#and replies / starters...tomorrow perhaps?

[vaya-writes]

Infernal Assistance (Option Four) - 2

You’ve been struggling to survive in a zombie apocalypse. Things are looking really bad before a demon swoops in to help. But that demon is an incubus. And he’s in need of help too.

-

Reader (GNC pronouns, AFAB, asexual spectrum) x incubus (cis male). Situationship. Allies to lovers. Zombie apocalypse AU. Banner by saradika-graphics. Wordcount: 2300.

Content Warnings: apocalypse setting, discussion and mild depiction of malnourishment, light discussion of sex, off screen implied violence and gore.

Masterlist - A03 - Previous

You might have felt self conscious inviting a strange demon into your cramped little apartment, if you weren’t so hungry. 

Gesturing him in behind you, you don’t even spare him a glance as you make a beeline to your pantry. There’s an open packet of crackers inside, a tupperware container of oats, and four small tins of assorted vegetables left.  

You don’t touch the crackers. Even stale, they can be eaten. You decide on a tin of beans today. If the fridge still worked you could ration out perhaps six meals from the tin (a bite and a half, three times a day, for two days). But you don’t want to get food poisoning on top of everything. So you’d consume the whole tin over the course of twenty four hours. Today’s lunch and dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast. Three full bites per meal. Approximately.  

Your hands shake as you remove the pull-lid from the tin. You’re careful not to spill a drop of bean juice, bringing the rim to your lips and drinking. Your stomach clenches at the flavour and you take your time eating. You don’t know how long somebody has to forgo eating before reintroduction of foods becomes difficult. 

You make sure to chew each bean, even as you grimace at the flavour; they’re not something you enjoy eating by themselves. And when a third of the food is gone, you pull out your makeshift foil lid and fasten it over the tin. You put the food back in the pantry. 

“Food’s scarce for you too, huh?” Your guest speaks. 

You don’t reply for a minute. Your hands are still shaking. You’d like to go and lie down. To sleep off the rest of this awful day. But there’s still an important conversation to be had. So you take a deep breath and turn to face the demon. 

“Are you going to stay?” 

The demon stills for a moment. Perhaps surprised by your bluntness. Before relaxing. Gesturing to the couch.  

You sit, your knees drawn up to create a barrier between you and the demon when he perches on the other end of the couch. He’s massive, and takes up most of the available space. 

“You’ll let me feed on you?” 

You’ve already come to terms with that. If the incubus stays, you’ll have to keep him fed. But there’s no point in keeping him around just to watch you starve. He’ll need to earn his keep. And today, you negotiate how. 

“If you help me in turn.” 

He seems to sense your seriousness, and pivots to properly face you. “What do you need?” 

“For starters? Protection. From zombies. Thieves. Any other external threats.” 

He nods. “Simple enough. What else?” 

“I’ll need supplies. Food. Water. Potentially medicine. I’m willing to scavenge, but not alone.” 

Something in his face twitches. An expression masked. But he nods again. “I can play bodyguard. That all?” 

You consider your plan for the future. What you would have done, ideally, if you were braver. If there were less zombies in your building. If you were desperate. Or reckless.  

“Last request. I want you to head to ground floor and pick up the keys to the other apartments. A master key if you can find one. And then I want help clearing the zombies from them.” 

The demon crosses his arms. There’s that twitch in his face again, before he bites his lip. “This is a big building.” 

“And I’d like to clear it. One floor at a time. It’ll be the safest way to scavenge too.” 

“The husks might come back upstairs when we rest.” 

“We’ll build barricades.” 

He narrows his eyes. “You’ve thought this through.” 

“I’ve had little else to do.” 

There’s silence for a moment. You think he’s considering. But you keep talking. “Originally, I would have had to do this to open apartments only. But if they’re open, it’s probably for a bad reason. I doubt they’d be safe. If you get those keys for me, I can be more thorough, we won’t have to travel as far, I could create safe rooms on multiple floors... There’s a lot of advantages to bringing the whole building under our control.” 

He tilts his head. “You were planning to do this all along?” 

“No. Maybe. There was an even spread before. A zombie or two on each floor. It seemed more doable.” 

“Before you went and caused a horde.” 

You scowl. “I did no such thing. Somebody else entered the stairwell that day. Started screaming their head off.” 

He stares. It makes you a little uncomfortable the way he examines you, seemingly mulling over your request. Before finally, he shrugs. 

“I’ll help. But I won’t be of any use if I’m weak. We should discuss payment.” 

You can appreciate his bluntness. Even if the topic makes you uncomfortable.  

“I assume you mean sex.” 

“Or sexual acts, yes.” 

It’s hard to meet his gaze. You stare at his coat instead. “How often do you need to..?” 

His hesitation is slight, but you do notice it. 

“Once every day.” 

You try not to frown. Glance at his face. “I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but is that safe?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’ll be taking my energy, right? I’m already malnourished. Is it medically safe for you to feed on me that often?” 

His hesitation is more prominent this time. He lets out a sigh. “You’re right, it’s not ideal.” 

You don’t know how to reply to that. Just wait for him to continue. 

“I’ll be careful not to take much. We can play it by ear. Skip a day every now and then, if you need one.” 

You nod. Things are making sense, but you still have questions. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“What would you like to do,” his reply is almost instantaneous, a hint of suggestiveness slipping into his tone. 

You try not to wince, but he spots your reaction.  

“What?” 

You shake your head. You don’t want to discuss your sexual preferences with a stranger right now. “Can we get into that later? I just want to know what’s expected. Or needed. I don’t mean to... insult you, I guess, but what is the minimum?” 

He stares for another moment. An indecipherable expression on his face while he, you assume, tries to read you.  

He tilts his head and shrugs, that suggestiveness gone. “I feed on your pleasure. If I were healthy and well fed, the absolute minimum would be sitting in the room next to you while you wank. But to start with, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You’re not the only one who’s malnourished.” 

“Do I need to get off?” 

Another long stare. It’s an effort to not feel judged, but he’s entirely professional when he replies.  

“Is that something you struggle with?” 

You really don’t want to have this conversation with a stranger. But if you’re going to be living with him, relying on him... you should probably be honest. Secrets and dishonesty don’t make for a firm foundation in a relationship.  

Not to mention, he’ll probably notice when you struggle. There’s no point in hiding it. 

But you can’t meet his eyes when you nod. 

He sighs. 

At the noise you can’t help but stiffen. Your jaw locks and you stare intently at a spot on the ground. 

This is usually a point of contention in any sexual relationship you have. That and your inconsistent sex drive. You wouldn’t be surprised if the demon were exasperated. Angry.  If his next words invalidate you, or if he’s going to act like being an incubus will magically fix your sexual woes.  

“What’s your name, pet?” 

