#I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG

[incorrect-koh-posts]

First of all - love the blog! You posting KoH content always pleases me, and thank you especially for sharing what you write as that takes extra courage.

Now, headcanon asks! Raymond of Tripoli is my favourite character of the era as well, so I'm happy to see some bits about him here. Also great is the fact that you seem to vibe with him quite well! He would be pleased. Could you indulge me, please?

☼ - appearance headcanon ♒ - cooking/food headcanon ☆ - happy headcanon ■ -  Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

(When I had my car crash and a limp with it, he came to mind and that is just amusing in a way. The fact he's got one certainly makes me feel better about mine. I was warmed by the earlier post that said he doesn't mind his that much either.)

thanks!

Hi :) Thank you very much for your kind words, it really means a lot to hear that someone enjoys what I post here. Especially the non-Baldwin stuff. Good old Raymond has been living rent-free in my head for the past two years and simply refuses to leave, so I'm glad there are other people who like him and that I'm not screaming into the void like a raving lunatic.

Having a car crash sounds absolutely horrifying to me, though. I very much hope you are okay now. If not, then all my best wishes to you ❤ I've thankfully never had a limp or any serious health issues myself, so I'll limit myself to saying that I don't think these things are anything to be ashamed of. Claiming that they don't affect a person's life in some way would be lying, but we are all of us supposedly "damaged" in some way - whether inwardly or outwardly - and trying to make the best of it under our individual circumstances.

And I think that's why a lot of people feel drawn to the character of Baldwin (and, to a lesser extent, to Tiberias) in Kingdom of Heaven. It's the kind of "this man has been through a lot but he's still standing" mentality that they both exhibit. Which is particularly interesting in regard to Tiberias, since none of the historical sources ever mention Raymond having a limp or an old injury bothering him.

Anyway, sorry for the rant. I'm very happy to indulge you, so let's get on with the headcanon : )

RAYMOND III OF TRIPOLI (Part 2)

☼ Appearance

In terms of looks, Raymond knows he's been dealt a better hand than most other men. Tall and slim, he is rather handsome even after ten years of captivity; and even though his sharp, wolfish features and the scar marring the right side of his face can make him appear somewhat sinister, the soft brown eyes tell a different story. Still, while his height and harsh face have mostly served him well in politics and in war, Tiberias is quite aware that his appearance is not one that instantly inspires trust. The worst things he has heard others say on that topic over the years were that he looked "scrawny", "like a burnt carcass", and "older than he should be". He shrugged it off then; but sometimes, when he passes one of Sibylla's mirrors in the palace and catches a glimpse of his own reflection, he wonders at his crow's feet and the flecks of grey in his hair and for the life of him cannot fathom where all the years have gone.

In any case, he always makes sure he is well-dressed and well-groomed. (Though he wouldn't admit to it, even an old war horse like him isn't entirely exempt from vanity.) He may not be everyone's type, but Raymond knows there are still a not inconsiderable number of ladies among Sibylla's court that wouldn't say no to him. Despite the silver at his temples and his ill-sorted leg, he is, after all, rather ... well-preserved. So when he notices a lady trying to catch his eye, there is a good chance he'll take her up on the unspoken offer of some harmless teasing and flirting. Tiberias isn't the philanderer Godfrey was, but sometimes he is glad to be reminded that the boyish charm hasn't worn off entirely just yet.

♒ Cooking / Food

William of Tyre wrote about Raymond that he was very moderate in his eating and drinking habits, much more restrained than the average man. Considering that it is unclear how well he was treated during his time as a prisoner in Aleppo, it seems unlikely to me that he was a picky eater - you don't survive this long as a captive of the enemy if you're particular about food. So, while his time in captivity may have led Reynald of Châtillon to overeating, perhaps for Raymond things went in the opposite direction: making him regard food as a means to an end and not much more. He simply lacks the enjoyment that for most people comes with a good meal, especially when he's dining alone, and often has to remind himself to eat something or else he'd just forget.

While the European style of cooking isn't much to his taste, Raymond is rather fond of the Arabic cuisine and actually keeps a Saracen cook at Tripoli. He generally leans more towards spicy than towards sweet; but find him some atrocity like candied ginger and he'll happily lick the sugar crumbs from his beard like a cat that found the cream. Other than that, Tiberias likes a good wine as much as anyone. To his own chagrin, however, he gets tipsy quite easily and thus tends to limit himself to a cup or two before he begins to make a fool of himself. Godfrey has a wealth of stories on that matter from their younger days which he likes to tell at the most inopportune of times, claiming that "even a nun could drink you under the table, my friend". Tiberias denies everything.

