#perchance they...did NOT go about in rags?

[marzipanandminutiae]

I watch a fun IG reel of a maid getting dressed in 1790 vs. 1890. it's great! both maids are in practical, period-typical outfits with a few simple aesthetic touches because Humans Like Looking Good regardless of social class. you can tell they are maids because they put clearly functional aprons on, and the 1890s one is wearing a uniform-style cap. also the caption says they are. love it

I scroll down

the top comment: "but what did POOR women wear? you only ever show rich people's clothes!"

[sideblogofasideblogforshoko]

Prompt: Sleep

Title: To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

Summary: Shoko doesn't sleep for a reason

Word Count:

Rating: T

Pair: Soft Gojo/Shoko (SaShoSu if you squint), mostly comfort with angsty tones because I can't write just fluffy to save my soul.

Shoko doesn't sleep.

Not really. She can nap. She can catch snatches of rest between breaks, between lunches and against stone walls during shady afternoons. It is mostly just her shutting her eyes, breathing slowly and pretending, but it helps. Keeps the lie up, allows her to answer anyone who asks that yes, she rested.

She did. Promise. Pinky swear.

The bruised colored circles under her eyes seem to scream otherwise, to the point she stopped trying to muffle them with make-up years ago, but hey a girl has to try right?

"You need to sleep at some point, Ieiri." Yaga gruffly recommends at the end of their meeting. She has spent that last forty-eight hours awake (not even a record by the way, hardly even a blip) elbow deep in curse guts. Then another five, writing up the a report about her findings for this stupid meeting. "People are going to assume I am running you ragged."

Shoko thinks about the six cursed bodies waiting down in the morgue and the three mangled corpses in the freezer.

"Aren't you?"

Yaga who has had years to learn how to deal with Shoko's casual, pointed words simply waves her away.

"Get some rest."

"Will do."

And she does.

Head bowed, cradled in her arms at her desk while waiting for the blood samples to finish. Solid thirty minutes at least.

Good job her, right?

+

"You look like shit."

"Fuck you too." Shoko spits back at Nanami who ignores her and pours her another drink. They are once again holed up in his apartment. It's nice, but kinda boring. Clean, but empty. He spends about as much time here as she spends at her own, which is next to never. Exception being when he manages to wrestle her out of the morgue and he doesn't have a case the next day. Then they go to his, order too much food and drink until Shoko has to help heal their livers in the morning.

Its a self inflicting exercise in flagellation but it is better than the alternative. Probably.

"You aren't sleeping again?" He notes, just as she is taking a sip because he is actually a bigger asshole than even herself. Most people get blinded by the pressed suits and air of dignified annoyance but yeah, deep down, Nanami Kento is still that emo-looking asshole who listens to My Chemical Romance and enjoys being a troll.

Shoko feels her throat tighten, a lie on the tip of her tongue that drowns in the booze and hacks out as a cough instead.

"Are you?"

Nanami shrugs, "A bit. More than you."

"You really talk to your elders like that?"

"Sorry, more than you, Senpai. Better?"

"No."

"Ah, well. I tried." He deadpans, reaching for another chip and chewing it as he watches her go through her head for an insult but fails and gives up by flopping backwards. Her body stretched out on the floor, hair fanned out like dark wave.

"I rest." She says, "I cat nap. Worst case, I do a bit foosh foosh and I'm good as new."

"That's not sleep."

"Your mom is not sleep." She mumbles out.

"He isn't in Japan, I take it?"

Nanami Kento has to lean to the side in order to miss getting hit by the sudden launch of a wadded up paper receipt.

Shoko does not reply nor does she get up to see if she has hit her target.

"If he finds out about all this, he won't be happy."

Shoko gives a sullen huff, indicating how much she cares about the opinion of the gangly white haired man with blue furby eyes who isn't currently in the country.

Nanami sighs, takes a sip of his own drink and waits for Shoko to rise back up from her drunken depths. Eventually goading her into playing super mario cart until the sun rises.

It isn't sleep, and both will suffer in the days after, but it's good in other ways. A different sort of recharge she can't get with caffeinated drinks and naps in her car.

+

There is a loud knock at her office door that brings Shoko back into reality. Hard. She doesn't remember when she left it, but she does know she jerks back into her body with enough force to jostle her third cup of coffee all down her shirt.

"Fuck." She hisses, grateful it was cold but also when did it get cold? Didn't she just make a new pot?

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." Megumi politely apologizes. He is one of the few students who actually can remember to say and mean it. She has no idea where he learned it considering every other student is half feral and his teacher is basically five raccoons in trench coat with an addiction to sugar.

"I was zoned out," She admits, putting the cup down and searching for something to clean up with. It takes some digging but eventually she finds some napkins in her purse. "What do you need?"

Megumi, for all his blank face, seems deeply uncomfortable and that is all it takes for Shoko to figure out what is happening.

"Ugh. Dont tell me he roped you in on this too."

"He won't stop texting."

"Megumi, you are suppose to be stronger than this." Shoko sighs, deeply disappointed.

"He sent a singing telegram to me yesterday and threatened to keep doing so until I sent proof." The teen explained, frustrated and more than a little embarrassed. She can tell by the way he gets louder than normal and the way the tips of his ears flush red. "That idiot has way too much time and access to money, Shoko. So let's just get this over with before he gets any other ideas."

Megumi hands her a folded up newspaper.

Shoko unravels it. "What is this for?"

"Hold it up next to you. He said he wants proof of life."

She does as he asks, but also flips him the middle finger. Making sure to frown hard as he takes the picture and sends it off.

"This was overkill."

"I agree." He replies and takes back the newspaper, then there is a series of urgent beeps from his phone. He reads the texts aloud. "He said you look like crap. Get some sleep or else. Something something about posting that picture from first year?"

"Tell that idiot I burned all evidence of that."

Megumi does and the answer is immediate.

"He says Myspace is forever." Megumi blinks, "What is myspace?"

"An ancient wasteland." Shoko tells him blithely and snatches the phone. Sending a series of complicated, odd and distinctly menacing emojis (it involves a lot of skulls, eggplants and fire) before handing it back. "There. That should keep him from using you to bother me. At least for now."

"Thanks."

The kid pockets his phone and nods, but before he leaves, he gives her one more deep concerning look.

"He should be back soon."

"Eh. Maybe. Might also get sidetracked by a dessert food truck too."

"Maybe." Megumi says, albeit doubtfully. Shoko chooses to ignore it and waves him off.

She still has work to do after all.

+

The thing about Shoko not sleeping is that it is on purpose as just as much as it isnt.

Sure, her work hours are probably enough to be a crime against OSHA or the Geneva Convention, and yes she often works alone because there is literally no one else with her gift but what else is she going to do? Go home? Ignore her dying comrades, the piling corpses and curses?

It is a shit job, but that is just how it goes. Could be worse. Probably. Shoko dances along the line of caring too much and not at all too often, to be a good voice of reason about these things.

That is the other side of it.

The part where she has seen too much. Touched too often, the worse bits of what remains. It is all on her to see what it all boils down to in the end and as much as she would like to pretend otherwise, it leaves a stain on her mind.

On her dreams.

It was easier when she could remember less; when she could numb with cigarettes, drink and love. Pressed between the lanky body of one, the compact slender of another. It was easier when the faces she preformed on did not have names in her heart.

It was easier when she was young, dumb and believed the future could be better if they just tried.

Now she is a little smarter, older and well aware of the utter shit show they are all forced to dance in. She knows her part, her limited turns and while she might still hate it all the way down to her bones she also knows the push to break it all down won't come without consequences.

She has already spent half a life burying his after all

So no. She never sleeps well on her own because every time she does, her mind fills with old memories that haunt her to tears. Or reminds her of the friend's she lost or worse, the ones she has yet to lose and really, if she has to pick. She would never sleep again if she could. Just to save herself the pain.

She is not a warrior, she does not suffer well when it comes down to it. She has a hungry heart and it starves like a wild thing, out of wanting. It wants love and it wants safety and it wants to go back in time and hold everything tight enough to bruise.

Shoko does not sleep for fear of the dreams.

-except when Satoru makes her.

"You haven't been sleeping again." He remarks, echoing Nanami but his tone all snark. It is past midnight and for once she is home. Driven there by a storm that closed down the school. She had heard the front door open, but hadn't bothered to move from the couch where she is nestled, reading some filthy smut novel that Mei Mei sent.

There was only one man with a key.

"Oh no. Who let the secret out?" Shoko mocks back with too slow of a response. She is just getting to the good part where the overly handsome, very rich CEO fucks his newly hired help over a leather couch. "Was it Ijichi? Sucha gossip."

Satoru snorts, kicks off his shows and practically bounces from one end of the room to the other, diving towards the couch and land haphazardly in her lap. Shoko, already mentally prepared for this, merely jostles unhappily before going back to her book. Resting the edge of it atop of Satoru's head. He had rested it first on her chest so this was fair.

"As if. That man will take your secrets to the grave. His crush is out of control. I saw him buying you a novelty travel mug today. Says best boss in the world."

"Aw, don't tease him. It's just a crush."

"Gonna tease him harder." Satoru promises, snuggling in. Stupid long limbs snaking in and around her body until Shoko cannot sigh without Satoru moving too. She gives up and closes the book. Letting it fall from her fingers to the floor so she is free to let them pet his white strands back. He closes his eyes and hums.

"Take a nap with me."

"Not tired." She lies.

"Liar."

Shoko cant help but smile at him.

"Yeah. Maybe. Can you blame me?"

Satoru, whose scars mirror her own simply holds her tighter.

"I will keep your nightmares at bay if you do the same for mine." He offers, and it is nothing more than a child's offer to hold hands in the dark, neither really has the power to fight off dreams but it relaxes Shoko more than anything else in the world. She gathers a throw blanket over them and places a kiss on his forehead.

"Deal."

Shoko falls asleep with a soft smile.

[shadysadie]

Papa Noceda meets Wittedad

A fanfic based on @emerald-entrails-hunter‘s Wittedad Timepool AU, which lives in my head rent free now, so thanks for that.

It had been a few months since Manny and Camila had moved to Gravesfield, and Manny was still unsure what he wanted to do with the abandoned cabin on the edge of their new property. He considered turning it into a workshop for making more advanced cosplay, the kind that required stuff like resin and needed days to dry. But Camila rightfully pointed out that until they had kids there was plenty of room for that kind of stuff in the basement, and the cabin didn’t have electricity, so it would make for a terrible workshop. Still, it felt wrong to continue to let the old cabin rot, it was as old as the town itself according to the real estate agent. Perhaps he could talk to someone at the Gravesfield Historical Society about fixing it up and turning it into a little museum for the colonial walking tours, there seemed to be a lot of those in this part of the country.

But any plans Manny had for the cabin were just that at the moment, plans. Right now he had his hands full settling down to his new job as an editor for a small book publisher. Camila started working for the local vet clinic. And as newly weds they had other things on their mind. So as things were, the most attention Manny could spare for the old cabin was his daily walk-through to chase off any possums or raccoons that were nesting in the walls, Camila was adamantly against the idea of setting up traps, even if they were no-kill. So as a result the pests would always come back immediately after Manny chased them off with a broom. He was pretty sure they were laughing at him behind his back, but if it kept Camila happy, Manny was happy (even if the whole thing did feel rather sisyphean).

He was just heading out for one of his sweeps when he heard something far different than the scratching of a raccoon. He paused, wondering if his ears were deceiving him. But they weren't. He could hear the distinct sound of a baby crying. Followed by someone shushing. Perhaps the rational response would have been to back away and contact the police, but his curiosity was stronger than his caution. He pushed open the door of the cabin.

Manny heard someone's breath catch in fear. The morning sun crept through the holes in the roof, but the corners of the room were still shadowed. It took Manny only a few moments to pinpoint the source of the crying. There was a man, huddled down in the corner, half hidden under a dark hooded cloak. He was desperately trying to soothe the wailing, wiggling bundle in his arms.

"This is private property." Manny announced, though it was difficult to harbor any anger towards the squatter once Manny got close enough to get a good look at him. The guy looked ragged, several large cuts marred his face, presumably more were hidden under dirty gauze. His skin was dirty and he had heavy bags under his eyes. He was dressed like a historical reenactor, but his clothes were in terrible condition. The baby didn’t seem to be in much better shape. His blanket looked more like a rag, and his little body was wrapped in bandages. “¡Dios mío! What have you been through, Buddy?”