You’re taken aback at the gentleness to his tone. It takes a moment before you can find your voice and tell him. 

“Charmed. You can call me Veron.” He offers his hand to shake, brevity lifting the tension for a moment when you take it. 

But his smile soon disappears as he sits back and looks serious. Addresses you by your name, before, “I’ll take what you can give me. An orgasm is like a solid meal, but as you know, it’s possible to survive on scraps. It will just take longer to get me up to full strength.” 

You swallow. Nod again.  

“There anything else you think I should know?” 

You shrug. You’re feeling pretty done with this conversation. Eye contact is getting harder. Conjuring up full sentences feels monumental. “Maybe. Probably. Nothing that’s a deal breaker, I don’t think.” 

He offers another smile, uses a casual tone. “You don’t prefer women?” 

“Uh-” 

“No particular revulsion towards demons or monsters?” 

You shake your head. “No strong preference. To either point.” 

He smiles a little more cheerfully. “Great! We can go over limits and boundaries and wants later if you like. But for now, would you say we have a deal?” 

You take a breath. “Yeah.” 

His smile stretches wider, and he places his hand over his chest. “I’ll keep you safe, scavenge with you, and help you clear this building. In return, you’ll feed me once each day, unless it becomes medically unsafe for you to do so. Yes?” 

You shake his outstretched hand once more. “Yes." 

“Then it’s a deal.” 

- 

You give Veron a brief tour of the apartment. The bathroom. The open plan living area/kitchen/lounge.  You show him the reservoir in the bathtub and teach him your water usage rules. The water stopped running when the power was cut. Since then, you've had to dole out your reservoir using a measuring cup whenever you need to do hand washing, or your occasional sponge bath.  

You don’t know how the zombie virus is transmitted, so you’ve been hesitant to drink any of the tap water. Instead, you rely on your store-bought reserves. You’d been down to a single bottle when you’d set up catchment on the roof.  

Veron surprises and absolutely thrills you with his display of prestidigitation. A snap of his fingers and the blood and viscera coating him disappears. Another snap and your layers of sweat and dust and grime vanish into the ether.  

Knowing that he’s capable of basic magic and needs only energy to fuel it is a weight off your mind. If anything, it’s more motivation to keep the demon fed. 

You offer him the couch as a bed. You don’t actually know if demons need to sleep. Some do – dreamers for instance. But aside from the sex stuff, you’ve no clue about the physiology of concubi.  

Lastly you take down the evacuation poster. Show him the map of the building. There are some amenities on the first floor, along with a maintenance room. The remaining six are dedicated to housing. One stairwell snakes up the side of the building, an elevator shaft sits at the other end, and hanging down the outside is a rickety and broken fire escape. 

You don’t know if the spare keys are kept on site, but if you’re lucky there might be copies somewhere. Checking the pockets of the local dead might be another option to find some. 

Veron process this information, and with a glance towards the window stands.  

“Okay. Today I’ll search the first floor. And make sure none of the husks in the stairwell will get back up.” 

You don’t want to dwell on what he means by that. You hadn’t realised that there were surviving zombies on the stairs. But you walk him to the door and wish him luck regardless. And then you’re left alone. 

- 

The sun has dipped well beyond the horizon when Veron returns. It’s dark and you have to light a candle before you open the door. He’s covered in sweat and blood, looking quite disgruntled; face set in a scowl.  

“You alright?” 

“Fine,” he grumbles, snapping away any blood splatter before stepping into your apartment. 

His posture is tense, and his jaw is set. It's obvious he’s in a bad mood. 

“Did something happen?” 

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a handful of keys, dropping them onto the counter with a sneered irreverence. “These were a pain to collect.” 

“Oh?” 

He shakes his head. “Don’t ask. I’ll just get mad.” 

You’re not one hundred percent, but you’re pretty sure he’s not directly mad at you. It’s a relief, and you’re able to crack a smile. “Got it. Thanks for this.” 

He waves the comment off, before rolling his shoulders. Gradually losing some of his stiffness. “What now?” 

You hold up your candle. “I’d like to save these for emergencies. And it’s too dark for me to see. So, I’m going to turn in for the night. I’ve made the couch up for you. I don’t know if you sleep or whatever but...” you trail off.  

He glances at the couch, at the blanket and cushions you’ve set out, and nods. “Sure. I’ll just... be here then. Until tomorrow.” 

You conjure up a polite smile. “Until tomorrow.”  

You put the candle out before heading to your room. Briefly wonder if you should lock your door before doing so. Sure, he could probably break it down if really wanted. But it puts your mind at ease.  

You let out a groan as you sink into your bed. Your back fucking hurts. It’s so good to be on a mattress, using a pillow. Enough so that even with all the trepidation, all the anxiety circling your thoughts, you’re soon out like a light. 

-

Next (to come)

[sweetmage]

Many Things (Gale/M!Tav fanfic)

Rating: G Word Count: 1,766 Tags: Awkward flirting, secret identity, drow Tav

Summary: Though the other partygoers have made it clear they don't wish to share Rhidyl's company, he'd prefer to spend his time with Gale anyway. After all, Gale promised he'd share his list of all of Rhidyl's best attributes, but Rhidyl has a few hidden traits of his own to bring to light.

Notes: I just wanted to write a little thing for them. See replies for more context for Rhidyl's motivations + info/sources about the drow words used :)

"Were I to recite that list," Gale began, fumbling his words through an earnest grin, "I fear we'd still be here at dusk tomorrow. Many things, I assure you, but a conversation better saved for another time."

Rhidyl exhaled through the nose, head cocked in disapproval. "If I'd any good sense I'd think you were trying to be rid of me." 

"No," Gale responded in quick defense, hands raised and waving in a flurry, "No, never. I just thought you may wish to return to the others, mingle, enjoy the festivities."

"Would that they would have me,” he shifted, arms folded over his chest, “but they've all seemed rather eager to run me off."

"Oh..." Gale winced and peeked out at the crowd then drew his gaze back to Rhidyl, a little too tipsy to hide his relief at the outcome. "Their loss. If you truly want to waste away your evening in my company then I'd be as much of a fool to stop you."

"At least one among us has taste.” Rhidyl's expression eased a touch. “Now carry on with your waxing poetic about the finer points of my person."

"Well your humility is certainly not among them," Gale buried a chuckle with another deep swig of wine, "but for all your posturing and bluster, I know you are a good man. With a good heart." He punctuated his words with a firm pointer against the smooth, exposed skin of Rhidyl's chest, though he drew it back in the same breath, holding it as though he’d been burned. "Sorry... all that is to say, I find that admirable. I also find that you are a fine swordsman. Where did you train?"

It wasn’t so much the question that startled him as it was the lack of a suitable answer, nothing but half-formed, unconvincing lies resting behind his teeth. Though his stoic features told no tales, he must have hesitated just long enough for Gale to know he had touched on something forbidden.