☆ Happy

Raymond hasn't had the kindest of lives, so happiness isn't an emotion that comes easily to him - especially with the times being what they are, and the kingdom in such peril. Malicious gossip has it the Count of Tripoli is actually incapable of smiling: "With his dour face," they say, "surely he can't do aught but scowl". Which, of course, could hardly be further from the truth. Though, like any other lord of some importance, he tries to keep his temper in check around the clucking courtiers, Tiberias is a man who will openly show his happiness if he is in the right company. He is a man who likes to laugh and make merry; and perhaps he'd even be a happy man, if the circumstances were different.

There are many things that make this grumpy old knight happy. But seeing how used he is to doing things for other people, what he would probably appreciate the most would be someone doing something for him, for once. It could be something as simple as his lover helping him take off his boots after a long day; or a friend whisking him away from his duties for an afternoon spent in the city or the falconer's mews or exploring the countryside on horseback; or just a heart-felt thank you from someone for some advice Tiberias gave them. The possibilities are practically endless. (Another favourite of his, though a rare occurrence, is when someone at a courtly gathering gives him unmistakable signals that they'd like to dance with him, even though everybody knows full well that the Count of Tripoli dances like a three-legged donkey at best.)

Depending on the setting and situation, Raymond will definitely show the ones he's with that he is happy - and not merely by way of a twinkle in his eye. He can get downright giddy when the occasion allows for it. If he is really over the moon, he'll grin broadly and laugh his barking laugh, only to then either fiercely pat the closest man's back or sweep the nearest woman off her feet and into a very tight embrace. It happens rarely, but it does happen. He has heard from quite a few people over the years that one of their favourite things about him are the long, deep dimples that appear on either side of his mouth when he smiles.

■ Bedroom / House / Living Quarters

Raymond has quite a few dwellings, actually. There are his chambers at the palace of Jerusalem, plus very likely a house he keeps in the city for when he has guests of his own, then there is Castle Tiberias by the Sea of Galilee, and his ancestral home of Tripoli. Hence, a lot of space to decorate.

His living quarters at the royal palace are rather sparsely furnished; he seldom entertains visitors or spends much time there, and the state of his rooms reflects that he basically only comes there to sleep. They're nice enough - with painted tiles on the walls and gauzy curtains, ferns on the windowsills and flagstone floors that stay cool even in summer - but impersonal.

Castle Tiberias is Eschiva's domain; it's her home, after all, and since Raymond only married her about a dozen years ago, the place doesn't really say much about him, either. That's not to say that it isn't beautiful, though. As Eschiva's ancentors likely came from somewhere near Paris, the castle is more Norman in its architecture and interiors. Overlooking the Sea of Galilee, the castle gardens never lack for water, and the view of the lake at sunset, strewn with the tiny boats of the fishermen from the neighbouring villages, is quite a sight to behold. At night, with the wooden shutters flung open, Raymond falls asleep to the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, reminding him of home.

The Citadel of Saint-Gilles at Tripoli is the place closest to Raymond's heart. Built on Mons Peregrinus, you can see the dark waters of the Mediterranean from the top of its parapets, hear the seagulls cry and smell the salt in the air. With his parents constantly at odds with one another, it wasn't always a happy childhood that he spent there, but nowadays he often misses Tripoli and regrets not being able to go there more frequently. In terms of interiors, the citadel really leans into the mix of Eastern and European styles that also characterises the palace of Jerusalem. The colour scheme is much warmer, however: instead of the blue-ish hues which you'll find in Jerusalem, Tripoli is full of the reds and golds that make up the coat-of-arms of the Counts of Saint-Gilles. The rafters of the high rooms as well as a great deal of furniture are made from dark wood, and there are lots of eclectic fabrics and textures that Tiberias is actually rather fond of. In his private chambers, high up in one of the towers, Arabic elements dominate; he has a great carved four-poster bed that could do with some more pillows, and during winter nights, the lord of the house can often be found reading in one of the high-backed chairs, his long legs stretched out towards the crackling fireplace.

When left to his own devices, Tiberias does tend to be a bit of a clutterbitch, so his desk, side tables and even the mantelpiece are usually strewn with scrolls, seals, and papers and all sorts of other curiosities acquired here and there. He keeps his father's sword, which is too unwieldy for him to use, displayed on a wall in his solar; and most of the hangings found throughout the castle used to belong to his mother, depicting scenes from her favourite French chansons de geste. It may be a place of ghosts and memories now, belonging to an aging, heirless lord who is scarcely there, but to Raymond, Tripoli is still home.

