundreds of times. He could even trace the faint outlines of your fingers on the leather bindings where natural oils had eaten away at the dye. 

He read over the titles and committed them to memory for no other reason than the fact that he liked things that had been well loved. 

“I made a mistake don’t-” 

Azriel straightened up, color washing over his cheeks as he turned to face you in a sea of paper and leather. 

Without thinking, he’d fallen into old habits of poking through people’s belongings. There was a reason Rhysand had made him Spymaster of the Night Court after all. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

“Did you eat a cookie?” You blurted out in a panic. 

“No, no I didn’t.” 

Your shoulders dropped in relief, one hand brushing back your hair. Azriel caught sight of your ink stained fingertips, and the faint mark they left on your temple. 

“Oh thank the Mother.” You muttered under your breath, stealing a glance over your shoulder to the dining room where Helion was playing host in your stead and doing a far better job than you would have been capable of.

“Are they poisoned?” Azriel asked, but the joke fell flat upon seeing the horror in your face.

“No! No, that's not why-I should explain myself better. I would never dare try and poison you. Or anyone for that matter!” You scrunched your eyes shut, face burning brighter than the sun at noon.

I’m a fool. I’m making a fool of myself. He’s going to think I’m an absolute idiot. And right after Helion called me a gifted researcher. What a fucking lie.

Azriel, the blessing in disguise that he was, gave you a moment to collect yourself, pretending to find more interest in a volume on snake venom that was laid open on the ottoman. 

“A friend baked those for me.” You finally said. 

Azriel nodded, a faint smile gracing his face and it caught you off guard. He was beautiful, there was no doubting it so long as you had eyes. What had surprised you was the faint slivers of warmth behind the facade of the cold, brooding Shadowsinger. It was… surprisingly comforting to be standing in a room with him, just the two of you. It was certainly better than the party you’d unceremoniously winnowed out of earlier that day.

“I would never hold it against you if you wanted to save those for yourself.”

Your lips twisted in disgust, “Oh gods no, Cherp is a terrible cook.”

“Cherp?”

“He’s another Librarian I know.” Probably the closest thing to a friend I have. But you weren’t about to tell the Shadowsinger that. “He specializes in chemistry and food history.”

“He’s a food historian?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he’s a terrible cook?” The Shadowsinger tilted his head to the side. 

The corner of your mouth tipped up, “The worst.”

“How is that possible?”

You gave it a thought, eyes darting around the walls like the answer was hidden behind paint, “Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, um,” You weren’t sure what to call him.

“Azriel. Call me, Azriel.”

“Azriel.” You said, testing out the shape of his name. You liked it.

“Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, Azriel?”

He cocked his head to the side, “I do not.”

“Thousands, Azriel. Thousands. If I told you to bake a cake with an egg, would you know I meant a chicken egg?” This time you didn’t wait for an answer, “Because you’d be surprised how quickly facts we consider ‘common knowledge’ disappear. Will people know we meant chicken eggs 1 million years from now? Perhaps not! All this to say that when Cherp follows recipes, he usually doesn’t have the knowledge to make it correctly and they turn out bland at best, inedible and poisonous at worst.” 

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed, prompting you to explain further, “He once spent ten years researching the evolution of average spoon sizes because so many of his recipes were measured in spoonfuls.”

Azriel smirked, “Is this what you academics get yourselves so worried about?”

You couldn’t tell if he was ridiculing you or not, but the sincerity in his hazel eyes said he wasn’t. “Well we...among other things, yes, I suppose that is something we concern ourselves with…” 

“Y/n!” Helion called from the other room, “Stop romancing the Shadowsinger and join us at the table. It’s a futile effort. I’ve been trying for centuries.” 

Your face turned a brighter shade of red as you watched Azriel pick his way through the empty spots on the floor. You pressed yourself against the wall to let him pass, a fact that didn’t escape his notice. And when he took a seat at the table, you ignored the unoccupied seat next to him, preferring to stand behind the island like a woodland creature ready to dive into their den at a moment’s notice. 

His lips flattened. He’d hoped to make you more comfortable around him after the disastrous events at the party, going so far as to hide the shadows that were clamoring for release. He should’ve known better than to assume one conversation about the historical accuracy of egg recipes would make that discomfort go away.  

From your island you tossed pleasantries back and forth like it was a game. But you couldn’t help the stiffness in your posture, the hesitation in your voice when they asked you about your life.

“I’m a Librarian.” You’d first answered, as if it were all that needed to be said. But they pressed onwards, tried to make you laugh. Cassian, especially, liked to poke fun, and despite your best efforts, you laughed. 