“Off limits, I apologize. We won’t go there. I was only curious. I myself was a student of Blackstaff Academy, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“From you, no less.”

“Oh yes, of course, I did mention that, didn't I? Silly me. With all that has transpired, I find my mind wandering at times, I can hardly keep track of it all. Tadpoles, am I right?" Gale rambled on, and on, and on, until Rhidyl could scarcely follow, his words spilling together into a slurring stream of consciousness that would have made any seasoned tavern-goer blush. But he smiled lightly and lent his ear, drank it all up, and let it drown out the clamor from the far side of camp.  When he tired of his own tales, Gale halted himself with a forceful clearing of his throat. "For whatever it's worth, I am grateful for your company, even if the circumstances of our meeting were less than desirable. But, that is more than enough of my prattling, perhaps my mouth could serve you better by—" Gale's eyes widened and so too did Rhidyl's, their gazes locked for a tense, uncomfortable moment. "I meant— oh, hells... By talking, of course. About other matters than your personal life. Now."

"You've such a way with words. Go then, show me what wonders your mouth is capable of."

He was visibly sweating now, skin dewy in the torchlight as he shifted where he stood. "Maybe I should just... get back to the point. The list, the many things you are beyond exceptional at. Getting right under my skin, for starters." He smiled and attempted what Rhidyl could only assume was a playful wink, though it only served to deepen the pleasant crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Then his face fell, lips tilted down and brow drawn tight above his earnest eyes. "And the simple fact that you could be anywhere and yet you choose to while away the night in the company of a babbling wizard with a most volatile condition. I have not the words to thank you."

"Then don't. While I do so love your praises, I've a mind of my own. You are far less tiresome than the horned ones, and far less troublesome than the rest. I can think of worse company. And besides, come tomorrow we have much to face. That oak of a druid spoke of paths forward, and if I'm being quite honest, my mind has remained there and left little room for celebration."

Gale seemed to sense the shift in the air and sobered to the reality of the moment. "Indeed. We are certainly not without our choices, though none seem particularly favorable."

"Perhaps in your opinion. A journey through the Underdark is no trifle, but it is the safest route."

Gale let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Safe for who, exactly? The drow amongst the goblins we faced were less than welcoming. I'm not so sure we'd find a better reception should we stumble into their domain. If we do not keep our wits, even the best case scenario sees us dead in a tenday."

"Usstan orn mrigg udossa." 

His brows shot up in surprise and he set his glass aside, leaning in to study Rhidyl with a quizzical expression as though he'd just materialized before him. "I know the tongue of the elves, but that was no language of the surface."

"You could say I'm fluent in more than swordplay." Rhidyl shrugged. "After all, the domain of the drow is also my own. I'd rather not gamble with the unfamiliar when the familiar can be relied upon. As I said: I will guide us."

"Just a moment.” Gale was shaking his head as if to force the thoughts within to settle. “Let’s take it back a few steps here. I am not one to judge so forgive me if this is a bit forward, but how does one of human and wood elven blood come to live among the drow?"

"They don't. I have misled you, perhaps a poor thanks for your kindness, but it was necessary. I don't quite fancy being left alone to trade my sanity for tentacles, but for all I knew, you lot would sooner leave me for dead than travel with one of my kind. But now that you need me, my secret is out and at your disposal."

"Ah, I see..." But Gale's eyes said otherwise, roaming his ashen complexion and shocks of red hair, seeking the answers that evaded him. "Well, this changes nothing. I have seen what you've done for those children, those refugees, for us… for me. That I know to be real. Under what pretenses you did so hardly matters. I trust you. And that's not just the wine talking."

"A wise decision. I hope you will remain as open-minded when dawn breaks and your head clears," Rhidyl responded, the tiniest glimmer of relief in his gaze. "And it's dye. I feel a fool for choosing one so garish, but not nearly as much of one as those who never noticed."

Gale chuckled softly, his smirk tilted to one side. "Oh trust me, we all noticed, we're just far too polite to mention it. What you were concealing with it is a different matter, I always assumed it was a fragile ego."

"My ego was quite intact before, you could have spared me that detail." Though he spat the words, Rhidyl was not angered. Quite the contrary, the playful twitch of his lips giving him away. "I suppose I should tell the others come morning. There's no use keeping up the charade. I look forward to a day where I am not cooked beneath your blazing sky. I am not merely a dark elf but d'korit'al waess, 'albino' as I believe you'd call it. Perhaps now I may reasonably request we travel more under nightfall or at least when the sun is less vengeful."

Gale's features softened as his curiosity was sated, replaced by a sort of pity. "If you're worried for your skin, I may have a book or two with solutions. When the others have cleared out and when my brain has cleared up, I can prepare you something suitable. That is, if you'd like."

"That would be... very generous of you." Rhidyl shifted his weight, arms tightening around himself, gaze turned to the side. "I'll not say no."

A silence fell between them, filled by the distant chatters of merriment and the occasional clang of glasses. 

"I appreciate you spending this time with me. And for trusting me to be the first one privvy to the truth. If it means anything, I am honored. You are a welcome distraction from the horror that has been brewing within my chest. I hope you know what a gift you've given me. I feel lighter."

"As do I..." His voice was but a whisper, his eyes on his scuffed leather boots, a heat in his cheeks. "But you'd best stop flattering me lest I let it all go to my head. And for what it's worth, you're not so bad yourself. I had once thought your kind the most loathsome beasts but now... well, the jury is still out. You, however, have made your case."

"From your lips that is quite the compliment," Gale laughed, his fond gaze lingering there a moment before shifting back towards the party. "I remind you, I have no intentions of shooing you away, but another seems to be waiting their turn."

Rhidyl's eyes drifted towards where Gale had turned, finding Alfira smiling a ways back with her lute and crinkled papers in one hand, the other waving him over as soon as she'd caught his attention. 

Rhidyl sighed and adjusted his glasses, giving Gale a firm nod. "I suppose I better go see what's got her in a fuss. Perhaps she's finally composed a ballad worthy of my greatness. Hopefully one of my ears as well."

He took a step back and paused, taking Gale in for a long, quiet moment until his words broke the silence. 

"I'll see you in the morning," Gale said, looking almost hopeful as if they didn't share a camp and it wasn't guaranteed. If there was something about his presence he longed for…

Rhidyl didn't dare dwell on it on, merely flashing him a tight-lipped smile as he took another step back, one hand held high in parting. "Of course. Goodnight, Gale. Pleasant dreams." He turned from him quickly and dragged himself off, fingers still tracing the spot Gale's had touched. 

[danielfuckingricciardo]

I was cooking and had a random hit of inspiration so here’s a short little fluffy thingy featuring you, a private chef for hire and Charles Leclerc:

- You are a highly sought after private chef in Monaco, who prepares meals for dinner parties hosted by the rich and famous.