Part 1 of the Raymond / Tiberias headcanons

Want to hear my headcanons for a KoH character of your choice? Have a look here : )

[shady-tavern]

hi! i just wanted to check, it's part three of vampire's lullaby out yet? i didn't see it, but you can't trust tumblr's search function lol

also just wanted to say that it's a lively story and i'm really enjoying all of your writings!!!

Hi there, I am terribly sorry for the incredibly late response! The last and final part of Vampire's Lullaby will be out tomorrow! I finished writing it just now and all that's left is editing and proof-reading!

And thank you so much, I'm very happy that you liked the story and that my writing is fun to read! =D

[fennecshandgf]

tagged by @persimmonbaby to post a book I've been reading with whatever trinkets i wanna add

so

featuring circe, a french book on egyptian history, my sketchbook, a candle, new scrunchies, handmade pencils, a letter i wrote, my fav earrings and ring, and a riceball made out of air-drying clay<3

tagging @madhyanas,.@altantrengsingf, @prophetgirl, @pyaarisms , @moskaisley, @howljenkinsgf, @dobaara and whoever wants to!

[babygirlwinters]

Where: Monarch Club

Who: Logan and @morirodare

The twins' birthday always felt like a contradiction. They were identical but...they weren't. Logan knew that better than anyone since her relationship with both of them was completely opposite from the other. But it meant that what one would like, usually the other hated. At least lately. Mik was always down for some drinks and dancing. Nate was more stuck in his head lately. The one thing they did have in common today was the awkwardness and that was really where Logan's motivation came from to throw a party. If nothing else, she was getting everyone drunk. Well, her siblings anyway. Their parents had dinner with them but called it a night early leaving their children to their own devices.

By the time they had reached the Monarch, Logan had drank far too much. She was on the very edge of everything being hilarious but she wouldn't remember it in the morning. And it sounded like an excellent idea to buy one of her brothers a dance. Nate would kill her, metaphorically, but Mik...he would love it. Or at least find the humor in it.

Logan bounced up to one of the dancers that looked close to her brothers type, sort of, as best she could see anyway. "Hey you are gorgeous. Are you free? Could you maybe help me out with something?"

[sturgeonposting]

Gingerbread sturgeon

HES BEAUTIFUL AND HE MIMICS THE LIFE CYCLE AND GROWTH OF THE GENUS HUSO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[shmaroace]

don't get me wrong, i love all the positivity around being aro, like "be proud of being aro!! love who you are!!", but we never talk about how hard it is to reach that spot. so here's to the aros who are still trying to understand themselves, who aren't proud of who they are yet, who are still coming to terms with their new identity.

[egophiliac]

Serious question.

Do you think we’ll see the parents/family of each of the guys???

Like, We’ve been TEASED with Ace’s brother, that I’m starting to think it’s just a reference to that Alice in Wonderland park character in Japan and nothing else….

Jack’s family, Ruggie’s grandma, Falena, Maleficia, Ms.Rosehearts, Just now Vil’s dad is in the picture which I am really happy but now I’m wondering about his mom, and so Deuce’s mom.

I mean, some HAVE a silhouette!! It could mean they do have a design in the making/ready to show. They could’ve shown us Falena in the Tamashina (hope I said that correctly) event, but didn’t (prolly to make Leona not so σ(▼□▼メ) and it’s understandable)

Anyhow, any idea/headcannon about this? Who do you want to see first?

I'm wondering if everyone might eventually get a travel event? like they've now introduced with Vil's that it doesn't have to be specifically hometowns, so that opens things up a lot! (especially if they have to figure out how to do three separate Coral Sea visits) (how would that even work otherwise)

but yeah, I hope everyone gets a chance! there's a lot of backstory characters I would LOVE to meet. :D :D :D though I do think some of them don't really suit the more light-hearted tone of the events (pretty sure you're right about that being why Falena wasn't in Tamashina-Mina, that would've just been. too much for Leona.) so like...we're probably not ever going to meet the Rosehearts. or Maleficia (although I maintain that this would be THE funniest possible way to introduce her outside of the main story, and actually I would love this a lot, can we please Twst) (I need to see her to put Malleus in a froofy little outfit and tell him what a handsome boy he is). but they've sprung surprises like Kifaji on us, and honestly anyone who shows up and tells embarrassing stories about characters' childhoods is good in my book!

characters off the top of my head who I most want to meet: literally any of the Zigvolts, Azul's mom, Ace's brother, Che'nya's grandfather (<- I think he would be a good one for Riddle) (please just any non-terrible adult in his life), any member of Rook's family because I need to see how they managed to produce him, and...really just whoever they can come up with for Silver.