The man looked too frightened to respond right away. He cowered away from Manny, curling himself protectively around the baby. Manny realized he was still holding the broom he used to chase possums, which must have seemed like a weapon. He put it aside and held up his hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Manny promised. “You look like you could use some help.”

The man looked uncertain for a moment. There was a chirp and he looked over at a small red cardinal perched nearby. The man must have decided that he didn’t have many options at this point other than to trust the person in front of him.

“He is hungry.” The man said, with a look of desperation, “But I have nothing to feed him. Do you perchance have a cow or goat that could spare some milk?”

“No goats, no. But there is a super market down the street, I could probably manage to find you some formula.”

“Formula?” He looked confused.

“You know, baby formula. Synthetic milk.”

“Such a thing exists? Then if you could aid me in acquiring some, good sir, I would be forever in your debt.”

Manny wondered if this guy could have possibly run away from an Amish or Mennonite community, that would explain his clothes.

“You wait here, I’ll be back."

Manny ran to the store, he picked up a few bottles, some formula, diapers, a first aid kit, and a deli sandwich. The man was still in the cabin when he got back.

"Here, try this." Manny handed him the bottle. The baby resisted it for a moment, but as soon as he realized there was food in it, he instantly calmed down and started suckling on it. The man let out an exhausted sigh of relief.

"Thank you, my friend. I know not how I can ever repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not about to let a baby starve if I can help it. My name’s Manuel Noceda, but you can call me Manny, everyone else does.”

“I am called Caleb Witte…er…Clawthorne, Caleb Clawthorne.” Manny raised an eyebrow but didn’t bring attention to the fact the man was clearly trying to hide his last name.

“Nice to meet you, Caleb. Does the little one have a name?”

“Hunter.”

Hunter was sucking down the milk so quickly he collapsed the nipple of the bottle. When he opened his mouth to cry in protest of the food stopping it refilled and he resumed drinking. Manny wondered how long it had been since the baby had gotten any food in him.  

"Here," Manny offered Caleb the Sandwich, "you look like you could use a bite to eat as well. I also got a first aid kit, when you're done eating you can clean and re-wrap your injuries."

"Thank you."

"So where are you from? How did you end up here?"

"I doubt you would believe me if I told you."

"I'll believe just about anything if it's a good enough story."

Caleb seemed to consider this. Hunter finished his bottle and fell asleep. The cardinal flew over down from its perch and settled on the sleeping baby. Manny had never seen a bird act that way before.

"I used to live here." Caleb said, "It was the only place I could think of to come back to."

"Here as in Gravesfield? Or Connecticut?"

"This house."

Manny blinked, "This house has been abandoned since the 40s."

Caleb looked shocked, "No one has lived here since the 1640s?"

"What? No, the 1940s."

"Surely you jest, have I really arrived in the 1900s?"

That was strange, Manny and Camila had visited Amish country during their honeymoon, and yes, they lived without modern technology, but they still knew the date. Maybe he wasn't Amish after all, maybe he escaped from a cult or something like that.

"Buddy, it's 2004."

"What?"

"See, look." Manny pulled the receipt from the bag. Printed neatly under the name MinuteMart was the date June 3, 2004.

Caleb shook his head, wide-eyed in disbelief, "400 years…"

Manny felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Definitely a cult survivor, he decided, some strange cult that must have convinced its members it was back in the 1600s for some Godforsaken reason.

"Listen, I don't know what you're going through, but I'm not using this old shack anyways, if you're willing to help me fix it up you can stay here until you figure out what you're going to do next."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course, you seem like you’ll be less trouble than the raccoons.”

Caleb smiled with tears in his eyes. Manny wasn’t sure if letting a strange run away cult member live in his backyard was the wisest decision he ever made, but somehow, he knew he wouldn’t regret the decision.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AFFC: Cersei IV (Chapter 17)

They rose; three ugly men, and ragged. One had a boil on his neck, and none had washed in half a year. The prospect of raising such to lordship amused her. I could seat them next to Margaery at feasts. 

I aspire to reach this level of petty.

+.+.+

When the chief fool undid the drawstring on the sack and plunged his hand inside, the smell of decay filled her audience chamber like some rank rose. 

I believe that belongs to Daenerys.

+.+.+

The queen considered her prize, unflinching. "You've killed the wrong dwarf," she said at last, grudging every word.

"We never did," one of the fools dared to say. "This is got to be him, ser. A dwarf, see. He's rotted some, is all."

"He has also grown a new nose," Cersei observed. 

[...]

"You have wasted my time and slain an innocent man. I should have your own heads off." But if she did, the next man might hesitate and let the Imp slip the net. She would pile dead dwarfs ten feet high before she let that happen.

Nice, Cersei.

+.+.+

This was the third head that had been delivered to her. At least this one was a dwarf. The last had simply been an ugly child.

How many dead kids is that for you?

+.+.+

Maggy the Frog, they had called her in Lannisport. If Father had known what she said to me, he would have had her tongue out. Cersei had never told anyone, though, not even Jaime. Melara said that if we never spoke about her prophecies, we would forget them. She said that a forgotten prophecy couldn't come true.

Speaking of dead kids, that Melara had some pretty good advice.

+.+.+

"Knowing is the nature of my service."

Varys had all of us believing he was irreplaceable. What fools we were. Once the queen let it become known that Qyburn had taken the eunuch's place, the usual vermin had wasted no time in making themselves known to him, to trade their whispers for a few coins. It was the silver all along, not the Spider. Qyburn will serve us just as well.

Today I learned Varys still has a strong grip on King's Landing, and isn't easily replaced.

You'll never guess what Cersei thinks to herself later on in this chapter!

Varys would have known, Cersei thought with irritation. 

+.+.+

A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted outside the doors of the council chambers when the small council was in session. Today it was Ser Boros Blount. "Ser Boros," the queen said pleasantly, "you look quite grey this morning. Something you ate, perchance?" Jaime had made him the king's food taster. A tasty task, but shameful for a knight. Blount hated it. 

Yes Boros, why do you look grey? Is it heart disease? Low oxygen saturation? Something in the food that's inexplicably not troubling Tommen? What's going on, Boros? Tell us, Boros.

+.+.+

My councillors. Cersei had uprooted every rose, and all those beholden to her uncle and her brothers. In their places were men whose loyalty would be to her. She had even given them new styles, borrowed from the Free Cities; the queen would have no "masters" at court beside herself. Orton Merryweather was her justiciar, Gyles Rosby her lord treasurer. Aurane Waters, the dashing young Bastard of Driftmark, would be her grand admiral.

And for her Hand, Ser Harys Swyft.

+ Qyburn, Pycelle, and Jaime Lannister (not present).

Is this the most incompetent small council you've ever seen? No "masters" indeed.

This post will be huge, so I won't share everything, but please note that throughout this entire meeting Harys Swyft will make it clear he has no idea what's going on, and Gyles Rosby won't stop coughing. It's hysterical.

+.+.+

Ser Harys had been thrilled by his appointment, too dim to realize that he was more hostage than Hand. His daughter was her uncle's wife, and Kevan loved his chinless lady, flat-chested and chicken-legged as she was. So long as she had Ser Harys in hand, Kevan Lannister must needs think twice about opposing her. To be sure, a good-father is not the ideal hostage, but better a flimsy shield than none.

Oh.

I guess we got to the bottom of that.

Still, the author makes a point to have Cersei inquire about Dorna Swyft in a chapter where Kevan dies. Kevan may be eliminated, but I don't think we're done here.

+.+.+

"Ser Jaime is at his armorer's being fitted for a hand. I know we were all tired of that ugly stump. And I daresay he would find these proceedings as tiresome as Tommen." Aurane Waters chuckled at that. Good, Cersei thought, the more they laugh, the less he is a threat. Let them laugh. 

I'm sorry, is Jaime now a threat? Oh, Cersei.

+.+.+

"As you command. Prince Doran has taken his brother's unruly bastards into custody, yet Sunspear still seethes. The prince writes that he cannot hope to calm the waters until he receives the justice that was promised him."

"To be sure." A tiresome creature, this prince. "His long wait is almost done. I am sending Balon Swann to Sunspear, to deliver him the head of Gregor Clegane." Ser Balon would have another task as well, but that part was best left unsaid.

Spoiler alert:

Prince Doran took a jagged breath. "Dorne still has friends at court. Friends who tell us things we were not meant to know. This invitation Cersei sent us is a ruse. Trystane is never meant to reach King's Landing. On the road back, somewhere in the kingswood, Ser Balon's party will be attacked by outlaws, and my son will die. I am asked to court only so that I may witness this attack with my own eyes and thereby absolve the queen of any blame. Oh, and these outlaws? They will be shouting, 'Halfman, Halfman,' as they attack. Ser Balon may even catch a quick glimpse of the Imp, though no one else will." - The Watcher, ADWD

Let's examine this for a second. Who told Doran? Cersei is unwilling to inform the small council, meaning few people know of this plan.

I believe it could only be one of the following: Varys, Qyburn, or Taena Merryweather.

+.+.+

Pycelle harrumphed and eyed Qyburn sourly. "The spear was poisoned. No man could have saved him."

"So you said. I recall it well."

Rest in peace, Gregor Clegane. No man could have saved him.

(I don't actually want him to rest in peace.)

+.+.+

"Sparrows, Your Grace. Septon Raynard says there may be as many as two thousand in the city, and more arriving every day. Their leaders preach of doom and demon worship . . ."

[...]

"He was an old done man, Your Grace." Qyburn smiled at Pycelle. "His passing should not have surprised us. No man can ask for more than to die peacefully in his sleep, full of years."

"No," said Cersei, "but we must hope that his successor is more vigorous. My friends upon the other hill tell me that it will most like be Torbert or Raynard."

Be careful what you wish for.

How fortunate for Cersei that the High Septon she wanted to kill suddenly dies. Some people have all the luck.

"He was an old done man, Your Grace." Qyburn smiled at Pycelle.

Lol, bitchy Qyburn.

+.+.+

Aurane Waters seemed as bored as Cersei by all this prattle about septons. Seen up close, his hair was more silvery than gold, and his eyes were grey-green where Prince Rhaegar's had been purple. Even so, the resemblance . . . She wondered if Waters would shave his beard for her. Though he was ten years her junior, he wanted her; Cersei could see it in the way he looked at her. Men had been looking at her that way since her breasts began to bud. Because I was so beautiful, they said, but Jaime was beautiful as well, and they never looked at him that way. 

+.+.+

"One will serve as well as another," the queen announced abruptly, "but whosoever dons the crystal crown must pronounce an anathema upon the Imp." This last High Septon had been conspicuously silent regarding Tyrion. "As for these pink sparrows, so long as they preach no treason they are the Faith's problem, not ours."

We're going to pay close attention to the things Cersei dismisses in this chapter.

The Faith of the Seven and its followers.

+.+.+

"My lords may read the letter if they wish. Royce and these others are massing men below the Eyrie. They mean to remove Littlefinger as Lord Protector of the Vale, forcibly if need be. The question is, ought we allow this?"

"Does Lord Baelish seek our help?" asked Harys Swyft.

"Not as yet. In truth, he seems quite unconcerned. His last letter mentions the rebels only briefly before beseeching me to ship him some old tapestries of Robert's."

The mystery of the tapestries will get an anticlimactic ending. I think.

Petyr laughed. "Perhaps I shall. Or better still, to our sweet Cersei. Though I should not speak harshly of her, she is sending me some splendid tapestries. Isn't that kind of her?" - Alayne I, AFFC

x

Lord Nestor was showing Lady Waxley his prize tapestries, with their scenes of hunt and chase. The same panels had once hung in the Red Keep of King's Landing, when Robert sat the Iron Throne. Joffrey had them taken down and they had languished in some cellar until Petyr Baelish arranged for them to be brought to the Vale as a gift for Nestor Royce. Not only were the hangings beautiful, but the High Steward delighted in telling anyone who'd listen that they had once belonged to a king. - Alayne I, TWOW

+.+.+

"War?" Orton Merryweather laughed. "Lord Baelish is a most amusing man, but one does not fight a war with witticisms. I doubt there will be bloodshed. And does it matter who is regent for little Lord Robert, so long as the Vale remits its taxes?"