- you were catering for a family who were good customers of yours, hiding in the kitchen adding finishing touches to your plates when a certain Charles Leclerc wanders in.

- You look up to see who had entered the kitchen, assuming it would be one of the hosts here to make a request, and almost jump at the sight of him; the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

- He looks around the kitchen for a moment, before turning to you with an awkward look on his face. “I was sent to bring more wine, but I have no idea where they keep it, or what kind they want.”

- “Well, I’m serving a fish dish for main so I’d recommend a Sauvignon Blanc. It’s in the cooler over here.” You respond, bending down to grab the wine from the cooler by your feet.

- You pass him the wine and he smiles at you as his fingers touch yours over the cool glass bottle. You flinch a little at the contact and drop the bottle, but his fast reactions allow him to grip it firmly before it smashes on the counter.

- “Sorry about that, I have terrible butterfingers, but that’s usually because in my line of work I do tend to have butter on my fingers.” You say, laughing awkwardly.

- “Don’t worry, in my line of work, we’re trained to have good reflexes.” He responds, smiling back at you, his eyes not leaving yours for a second.

- “The starter was delicious, my compliments to the chef.” He says, toying with the bottle.

- “Why thank you, it’s one of my most popular dishes.” You respond.

- “I’d love to taste it again some time, can I have your phone number? I’d love to hire you for my next dinner party.” He asks, and you can’t help but blush.

- “Sure, here.” You respond, grabbing a business card from your apron pocket and handing it to him.

- Charles hears his name being called from the dining room and hurries away, tucking your card into his pocket as he does so.

- A week has passed since the dinner party, and you wake up to a text from an unknown number.

- The message reads; ‘Hi, it’s Charles from the dinner party, I’m hosting a little something tomorrow and wondered if, by any chance, you were free to cater?’

- You quickly type up your response; ‘Hi, yes of course! I had a last minute cancellation and a bunch of ingredients in the pantry that would otherwise go to waste so you’d be doing me a favour! I’m willing to offer a discounted rate if you’re happy for me to use them!’

- ‘Sounds good. I trust that whatever you make will be just as delicious as last week, so I’m happy to pay in full.’ He replies

- ‘I appreciate that a lot! How many people am I cooking for, and what time do you need me ready for?’

- ‘There’s just two of us, and perhaps around eight if that’s okay?’

- ‘Of course! I’ll see you tomorrow at about seven so I have time to arrive, prep and get used to the kitchen! You can send me your address nearer the time and sort the payment afterwards.’ You respond.

- You can’t help but wonder if you would be catering for a date, considering it would only be him and one other person. Normally you wouldn’t even think about it, but since that evening you’d found yourself thinking about Charles more than you had wanted to. He was so kind, so enthusiastic about your food, and that brief moment of touch around the bottle of wine had sent a shock of electricity through your body like no one else had before.

- ‘I’ll be looking forward to it 😊’ he responds, and you can’t help but smile at your phone.

- You arrive outside his apartment block and check your watch, your bag of ingredients weighing you down as you enter the lobby.

- “You’re here! Let me help you with that!” You hear a familiar voice say.

- Charles rushes over to you and takes the bag of ingredients from you, your fingers brushing together again as they had done that night, sending a familiar shot of electricity through your body.

- “Thanks” you respond, as he pushes the buttons for the elevator and the doors open. You stand beside one another in silence as the elevator climbs the building.

- You enter his apartment and he gestures towards the kitchen. Walking into the room you can’t help but examine the pristine marble counters, running your fingers across the cool surfaces.

- Charles sets down the bag beside you, before taking a seat on one of the stools opposite where you stood.

- “Make yourself at home, I should have all the things you need. I’m not the most avid chef, so most things have barely been used. My Mother bought everything for me when I moved in.” He says, chuckling slightly.

- “If the people of Monaco were all avid chefs then I wouldn’t have a job.” You respond as you make your way over to the knife block, retrieving a sharp one that looked as if it had never been used.

- “That’s true. Even then, I’m sure people could never make food as delicious as yours.” Charles responds, and you feel yourself blushing again at the compliment.

- “If you don’t mind me asking, who’s your plus one for this evening?” You ask as you begin your preparations. Charles’ eyes follow you wherever you go in the kitchen; from washing vegetables, to chopping and preparing them.

- “Oh, just a girl I had met last week. She’s very talented at what she does, so I figured she deserved the best.” He says, and you can’t help but sink at the mention of her. Of course, it was a date, it was easy enough to infer from his earlier message. You had simply hoped it wasn’t true.

- “Well, she’s very lucky. Because she has you, I mean, not because of my food.” You manage, your eyes not lifting from the chopping board for a moment to avoid him seeing the disappointment residing within your eyes.

- Charles smiles to himself as he looks down at the counter, a small blush spreading across his cheeks.

- The clock ticks on to eight, and you begin to plate up your starter dish; a simple caprese salad which you expertly drizzle with olive oil and garnish with a sprig of fresh basil.

- “Is she running late? I can pop this in the fridge till she arrives if you want?” You say, looking up to Charles who is still sat opposite you.

- “No, no, she’s already here.” Charles says, standing from his seat at the counter to approach you.

- “Oh, that’s good, I’ll lay the table while you go and collect her if you want?” You say, smiling at him as you reach forward to grab the salad.

- Charles’ hand rests atop yours on the plate and you jump at the touch, electric once again, and you look up at him. You realise just how close to you he is, and he turns into you, his eyes meeting yours, hoping you finally get the message.

- “Oh” is all you manage to say, and he smiles and gently nods at you, a blush beginning to form across your cheeks.

- “I suppose this was rather cheeky of me, to make you cater for your own first date.” He says, laughing slightly.

- “I don’t mind, cooking is one of my favourite things to do. Especially when I have good company.” You respond.

- The two of you enjoy the meal you had prepared, exchanging casual conversation as if you had known each other for years.

- At the end of the night, you gather your things, and Charles offers to drive you home. You accept and he drops you off outside of your apartment block.

- “Can you forgive me for being so sneaky?” He says.

- “I forgive you, I had a wonderful time. But promise me this, next time, you do the cooking?” You ask him, and he laughs.

- “Perhaps? Or maybe I should just take you out to my favourite restaurant instead.” He says.

- “That sounds good, after all, you still owe me for my work this evening.” You respond, winking at him before turning away to enter the lobby.

- “it’s a date.” You hear him say behind you.

(This ended up a little longer than I intended, but I hope you enjoyed it!!)

[theseamaiden]

ooc; hello hello! Just popping in to provide an update. thanks for being patient with me this week has been rough and stressful to say the least, but i have off tomorrow and i intend to finish up whatever plotting is left to be done. on suah i owe a starter to ahn yejun and a reply to nam sora, otherwise i should be caught up in this department as well. perhaps its time to make an actual thread tracker lol... okay luv u thank u bye bye.