[ask-queen-arti]

(the ask box is open!)

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

i'll melt your heart into two @jkvjimin ♡

[bellamyblakru]

why do we continue to love bbc merlin over a decade after it's finale?

for the lovely @aemelia who made me giggle, and for @eddiediaaz, a very belated birthday gift because my writing is absolutely garbage and you deserve only the fuckin best of me. i love you, and i hope the next year of your life is nothing but beautiful and fun and everything good--you deserve the world, i'm sorry i can only give you this lil thing.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

ORV is about enduring the horrors in real time.

(for @everyonesfavoritebastard)

[leenope]

cute hyunjin with cute pups for my beloved @jinniebit

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

Doc is really, really, really tired of getting dragged into things.

That’s the problem with this server: he tries to do his own thing, but people cannot leave him alone. No matter what he does to deter them, whether that be harmless threat or psychological warfare, they always come back to dance on his metaphorical lawn. Or actual lawn. Or precious one-of-a-kind bush.

And at this point, he thought he had gotten used to all the shenanigans. He doesn’t want to be the grumpy old man amongst his friends and colleagues, so Doc tries to laugh it off, not take it so seriously. Occasionally, he’ll even join in on the jokes and put a little extra pizzazz into his mannerisms. Doc has his limits, of course, everyone does, but he’s been working on pushing those limits further for the past while.

So when Beef makes the joke about Big Salmon on day one, he joins in on it for the moment. It’s a good joke, really. It gets a hearty laugh out of him more than once. The joke is made, people laugh, Doc is included, he moves on and goes back to doing his own thing.

Honestly, he doesn’t even remember what he said. The joke should’ve been a one-and-done, forgotten after a week’s time. Whatever he said should’ve been inconsequential. Should be. Beef’s not one to drag out a bit for that long, usually, but here he is, dressed as a salmon and saying he got emails from a fish. Doc is utterly clueless throughout most of it- he doesn’t even understand what constituted him getting dragged in this time. And the way Beef and Skizz are talking is scaring him, just a little bit. Skizz is too aggressive, Beef is laying down the charmspeak, and both of their eyes are glossy and strange. There’s a hollow echo in the room.

But Doc, absurd as this is, plays along. Watches as one of his villagers gets killed. Lets nervous laughter through as he’s given 10 salmon heads, and leaves. When he gets back to his base out in the middle of nowhere, he realizes that these aren’t normal salmon heads, they’re worse: deformed, many-eyed, slimy and reeking of rot. And while this isn’t the strangest thing Doc has seen, as far as he knows, Beef isn’t one for game-breaking like he is. The deformities on the heads don’t even look player made. Whatever this is, it’s bizaarre, and it’s not something Doc wants to be involved in.

Then the whispers start.

He doesn’t do what he’s asked—build a shrine for whatever Big Salmon is—initially. He lets it be for a bit, shrugs it off, and keeps building. But it’s hard to focus when you can’t sleep—in his dreams he’s drowning, sinking deeper and deeper, sea life surrounding him and screaming and he’s screaming too as a pair of eyes stare him down—and when you can’t get a moment of quiet. He keeps hearing that damn slapping sound and little nothings about shrine schematics, block pallets, glorious statues. The air starts reeking of rot, far more than a swamp should. Strange slime crawls up the scaffolding that he keeps slipping on.

And this is why Doc is tired: Big Salmon is not his first rodeo. This isn’t the first time something has grabbed hold of his soul and tried to puppeteer it to his own demise. This isn’t even the scariest thing he’s come across- he still dreams of watching himself rip his own arm off. He knows gods and entities like he knows redstone, all the intricacies of magic that weave through the universe. They want to be satisfied, satiated. Doc will not give whatever Big Salmon is that satisfaction, not for long.

So he puts up with the rot, the slime, the dreams. Keeps the salmon heads, perpetually grotesque, in a chest where he can see them. Gives them a minuscule in: blueprints are crafted of the shrine he is meant to build, dying leaves are placed and waterlogged, copper is bent and formed into a worthless statue. The sky is cloudy. The sky has been cloudy all week, swamp air thick with the smell of rotting fish. He gives Beef a call, tells him to bring Skizz along.