“All these libraries would make Nesta go feral. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself.”

“What kind of books does she like to read?” You asked, refilling the kettle as the cloudy sky outside darkened into a rich purple-black.

Cassian coughed, face turning red, “Romance.” He answered simply.

“Smutty romance.” The High Lord said, punching Cassian in the arm. His face turned redder.

“Lucky you,” Helion said with a wink that had Feyre bursting out into laughter. It was no secret that Helion had added Nesta onto his list of fae he’d one day like to have in his bed.

“There is an athenaeum that specializes in romance, and there’s no shortage of those sorts of novels… if you’re interested.” You said, hiding your face behind a sip of tea. 

“And how would you know about that?” Feyre asked teasingly. 

“I… am a Librarian. I know-I know things.” You sputtered unconvincingly. “I went once. Purely for research purposes.” 

Azriel gave her a look, a look that said he somehow knew of the eight raunchy books that graced your bedside table and had been well-read indeed.

As the conversation evolved to less embarrassing topics, you were struck by the fact that you were actually enjoying yourself. It was a far cry from the parties that you’d previously been invited to. There was an ease to the Inner Circle. A familial love that flowed off them as easy as water off a whetstone. It was something you hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Azriel noticed when you fell silent, your mind carried away to more sobering thoughts than Cassian’s most recent travels to the Human Lands. Feyre noticed as well and made her surprise at the time look natural and unscripted.

“Day Court members are early to bed and early to rise aren’t you? I’m sorry we’ve taken up so much of your time.” She said, gently pulling Rhysand up with her as she stood. 

“No, not at all. Thank you for coming. I-I hope your daughter is doing well.” Was that an appropriate thing to say? Perhaps it was too threatening to comment on the wellbeing of a High Lord and High Lady’s child. But Feyre didn’t find any fault with that, a glassy look sliding over her eyes as Mor let Feyre into her mind so she could look at little Velaria dozing away in her aunt’s arms back home.

“She’s getting to be more and more of a handful everyday.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?” Cassian chimed in, throwing Rhysand a look as they collected their coats and slowly made their way over to the front door.

Rhysand threw his hand to his chest in indignation, “I was practically an angel.” 

Cassian snorted, “More like the devil.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes, shuffling the pair out the door into the still night. 

Azriel once again lingered behind, the last to leave behind Helion. He stepped out into the night-chilled air, the edges of him disappearing like the darkness had come to reclaim him. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/n, the Librarian.” He said, dipping into a shallow bow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Azriel…the Shadowsinger.” 

He smiled shyly, then froze, the smile slipping off his face into a look of shock. You glanced over your shoulder, missing the explosion of shadows that spilled out from him. 

You leapt back upon feeling their cool touch wrapping around you. There was a curiosity to the way they wound themselves through your hair and got tangled up in the folds of your dress. But thankfully, they carried no memories with them. No feelings but a faint relief and comfort that washed over you and gave you back your breath. For the first time in years you were experiencing a touch that you could handle. A touch that was stillness and peace.

“Is everything alright?” You finally looked back at Azriel, his eyes blown open and panicked.

He was not a man of many words. Never had been, never would be. But he wished he could speak everything on his mind. 

You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re the one I’ve been waiting over 500 hundred years for. 

But when he saw the concern in your eyes, the gentle tilt of your head that exposed the curve of your neck, he knew it wasn’t the time.

“I-I have to go.” 

This time it was his turn to disappear. He swallowed his words, forced down the bond that now burned in his chest with the light of a thousand suns, and fled past the shocked faces of his family members before shooting off into the night sky.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Does this batboy deserve a nerdy mate to tease and have fun with? Yes. I will take no criticism (just kidding if you have thoughts about how my writing is, let me know, just be kind and respectful about it).

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @rosebunnysblog @icey--stars @laceandsuch @coralseacourt @cherryinsalemverse @flowerprincezz @valeridarkness @annaaaaa88 @deeshag @bluesiphonsbaby @allyjoe755 @sidthedollface2 2@auggiesolovey @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @transparentmoonglitter @ang-taylorsversion @ssmay123 @just-m-2 @sevikas-whore @lalaluch @svtwonwoow @user707sthings @cherryinsalemverse @evylynny @decrepit-bees-knees @eleganttravelercloud @ghostwritermia @smitty-werbenjagermenjenson @fussel9913 @st0rmyt

[nirikeehan]

"aftersome adj. astonished to think back on the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought you to where you are today — which makes your long and winding path feel fated from the start, yet so unlikely as to be virtually impossible." for Thaliaaaa perhaps?