[deathfavor]

Okay I’ve done several job applications, gotta run to the store to grab some things (and maybe an oil change on the way but if its too busy perhaps tomorrow for that) and then i’ll be here to do the Suwa starters I owe and replies/asks as muses allow !

[lured-into-wonderland]

I expected a calm Monday at work yesterday, but it ended up being almost a 12-hour struggle. I am exhausted today, and still some things needs to be closed before Thursday. So I will be back here tomorrow or on Thursday for sure. I still have a few bingos to reply to (so sorry for the wait). But I also would like to come back to regular threads and perhaps send out some starters/asks.

[dhwty-writes]

whatever a sun will always sing - chapter 4

Welcome to the "horny Jaskier" AKA the "Fabi tries to write sexual attraction" chapter. I'm sorry, I'm very ace and tried my best. This is also more of a filler chapter, I hope you’ll enjoy it regardless. I'll be back tomorrow with more plot (and more Jaskier lyrics)!

Written for the @witcher-bows-and-arrows event.

Read on AO3

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Jaskier was an admirer of a great many of things. He was an admirer of women and wine, of men and mead, of fine fabrics and finer arts. He adored the flowers that budded in spring as much as he cherished the leaves that danced in autumn rains, loved the summer sun as dearly as the winter winds. He admired his fellow bards and their works (with perhaps the exception of Valdo Marx), the innkeeps and tavern owners that put a roof over his head and food in his belly, the adoring audiences that filled his pockets with gold. 

And not least among those, he considered himself to be an admirer of Geralt of Rivia. Professionally so, one might even say.

Could he be faulted for that? Geralt of Rivia was hardly a difficult man to admire. For starters, there was his witcher strength with which Jaskier had seen him break entire tree trunks with bare hands, to say nothing of his fabulous sense of smell that could sniff out a perfumery from a mile away, or date a fine vintage up to three decades past. He was kind if he allowed himself to be and funny if he wanted to. And he was easy on the eyes, too!

Jaskier was not ashamed to admit that in the beginning, his admiration had mostly consisted of attraction. Horniness, even, if one must be so crude. Then again, he had been eighteen and the road to Posada suffered from a criminal lack of brothels, so what could have been expected of him? In any case, he was older now, much wiser and more mature, and no longer troubled by such trivialities as lusting after his best friend.

He had fantasised more than once about taking the witcher to bed (Or for a roll in the hay. Or being fucked against a tree, really, he wasn’t picky) but as incredibly dense as he could be, he picked up on Geralt’s disinterest soon enough, with how his friend ignored any and all of his advances. Whether that stemmed from a disinterest in Jaskier or men, or people entirely, he could not say, and in the end, it made no difference, so it hardly mattered.

Soon, his earnest flirtations turned into a staple of their friendly banter. Jaskier made dick jokes and Geralt snorted and that was just the way it was, just as much as Jaskier played the lute and Geralt slew monsters. Although sometimes his witcher would reply with something just as lewd. That made Jaskier guffaw and Geralt hide his lovely smile when he earned that reaction and Jaskier knew that he was... well, if not loved, at least cared for.

Love he could get from the masses.

Care was for someone special.

Although even for witchering and lute-playing the lines weren’t as clear cut as all that. Over the years, Jaskier had slain a total of one drowner, three sandcrabs, and a rabid dog when they had wandered into their camp and Geralt was far away on a hunt. And Geralt had played the lute, albeit only once.

It was, oh, perhaps five years into their friendship, when Jaskier asked if Geralt knew how to play any instruments. “Just imagine, we’d make twice, if not thrice the coin!” he dreamt. “People would travel across the continent to see the monster-slaying musician and we could retire to grow fat and old.”

“No,” the witcher growled from where he was stoking their campfire. “Never had the time.”

Jaskier sat up abruptly, silly daydreams gone from his mind. “Would you have liked to?”

“It’s useless,” he grunted and thrust the charred tree branch so forcefully into the coals that a few embers tumbled from the neat ring of stones and sparks danced all over the clearing. After a moment, he amended: “For a witcher, I mean.”

“Not all things have to be useful, not even in a witcher’s life,” Jaskier replied with carefully practised carelessness. “I could teach you, if you want. A simple song, the first one I learned.”

“Hmm.” They had travelled together long enough for Jaskier to know that to mean alright.

“Well then, get your arse over here, you big grump, I am not moving any closer to that smoke cloud you just created, thank you very much.”

With another grunt, Geralt complied and sat down almost silently on Jaskier’s bedroll next to him. It was a marvel how he controlled every muscle of his body whenever he moved; Jaskier did not think he had ever seen him relax. Well, except for that one moment in Beauclair when he had told him he’d missed him, before he had realised his mistake and frozen up again. But that had been so brief, Jaskier hardly thought it counted.

“Alright, take the lute.” Geralt looked at him sceptically. “You’ve travelled with me long enough; you know how to hold a lute.” In fact, his posture wasn’t half bad, once he finally accepted the instrument, although he nearly dropped it with how delicately he was touching it. “You won’t break it,” Jaskier promised and his witcher seemed to believe him at least on some level and tightened his grip.

Jaskier went ahead and explained to him the different strings though judging by the look on Geralt’s face, he might as well have told him he was able to grow wings and soar above the clouds. ‘I had already mastered the flute and have been reading sheet music for three years before I ever touched a lute,’ he reminded himself, ‘Geralt has no clue that a C can be anything other than the ocean.’

“Alright, that was a poor attempt on my part,” Jaskier apologised. “Let me try something different. You know Toss a Coin to your Witcher?”

The stare Geralt levelled at him could have killed a lesser man. “Very funny, bard.”

“Right, hum it for me, if you please.”

It took a bit more convincing for the witcher to actually do so, but in the end, he complied. ‘He has a lovely singing voice,’ Jaskier thought and he had to remind himself for a moment how wise and mature and how absolutely not attracted to his friend he was.

“Good,” he replied cheerily and ignored how his voice cracked at the beginning. “You see, the first note of that song is an F. And if you put the fingers of your left hand here—” He arranged Geralt’s hand on the neck of the instrument. “—and then pluck one of those strings, that’s how you get that note. And all the notes that are used in music are somewhere on those strings, depending on how you move your fingers. Try it!”

This time, Geralt plucked at the strings himself, once, twice, thrice, his frown deepening every time. “It doesn’t sound the same. As what I sang.”

“Well, yes.” Jaskier shrugged. “Your voice is deeper than mine, so you started out a little deeper as well. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by re-tuning this lovely lady, though. Anyways, let’s move on to another song.”

“Couldn’t you teach me Toss a Coin?” he asked, frown deepening even more.