When what should be Doc’s friend arrives, he is more fish than man. The tinnitus-like whisper of the thing trying to get him reaches a roar as he gives Beef a look over- there is no telling where the suit ends and the skin begins, all scaled, slimy and opalescent. Skizz, on the contrary, is looking relatively normal; the only strange thing about him are his glazed over eyes. Something about that makes Doc queasy about his plan, but he swallows the bile rising in his throat and steels himself, forces himself to be calm. This is not his first rodeo.

Doc’s faked smile doesn’t fail him as he leads Beef and Skizz to the statue. It doesn’t fail him as he hands the last rotting head to Beef for him to place, on top of an over-polished button. His grin only widens as Skizz counts down his boss pressing the button.

With a single button press, the voices that have taken residence in Doc’s head are wiped out, as are Skizz and Beef: bloody…fish…bits fly high into the sky when they fall into the exploding trap. There is a deafening boom, and then there is Doc, unscathed, laughing wickedly, organic eye sparkling with mania. Gods never win against him. There is no winning against the goat.

And finally, with the threat of Big Salmon defeated, Doc can finally rest. After all, he is incredibly tired.

[lunapegasus]

Your Chaos Shadow gives me Snapcube Shadow vibes, and I don’t know how to feel about that

anon you are so fucking right and correct

[ghouljams]

A Fair Trade (A First Date) Word Count: 2.7k Tags: Price x oc/reader, minor descriptions of reader but only if you really squint, fluff, first date awkwardness Summary: The Witch promised Price dinner and by God he's going to be fed. Price promised her a date, and that makes this whole thing a little harder.

You are trying and failing not to think of tonight as a date. 

You've been on dates. Not good ones, and they never came to your house, but you've been on dates. You were never this nervous before. You smooth your hands over your apron, trace the embroidery with your fingers before you pat your thighs to stop your fidgeting. You're going to change while the meat is still cooking, your usual work clothes feel too plain. 

It’s painfully clear you don’t dress up often as you look through your closet. Actually it might be more accurate to say you have no concept of dressy vs too dressy. Your usual uniform is casual to you, but you often have clients tell you, you look nice. Whatever that means. You shake your head and grab whatever is clean, staring at the coven clothes in the back of your closet. Too fancy. You twist the little pearl buttons on your blouse into their holes, and make a face in the mirror. It’s all too obvious you’re trying to look nice for someone.

It’s the silhouette, you think, the nipped waist and tight skirt. You huff and don’t bother to do the last few buttons, searching around your drawers for something more casual. You think you have a pair of jeans somewhere. You know your sister has tried to force denim on you enough times. God, this skirt makes everything so much harder, you’re not used to clothing sitting so close to your body. 

Fuck everything you’re changing, you’ll wear one of your dresses it’ll be fine.

There’s a solid knock on your front door, your wards light up excitedly. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg for it to not be Price. You know it is. You’ll just have to tell him to wait while you finish getting ready, slipping on a pair of heels as you make your way to the curved oak door.

You tug the door open, feeling more than a little frazzled. Everything is already going wrong and now you don’t have any time to fix it. Price smiles down at you, he looks the same as always. Fantastic, once again you’re overdressed. You step to the side, bid him a quiet “please come in” and hold the door for him. He slips his hat --your hat-- from his head as he steps inside. His eyes drag over your body in a way that makes you feel far too exposed.

"Did you dress up for me?" He asks, you feel a little silly the way he says it.

"You said this was a date," which makes you feel even sillier to say. 

“I did say that,” Price hums, reaches towards you, gentle fingers finish buttoning your shirt. You tip your head back instinctively for him as he twists the satin ribbon tie at the collar into a neat bow. Your breath sticks in your throat, the gesture far too intimate for a first date. “Are you nervous, sweetheart?” His fingers caress your throat and you snap your chin down, take a step back before your heart can jump out of your chest. You suppose changing is out of the question now.

“No,” Liar, “should I be?”

“Probably not,” You hate how he smiles at you, with just barely contained amusement, it’s far too charming. 

“You know to behave yourself,” You turn away from him to go check on your roast, “otherwise the wards will throw you out just like last time.”

“Last time,” He mumbles, and you feel yourself wince, the ache in your chest at his tone. You shouldn’t have brought it up. Price is quiet, you’re not exactly used to him being quiet. You can feel him, his magic like a still lake, deep dark waters hardly stirring the secrets at the bottom. You still glance over your shoulder to make sure he’s actually in the house when he’s gone too long in silence.