No, Cersei decided. If truth be told, Littlefinger had been more use at court. He had a gift for finding gold, and never coughed. "Lord Orton has convinced me. Maester Pycelle, instruct these Lords Declarant that no harm must come to Petyr. Elsewise, the crown is content with whatever dispositions they might make for the governance of the Vale during Robert Arryn's minority."

2. The Vale.

+.+.+

"Could we make use of the ironmen?" asked Orton Merryweather. "The enemy of our enemy? What would the Seastone Chair want of us as the price of an alliance?"

"They want the north," Grand Maester Pycelle said, "which our queen's noble father promised to House Bolton."

"How inconvenient," said Merryweather. "Still, the north is large. The lands could be divided. It need not be a permanent arrangement. Bolton might consent, so long as we assure him that our strength will be his once Stannis is destroyed."

Strange, that's the second time I've read something like that in this book.

It's land we need, not crowns. With Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister contending for the Iron Throne, we have a rare chance to improve our lot. Let us take one side or the other, help them to victory with our fleets, and claim the lands we need from a grateful king. - The Kraken's Daughter, AFFC

Too bad there isn't an obvious piece of land a grateful king could give to the ironborn.

+.+.+

"I do not propose to climb in bed with that sorry pack of squids. Their turn will come, once we have dealt with Stannis. What we require is our own fleet."

3. The sorry pack of squids aka Euron Greyjoy.

+.+.+

"I propose we build new dromonds," said Aurane Waters. "Ten, to start with."

[...]

"Though large, the crown incomes are not large enough to keep abreast of Robert's debts. Accordingly, I have decided to defer our repayment of the sums owed the Holy Faith and the Iron Bank of Braavos until war's end." The new High Septon would doubtless wring his holy hands, and the Braavosi would squeak and squawk at her, but what of it? "The monies saved will be used for the building of our new fleet."

[...]

"Your Grace," Pycelle said in a quavering voice, "this will cause more trouble than you know, I fear. The Iron Bank . . ."

". . . remains on Braavos, far across the sea. They shall have their gold, maester. A Lannister pays his debts."

"The Braavosi have a saying too." Pycelle's jeweled chain clinked softly. "The Iron Bank will have its due, they say."

"The Iron Bank will have its due when I say they will. Until such time, the Iron Bank will wait respectfully. Lord Waters, commence the building of your dromonds."

Oh dear. Never piss off the debt collectors, Cersei.

4. The Iron Bank.

+.+.+

"My lords may not know," said Qyburn, "but in the winesinks and pot shops of this city, there are those who suggest that the crown might have been somehow complicit in Lord Walder's crime."

[...]

"These sparrows are especially outspoken," warned Qyburn. "The Red Wedding was an affront to all the laws of gods and men, they say, and those who had a hand in it are damned."

Cersei was not slow to take his meaning. "Lord Walder must soon face the Father's judgment. He is very old. Let the sparrows spit upon his memory. It has nought to do with us."

[...]

"A little spittle on Lord Walder's tomb is not like to disturb the grave worms," Qyburn agreed, "but it would also be useful if someone were to be punished for the Red Wedding. A few Frey heads would do much to mollify the north."

"Lord Walder will never sacrifice his own," said Pycelle.

"No," mused Cersei, "but his heirs may be less squeamish. Lord Walder will soon do us the courtesy of dying, we can hope. What better way for the new Lord of the Crossing to rid himself of inconvenient half brothers, disagreeable cousins, and scheming sisters than by naming them the culprits?"

Qyburn has a lot of questionable moments during this meeting. I can't tell if it's sabotage or he's not as clever as I originally thought.

They'll never rid themselves of the stain that is the Red Wedding, so what good could ever come from helping incite a Frey civil war?

Also, it goes without saying, the crown will back the wrong Freys. Because, duh.

+.+.+

"Little enough," Cersei assured him. "Lord Qyburn has spoken to the crew of that Myrish galley in the bay. They claim the Golden Company is making for Volantis. If they mean to cross to Westeros, they are marching in the wrong direction."

5. The Golden Company.

+.+.+

"If Lord Janos can be believed, he [Stannis] is trying to make common cause with the wildlings," warned Grand Maester Pycelle.

I'm sorry, am I supposed to believe Janos can read and write?

+.+.+

"Desperate and foolish," the queen agreed. "The northmen hate the wildlings. Roose Bolton should have no trouble winning them to our cause. A few have already joined up with his bastard son to help him clear the wretched ironmen from Moat Cailin and clear the way for Lord Bolton to return. Umber, Ryswell . . . I forget the other names. Even White Harbor is on the point of joining us. Its lord has agreed to marry both his granddaughters to our friends of Frey and open his port to our ships."

"I thought we had no ships," Ser Harys said, confused.

"Wyman Manderly was a loyal bannerman to Eddard Stark," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "Can such a man be trusted?

God help us when Pycelle is the smartest person in the room.

+.+.+

Stannis has sent his onion smuggler to treat with White Harbor on his behalf. Manderly has clapped the wretch inside a cell. He asks us what he should do with him."

"Send him here, that we might question him," suggested Lord Merryweather. "The man might know much of value."

"Let him die," said Qyburn. "His death will be a lesson to the north, to show them what becomes of traitors."

"I quite agree," the queen said. "I have instructed Lord Manderly to have his head off forthwith. That should put an end to any chance of White Harbor supporting Stannis."

Bad advice, Qyburn.

Wrong decision, Cersei.

+.+.+

Cersei smiled. "The fat old fool may have been loyal to the Starks in his own way, but with the wolves of Winterfell extinguished—"

"Your Grace has forgotten the Lady Sansa," said Pycelle.

The queen bristled. "I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf." She refused to say the girl's name. "I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son. When we find the Imp, we will find the Lady Sansa too. She is not dead . . . but before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss."

[...]

"In any case," the queen went on, "Lord Eddard's younger daughter is with Lord Bolton, and will be wed to his son Ramsay as soon as Moat Cailin has fallen." So long as the girl played her role well enough to cement their claim to Winterfell, neither of the Boltons would much care that she was actually some steward's whelp tricked up by Littlefinger. "If the north must have a Stark, we'll give them one." 

I don't think she's dismissing Sansa at all, but I think she's greatly underestimating what a disaster it is that Sansa is still alive. They don't call her 'the key' for no reason.

+.+.+

Another problem has arisen on the Wall, however. The brothers of the Night's Watch have taken leave of their wits and chosen Ned Stark's bastard son to be their Lord Commander."

"Snow, the boy is called," Pycelle said unhelpfully.

"I glimpsed him once at Winterfell," the queen said, "though the Starks did their best to hide him. He looks very like his father." 

You would have done more than just glimpse if he looked anything like his father.

+.+.+

"Snow shares Lord Eddard's taste for treason too," she said. "The father would have handed the realm to Stannis. The son has given him lands and castles."

"The Night's Watch is sworn to take no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle reminded them. "For thousands of years the black brothers have upheld that tradition."

"Until now," said Cersei. "The bastard boy has written us to avow that the Night's Watch takes no side, but his actions give the lie to his words. He has given Stannis food and shelter, yet has the insolence to plead with us for arms and men."

She's not wrong, his actions give the lie to his words. He can pretend to be neutral all he likes, but he's clearly picked a side.

Side note, what exactly was George planning to do with Stannis for five years? Were they going to stay idle in the north for that entire duration? Bizarre.

+.+.+

"This," Qyburn said. "For years now, the Night's Watch has begged for men. Lord Stannis has answered their plea. Can King Tommen do less? His Grace should send the Wall a hundred men. To take the black, ostensibly, but in truth . . ."

". . . to remove Jon Snow from the command," Cersei finished, delighted. I knew I was right to want him on my council. "That is just what we shall do." She laughed. If this bastard boy is truly his father's son, he will not suspect a thing. Perhaps he will even thank me, before the blade slides between his ribs. 

Heh, he may not be his father's son, but he still has a lot of Ned Stark in him. Didn't suspect a thing.

A lot of people speculate that Qyburn could still be employed by Roose. I'm not sure I buy that, but it is interesting he's pushing for a Jon Snow assassination here.

+.+.+

This was how an enemy should be dealt with: with a dagger, not a declaration.

Tee-hee.

+.+.+

"One last thing, Your Grace," said Aurane Waters, in an apologetic tone. "I hesitate to take up the council's time with trifles, but there has been some queer talk heard along the docks of late. Sailors from the east. They speak of dragons . . ."

". . . and manticores, no doubt, and bearded snarks?" Cersei chuckled. "Come back to me when you hear talk of dwarfs, my lord." She stood, to signal that the meeting was at an end.

6. Dragons and the Mad Queens who ride them.

+.+.+

Ser Osney caught her hand and kissed her fingers roughly. "My sweet queen."

"You are a wicked man," the queen whispered, "and no true knight, I think." She let him touch her breasts through the silk of her gown. "Enough."

"It isn't. I want you."

"You've had me."

[...]

"Tell me true. Do you think our little queen is pretty?"

Ser Osney drew back, wary. "I suppose. For a girl. I'd sooner have a woman."

"Why not both?" she whispered. "Pluck the little rose for me, and you will not find me to be ungrateful."

[...]

"Tommen is not Aegon the Unworthy. Have no fear, he will do as I bid him. I mean for Margaery to lose her head, not you."

Cersei has this great plan where she's going to get Margaery caught doing the exact same thing Cersei's doing.

+.+.+

"Lying with a queen is treason. Tommen would have no choice but to send you to the Wall."

[...]

"A black cloak would go well with your eyes, and that black hair of yours."

"No one returns from the Wall."

"You will. All you need to do is kill a boy."

Don't worry about it, Jon's doing a mighty fine job at killing the boy all on his own. Literally, and figuratively.

In case you're unaware, both Cersei and Ser Osney will be imprisoned, stopping this plot from happening. I almost question whether there was any point in writing it.

+.+.+

After he was gone, Cersei summoned Jocelyn to brush her hair out whilst she slipped off her shoes and stretched like a cat. I was made for this, she told herself. 

+.+.+

That night the queen summoned Lady Merryweather to her bedchamber. 

[...]

"On the morrow I want you to pay a call on my good-daughter," Cersei said as Dorcas was dressing her for bed.

[...]

"Tell her also that she has a secret admirer, a knight so smitten with her beauty that he cannot sleep at night."

"Might I ask Your Grace which knight?" Mischief sparkled in Taena's big dark eyes. "Could it be Ser Osney?"

She doesn't say anything incriminating, but talking about this in front of the handmaid is dumb. Don't even get me started on including Taena Merryweather in this plot.

In case you're unaware, Ser Osney will be unsuccessful at seducing Margaery. Did Taena have something to do with that? We'll never know.

+.+.+

"Might I ask Your Grace which knight?" Mischief sparkled in Taena's big dark eyes. "Could it be Ser Osney?"

"It could be," the queen said, "but do not offer up that name freely. Make her worm it out of you. Will you do that?"

"If it please you. That is all I wish, Your Grace."

I feel like you can't fully appreciate what George is doing with Taena and Cersei unless you see it on the page.

+.+.+

"Do we have wine?"

"We do, Your Grace." 

x

 She let Lord Merryweather fill her cup once again. 

x

That night the queen summoned Lady Merryweather to her bedchamber. "Will you take a cup of wine?" she asked her.

"A small one." The Myrish woman laughed. "A big one."

x

They stayed up late into the morning, drinking Arbor gold and telling one another tales. 

Drinky, drinky.

+.+.+

"Has Your Grace ever known a man like that, I wonder?"

"Robert," she lied, thinking of Jaime.

Yet when she closed her eyes, it was the other brother that she dreamt of, and the three wretched fools with whom she had begun her day. In the dream it was Tyrion's head they brought her in their sack. She had it bronzed, and kept it in her chamber pot.

Lol, only Cersei would dream of doing her business on someone's head.

Final thoughts:

To summarize, Cersei has decided to ignore the following things.

The Faith of the Seven and its followers.

The Vale.

The sorry pack of squids aka Euron Greyjoy.

The Iron Bank.

The Golden Company.

Dragons and the Mad Queens who ride them.

What could go wrong?