Okay, listen. This one is weird, but maybe I'm planning a Dragon Age/Curse of Strahd crossover and sometimes you just wanna smush two blorbos from two different pieces of media together and see what they do. Like introducing cats.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1202

Metrion belongs to the incredible Curse of Strahd: Twice Bitten podcast which, as far as I can tell, has absolutely no fanfic to its name. Until now I guess 🤷‍♀️

---

 “Sit, and we can make you presentable, yeah?” 

Thalia sits. The cottage is ramshackle and abandoned, one of many in this desolate Nevarran backwoods, the misty, wild place known as Barovia. 

“If he knows you by the tattoo,” the man says, “we can take away the tattoo, easy peasy.”

He’s a strange man, the one whose company she has found herself in. Young like her, she thinks, with tan skin and dark hair. He used an affected posh accent she saw through right away, which he has since dropped. What remains — a cockney reminiscent of Free Marcher peasants, is more authentic. He speaks in a nervous mumble almost always. There are times she thinks him selfish — when they fought wolves together on the road he dove for the bushes and shot timidly with a crossbow — but others, like now, she detects a hint of what could be compassion. 

“Did you always want to be a magician?” Thalia asks, eying the array of stage makeup he sets out on a rotting table. 

He shrugs, not looking at her. “You do what you’re good at, right?”

“I suppose.” Thalia chews her lip. “But what I do and what you do seem a little different. I could never just travel around, doing magic tricks for entertainment.” 

Metrion smirks. “Why not? Cause you’re a highborn lady?” The posh accent is back, mocking her own inflection. He reaches out, takes her chin. “Here, look this way, love.” 

His fingers are long and thin, hands covered by black gloves that must be needed in this constant damp chill. She frowns at an odd patch of magenta poking out between sleeve and glove on his wrist. Thalia is forced to look away, staring deep into his unsettling yellow eyes. 

“It’s not that,” she says as he scrutinizes her complexion. “In my neck of the woods, real mages weren’t allowed to roam free at all.” 

“You sayin’ I’m not a real mage?” Metrion shoots back, feigning hurt. 

Thalia tries not to roll her eyes. “You’re an actor, that’s clear as day.”

“Can it only be one or the other?” A twitchy smile. He has long incisors; one is inlaid with gold and seems to wink at her in the dim light. 

“Are you inviting me to join your act?” Thalia asks playfully.

“Yeah. Definitely. We can be Metrion the Magnificent and Thalia the— the—”

“Thrilling?” she supplies. 

“Yeah. I like that.” He frowns at his makeup kit. “Right. You’re paler’n me, so I’m gonna have to do some blending, but I should be able to manage it. Gonna need you to hold real still, though.” 

Apprehension threads through Thalia. She remembers the day, many years ago, she had to sit very still for another man, one who had needles and ink instead of sponges and pigment. “—Won’t hurt you,” Metrion adds quickly, as if sensing her discomfort. “I’m a real pro with this stuff, I promise.”

“Yes. Of course.” Thalia shifts in her seat, wringing her hands. Her palms begin to sweat. She thinks of the long series of bizarre events that led her to this moment, in the hands of someone who should, by all accounts, be a charlatan. Yet the touches on her cheekbone and brow are light and practiced, and against her will she relaxes. 

“It’s quite a piece of art, this ink,” he murmurs, perhaps to put her further at ease, but Thalia only tenses. He blinks. “Sorry. Meant it as a compliment.” 

“I know,” Thalia breathes. “It’s not you.”

“I’m a bit of an amateur tattooist myself, but ah, never did nothing like this.” 

With each swipe of his sponge, Thalia imagines the tattoo disappearing from her face, leaving her right eye unmarred for the first time in a decade. “I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.”

Metrion’s hand freezes. “Seriously?”

“I mentioned that in my neck of the woods, mages couldn’t just roam free.” She chews her lip. “We were confined to a place called a Circle of Magi. This was the security measure in mine, to make sure we didn’t escape.” 

“Shit.” A long silence. “You really ought to come to the Sword Coast, we don’t have nothing like that there.” 

Thalia lets out a slow breath. “It’s all right. Things have changed there, somewhat. Mages have more freedom now, though there’s always reminders of the old ways.” 

“Yeah. I get that.” Metrion continues dabbing and swiping at her face, brow furrowed with a troubled line between them. “And I know a thing or two, about things done to you against your will.” 

“Do you?” Thalia says skeptically. “You don’t… strike me as a man who would stick around for that sort of punishment.” She pauses. “No offense.” 