He’s looking around your living room, picking up framed pictures and smiling down at the happy faces. His eyes dart to the wood beams of your ceiling, to the overstuffed couch, the knitted afghans, nothing you find terribly interesting. All of your materials are kept closer to the kitchen. If he wanted to snoop he should’ve chosen one of your glass cabinets, not your bookshelf. You shrug and pull your ceramic pot from the oven, you don’t have anything that needs to be hidden.

You settle your main on the counter and go to grab plates. You figure you can get dinner plated while he’s busy putting his scent all over everything. You can feel his magic clinging to whatever he’s touched. It’ll take you weeks to get it fully out of your house. You try not to think about the magical cleaning you’ll have to do when he leaves, focusing instead on slicing thick cuts off the bread you’d baked earlier.

Your grandmother would be quite proud of you for all the cooking you’ve done. Everything is fresh and cooked to perfection. It’s quite a nice plate if you do say so yourself: warm bread, tender meat with a rich thick sauce, and roasted vegetables with just a hint of char. Everything smells of warm herbs and careful preparation. Cooking is a magic in and of itself, one you’re thankful you had a good teacher for. 

You grab both plates to set at their respective places on your table. Not exactly formal dining, but then again your family has never been a formal dining sort of people. Still, you have the prerequisite candles, wine, cloth napkins and butterflies in your stomach. You look for Price, finally having made his way to your curio cabinet. He turns a pair of dragonfly wings over in his hand.

“Dinner’s ready,” You raise your voice enough to be sure he’ll hear you over whatever he’s thinking. He settles the wings back in their place as he looks at you. His eyes drift down to the table.

“You served me,” Price sounds, almost confused, but- hm, indulgent, maybe. His voice is thick with something you haven’t heard before, deeper in his chest than it usually is. Something about it makes you want to touch him, conjures the feeling of sitting on his lap as you take your own seat.

“You’re my guest,” You tell him, “I’m a good host.”

“So you are,” He pulls his designated chair out to sit, and pauses again, leaning to pick up the fork you’d laid out for him. “This is fairy made,” He twists the intricate wooden utensil between his fingers, you nod.

“You’re not the only fae I deal with,” You pick up your own fork, the wood curves comfortably in your hand.

“Apparently,” Price smiles, finally sitting, “anyone I should be jealous of?” You snort.

“I should hope not. If I had to deal with anyone half as stubborn as you-” You shake your head, clear the sentence from your thoughts, “Besides I rarely cook for others. Too much-” you wave your hand, “idle magic to keep track of.”

Price hums. What you want to tell him is that cooking is such a labor of love, that it’s almost impossible to serve anything to anyone who isn’t going to stick around. That clearing your intent and keeping it clear the whole time you cook is far more than what a normal person has to go through, even if they’re just making toast. That every recipe seems to call for the same herbs that love and health spells call for, and you’ve never been able to shut your brain off from the association. That even sharing a meal with your friends makes you worry you’ll accidentally put a spell on them, and they’ll never trust what you give them again. That even though you love cooking you never stop being a witch, putting magic into everything that touches you.

Price watches you, your faux casual air. You know he has a better nose than your mundane friends, you dread to hear if your food smells like a spell. His eyes are so warm as you meet his gaze. It always surprises you that such an icy blue could be anything but cold, and yet.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me,” He says, picking up his knife and beginning to slice through the meat on his plate. You open your mouth to refute it, and grab your wine to sip instead. There’s no point in lying when it’s so painfully clear.

Wood, ceramic, copper, your kitchen seems almost made for fae comfort in its current state. Not a lick of iron anywhere it could’ve infected the food. 

Instead you flick your wrist, your little record player excitedly switching itself on and carefully setting its needle on your pre-approved vinyl. You let the machine deal with the fiddly bits as your magic works to try and even itself out around the traces Price has left. 

“I promised you a meal, you should be able to eat it,” You finally manage, doing your best to focus on your own food when your stomach is twisting itself into knots. 

“Thank God for that,” Price tells you, “if I can’t eat you, at least I can eat your food.” You both watch the candles burst in crackling flames, bright enthusiastic licks of fire that you do your best to calm down. Magic reacting to your emotions. The record player skips a beat with your fluttering heart. “Cute,” He says it so casually, like your flames don’t crackle with his every word.

“Shut up,” You grumble.

If you’d thought dinner would be the hardest part of the evening you were horribly wrong. Dinner is easy. You’ve taken tea with Price enough times, had enough conversations with him, that you find it easy to fall into your familiar groove. Though you can feel time passing, can hear the soft click and chime of your clocks, you get lost talking. Before you know it hours have passed. Your candles burned down, your plates clean, the previously full bottle of wine neatly polished off. You think your record has reset itself at least once.