Jaskier’s cheeks were burning. “Well, ahh— Hmm. Let’s not do that, it’s not what I’d call beginner’s friendly.”

“What would you call it?”

“A pretentious error.” The words slipped out of his mouth and could not be swallowed down again. “I was a fool who had just graduated Oxenfurt and wanted to write a masterpiece that turned out a mess, lyrically as well as otherwise. So, let’s just leave it at that and not make it the first song we attempt to learn, hm?”

Jaskier had to endure another ten minutes of friendly ribbing — it’s your most famous song, Jaskier, the people love it, Jaskier, why are you blushing, Jaskier — before they could finally move on and attempt to learn a lullaby that he had once learned for his baby sister.

It went rather well, all things considered, though they wasted some time figuring out how he could correct both of Geralt’s hands at once — he attempted to put his arms around his witcher from behind, but his turned out to be too broad for that, even though Jaskier was by no means a small man, and the position was incredibly distracting to boot — and some more arguing about how the notes sounded different when Geralt played them compared to when Jaskier did — Jaskier maintained that they didn’t, but had to admit that even perfect pitch was no match to a witcher’s hearing. 

In the end, their lesson lasted nigh to an hour before his witcher grew frustrated and thrust the lute back into Jaskier’s arms. “I’m fast enough to evade a basilisk but for some fucking reason I can’t move my pinky from one string to another in time,” he growled and stomped over to his own bedroll.

“It takes time and practice,” Jaskier tried to soothe him. “How long did it take for you to grow quicker than a basilisk?”

“About a fortnight,” came the bitter reply, but this time he refused to feel bad for bringing up sour memories. His witcher was being obtuse on purpose and they both knew it.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he chided and put about securing the lute in its case. “I am well aware how long knights train to be proficient with their arms; my father tried to turn me into one. With bards, it’s the same, though our weapons may differ. But I assure you, we both did our due in the training yard to become as good as we are now.”

Geralt didn’t dignify that with and answer, which was just as well for him. They both completed their evening toilet in silence, but his witcher still wished him good night, so he couldn’t truly be hurt. He only spoke up again once they had both settled into their respective bedrolls: “Did your father really attempt to train you to be a knight?”

“It’s late, Geralt,” was all Jaskier yawned as a reply, “ask me again tomorrow.”

Geralt never asked again and Jaskier wasn’t about to complain. 

It was one of their unspoken rules that had developed over the years spent travelling together. Just like Jaskier wouldn’t meddle with Geralt’s potions or follow him to a hunt, Geralt didn’t touch Jaskier’s notes for new songs or asked the same question about his past twice. 

Which did not mean the witcher was completely ignorant to Jaskier’s life before becoming a travelling bard. Rather, Geralt knew what everyone knew: a distorted truth shrouded in the garb of a thousand colourful tales, each a little bit too genuine to be called a lie, each a little bit too grotesque to be taken at face-value. 

He had begun doing this even before his graduation in an attempt to cultivate an air of mystery around his person. Though since everyone at the Academy had known his birth name, he had largely failed at that. 

After leaving Oxenfurt and taking on the sobriquet he was now so famous for, it had become a lot easier to spin his tall tales in order to seduce beautiful ladies or impress strapping lads and Jaskier had found himself enjoying deceiving his audience as much as entertaining them. It also provided a nice degree of anonymity, should he ever need to retire after all and raise Julian Alfred Pankratz from his final resting place. 

With Geralt, the deception had gained a particular thrill; in the beginning he just wanted to see if he could lie to the witcher. It rapidly became apparent that no, he could sniff those out as easily as Jaskier’s fear or joy, though he never quite learned how. Then, it became a game, to see what kinds of reactions his fables could elicit from his friend. 

His claim to be part-fey only got a derisive snort, his account of how his parents had been important ambassadors at the court of Redania raised an eyebrow at least. When he invented a thrilling saga of how he was a former student of Ban Ard who had failed his final exams and was on the run from a former lover, all he received for his troubles was a “No, you’re not.”

It was fun. 

Now, years later, he was much wiser and older and more mature, so he could admit that maybe fun had not been the only reason for his game. Perhaps there had been a small part of him that might have been afraid of Geralt’s reaction. He had long grown used to the fact that many people who were perfectly amiable at first grew distant and tended to grovelling once they found out you were nobility. 

It was silly, of course, since his noble descent was among the things Jaskier could not hide; his speech betrayed that as much as that he hailed from Redania. Geralt also knew that he had graduated Oxenfurt, though if he ever went looking through its archives for his name, his search would prove to be a long one, for Jaskier had been born outside the Academy walls on a whim. He also knew the relationship between Jaskier’s family and him to be tense if at all existent, but he never questioned that.

Not that he thought Geralt was the kind of person to grovel. Melitele’s tits, in half his tales he was a noble on the run. It had been a silly thing, almost as silly as it was to still not talk about the truth ten years into their friendship. There was a reason for it, surely, though perhaps Jaskier wasn’t ready to face that yet. 

Geralt, on the other hand, preferred not to speak of his youth at all. That was a bitter lesson for Jaskier to learn, four years after Beauclair. He had known his witcher to be especially taciturn when it came to that period of his life, of course, but he had was stupid. He pressed him for more tales to put into his songs and pushed too far. Geralt shouted at him if he also unearthed corpses from their graves, since he could not seem to grasp that what lay buried must remain in the earth and when Jaskier woke the next morning, he was alone.

That was also the year in which he returned to Oxenfurt triumphantly, after news had reached him, that Valdo Marx had left to seek his fortune elsewhere. He spent the winter at the academy and most of his time that wasn’t allocated to teaching, getting drunk with old friends and getting laid by the very same, he spent researching witchers.

Most tales he came across, appeared to be fables and fairy tales to get little children to behave, rather than truthful accounts, for the witchers in those were more akin to beasts and behemoths than the people Jaskier knew them to be. But others appeared to be more credible: brief histories about the creation and the purpose of the schools, as well as their decline. The documents were incredibly vague and all his attempts to learn more about the founding of the School of the Wolf proved fruitless.

The documents about the end of the Golden Age of witchers were more numerous. Jaskier remembered vaguely from his history lessons that they had been hunted almost to extinction about a century ago and that the decline of some of the schools had been due to infighting. Most were diminished by angry mobs, however. Brushing up on his dusty knowledge of the matter, he was horrified to discover that it had been Geralt’s school who had suffered that fate, since the first attempt at subduing the Wolf School had left too many members, who had been out on the Path at the time, alive.

A year or two prior to his research, Jaskier had asked jovially where exactly it was that Geralt vanished to every winter. “It’s better if you don’t know,” was all he had gotten in response, which had confounded him back then, but he began to understand now. Still, he wondered, ‘better for whom?’