-> return to menu <-

[more-than-a-princess]

🫣 + reverse, Wylan is caught by Sonia peeling out of a strange mascot costume that was just on the news recently- something about a supernatural beast haunting the streets. It's just a bull costume he modified to look more... well, strange.

Well, to Sonia's benefit at least, she's now privy to a (her) public menace with a nice physique that's slick with sweat from all the running he'd done to evade capture by phones and guards alike. Perfectly executed.

send  a   ‘ 🫣 ’  for  sender  to  walk  in  on  receiver  in  a  state  of  undress  /  state  of  semi-undress  unintentionally. - Accepting!

It was, by far, what occupied every local news broadcast in the country and yet seemed to be a complete mystery. Some sort of animal, possibly a new species in Novoselic, tearing about the capital and startling citizens and tourists alike each night for the past two weeks. Experts had ruled out a possibly mutated makango or skong, and yet no one had gotten close enough to the beast to retrieve any sort of usable DNA sample. Even photos and video were rare, despite being an age where mobile phones often wrote breaking news well before actual media crews arrived to the scene.

Admittedly, it wasn't high on the Royal Family's priority list of tasks for the week, but Sonia tended to have a more fanciful imagination than the likes of the other working members of the Royal Family, or at least enjoyed a good mystery. It was part of the appeal of serial killers and cults after all, and she was now devouring the latest in The Daily Post on her tablet: reading, walking, and opening the door to her bedroom suite at Boudry House, Sonia could do with exacting precision.

What left her distracted, tongue-tied and frozen on the spot in her own doorway was Wylan. That wasn't a first, he had a perchance of suddenly appearing whenever she didn't expect him (Paris being a notable, and particularly memorable, example). Catching him stripped to the waist, bunches of faux-fur fabric, a pair of bull's horns, and what Sonia discerned to be a sparkly pink and purple unicorn horn paired with a scaled dragon's tail hanging off his hips, was a first. Perhaps she shouldn't have known where to look, from the plastic eye mesh in the mascot's head, to the aforementioned glitter unicorn horn, to the hoof-feet that covered his.

"Ah..."

Unfortunately, her instincts told her exactly where her attention was most warranted. His shoulders, far broader than her own, excellent for scaling every historical site in Novoselic that he could reach. His arms, far stronger than her own, excellent for picking her up in the princess carry position she normally loathed if it had been anyone else other than him sweeping her off her feet.

His chest, slick with sweat likely from the physical activity needed to evade capture and the thick material of the suit, highlighting every line and curve of defined muscle, all the way down to his-

Sonia swallowed. Jesus. Shit. She didn't need a mirror to know her face had likely flushed an unflattering color of red, one that Wylan, whose gaze she'd just caught, wouldn't allow her to forget. "I was coming upstairs to rest!" She announced, slamming the door behind her yet making no attempt to leave. It was her room first, their room now, and she'd afford him the politeness of privacy by a turned back only. And she followed a detailed schedule, barring her now-public menace offering an interruption, an escape, from constantly following the rules.

Something that brought a smile to her face, hands desperately turning her tablet back on so she could be distracted by what she'd intended to spend her rest hour doing: perusing the most trashy of gossip rags for further thoughts on the predatory animal stalking the streets.

"I was going to ask you your thoughts regarding the great beastly mystery later, you know," She continued. If she didn't fill the space with her words, he'd chime in, and the blush on her face would deepen. It always did. "But I should've known. You're well on your way to being a new conspiracy theory."

Sonia laughed, setting the tablet on a nearby table in defeat and wrapping her arms around her waist instead. "I won't deny that I'm proud, though. Even if the public may consider your unmasking to be a disappointment." Unfortunately for them, Wylan had plenty of other redeeming features that they wouldn't know about. Said features that were seared into her retinas and permanently occupied a spot in her brain that would, undoubtedly, resurface in her mind if she was granted time alone.

[tomhiddlestonfanfic]

When I Need You the Most

CHAPTER NUMBER/ONE SHOT: One shot WHICH TOM CHARACTER: Actor Tom PAIRING: Tom/Reader   GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Angst WARNINGS: Depression, Suicide Attempt TAGLIST: @waddlenut​

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story contains a depiction of a serious suicide attempt. If you think you in any way might be triggered by this kind of content I’m asking you, please, don’t read it. I have a lot of other stories that you can read instead. I write a lot about mental health problems and I care deeply about my readers. Please, if you’re struggling try to open up to someone about it. If you don’t have anyone, feel free to contact me here on my tumblr if you need someone to talk to. Take care. Love, F.

When I Need You the Most

You watched intently as the raindrops hit the window pane, the water distorting your view of the world outside. The cold, cruel world in which you never quite belonged to begin with. You felt numb by the time you swallowed down the last of the pills you had popped out of the pill charts. This was it. The time had finally come for you to leave this world behind.

Your phone rang and you instinctively thought of ignoring the call when you saw his name on the caller ID. Tom. Sweet, caring Tom who always managed to put you in a better mood whenever you felt down. As you picked up the phone, you thought briefly that if you were going to leave this world behind, you may as well do it in a better mood than you had been in up until that moment.

“He-hello?” You produced a hiccup as you tentatively answered the phone. You felt yourself blush and proceeded to fill the glass in front of you with some more whiskey. “Damn it,” you cursed yourself as you managed to get most of the alcoholic beverage outside the glass and onto the table. You got up on unsteady legs and went to the kitchen sink to get a rag. 

“Hi, [your name]. It’s Tom.” You smiled at his habit of introducing himself as though you would not remember who he was otherwise. As if you could ever forget. You had been seeing each other on and off for a few months now. It could pass a week or so where you would not hear from each other. That was the nature of your relationship - casual. Though lately Tom had been contacting you more frequently, asking you about things going on in your life.

“Yeah, I know. Hi Tom,” you said and smiled as you realised that you didn’t have to worry about cleaning up after yourself seeing as you were going to die soon anyway. Your life was messy, so why not let it show for once? You were so tired of keeping up the act of pretending to be alright when you were in fact in agony. Life just hurt so badly that you could not stand it any longer.

“Are you alright? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Tom asked and you laughed. His sense of timing was perfect. You had just finished your very last task and all you had to do now was waiting for death to arrive. Sweet eternal sleep.

“No, you’re not interrupting me at all,” you assured him as you sat down on the kitchen floor to avoid falling as a result of your poor balance. You felt dizzy and your sight began to blur. This was it, you thought and decided to ramble on. “Actually, I was thinking of something. About a quote! I think you’re the perfect person to ask about this. How was the quote now again? To die, to sleep…”

“To die, to sleep - to sleep, perchance to dream,” Tom said and made a brief pause before continuing. “Ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come. When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. Must give us pause; there’s the respect that...” You cried heedlessly as you listened to Tom’s wonderful voice. He stopped talking for a brief moment. “[Your name], are you alright?” he asked with concern in his voice. 

“No,” you answered truthfully. "I'm not alright. I feel so lost, Tom. And I'm scared. I don't think I want to die, but I think I might because I took all of my meds with alcohol."

"You did what?!" Tom sounded alarmed. You didn't answer. You could hear Tom talking to someone else, asking them to call an ambulance. “[Your name], darling. Where are you? Are you at home?”

“Ye-yes, I’m home,” you replied and did your best to remain calm instead of panicking. What the hell had you just done? You didn’t want to die. Not really. You just needed things in your life to change in some ways. You struggled to fight back the growing fear.

“Good. It’s good that you’re home, sweetheart,” Tom told you, before he said your address to someone in the background. “What kinds of pills did you take and when did you take them?”

“I’ll check,” you replied, suddenly unable to remember the names of the medications you had just swallowed down with whiskey. You crawled up to the kitchen table where you had spilled some whiskey and tried to stand up, but you got too dizzy. So you settled with sitting on the floor beneath the table and pulled down the empty medicine boxes and pill charts on the floor. You read the names of the medications and estimated how many pills you had taken of each of them. You listened as Tom forwarded the information to the person from the emergency service. You began to feel really tired and drowsy as you sat there on the floor.

“The ambulance is on the way,” Tom said in a calm voice.”How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired, Tom,” you said truthfully. “I’m really, really tired.”

“Okay. You’re tired and probably want to sleep, but whatever you do, don’t fall asleep. Try staying awake until the ambulance gets there. Can you do that for me, love?” Tom asked and you began to cry.

“I’m scared, Tom,” you said sadly as you realised that this might be the very last conversation you had. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tom. Please tell my parents I’m sorry. If I don’t make it, let them know that it was not their fault. I didn’t mean to hurt them like this.”

“Sweetheart, listen to me. You’re not going to die. You can’t. I can’t accept that. I need you to stay alive, because I love you so much and I don’t want to live my life without you,” Tom told you seriously.

“I love you too, Tom,” you sobbed into the receiver and realised that it was true. You did love him.

“I’m so glad to hear that, darling. I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that? Could you drink some coffee?” Tom asked you.

You couldn’t walk, much less prepare a coffee for yourself.

“I can’t stand up,” you told him.

“Okay. That’s okay, darling. Can you crawl?” Tom asked and kept his voice calm.

“Yes,” you replied.

“Can you crawl to your door and unlock it so they don’t have to break it down when they get there?” Tom asked you.

“I can try,” you replied and began to crawl from the kitchen to the entrance hall with your phone on speaker in your hand.

“How are you doing?” Tom asked.

“Almost there,” you replied and made an effort to reach for the lock. You managed to twist it until the door was successfully unlocked. “I did it,” you said as you sat back down on the floor with your back against the door.

“Darling, that’s great,” Tom told you. “Well done. Now you sit there and wait for the ambulance to arrive. Don’t fall asleep. I’m right here with you. Keep talking to me so I know you’re awake.”

“What should I talk about?” you asked and stifled a big yawn.

“Anything. It doesn’t matter what. Just keep talking,” Tom told you. You sighed heavily.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry for putting you through this,” you told him regretfully. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I took all those pills.”

“I’m proud of you for picking up the phone when I called and for telling me what happened. Let’s focus on that right now,” Tom suggested.

“Okay,” you replied.

“I’m right here with you, darling,” Tom said in a soothing voice. You frowned slightly. Why wasn’t he upset with you? He had every right to be. “I know you’re probably scared right now. I would be too if I was in your situation. But help is on the way. They’re headed there right now.”

"Thank you," you said sadly.

"For what?" Tom wondered.

"For not being upset with me," you told him. "You have every right to be."

"I am upset, darling. But me getting angry with you right now is the last thing you need," he told you. 

"You're right," you agreed. "I'm sorry for upsetting you."

"It's okay, darling. I'm really glad you were honest with me. It means a lot to me," Tom replied. "I love you so much and I can't stand the thought of losing you."

"I love you too," you said with tears in your eyes. You could hear rushed footsteps outside your door followed by the sound of your doorbell ringing. “They’re here now,” you told him as you reached up to open the door. You moved to the side to let the ambulance workers in.

“Good,” Tom said. “I’ll call you later then.”

“Okay,” you replied and hung up the phone before looking up at the people sent there to help you.

“Hey, are you [your name and last name]?” the female ambulance worker asked and you nodded. “Is there somewhere we can sit down to talk?” she asked and you nodded.

“The living room is right there,” you said, nodding your head in the right direction.

“Okay, can you stand up?” she asked and you attempted to get back up on your feet, but your head was spinning too much and you felt a wave of nausea wash over you. You stood on all fours and threw up on the floor, not once but three times before you could speak again. Your hands were trembling as you sat back up in a kneeling position.

“I’m sorry,” you uttered and this time your head wouldn’t stop spinning. “Help me,” you pleaded as you shut your eyes tightly and fell back against the wall.

“[Your name], we’re here to help you. But I need you to stay awake,” was the last thing you heard before you went unconscious.

You woke up in a hospital bed with an oxygen tube in your nose, an IV in your arm and an oximeter on your index finger. You felt drowsy as you looked around you in the hospital room you were sharing with three elderly men.

“She’s awake,” one of the men exclaimed. A nurse went up to you and looked at you with sympathetic brown eyes.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, placing a hand on your shoulder to support you as you tried to sit up in the bed. She reached out and pulled a handle on the bed to adjust it so you could sit up more comfortably.

“I’m okay,” you said and bowed your head in shame as you thought about what you had done in order to get there.

“Good. Your vital values look good,” she informed you and you nodded.