It’s nice, comfortable. Price always gives you his full attention, listens without simply waiting for his turn to speak, and you return the favor. Although with how intelligent he is, it would be hard not to give him your full attention. This date thing is easy. You don’t know why you were so worried.

All of your awkward anxiety rushes at you as you stand at the door. You’ve never been good at ending dates, and you’ve never had a date go well with someone you’re- Well you suppose you can admit that you like Price more than you should. Like him enough to hesitate the ending. You stare at him, trying to get a read on his mood, trying to silently ask him to do something. Please tell me how this is supposed to end, you think at him.

“You have to tell me if you want something little witch,” He smiles down at you. 

"Would you kiss me?" You don't know what else to say, how else this could possibly go. You want him to kiss you more than anything. You had it once, and you haven't stopped thinking about it since. Price smiles, and pulls you into his arms.

He kisses you and it's nothing like it was last time. The blind panic is gone for one. It's slow and soft, it's not perfect, you don't know what to do with your hands or really what to do with your mouth, but it doesn't matter. Price kisses you like he never wants to do anything else, like the world can wait for him to finish. You're warm from the dinner and you can feel it bleed into the kiss. His beard tickles a little but the way he holds you and the soft slide of his lips make everything else melt away. 

When he pulls away you can still feel the phantom press of his lips against yours, and it makes giddy bubbles pop in your ribs and across your cheeks. You want to kiss him again. Price smiles and brushes your hair back, his rough calloused fingers gentle as they skate across your skin. You really must be greedy to want so much more of him. You try to coach yourself, too much of a good thing blah blah blah.

He cups the back of your head and kisses you again. Soft, soft, soft. You didn't know kissing someone would feel like this. You've seen movies, read books, but you'd thought those must be exaggerations. When you'd kissed him before it had been so insistent, all teeth and tongue as he tried to devour you. If you'd thought he was trying to steal you away then you can't even imagine what he's trying to do now. Your chest clenches tight, pulls taught, bursts with gnawing desire, you think you might be trying to steal him, or at least convince him you're worth staying for.

Not that he needs convincing, you are more than worth staying for. You're so sweet and warm from the wine. Your lips are plush against his and your pretty little fingers hold onto him so tightly, he wouldn't leave you if the whole court called him. There's a slight tang of alcohol on your lips that makes your kiss all the sweeter. 

Your hands slide to his shoulders as you press up on your toes, press closer against him. He wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you flush against his chest. As if he could keep you any closer, feel any more of your warmth. Oh you sweet thing, if he could sink into you he would, each honeyed kiss, each gentle breath, plucking at the last string of his resolve. Precious darling, do you even know how well loved you are?

You pull back, turn your head so his next kiss just catches the edge of your mouth. Price is ravenous for you, sliding his lips to your jaw, he can smell your pulse, the soft powdery rose of your perfume. How could he still be so hungry after eating? He can feel the syrup drip of your magic down his spine, languid and entirely too enticing. Actually, everything in the house seems to tremble just on the edge of your breaths, seems to weigh heavy against his shoulders, anticipatory. 

It’s not just his hunger, is it?

His lips still against your neck. No, it’s yours as well. He can smell it, taste it on your skin, your want. You’re a spell, as much as you try not to be, just begging to be adored. You’re nervous. He pulls back, takes in the pout of your lips, the draw of your brows, wanting but unsure. He can’t. You deserve better than just hungry wanting. You should rest safe in the knowledge that he won’t leave in the morning.

Unfortunately that morning won’t come tomorrow.

Price strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead. It’s the end of an exchange, a decision made for both of you. you thought he’d be pushier. He was getting what he wanted, right? Maybe that was your own inexperience shining through, but you’d thought- Well you’d thought this was why he wanted you.

“What now?” You ask, trying to hide the confusion in your voice.

“Now?” He sighs it like it pains him, “Now, I leave, and you see me tomorrow.” You can’t say you aren’t relieved. Grateful that he isn’t pushing you for more so quickly. Still, you can’t help feeling a small sting of rejection.

"Even if I ask you to stay?" You push up onto your toes to try and meet his lips again, but he leans back to keep you a breath away.

"Especially if you ask." He tilts his head, and you feel like you’ve edged too close to a dangerous line. "When I fuck you," Price breathes, brushes his lips against yours, "and I will fuck you, Sweetheart," he assures you, "I want it to mean something.” He brushes your hair from your cheek, his fingers cupping your face like you’re something precious to him.