Metrion bows his head over the makeup kit, eyes obscured by the hair falling into his face. Peeking out from the headband he wears are wisps of hair that shine white in the torchlight. He’s awfully young to be going grey, she thinks, but then again, she can’t speak to the life he’s lived, no more so than he can for her. 

“’S that a polite way of calling me a coward?” The hurt in his voice, this time, is real. 

Thalia tries to protest, but he cuts her off. “No, no, maybe you’re right, a little bit. Or a lot. I dunno. Fuck. I never wanted to be in this place. It’ll wear you down, break you, faster’n you can run. We been told the devil knows our every move, that it’s all a game to him. That we’ll stay alive as long as we keep things interesting. But I dunno if painting your face would make much of a difference in the long run, if he’s got an eye on ya.” 

Metrion sounds mournful, apologetic, as if trying to break bad news as gently as he can. Thalia reaches out, with a pang of sympathy, and touches his elbow through his long overcoat. He freezes, dares to meet her gaze only briefly before averting it again. 

“He must have a weakness,” Thalia says. “Everyone does.” How can she explain to him that she once stood down a man who would be god? What’s one more vampiric tyrant, in the face of someone like Corypheus? 

“Dunno about him,” Metrion mumbles, sighing. 

“Still,” Thalia insists, trying to smile, “I appreciate that you’re trying.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. ’S all we can do, I guess, in the long run. Lie down and die, or try to live.” He shakes his head as if to clear it and snaps shut his makeup kit. “On that cheery note — you’re all set, love.” 

“Thank you,” Thalia says softly. “Have you got a looking glass I can borrow? I’m… curious.” 

He gives her a small hand mirror caked with layers of dust and pigment. Thalia squints past it, to the pallid face beyond. Her cheeks look gaunter than she remembers, her eyes a ghostly blue. But the tattoo has vanished as if it never existed, and she turns her face this way and that in wonder. 

“Maybe you are a real magician after all,” she whispers, and he looks at her with eyes so raw she worries he might cry.

[indigowallbreaker]

Does "I'm so proud of you." for Bernadetta/Ferdinand/Claude works? :D

What a trio!! I hope you enjoy my take on them. This is set post-canon/post-war but I was vague on the location, so feel free to imagine wherever you want!

[prompt rules]

[more Beagles stories]

"I'm so proud of you."

--

The serene melody of Ferdinand's study-- a teacup landing softly against its saucer, papers fluttering as he closed a book, the creak of his desk chair-- came to an abrupt end when the door banged open. Ferdinand jumped, causing a large splat of ink to cover his latest letter to Lorenz. The glare he aimed over his shoulder turned into an affectionate eyeroll as he saw his visitors. "My loves, what have I said about knocking?"

"S-Sorry," Bernadetta said in that automatic way Ferdinand still couldn't convince her to drop. "This is important though!"

"Very important. Here." Claude held out a leather bound manuscript, grinning in that way Ferdinand still couldn't help but match with his own.

Ferdinand took the manuscript. "Am I about to discover what you two have been working on in secret all week?"

Bernadetta beamed and Claude winked, which was enough answer. Chuckling, Ferdinand opened the manuscript, unsurprised to find it was a book. It took a few lines for Ferdinand to realize the true surprise. "This is written in Almyran!"

"We translated Assuaging Waters into Almyran!" Bernadetta declared outright, hugging Claude around the middle with glee. "Claude said my first book would really resonate with Almyrans so we went line by line to make it as accurate as possible!"

Claude was practically bouncing on his toes. "We had to change one or two names but otherwise it's faithful to the original!"

Ferdinand turned back to the title page. He still couldn't read Almyran-- he had a conversational grasp and knew a few choice words learned from Claude during their... private moments, but the written word was lost on him. Even so, Ferdinand could recognize the title, and Bernadetta's name was still written in Fódlandi underneath it. He ran his fingers over Claude's familiar handwriting.

A hand lightly grasped his chin and Ferdinand's attention was pulled upwards. Furrowed brows creased Claude's previously excited face. "You're not upset, are you?" Claude asked softly. "We didn't mean to exclude you from this. It's just--"

Ferdinand took Claude's hand, shaking his head. "I would not have been any help whatsoever." He kissed those knuckles. "We three do not have to share every little thing. I am glad we have reached a point in our lives where we can accomplish such things as this." Putting the manuscript on his desk, Ferdinand held out his other hand to Bernadetta, who crossed the room to take it. Ferdinand kissed her hand as well. "I am so proud of you. Both of you. What a wonderful way to tie our worlds together."