“Good,” you replied.

“Your boyfriend Tom called and told me to ask you to call him back when you were awake,” she said and handed you your phone.

“Thank you,” you said and bit your lip to suppress a smile at the fact that she had just referred to Tom as your boyfriend. You pushed the call button and he answered right away, almost as if he had held the phone in his hand waiting for you to call.

“[Your name]. I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you?” Tom asked.

“I’m a bit tired, but other than that I’m fine,” you replied.

“I see. They said you would need a lot of rest, but also that you’ll make a full recovery from your intoxication,” Tom informed you.

“That’s good,” you said.

“Is it alright if I come visit tomorrow?” Tom asked.

“Of course you can,” you replied with a smile.

You ended the call when a doctor came in to talk to you about what happened. He decided that you would be transferred to the psychiatric ward. Even though you were cooperative he decided to put you there on psychiatric hold due to your serious suicide attempt.

“You could have died,” the doctor told you seriously. “The psychiatric hold will prevent you from going back home before a psychiatrist decides that you’re ready. It’s for your own good.”

You got transferred to the psychiatric ward in the evening and immediately went to bed. You were exhausted. Then the following day, Tom made you a visit. Since you were sharing a room with three other patients, you and Tom sat down in one of the meeting rooms to talk in private. Tom smiled at you as he handed you a box of chocolate and a small teddy bear.

“They said I couldn’t bring any flowers in case someone would be allergic,” he explained as you looked at your gifts.

“Thank you,” you told him and felt your eyes fill up with tears. You hugged him and cried into his chest. You felt so guilty for having tried to end your life. The fact that he was so compassionate and understanding towards you really meant a lot to you. You had expected everyone to be angry with you, so when you were met by compassion instead you felt as though you hadn’t earned it. “I feel so guilty and ashamed,” you admitted as you looked up at him. “I feel like I haven’t earned this. Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“What you did really upset me, but I think the last thing you need right now is for me to lecture you about what you did to yourself,” Tom told you and looked at you thoughtfully. “I think you’re already beating yourself up over what happened. I don’t see any reason why I would try to make you feel even more guilty. What I want for you is to feel happy again. I want to remind you of how wonderful life can be so you won’t feel like ending it anymore.”

“Thank you,” you said and smiled with eyes full of tears. Tom mirrored your smile and you saw a single tear run down his face as he looked at you.

“I love you,” he told you in a soft whisper.

“I love you too,” you replied and hugged him hard. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you,” he promised. “I’m here for you. You just have to let me in so I can help you.”

“Okay,” you said and smiled weakly as you found the courage to open up your heart to him. You told him about the sadness and fatigue, your insecurities and loneliness, and the darkness that seemed to swallow you whole. You told him about everything that had been bothering you so much for the last couple of months and you felt so relieved when he listened attentively to what you had to say. He made you feel less alone when he opened up about his own experiences of being depressed. You hadn’t expected that of him since he seemed so well-aware of how to stay healthy. He seemed so flawless and perfect, so it surprised you to learn about his insecurities. After your long talk, you felt closer to Tom than you ever had before. He was right there by your side and you didn’t doubt for a second that he would help you get through this. He was there when you needed him the most and you loved him for it.

[ikeromantic]

Horns

Day 24 of Ikemektober!

I chose Shakespeare - I’ve no idea what happens in his route. This is entirely my brain (caffeinated), the prompt, and deciding The Bard had to get his own story. It’s spicy fluff. Approx 1800 words.

Will picked up the costumes for his next production - a new play, inspired by his patron. They were fanciful pieces, with bat wings and goat horns and hooves. There was even a serpent-skin coat in the lot. Perfect for the story of a devilish king and his court of impish jesters. 

The play was equal parts suffering and passion. He hoped Comte would come to see it, or that rumors of it would reach his ears at least. Taunting the old vampire was a dangerous sport, but for William, that only made it a more alluring pursuit.

If he had eternity, or close to it, to make his plays, there was no subject that was taboo. He would push his art to its limit - and his life with it, as his plays were so enmeshed with experience that sometimes he had trouble separating one from the other.

“Will? Will, is that you?” The voice caught him mid-thought. His arms were so full of costumerie that he couldn’t see who was speaking, but he knew anyhow. 

“What fair maid calls mine name so sweetly? Could it be my newest friend?”

She laughed in reply, a bright sound. Unburdened. “I don’t know why you always speak in poetry, Will.” 

He felt her hand touch his arm, the lightest brush of her fingertips like a touch of fire. “Do you need help carrying those in?”

“Fear not, I’ve strength enough to finish - but if you could - the door?” Shakespeare heard her open the door to his home. He walked in and set the costumes on the nearest table. 

The girl followed him in, her eyes darting about in curious fashion - as if she wanted to see everything before he stopped her looking. 

Will smiled. It was strange to see her here, alone. He wondered if the Comte’s imps knew she’d come. He somehow doubted it. “To what do I owe this unforeseen pleasure? I hope tis nothing untoward.”

“Oh, no. I was just going to market to pick up a few things and I saw you getting out of the carriage.” She shrugged, the gesture gentle and indefinable feminine. “I thought maybe you’d like to have a coffee with me - or a tea. We didn’t get to talk much last time I saw you.”

“No, indeed we did not. You are always most welcome here, whither you’ve only passed by or come to visit with intent.” He motioned to his parlor. “Please, go in and sit down. I’ll put on some tea.”

Her bright smile returned. “Good! I was hoping you weren’t busy right now, but when I saw you with all those - clothes?” She glanced at the pile with wide eyes, “I thought maybe you were in the middle of something.”

“I am never to busy to see you, fair one.” He found his own mouth curling upward with genteel pleasure. The sensation made him vaguely uneasy, as if this was dangerous ground he tread. She always did this - setting him on edge with her cheery disposition. He wondered if something dark lay beneath it, something that, with prying, he could uncover. If so, it lay deep.

Will left to put on a pot of tea. When he came back, she was still in the entry hall, picking at the pile of costumes. 

“What are you doing?”

She jumped back, dropping her hands to her sides. “I - sorry! They just looked so interesting. I wanted to see if I could figure out the play from the clothing.” Her hands grasped her skirt, a nervous gesture. 

Shakespeare closed the distance between them in a few quick steps. He knew how unnerving his heterochromatic gaze was, especially on silly little girls. “And? Did you find me out?”

“M-midsummer Night’s Dream?” She guessed, voice full of hope. 

“No.” Will leaned down until his nose almost touched hers. “I am afraid you’ve now been rude on two accounts. Searching through what belongs to another, and assuming a dramatist is bound by their older work.” The irritation he felt around her lent heat to his words, a sharpness despite his soft voice. 

She looked down. “I’m so sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She sounded almost at the edge of tears, far more upset at his reprimand than he expected. 

Will drew a line with his finger at the edge of her jaw and tipped her face up to his. “I shall forgive you this once, if you consent to a single favor. What say you, fair maid?”

“A favor?” She was trembling, her pulse racing. Excitement or fear? Will wasn’t certain.

“Indeed. I’ve need to check each costume you’ve handily sorted through in that pile. I can try on the gents’ clothing but the ladies’ outfits I must use a mannequin for. Today, you will be my mannequin.”

Her face brightened, though he could still feel her galloping heartbeat. “I could - could do that. It sounds exciting!” She bit her bottom lip, suddenly thoughtful. “Would you tell me what the play is about?”

“Perchance, if I am pleased.” Shakespeare stepped away from her, relieved and disappointed by the distance between them.

She immediately headed back to the pile of costumes, picking at them until she’d found a woman’s costume. “What is this one supposed to be?” She held up the oddly cut dress. It was all long, straight lines and harsh edges. Dark colors.

“It is clothing from the future.” He couldn’t help the wicked smile that lit up his thin face. 

“Oh! Neat!” Her innocent enthusiasm missed the point entirely. She took a step toward the parlor, uncertain where she should go to change.

“Yes, you may undress in safety there. I shall refrain from opening the door.”

The tea kettle summoned him with its high pitched whistle. He went to pour the tea, and brought back a tray to set out for them both once the costume-modeling was done.

For himself, he chose the horned outfit. It was Faustian, at a glance. The jacket was black-furred, and the boot cover was made of hoof. The horns themselves were from a goat, but polished to obsidian black. The knobby twists seemed to capture the afternoon sun, reflecting nothing back. 

Shakespeare stepped into this study to change. It felt odd to slide on the heavy jacket. The pants were a little big on him, but solidly made and adjustable with the addition of a belt or suspenders. He slid the headpiece on last, savoring the weight of the horns.

The mirror showed him what a monster he’d become with just the change in wardrobe. He looked wild now, like a faun or a devil, out to hunt virgins in sacred groves. Will shook his hair loose to further the effect. In this, he was the divine hunter. The gentleman demon. It was funny how a costume could often bring out secrets closely held.

He stepped back into the entry hall. The girl was still shuffling around in the parlor. He could hear her. 

“Are you in need of assistance, fair one?”

“I- uh - the buttons are, they’re kind of hard to reach.” 

“Then rescue you, I shall. For what troubles lie under the sun that cannot be bested by two hearts in concert?” He pushed open the door.

Sunlight came through the curtains, painting the room in sunset hue. The girl was standing straight, trying in vain to hold the gown up with one hand, the other reaching for buttons ill-placed. Her cheeks were stained pink, eyes wide.

“Tis no matter, fair maid. I’ve seen many a pretty half in, and half-out of costume. You’ve no need to fear my eye, nor my helping hands.” Will tried to reassure her, though he found her discomfort amusing. He had, in fact, seen many beautiful actresses in all stages of undress, but none quite like her. 

Her face didn’t have the diamond hardness of the determined beauty. She lacked the edge of feminine weaponry, as if ignorant of her body’s charms. It only made him more away of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breast at the side. The naked line of her back as she turned to present him with the impossible buttons.

“You look amazing,” she babbled. “Like a faun! It’s called a faun, right? But . . . more cultured?” She inhaled sharply as Will brushed a finger down her spine. 

“More of a devil, I’m afraid.” Her shiver provoked in him a need to touch her. He resisted it. He was the writer of passions - a witness. Not a participant. The director did not star in his dramas. He buttoned the dress and stepped away from her.

The girl turned to face him, brushing a hand down the front of the dress to smooth it. The dark blue was perfect for her. And the way it clung to her curves - indecent. Will did not think he’d see a clearer map of her body even if she stood nude before him. Best was the slit up the side of the skirt, as if made for a dancer. Her skin tantalized in glimpses, drawing the eye.

“You’re staring. Is it - is it bad?”

“No.” Shakespeare shook himself. “It is a perfect costume for the victim of a demon.” He gave a wicked sharp smile. “Do you feel like a victim, fair one?”

She started to laugh, but stopped at his forbidding expression. “You kind of scare me sometimes, Will.”

“And fear me you should. For I am a wicked creature.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her against his chest. She smelled sweet, like perfume. 

“Will,” she gasped, trying to pull away.

“It is too late for you, fair maid. To my lair you came, and now you shall never leave.” He lowered his head to her neck, letting her feel the slightest prick of his fangs.

“Th-this isn’t funny. Let me go,” she whimpered. 

Shakespeare realized his own heart was beating as wildly as hers, his breath as ragged. He pushed her away. “I am - am only acting my part. The horned devil.”

“Then you’re a pretty good actor.” She stared at him, wary. “I think I should probably go.” 

Will reached up, touching the cold, sharp tip of one of the horns. “Yes, perhaps you should. Send the dress - no, better, keep the dress. It fits not the character of my new script, but I think it sits perfectly upon you.”

She blushed. “Ah, alright. If you’re sure.” Though she took a few steps toward the exit, it seemed she would hesitate, now uncertain if he posed a danger to her. 

Shakespeare stepped closer to her, widening his thin, sharp smile. “Unless, fair maid, you’d like to stay and allow me to remove the garment from your skin . . . with my teeth.” 

“Nope! No thank you!” She practically ran away, comical in her haste. 

Will stood there in the sun-drenched parlor, still smelling her light perfume. It felt so much emptier with her gone. And though he’d hoped for peace in her absence, he felt only turmoil. 

“Perhaps I truly am bedeviled,” he mused. The blackened horns atop his head bobbed in silent agreement.