Scribbled in the margins of one chronicle he discovered some remarks about the alchemical trials witchers underwent to achieve their superhuman strength and senses, cross-referencing scientific notes of the attempts at recreating those. Jaskier was nothing if not a thorough researcher, so he hunted those down as well.

Alchemy had never been his speciality and he could make neither head nor tail of most of what he read, much less testify to the functionality of the process, but he understood the notes about the reaction of the ‘test subjects’ well enough, though that was not necessary to comprehend the damning results. The poor souls chosen as cannon fodder for magecraft had been in abject agony from the mutagens and spells trying to warp their flesh, although the period of time their suffering lasted differed. Those who made it past the three-day-mark had been seen as promising, though none survived a week. Jaskier found himself gripping the book tightly with fury thinking of the twenty-seven lives that had been wasted for this madness. He barely curbed the urge to retch upon reading the final remark of the report:

Though critics may consider a toll of 27 subjects too high, it is important to remember that even during the Golden Age of witchers, the mortality rate of those undergoing the trials was never below 60%. I am certain that with enough time, resources, and patients, I can provide similar results, especially if given younger subjects, since no witcher to survive the trials, is known to have been older than fourteen.

‘Children,’ Jaskier thought horrified, ‘they were putting children through this.’

There was no name attributed to the report, but whoever had written it, Jaskier hoped they had died a horrible and gruesome death. After that, he never brought up the topic of Geralt’s youth again.

So, the years went by and they both learned that one did not need to know a person’s past to recognise them as one would their own reflection. By the end of their summer in Toussaint, they were so familiar in their routines, neither need to talk to set up a camp. Two years later, Jaskier could cook Geralt’s favoured meal blindfolded with one hand and Geralt knew if his bard was in town as soon as he passed a city’s walls. They also developed a queerer set of skills to decipher each other’s peculiarities: by the eighth year of their acquaintance Jaskier had become fully fluent in Geralt’s mannerisms and by the time a decade had passed, he could have written whole dissertations about the intricacies of his witcher’s hums. Geralt, on the other hand, developed a particularly keen ear for when a lute string was about to snap as well as reflexes for catching said instrument should its carrier stumble suddenly.

All that did not mean they were glued to each other’s sides. They always spent their winters apart, except for the winter 1251/52 when they were beset by early snowfalls and Geralt had no hopes of reaching whatever hideaway he normally snuck off to, so he stayed with Jaskier in Oxenfurt instead. By the time spring arrived they were so sick of the other’s presence they didn’t meet up for two years afterwards. But even aside from the winters, their paths entwined as much as they led to different destinations. Sometimes they shared the road for a scant few days, sometimes for weeks or months (and sometimes Jaskier wished they did not have to part at all, though he’d never tell his witcher that).

This was another one of their unspoken rules: neither had the right to monopolise the other’s time. 

It was, perhaps, Jaskier’s favourite rule, for it was this that truly set this relationship apart rather than some paltry lack of shared sexual experiences. Geralt, apart from Priscilla, was the first person with whom Jaskier felt like he could truly be himself without fear of judgement, without fear of suffocation. 

And while he did not dare call it anything but that, he admired his witcher for his trust.

The summer of 1255 was a beautiful one, that Jaskier spent in Novigrad, enjoying the seaside air in the hopes it might get his creative juices flowing. He had spent enough time with Geralt the year before to have material for a hundred ballads, though for some reason the words stubbornly refused to put themselves into the right order the entirety of winter. ‘Perhaps,’ he had thought, ‘a balmy ocean breeze will thaw this dam in my creative tide. Or I might even find another muse.’

The second task was much easier accomplished than the first. He indeed met a lovely lady named Vanka, with copper ringlets that bounced whenever she laughed and freckles spreading from her cheeks to the tops of her breasts, where constellations hid and waited to be found. The kisses they shared even managed to dislodge his writer’s block somewhat. 

He was going for a refreshing stroll along the Pontar and was halfway through the second stanza of a sonnet to Vanka’s beauty when he heard a voice behind him: “You! Bard!”

‘Oh no,’ he thought as the blood froze in his veins. Over the years he had grown far too acquainted with that tone of voice, even if it had been a few years since he last heard it. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and sure enough was assaulted with the sight of a balding man built like a bull, dragging Vanka behind him by the wrist. 

“Who, me?” he said as innocently as possible.

“Yes, you, dammit,”  the man growled, let go of his daughter and stomped even closer. Jaskier gulped when he spotted the dark stains on his leather apron that looked suspiciously like blood — after over a decade of knowing a witcher one grew accustomed to the sight. “Are you the son of a whore who fucked my daughter?”

“Good sir, there has been a grave misunderstanding,” Jaskier tried to defend himself as he laughed nervously. “I was merely admiring—” Quickly he raised his hands as the butcher procured a meat cleaver from the gods knew where.

“You can admire your own prick when I serve it to you on a silver platter,” the man bellowed and Jaskier had no doubts that was a promise he intended to keep.

“No, thank you, good sir, I still need that,” he hastened to say, turned heel, and fled as fast as he could. Unfortunately, that wasn’t very fast; it had been some time since he had last run from an angry father or cuckolded husband and he was also clutching his lute as if his life depended on it. He sprinted off the promenade along the Pontar, taking the stairs leading up the bridge two at a time, and as if his day was not bad enough already, when he turned right and skidded onto a crowded thoroughfare, he was almost trampled by some careless rider who did not look at where his horse was going.

He yelped and leapt out of the way, grateful for the additional barrier between him and his pursuer that the horse provided. A hand caught him by the scruff of his neck, preventing his further escape. “Jaskier,” a familiar voice growled. “What’s going on?”

“Geralt!” he squeaked and twisted around as far as he could with the chokehold his friend had on his very expensive doublet. It was Geralt, sure enough, though the horse was new. The new Roach might be a bay mare as always, but she had no blaze on her nose as the last one had. On her back sat his old friend, in just a black shirt and pants with no armour in sight. 

From the other side of the bridge, Vanka’s father shouted: “Witcher! Hold onto that bard for me!”

Jaskier grimaced. “The gods exist and are good if they sent you my way. You see, I appear to have, er... stored my sausage in the wrong pantry, if you catch my meaning, and that lovely gentleman over there with the large knife means to serve it to me for mine own dinner.”

He snorted. “Serves you right,” the witcher said with an iciness that made a snowstorm look like a balmy breeze, but they knew each other long enough for Jaskier to recognise the playfulness underneath.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he said dispassionately: “Please, oh most gracious and noble of my friends, rescue me of my fate brought upon me by mine own stupidity and the inability of choosing eligible bedmates. I will be forever in your debt, sing odes to your glory, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Didn’t make the ranking, but I suppose it will do.” To his surprise, Geralt leaned down and extended one hand. “Get on up.”