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow?” You hope. Price smiles, and kisses you a final time. The feeling of him lingers when he pulls away. Gentle magic sticking to your lips as he pulls his hat on.

“And every day after that,” He promises.

[missviviii]

pls i’m so desperate for a mizu x prostitute !reader where the reader is all flirty and touchy (like in that one scene where those two girls were trying to seduce mizu in episode one.)

a/n: aaaaah I’m so sorry for the late response 😭 my week has been hectic so far and I’m running on 1% brain power.

.

“You’re quite the sight, hm?”

summary: a lovely samurai visits a tea house you work at. you’re one of the less popular girls there, but you managed to capture her attention.

warning(s): some small nfsw parts, swearing

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“Ugh, girl. Do you ever plan on putting more effort into your looks?” You rolled her eyes, ignoring the girl’s words. Of course you did put some effort into your looks, you were required to do so anyways. You just weren’t obsessive over it like the rest. You smear the red tint onto your lips as you stared at your reflection in the mirror.

It was another busy night, which unfortunately meant all hands on deck. You stood up, straightening out your kimono and making sure your hair was nice and perfect. Inhaling a deep breath, you slid open the door and entered the room where all the girls were in.

“Ugh, there’s this samurai who won’t taking any of us! Seriously, does this guy have any interest in the beginning?” Ah, a samurai? Usually men come here to not be all manly, usually craving sex and shit. You’ve unfortunately had to deal with them, though you must admit, some of them weren’t bad if they had decency.

“Hey, why don’t you give it a shot? We’ve been working our asses off and you’ve only been with, what, four customers this night?” One of them suggested, to which you loudly exhale in annoyance. Seriously, more work?

Finally, you nodded, at least agreeing to give a shot at it. “Fine, but don’t blame me if I ditch him.”

You hummed, carrying a teapot in the tray you were holding. You gently knocked on the door, waiting for a response. “Come in,” a voice said, to which you complied and slid open the door. You plastered on a smile on your red lips, kneeling down as you set the teapot on the table. A samurai, clad in baggy clothing and orange tinted glasses and a scarf around his neck.

“Hello, sir, would you like some tea? You must be exhausted from your travels,” you hummed, elegantly pouring tea into his cup. His eyes looked very intently at you, observing your every action. It was as if he could see through you, but you found him to be…attractive.

As he sipped the tea, you stood up, striding over to his side and leaning in close to his ear. “You must be so..tired, right? Why don’t I take care of you?” Your voice dropped to a seductive level, your fingers sliding under her scarf and trickling against her skin. Mizu’s breath hitched ever so slightly, even surprising her to see that you’ve managed to render her speechless for even a moment. Your hands kept traveling further, tugging off her cloak while you stayed close to her.

Mizu was burning at this point, face red and hands sweaty from your delicate touch along her body. “A-Ah..no need. I am fine,” Mizu managed to say, embarrassed by her stuttering. How can someone make her feel this way? You tilted your head to the side, seeing the samurai look away from you. Is this what the girls were saying? The unshakable samurai who refused any girls?

You tilted his head back towards you, pulling him by the chin and looking up into the samurai’s eyes with great interest. “Do you not like the company of me? Or any of the girls?” You asked. You moved closer, pushing the samurai down and climbing on top of him. “It’s not very nice to look away when I’m talking to you, sir.”

Her chest rises up and down, her breathing already getting so heavy. You on top of her? Looking like that? Mizu was internally panicking. “Just wanted a place to stay for the night. I must leave tomorrow—“ you suddenly slid off her glasses, revealing her blue eyes. Mizu thought you’d push her away, scared of her different eyes. But no, you looked down at her with interest, hands traveling up her chest.

“What pretty eyes. Why do you hide them behind glasses?” You murmured, leaning down close to her. Mizu took a moment of silence, staring up into your eyes. Holy fucking hell, you’ve got her whipped. You didn’t even get an answer to her question before she pulled your face in close and forcibly kissed you.

She flipped you over, now the samurai was straddling you while pinning your hands above your head. “Fucking hell..I have never met someone like you,” Mizu muttered, her other hand lifting up your chin to meet her gaze. Your lipstick was smudged a bit, and your face was flustered. You managed to crack the piece of ice, but now it’s getting its revenge on you for tempting it.

“I suppose I can make the most of this, hm?” That was all Mizu said before she pried off your kimono.

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