[frostclawdragoon]

Prompt #3: Mustering the Courage

(EXTREME Patch 5.3 spoilers ahead!)

With his chin in one hand, G’raha slowly scooted and moved the mounds of food on his plate with his fork idly, his mind and attention focused on the individuals hosting a conversation on the other side of the main room in the Rising Stones. It hadn’t been more than a few days since his reawakening, and he had been spending most of his time attempting to recover from generally everything that had transpired in the last… What, three hundred years? But no, the process of melding his present self with his future self had taken an expected toll on his physical form, and he had been restricted to bed rest, light exercise, and eating healthy meals to recover.

As of last night, he was allowed out of The Dawn’s Respite to sit at one of the nearby tables to eat, and while he was extremely grateful for the opportunity to finally get out of that room for the first time in days, he hadn’t much touched his food. He was too busy trying to seem like he wasn’t staring starry-eyed at the Warrior of Light across the room, and certainly wasn’t hoping the Warrior of Light wouldn’t notice him and come over to sit and chat with him about whatever recent adventure they’d partaken in. Goodness no. He would never do such a thing.

“Tataru finally allowed you to wander about the Stones?” Came the voice of Krile as she promptly sat herself down at the table.

G’raha snapped out of his distracted, spacey thought-bubble and looked over to Krile in surprise. “Oh, Krile--!... Ah. Yes. I am allowed to walk this far and no further.” He answered with a gesture to the table. “If I am to tread elsewhere, it will be back to bed.”

“Good.” Krile said with a nod of approval. “I’m glad she is keeping you in check while I’m away preparing what we need for sealing the Tower.”

He smiled helplessly at her. “It sounds like you also could use Tataru fussing over you. You’re going to run yourself ragged if you don’t take time to rest, especially after all you’ve done.”

“You’re one to talk.” Krile said pointedly. “Exarch.”

G’raha’s smile faded slightly. “H-how much did they tell you--?”

“Everything.” She leaned forward. “Don’t think you’ve gotten off free either, Raha. I still want to talk to you about what you did on The First.” G’raha’s ears flattened to his head apologetically. She leaned away, her head held somewhat high. “But I will wait until you’re well enough to handle my scoldings.”

“You’re too kind…” G’raha murmured.

Krile smiled sweetly, then gestured to him. “Go on, go on! Eat!”

G’raha smiled in return, oh how he missed her. He began gradually eating the well-balanced meal while Krile looked on, and he was a few bites in when the loud, boisterous laughter from across the room caught both their attention. G’raha watched as Alisaie, who apparently said something about Alphinaud, was laughing in hysterics while her brother desperately attempted to stop her from saying anything more embarrassing. Almost instinctively, his eyes darted straight to the Warrior of Light next in hopes of catching a glimpse of some kind of emotion or facial feature he had not seen before.

They were smiling. That charming, soft smile that always sent his heart aflutter.

“Would you like me to call them over?” Krile asked suddenly.

G’raha was pulled back to reality rather quickly, and he hastily looked at her. “What? No! Don’t interrupt them!”

“But you were staring so hopelessly at your heroic knight~” A mischievous smile spread wide across Krile’s lips.

G’raha could feel his face heat up, and judging by Krile’s smile growing wider, he knew he was blushing visibly. “I was--! Simply overwhelmed!”

“With the smile you had on your face, I’m sure you were overwhelmed with some kind of emotion.” Krile mused playfully.

“Krile stop!” He hissed at her below his breath, his ears pressed flat against his head. His face grew so unbearably hot.

She giggled into a hand. “I forgot how easy you are to fluster!” G’raha sunk in his seat, and she only laughed more before sighing. “Oh I missed you, terribly so…”

That caught him off guard, and G’raha looked to her in surprise before his expression softened. “... I’m sorry I left. I had to--”

Krile shook her head, her smile ever present. “I’m just glad you are here, safe and alive.”

G’raha lowered his head slightly, then adjusted himself upright in his seat. She was always constantly moving, never letting herself linger on the problems of the past… Still. He felt he needed to apologize properly to her, for everything. Though he supposed that would have to wait until he was fully recovered.

“Are you going to accept?”

He looked at her. “What?”

“The Scion’s proposal.” She reminded him.

Ah. Yes. That.

Last night, when G’raha had been encouraged to dine with the rest of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn in a feast of celebration for their victories on the First, Alphinaud brought up the idea of having him join them as a permanent member. Needless to say he was unable to form the correct words with everyone staring, and with all eyes on him, especially the Warrior of Light, he had immediately become fearful of accepting. Not because he didn’t want to, but because…

“I have not yet decided.” He answered.

“What is there to decide, Raha?” Krile asked. “You traveled with them all over The First, they know you and trust you, and you have nowhere else to go beyond the Tower!”

“I just--...” He paused, then sighed. “I don’t want to join for the wrong reasons…”

“What do you mean?”

G’raha stared down at his plate for a moment. Then, without moving his head, his eyes lifted up toward the Warrior of Light, who was watching -- with amusement -- as Alisaie shake Alphinaud for something he had said about her. Krile followed his gaze.

“... I want to join the Scions because I want to help, not because of--... Any personal or selfish reasons.” He explained before his gaze lowered again. “To join simply because of eager eyes and--... Because I want to be at their side, to see the world and to take part in their adventures should they have me… Sounds like a terrible reason to become a Scion.”

“Raha…” Krile started with a little chuckle to her voice. He glanced at her, and she smiled in response. “You are the least selfish person I know. You are always willing to help people in need, even at the cost of your own health -- as much as I may dislike that fact. You always give, give and give. You never take anything for yourself and it’s saddening to see you keep nothing or reach for nothing in fear you don’t deserve it.” She reached over and placed her hand on the back of his. “For just this once, be selfish, would you?”

G’raha stared at her. “But--...”

“They want you to stay, Raha, even your knight.” Krile’s smile widened. “They wouldn’t have asked otherwise, and quite frankly I’m surprised the Warrior of Light didn’t leap from their seat and chain you to the floor.”

G’raha’s ears flicked up alongside his eyebrows. “Why would they do that?”

“Oh, did the Scions not tell you?” She grinned. “About how your knight ran out of the Dawn’s Respite at a full sprint straight for the Crystal Tower only seconds after learning the door would open for them with your blood in hand?”

He… Wasn’t sure how dark red his face was turning, but by Krile’s amused toothy grin, he could only assume his cheeks matched the color of his hair.

“They--... They really did that?” He asked.

“Of course they did!” She lightly smacked the back of his hand before sitting back. “And to think that you’re not permitted to be selfish when the Warrior of Light would likely give you the saddest gaze should you turn down the offer to remain.”

G’raha stared at her for a moment, her words sinking in slowly. He turned toward his food again, then looked up to the Warrior of Light as they tried to gently pry Alisaie’s deathgrip off her brother. Would it be alright if he was selfish for just… This one thing? Would it be okay for him to accept the offer, and become a Scion if only to adventure and--... Have the chance to traverse the world with his inspiration and the greatest hero the worlds have ever known? Was he allowed to do that?

“Let yourself have something good for once.” Krile whispered to him softly with a kind, warm smile. “Stay.”

The topic was promptly dropped after that, though G’raha mulled her words over in his head for the rest of the night and for the days following. The idea of being entirely selfish was a concept most foreign to him, duty and responsibility had been his life’s work when he was the Exarch, and before then he had been so obsessed with uncovering the truth behind his ancestry that he didn’t really think about pursuing his dreams. Rescuing people and helping them with menial tasks, seeing the world, uncovering its histories and secrets… This was a dream that seemed so unobtainable.

… But when the spells to protect the Crystal Tower were put in place, and he had no more responsibility to remain there as it’s protector, he realized he--….

"... Said duty thus discharged, thou art free to go wheresoever thy fancy taketh thee." Urianger had said with a smile. "Upon which note--has thou perchance come to a decision? The offer remaineth open."

G’raha fidgeted slightly in place, all the Scions were watching him with immense curiosity. "Well... If you're certain that's what you... I-I mean, if you think I..."

"G'raha, really." Came the ever inspiring voice of the Warrior of Light.

His ears flicked up in surprise, and a warm feeling swelled within his chest. With a sigh, he shut his eyes to focus on that feeling, on the voice of inspiration, on the words of Krile. From it, a surge of courage bubbled up in him.

“Right!” He exclaimed, standing tall. “I accept. Henceforth, I shall count myself a Scion of the Seventh Dawn.”

He smiled, confidently, and gave a thumbs up.

“G’raha Tia, at your service.”

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Have you got some fanfic where they shared a bed, but its a untold thing? And then, that happen to be a rutine, but they still not talking about that, and then finally John just move to Sherlock's bedroom? I love that kind of unspoken things :D (This ask is because a just read "Assurance by belovedmuerto" and fell in love with that) Thanks you so much ^_^

Hi Nonny!!

AHHH Yes, I love that sort of Bed Sharing, though it’s taking me a bit to remember which of my bedsharing fics have it as just sort of an unspoken thing, LOL. I’m sure I’ve missed a slew of them; here’s me going through my other lists and pulling the ones I recall into one list, LOL. Feel free, Lovelies, to add your own fics!!

BED SHARING ‘JUST HAPPENS’

See also:

The Speckled Blonde / BedSharing

BedSharing Pt. 2 and Insecure Sherlock

BedSharing Pt. 3

Whispers in the Dark by coloured_ink (G, 833 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Anxious Sherlock, Anxiety, Caring John, Spooning, Little Spoon Sherlock) – Sherlock has anxiety attacks. Good thing John always knows what to do.

Easy like Sunday Morning by lbmisscharlie (G, 910 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Breakfast in Bed, Epic Friendship, Platonics/Domestics) – John and Sherlock and their lazy, dysfunctional Sunday mornings in bed. In which Sherlock has difficulty sleeping and John makes lots of toast. Shameless fluff. Part 1 of No Mushrooms Please

Settling In by PorcupineGirl (T, 1,030 w., 1 Ch. || Ace Sherlock/Straight-Biromo John, Queerplatonic Relationship, Fluff) – Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John in a queerplatonic romantic relationship. It’s a bit of an oddball, but anything fluffy and loving and nonporny will be endlessly and forever adored. It’s always fun to see the two work out that hey, we’re in love, we don’t have sex, but it’s still a wonderful and meaningful relationship.

The First Night by TheForerunner (NR, 1,043 w., 1 Ch. || ACD Canon || First Time, Fluff, Non-Explicit, Prose) – When all was over, Sherlock reached to dress again and John reached to stop him. They sat at opposite ends of the bed and one set of eyes surveyed the other’s set of limbs, and they were quiet in the downbeat, melody suspended. Sherlock was sheepish, and this confused John, who now smelled of his companion and felt they were part of one another.

The Cure for Snoring by Goddess_of_the_Night (G, 1,278 w., 1 Ch. || Sleepy Conversations, Bed Sharing, Cuddling, Fluff, Domestic, Platonic / Sleepy Cuddles) – Sherlock and John spend the night in Scotland after finishing a case. The sole Inn in town only has one room left…one bed. This would be fine - if not a bit awkward - if Sherlock hadn’t developed a habit of snoring loudly. John suffers through many hours of sleeplessness before he discovers that skin-to-skin contact stops the noise. Part 1 of Dreamscapes

In Dreams by Youarethelightoftheworld (T, 1,340 w., 1 Ch. || Falling in Love, Accidental Cuddling, Snuggling, Fluff, Romance, Domestic Fluff) – Every once and a while, the dark makes it easier to see.

Moonshine by CKLizzy (T, 1,408 w., 1 Ch. || Cuddling / Snuggling, Touching, Dev. Rel., Bed Sharing, Comfort, Touching) – Sometimes, routines changed. Sequel to “Nightfall”. Part 2 of Solace

So, this is normal for us now? by TooManyChoices (M, 1,445 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Est. Rel., Cuddles) – John and Sherlock have been sharing a flat, and a life for some time. This is a story of how the glacially slow movement of their relationship makes another agonising crawl forward another inch.

To Sleep, Perchance to…Cuddle by nerdyandiknowit (NR, 1,563 w., 1 Ch || Sleepy Cuddles, Fluff, Stubborn Sherlock, Bedsharing, Cuddles & Snuggles) – Almost immediately after they got together Sherlock formed this dependency on John-he could not (or would not as John believes) sleep without John being there, in bed, next to him.