Jaskier balked. “What, on Roach?”

“Unless you want to sup on your prick. I hear it’s quite a feat to brag about if you can shove it into your own mouth.”

“Only if it’s still attached to your body,” he huffed, but accepted the hand that hauled him onto the horses back. Jaskier held on tight as they sped out of the city, the shouts of the butcher dying in the dust behind them.

Once they had crossed a fair distance and slowed to a more leisurely pace, Jaskier spoke up again. “My thanks for the daring rescue. You know, if not for wearing the opposite colour, you could be the dashing knight in shining armour that I always dreamt about.”

“I’m not wearing any armour,” Geralt stated the obvious.

“I know,” Jaskier whined, missing the annoyed tone he was aiming for by quite a margin, instead landing on ‘desperately trying to hang onto the last shreds of my dignity as I can feel every muscle of your torso through that sorry excuse for a shirt, since you don’t even have the decency to hide them behind a doublet, you arse’. “I said almost. Besides, it was only a stupid, infantile fantasy.”

“Hmm?” he hummed. Go on.

He sighed, as if incredibly inconvenienced by the request. “I was a child and a fool and a foolish child and I had just discovered the concept of romance, if you must know. But I used to dream that one day a knight would appear, who’d carry me off on his white destrier to a magical kingdom far away. There he’d bring me to his ensorcelled castle, where he would lay me on a featherbed of roses and we’d live happily ever after.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said and snorted. It sounded bemused.

“So, where were you headed, before I interrupted your leisurely ride with my silly troubles?”

“Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier beamed and hooked his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, poking the other side of his face in an attempt to get the witcher to look at him. “Why, my dear friend, don’t tell me you were on your way to seek me out! Could it be that you have missed me after your winter spent on some lonely, cursed mountain?”

“Hmm,” he replied when he meant to say: you’re a menace and lucky that I like you.

“I have missed you too, dear heart, and am so glad to see you once more.” He hugged his friend tighter again. “And that is a yes to returning to the Path with you. Alas, I have to admit all my belongings still remain in the Kingfisher. I could buy new ones, but I know what you think about wastefulness and my favourite shirt is among those trinkets as well, but—”

Jaskier yelped as he was all but shoved from Roach’s back, barely catching the saddlebags tossed after him. “Go set up a camp,” Geralt growled as he turned Roach around. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

Jaskier grinned widely and hoisted the saddlebags onto his shoulders. “I love you too!” he shouted after his witcher, although he received no answer. He did not fully realise what he had said until he was halfway through setting up a camp. By then, as always, it was far too late to put the words back into his mouth.

[bechaeyeon]

hello friends! apologies for this being late and the welcomes i’ve missed during my busy period, but please consider this a brand new, wide open starter call from me & chaeyeon for her new probationary era under sr media! open for a multitude of threads of course, but top priority is eval threads. chaeyeon’s plan at the moment is to do something a little bit low tempo... a ballad perhaps? to show her versatility since she did something upbeat for her audition! please feel free to reply to or like this post for me to slide into your dms! i’ll probably hop on discord later tonight or tomorrow, but tumblr is your best bet for getting in contact with me.

i’ll be keeping a thread tracker under the cut -- where you’ll also find a quick question on a the matter of fcs.

eval thread ( 3 / 2 )

random threads ( 3 / 4 ) -- can be with other trainees or wannabes!! don’t be shy!

aaaand okay. with loona’s current situation being up in the air, i’ve been considering over my hiatus whether or not it would be best to change chaeyeon’s fc, at least for the time being. i love loona and gowon dearly, and it’s because of that that i think opting for a change right now would probably be the right thing to do. idk if i’m overthinking it, but at the moment my top two options if i do change are stayc’s sieun or sumin. if anybody has any particular preference on gowon, sieun or sumin, please drop a vote with the name of your choice in the replies. (: much love. 

[draconscious]

(ooc. wanted to write more after getting dinner--I was on a roll promise--but I accidentally got hotsauce in my eye and I'm still taking damage.....

might try to be brave about it and get one more reply done tonight but if not, see you tomorrow, perhaps with a fresh starter meme or two?? starting to get back into the groove. 😎)

[someotherdog]

okay i've stretched my bedtime to the absolute limit and i've got to go to bed. i still have a good handful of drafts to do, so if you're waiting for a reply from me it is in there i promise!! i'm gonna try to sneak on tomorrow after work but if not, i will be back next sunday. i still have a lot of packing to do and honestly i'm just not ready to say goodbye to my brother, plus i'm getting my tires rotated tomorrow and i need an oil change before we leave so i'm a busy gal! i'll be around in the dms and dis/cord sporadically tho if anyone wants to plot or chat :) take a look at my starters maybe perhaps

[starsmuserainbow]

Had 2 rather busy days. Perhaps tomorrow I'll finally be able to do something again, at least the one reply (and a starter) for that festive stuff I still owe? Once more, thanks to all of you for your patience with my replies.

[tvrningout-archived]

remember yesterday when i said i’d be here?? yeah, i dozed off and on after dinner, so that didn’t happen asdfg but i feel better today, and i’m off tomorrow so!! i really will be around to bug people today B) the goal is to work on my starter call ( there’s a soft cap of 3, but i’d like to do more if i can manage! ) tonight + some replies/asks, but perhaps maybe send me some questions about my nerds so i can yell about them :’ )

[forgaeven1]

i thought i'd be here more since it's friday night, alas — tomorrow morning i've got a work function to attend to, though i'm hoping to be around more once the evening winds down !! looking forward to replying drafts, answering from this meme, and... perhaps enticing more people to drop kick me w/ someone they may wanna write with via this starter call 👀 whatever it may be, i hope the weekend's gonna be good and amazing for u xx

[ofsweetness]

i may... try to do a bit of a fresh start for this blog for 2023. idk if i'm going to Move blogs because that would be a huge pain considering this is where all my sideblogs are, but i'll at least perhaps clean some stuff up? idk idk. we shall see.

i should've made sam's blog attached to ricky's though- that i'm sure about rn but oops. i suppose i Still Could... and i might.

--

i don't think i have any holiday memes for this blog rn so after i reply to the one starter i drafted i'm gonna try to focus on lily and ricky, and enid if she has some... bc enid my beloved. if i get some time for laptop tomorrow i think i'll make enid a nice icon banner psd and a lovely pinned post bc when i made her blog i was having photoshop issues...

feel free to send any holiday or other memes here though and i will get to them as soon as i can! idk how long i'll be online rn tbh.

[tragedienes]

okay i’m officially tapping out. i have lots of drafts to reply to and some more starters to write, but i gotta work tomorrow which is honestly criminal tbh. check out my starters perhaps? :)

[devinsfm]

hello friends ik i’ve been absent today and things are kinda Terrible right now but i have excellent news

meet oregano