The melody of Ferdinand's study soon changed into a beautiful cacophony. Claude read bits of the book aloud in fluent Almyran, Bernadetta cut in with why they chose this or that translation, and Ferdinand prepared tea and listened intently to the fruits of their labor. Never had he been so pleased at his work being interrupted.

Once the book made it to the printing presses, Ferdinand would be sure to make both his loves sign his copy, and keep it in his study to peruse whenever he missed their music.

[stankycowboy]

"Here." Delicately a small box is dropped into his lap before she plops down into the soft, pink embrace of her bed.

It's simple mostly. Black with no paper but tied around it is a bow printed with a pattern of eyeballs. The small tag reads 'Trick & Treat' in glittering gel ink. Nestled within the confines are two things. The first is a necklace. The main pendant is half a technicolor heart with the inscription BFF on it. Though with it hang several molar teeth --- charms that are just too realistic in look (and even feel) to be fake. One even has a gold cap. That, in her mind, was the trick. Nothing heinous, rather hilarious. Or in her humblest opinion it's worth a laugh. If nothing else she got a kick out of the idea.

The second item is absolutely the treat. A classic style stiletto switchblade. The handle is a sleek black marbling, and the blade whips out smooth as silk; sharp and shiny ready to slice or dice. Of course, being the beast he is, it's not a necessary item but since when were knives not fun? Never.

"Happy Halloween."

Severen drops the bag of candy he has been carrying for her into the small pink chair by the door. It slumps, nearly spilling their spoils amongst the scattering of other things that have accumulated there. Juliet collapses onto her bed in a similar fashion. He glances over at the sound of her voice, popping the sucker out of his mouth with an arched brow. He was pretty sure that gift giving wasn't really a part of the holiday, but turning down presents was not in his nature. Eagerly, he sits next to her and picks up the package. Admiring the outer decoration, he slips the lollipop back into place to free his hands. He flips the tag over, gives her a wink, and pulls the bow apart. The ribbon lies limply in his lap as he pries the lid off the box and peers inside. He is honestly surprised by the first object. A necklace. Handmade. Something in his throat constricts, emotion impossible to completely hide although he would admit to nothing if asked. A distant memory plays behind his eyes. Diamond encircling his throat with a string of glass beads. 'All snakes display their colors'. Severen is quiet for a nearly a full minute as he stares down at the heart, the acronym inscription such a trademark sign of the one who has made it that it's like a physical imprint of her frozen in time.

Feeling uncomfortable suddenly in his sentimentality, the flesh eater clears his throat and shifts on the bedspread, chuckling awkwardly. "S'nice" he smiles through his teeth, setting the lid down so he can pick up the jewelry and examine the teeth; respecting the bloodstains that were unable to be entirely scrubbed out. "Hn, that's a quality crown", he admires the accessorized tooth, thinking of how he would have pried this out to make a pretty penny 'back in the day'. He's so caught up in this first item he nearly misses the second without her gesturing to it. A soft exhale passes his lips as puts the box down in his lap to use his other hand to snatch up the truly exquisite knife. Brightly shining eyes run the length of the handle in wordless praise of the excellent styling. The nearly soundless, 'snick' of the blade springing from its housing actually makes the hairs on his neck stand up. It is a thing of beauty. "This is..." he sighs, like a kid on Christmas having their belief reaffirmed in Ol' St. Nick. Severen is completely dumbfounded by materialistic wonder. "...S'nice" he says again, quiet, rotating his hand to watch the light radiate blindingly off the polished edge. Finally, his gaze slips off his presents and he locks his eyes onto Juliet's with radiant joy. "We still gotta couple hours right?" He hasn't said 'thank you', he hasn't given her praise, or stumbled over himself to show a physical sign of his gratitude, yet it is not presumption, or greed that causes him to do so; it is the very honest surprise at being the recipient of such things. Like any over eager youth-- or one who acts like he is in any regard-- he is simply bursting to show his new wonders to the world; forgetting that Juliet is the provider, merely wanting her to join in the fun. Without waiting, Severen stands up, the box now a forgotten vessel tumbling to the floor as he ( regretfully ) tucks the blade back into the sheath so he may pocket it. Clumsily, he unclasps the necklace and secures it around his throat. It falls in a familiar place, the pendant just in the center of his clavicle-- framed by the faint ridges of the molten fragments still housed in his skin-- fingers touching it faintly, as if affirming its weight; its pride of place. Feigning ignorance to his bathos, Severen speeds toward the door. "C'mon!" He encourages her with a nod of his head, ready to see just how sharp his new knife is on the first motherfucker he finds. Diamond would approve, that he's sure, and that is good enough for him.