Random Numbers by songlin (T, 1,671 w., 1 Ch. || Ace Sherlock / Straight John, Cuddling / Snuggling, Massage, Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Post-TRF, Slice of Life) – A collection of moments in the relationship of asexual!Sherlock and straight!John.

3:00 in the Morning is a Great Time to Talk by Aztecwarfareandcrumping (K+, 1,775 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt / Comfort, Friendship, Bed Sharing, First Person POV John, Cuddling, Worried Sherlock, Comforting John, Platonic Affection/Love) – “Are you trying to talk your way into my bed?” “Obviously.”

Caught by Salambo06 (E, 1,859 w., 1 Ch. || Frottage, First Time / Kiss, Bed Sharing, Wet Dreams, POV John, Masturbation) – A hotel room. They’re here for a case, hadn’t planned to spend the night and ended up sharing a room. No, sharing a bed. Suddenly John is very much aware of his own hand closed around his hard cock and the ragged breathing next to him. Closing his eyes for the briefest second, John dares to turn his head just enough to confirm what he already knows. Sherlock, on his side, watching him.

Baskerville After Dark by Ttime42 (T, 1,921 w., 1 Ch. || THoB, Friendship, Humor, Bed Sharing, Missing Scenes, Cranky John, Cuddles) – John and Sherlock have to share a bed at Baskerville. Gen, but can be preslash.

The Lie-In by KendylGirl (M, 2,000 w., 1 Ch. || POV Sherlock,  Bed Sharing, Fluff, True Love, Introspection) – Five months after his return, John and Sherlock spend a day in bed. Part 2 of When to Let Go

Tangential by Bitenomnom (NR, 2,047 w., 1 Ch. || Ace Sherlock, Fluff and Love, Cuddles, Friendship, Sherlock is a Kept Man, Sherlock Divorces his Work, Nightmares) – In which John stitches up Sherlock’s head (but not really), Sherlock comes into John’s room at night to take his laptop (but not really), Sherlock is married to his Work (but not really), and John is more than proficient at keeping Sherlock (really, definitely). Part 48 of Mathematical Proof

Feel your breathing by Mixxy (T, 2,129 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, Cuddling, Separation Anxiety, Platonics) – And he was numb yet feeling far too much, he was back on that pavement, and his mind was buzzing far too hard, whispering you didn’t do it in time, Mrs. Hudson is dead, Lestrade is dead, your John is dead dead dead- And then John’s hand was around his wrist, thumb rubbing over his pulse point, and Sherlock’s not sure if it was to comfort him or John but either way it worked.

Assurance by belovedmuerto (T, 2,382 w., 1 Ch. || Bed-Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Idiots in Love) – It’s not so much the ‘you’re half-dead, you wanker,’ or even the broken ribs, the hairline fracture of the pelvis, the dislocated shoulder and knee, and the wrenched ankle.

Lie-In by scullyseviltwin (E, 2,540 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Morning After, Fluff) – “I can’t believe you drank an entire bottle of wine.”

Nothing Left Untouched by ForeverShippingJohnlock (K+, 2,617 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Romance, Bed Sharing, Oblivious Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Grumpy John, Fluff and Cuddles) – Sherlock rearranges the flat. So what if John’s bedroom is now a research library. It’s not like John needs a bedroom, he can share with Sherlock. They’re friends and John has obviously slept in close quarters with men before and it’s not like Sherlock sleeps much anyway. It’ll be fine.

Turn the key, and come home by TooManyChoices (M, 2,718 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss / Time, Angst With a Happy Ending, Emotional Messes, Implied Sex, Angst and Humour, Bed Sharing, Post-TRF) – Sherlock and John have been dancing around what’s between them for years. Will John return to Baker Street, and if so, will things ever be the same?

BBCSH ‘The Comfort of Company’ by tigersilver (T, 2,769 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF/Mary, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Bed Sharing, Grumpy John, Touching, Clingy/Handsy Sherlock, Cranky Sherlock, Fluff and Light Angst) – It’s a trope that John and Sherlock end up sharing in the same bed eventually and I admit I do adore it unconditionally, along with all it infers as to the lowering of defenses and the heightening of trust. I put forth for your consideration that the notion persists because those who think about these things realize these two men are each in dire need of some good company.

Affirmation by jamlockk (E, 3,096 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Dev. Rel., PWP, Love Declarations, Emotional/Overwhelmed Sherlock, Comforting/Caring John, Gross Fluff) – “Sunlight dappled John’s skin, casting a glow across his spreadeagled form as he dozed among the rumpled sheets. Sherlock knew the expression on his face was hopelessly soft but for once did not care about showing his true feelings so openly. He simply stood there, in the doorway, gazing at the impossibly beautiful man currently snuffling softly in his slumber.” Part 8 of All the ways we love

After the Bombs by VampirePam (T, 3,337 w., 2 Ch. || THoB AU, Drugs, John’s PTSD, Panic Attack, Nightmares, Caring Sherlock, Cuddles, Bed Sharing, Angst, Hurt/Comfort) – In which the drugs Sherlock used to dose John trigger a severe episode of PTSD. When terrors old and new cause John to fall apart, Sherlock must rectify his mistake and pick up the pieces.

Measuring Damage With the Fujita Scale by teahigh (T, 3,548 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss / Time, Vacation / Holidays, Friends to Lovers, Bed-Sharing, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Angsty Fluff, Scars, Awkward Talks) – John goes back into town, into the storm, and Sherlock realises he forgot to say, “I just want to be alone with you.”

Stay by msdisdain (M, 3,561 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss / Time, Angst / H/C, Bed Sharing, Nightmares, Blow Jobs, Anal) – John’s nightmares are nothing new. Sherlock’s inability to ignore them, however, is.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics by entanglednow (T, 3,614 w., 1 Ch. || Asexual Sherlock, Bed Sharing, Sharing Body Heat) – In which there’s no heating and there’s a dead owl in Sherlock’s bed. Part 1 of Thermodynamics

On Hiatus: Rotterdam (T, 4,240 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Drama, Couple For A Case, Post-TRF, John Joins Sherlock, No Slash) – “Used them after uni a bit. Purely for research purposes, of course,“ Sherlock said tiredly, head lolling against John’s shoulder.” Sherlock goes on a mission alone, or: Two blokes in a luxury hotel in the Netherlands. Non-linear timeline. Set during the Hiatus.

Everything by patternofdefiance (E, 4,409 w., 1 Ch. || Snuggles and Cuddles, Bed Sharing, Frottage, Vulnerable Sherlock) – John wakes up with an armful of Sherlock. This – situation – is unusual, yes, and definitely unfamiliar, but in no way does it feel wrong. Rather, it feels the exact opposite. Part 13 of I Blame Tumblr

One Day Like This by nondeducible (E, 4,872 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Bed-Sharing, Romance, Fluff, Virgin Sherlock) – When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, the sight before him nearly took his breath away. The only light in the room was the small lamp on the bedside table. John’s skin shone like gold, his hair like the purest silver. He was on his side, facing the empty part of the bed, his outstretched hands ready to embrace whoever climbed in next to him. Sherlock could imagine, just for a second, that this was their shared bed and he was coming back to settle into John’s arms.

Sleeping next to you by Salambo06 (E, 5,018 w, 1 Ch. || ASiB Fic, Bed Sharing, Frottage, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, Anal, First Kiss/Time) – Based on an Anonymous Prompt: “So, that scene from ASiB when Mrs H has been attacked by the american CIA guy & John, Sherlock & she are in Mrs H’s kitchen when John says "She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her.” to which Sherlock replies with “no”. John of course suggested that because he cares about her safety, but maybe he also did it cause he /wanted/ that to happen. What if they finally agreed on letting her have John’s or Sherlock’s bed & J&S sleep in the same one?“ Part 12 of Tumblr Collection

What Happens in Vegas (is legally binding in the United Kingdom) by  moonblossom (E, 5,051 w., 1 Ch. || Accidental Marriage, Friends to Husbands to Lovers, CSI Crossover, Fluff & Porn, Bathtub Sex, Hand Jobs, First Time) – When a case sends the boys to Vegas, John comes out of it with a bit more than he bargained for. Part 19 of Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others

Bed-Sharing Between Flatmates by testosterone_tea (T, 5,053 w., 1 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Bed Sharing, PTSD John, Science, Whump, Insecure Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock) – 5 times Sherlock had an excuse to share John’s bed, and the one time he didn’t need one.

To Sleep, Perchance to Smother Your Flatmate with a Pillow by Linpatootie (G, 5,308 w., 1 Ch. || Bedsharing, It’s an Experiment, Fluff and Humour) - Sherlock wants to conduct a sleep study of sorts. John contemplates smothering him with a pillow. Part 1 of Two Coffees One Black One with Sugar Please

Adjacent by weeesi (E, 5,711 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Fluff and Smut, Pining Idiots, On a Trip, Frottage) – Sherlock and John spend the night at a hotel in adjoining rooms, and keep finding excuses to visit each other’s rooms, until WHOOPS they’re sharing a bed.

I can’t pretend by Salambo06 (E, 7,692 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Victor Trevor, Jealous John, Miscommunications, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Anal, BJs) – They had arrived more than a hour ago, and the moment they had walked inside the hotel reception, John had understood why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come. Two men, posh suits and expensive watches on their wrists, had come to greet them with sharp remarks and badly hidden mockery, and John had seen red. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, mostly ignoring the two men entirely, and without thinking twice about it, John had slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist and introduced himself as his husband.

A Terrific Soporific by antietamfalls (T, 11,269 w., 1 Ch. || Bed Sharing, Sleepy Cuddles, Fluff, Insomnia, Experiments, Ace Sherlock) – Sherlock, a long-time sufferer of insomnia, is forced to share a bed with John at a hotel while on a case. To his astonishment, he finds that spending the night next to John helps him sleep and becomes determined to maneuver himself back into John’s bed.

The River Variations by withoutawish (T, 11,619 w., 1 Ch. || Soulmates, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Three Garridebs, Romance, Light Case Fic, Near Death Experience, Angst and Fluff, Dark Humour) – John Watson never knew that he wanted a ‘no toast in the mornings’ normal until he realized what an honor it is to be destroyed by Sherlock Holmes.

Always the sun by Rose de Sharon (K+, 12,377 w., 3 Ch. || Song Fic, Alternate Post-TGG, Friendship/Bromance, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection / Reflection, Injury Recovery, Obsessive / Protective Sherlock, Nightmares, John’s Past, Bed Sharing / Cuddles) – Sherlock ponders about how much his life has changed since John has become his flatmate.

Shuteye Shenanigans by Ayakae (K+, 13,263 w., 8 Ch. || Post-TRF, Friendship / Epic Bromance, John’s Nightmares, Angsty Fluff, Bed Sharing, Humour, Cuddles, Taking Care of Each Other, Domestics) – John Watson has never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Never ever ever. And never will, thank you very much. Well, there was that one time, but John didn’t count that. It was completely different, just like the second time it happened. And the third. And the fourth. Epic bromance, but it can be read as pre-slash if you wish.

Knotted by naughtyspirit (E, 23,166 w., 4 Ch. || UST/URT, Cuddling, Sharing Body Heat, Confessions, Kissing, Mastrubation, Frustration, BAMF!John) – John has to cancel a date because of Sherlock’s case, which leads them to be tied up in a basement from which they have to escape. They get wet, get tied up close and John has to step up and save them. Because he’s pretty. And hot. And just a little bit of a BAMF.

Here Comes The Sun by JennLynn77 (E, 32,126 w., 15 Ch. || Post S4/TFP, John Whump, Caring Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Sex, First Time, Virgin Sherlock, Switchlock, Cuddling/Snuggling, Surgery/Injury Recovery, Endearments, Anal, Hand Jobs, Porn with Feels) – John suffers an injury and needs surgery. Sherlock, and those around him, help John recover. Along the way, John and Sherlock realise what they mean to each other, and what they’ve had together all this time.

Bedtime Stories by Liketheriver (M, 34,388 w., 1 Ch. || Emotional H/C, Romance, Angst & Humour, Bed Sharing, John First Person, TRF, John Whump) – John’s POV during Season 2 and beyond when Sherlock takes up semi-permanent residence in his bed. A collection of codas and missing scenes wrapped up into one long fic and topped with a bow that takes the story beyond Reichenbach and into happy territory once more. Part 1 of Bedtime Universe

A Love with No Name Series by aceofhearts61 (G to M, 49,955 w. across 20 stories || Asexual Sherlock / Straight John, Est. Rel, Queerplatonic Relationship, Romance, Cuddling, Fluff, Platonic Romance, Domestics) – In which Asexual!Sherlock and Straight!John are platonically in love life partners.

[littlemisssquiggles]

RWBY Remarks: Shipping the Ace Ops #III: Are Elm and Vine in a secret relationship?

Since the CRWBY Writers are going with the ‘never mix business with pleasure’ approach for the Aces dynamic with one another in spite of their well-oiled machine team working relationship, this has definitely sparked the theory of not all the Ace members agreeing with this rule. Particularly the Aces Ops pair between my favourite big buff barefooted build-a-bear and her partner-in-arms-- Mr. long-man good. 

Giving their fairy-tale fable counterpart, my hunch is one of these two possibilities for the Elm and Vine ship:

One. Elm and Vine are either secretly in love with one another and have been forced to quote ‘not mix their strong work comradery with their desire for romance’ with Elm adhering more firmly to this golden rule since she was the one to chime in with Harriet on her stance. 

While Vine is silently against this. I noticed that neither him nor Marrow pitched into share their two cents on his. I mean, Marrow I’d give a ‘good boy’ pass since he is the rookie of the team so he’ll probably go along with this for now since he’s possibly the new guy and wants to do his best to fit in better with his older, more experienced comrades as opposed to having them rag on him all the time. 

However Vine. Vine pegs me as the quiet guy of the Aces and y’know what they say about dem quiet ones. I definitely have a feeling in my gut that there is more to Elm and Vine’s relationship than just a solid job relationship.

The way how they were the first to support one another really, really well on the field when initiating the frontal attack on the Petra Gigas and given the similarity in their semblances as well as just how well they complement one another in general (like a certain younger version of them)---there is no denying in my mind that there is more to these two. I feel like they probably do have strong feelings for one another but, they can’t admit it cause they’re soldiers and huntsmen.

Or…

Two: It’s the alternative where Elm and Vine are already in a relationship but they keep it under wraps from their teammates. But even though, Vine wishes the progress their relationship, Elm is adamant on keeping up their facades since, as Harriet mentioned in CH4, as soldiers and huntsmen in the field, protecting one another and having your teammates back is part of the job. 

But it’s not supposed to go beyond that. As I said, basically your typical ‘never mix business with pleasure’ type of scenario but regardless, we all know how those usually go.

I’d still like to hold onto the thought of Elm and Vine being the two from the Aces who have breached this rule a long time---possibly on a duo mission which brought them closer than they’ve ever been on the team and helped pave the way for their private love affair.

Perhaps Vine secretly has feelings for Elm but is forced to keep them at bay. Or perchance he and Elm are already together-together and that togetherness has been growing more serious by the day---perhaps even with the talk of marriage in the works with Vine wishing to propose to Elm and suggest that they leave the Ace Ops.

Imagine if…that even becomes a point of argument between the pair. Imagine if…Vine and Elm were already a close twosome before they joined the military (y’know just like a certain other younger version of this pair).

Imagine if…Vine has never truly wanted to be a part of the Aces but he did it because he loved Elm and he would’ve done anything to stay by her side. Imagine if it’s one of those love stories where you have a couple in which only one of them dreams of being in something and the only reason the other followed them into the same field was mostly because they just wanted to stay by the person’s side. It was never about them sharing the same goal.

Imagine if…Elm is the one who has always wanted to join the military---be one of the best of the best so being handpicked to join the General’s elite team was like a dream come true for her because she was where she always wanted to be. Vine on the other hand, never really cared for any of it. He just wanted to be with Elm and stay with her to help her achieve her dream as best as he could.

It is said that ‘pruned elm trees act as vine supports and this was taken as a symbol of marriage’.

Imagine if…Vine loved Elm and he’s always supported her through everything just as much as she has. But now he was starting to wonder if their motives for supporting one another were driven by the same thing. Vine supports Elm because he loves her wholeheartedly but…does she only support him because he’s in the Ace Ops with her and its part of her job?

Imagine if…this thought ultimately grows to a point where Vine starts to wonder if he’d been wrong all these years. Staying by Elm’s side out of love.. 

Dude! This could be great because I’m imagining Vine with Elm being like how things are between Ren and Nora.

And with the way how the show teased us learning more about Nora’s past and had that bit in V7 CH3 where Ren acted funny towards Nora, much to her disappointment, perhaps at some point…Nora will see the discourse between Elm and Vine and it will start to make her question her and Ren.

Was she wrong too? We’ve only heard Nora’s feelings for Ren and know her rationale for staying by his side but…outside of V4, we haven’t gotten the chance to see how much Ren cares for Nora. 

I know the show had us believe they were together-together after V4. However, I remember sitting in on MurderofBirds’ Livestream Discussion on YouTube last week and even Arnold was so surprised by Ren’s behaviour that he even took it to believe that they weren’t as together-together as the FNDM believed.

Even though we got that throwaway line from Nora last season when she specifically yelled at Cordovin--- “You get back here with my man!”

While funny and classic Nora, yes, this is still yet another example of Nora expressing her love and devotion to Ren. So we know for a definite fact that Nora loves Ren but….does Ren love Nora? 

My fellow Renora shippers, have we been misled? Were we bamboozled and have been mistaken for two whole seasons? Are Nora and Ren not as together-together as we believed? Did we all misunderstand the ending of V4?

Seriously, if there is a love-confession scene to ever come from this season of RWBY, I hope it’s with Renora and I hope it’s Lie Ren finally saying the four magic words that we’ve all been hoping he’d say to Nora since volume one:

“…I love you, Nora.”

I feel like we need a confession from Ren at this point to finally officially seal the Renora deal along with a first kiss initiated by Ren because otherwise, thou art very confused as to what is going on with my precious Flower Power pair.

Hopefully some careful observation from the elm and the vine can aid with this development of this growing pair of pink flowers. And who knows, perhaps this may even help the elm and vine in return with their own relationship. We’ll see.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[rhymingshadows]

His Raw Materials: Part 3

(Part Three in which Krick gets to be edgy...again.  I do enjoy writing a character that is both stable yet shamelessly villainous.  And can use magic.  That’s always nice. LOL.  Enjoy!) So far as restaurants went, this one wasn’t anything amazing.  As a small sushi establishment in one of the most run-down areas of Shirogane, “The Red Carp’ had long since forgotten its heyday.  That’s why the owners, a pair of local hyurs, were legitimately surprised when Krick entered at an early hour.  They didn’t get many customers in general, especially not at this hour.  Further, not ones dressed so well, or possessing such an unsettling aura, as Krick. Krick took a table opposite the door and ordered several eel rolls and a kettle of green tea.  He then tossed a pouch of gil on the table and told the hyur couple to leave for the next few hours as he wished to eat alone. The couple, anxious but drooling over the large amount of gil, which was more then what they made in a moon, took the gil and left once the food was set before the odd miqo’te. Once alone, Krick pulled out his copy of the ‘Blitzball Monthly’ magazine and casually began to read an article about improving his passing game as he used a set of chopsticks to eat his eel rolls. Once he was certain the couple was gone, the blonde miqo’te pulled out the vial of blood he’d taken from Una the night prior and poured the crimson liquid onto the table.  Using his index finger, he drew a pentagram on the table and then ringed the icon.  He eyed the red seal before his eyes flashed green and the symbol glowed a dark red for a moment. A second later the twin glows faded and Krick cleaned his finger with a rag before he resumed eating his meal.  He set the magazine over the seal and began to enjoy himself despite what he knew what was going to happen next. These crusading dogs of ‘The Rising Dawn’ never disappointed.

Eventually a trio of figures entered the restaurant.  They seemed to have tried to look inconspicuous.  Simple kimonos covered their bodies but their weapons and frames revealed they were far more dangerous than any mere merchants. An au ra female stayed in the doorway, hand on her sheathed katana as a male hyur and a male elezen approached Krick, who pretended to ignore them all and eat his meal. He went to turn the page of his magazine when a knife slammed down and pinned the page to the table.  Krick blinked slowly before he lifted his head and stared up at the elezen they leaned in and twisted his grip on the knife. “You seemed to have mis-sheathed your knife.” Krick commented in a calm, dry tone that held a hint of smug condemnation. “No, I stick it where I want.”  the elezen retorted, glaring at Krick with hatred in his blue eyes. “I see, so like the glory holes of Uldah perchance?”  Krick leaned back and made a ‘tsk tsk’ noise.  “I hope you can talk so smugly when we set you ablaze, K’rick Nunh.” the elezen hissed.  Krick blinked at that.  He hadn’t been a Nunh in decades.  The elezen noticed the reaction and spat onto Krick’s remaining sushi.  “Oh yes, necromancer.  We know all about you.  The Lady herself has chosen to brief us about you and the threat you pose.” “I do wish that whore would keep my name from her tongue.”  Krick commented calmly.  The nearby hyur drew his sword. “Watch your tongue, sinner.  The Lady’s honor will not be besmirched by a thing like you.” they hyur growled as he turned and entered the kitchen to look around. “Ah, another zealot disliking having reality mentioned.”  Krick glanced back to the elezen. “The Order of Sysst is finished, necromancer.” the elezen’s eyes flashed gold as a surge of righteous aether raced through them.  “We know your order is floundering.  And soon the disk will be destroyed and your leader’s threat to Eozrea will be gone.” “Fantastic how backwards you have that.  Your whore has brainwashed you all very well.”  The elezen slammed Krick across the face as he finished speaking.  His neck popped as Krick’s head jerked violently to the left and he tasted blood from a gashed lip.  “Lucky Hojo wants you alive to spill your secrets before we spill your guts.”  the elezen taunted darkly.  Krick licked his bloody lip as the hyur returned and barked: “Sinner, where is your comrade?  We sensed their energy here.” “So you -were- looking for that pawn.” Krick nodded, his hypothesis verified.  “Hojo is able to pass on what he senses.  The Hrothgar never ceases to amaze and prove he is a true threat.” “Where is he?”  the elezen growled, his hand still on the knife that was pinning down his magazine.  “We sniffed him out.  We know they are here.” “Funny thing about dogs like you.”  Krick turned and looked at the elezen.  “You all smell so well, but forget to use your eyes to look for the traps your nose gets you in.”  His eyes flared green as the pentagram under the magazine flared to life.  The pentagram began to move as the blood slithered like serpents up the blade of the dagger.  Around the metal the tendrils of red spun until they swarmed over the elezen’s fingers and buried themselves into the male’s flesh.  Immediately, the elezen began screaming as his flesh and blood began to boil and rot.  The disease began to quickly spread up his arm, eating away at his mortal coil. The hyur, realizing dark magic was in play, summoned his aether as his own eyes flared gold.  He swung his sword and the table exploded into a shower of splinters as it was cleft in twain.  But Krick dove away to the right just prior to the blade’s impact. In the doorway, the au ra was screaming and clutching at her eyes.  A murder of ravens had descended upon her and their talons and beaks had made short work of her eyes.  She staggered out into the street and clutched at the ruin of her face. “Monster!” they hyur howled when the elezen collapsed to the ground as a pile of rotted, boiling flesh and steaming puss.  The smell was horrific but it didn’t faze the necromancer in the slightest. “A monster?”  Krick commented as his tail twitched slowly.  He was still remembering how to use it.  The ghost of a smug grin teased his lips as he began to summon his aether to his form and the shadow at his feet shivered and squirmed. “Your Lady has committed atrocities the likes of which I could never hope to match.  You’re ‘holy’ crusade is a lie, and your ‘righteous’ road will lead you to hell, just like mine.” Golden flames wreathed the hyur’s sword as he charged forward but the shadows beneath Krick seemed to open up like a set of jaws and he fell into the floor and was gone. The hyur bellowed in anger as he swung his blade at the floor, striking the spot where Krick had vanished. “Monster!” they hyur roared. “We’ll hunt you and your ilk to the ends of this star.  You hear me!” A raven in the doorway did hear the hyur before it flew away, the au ra’s blood dripping from its beak.  From someplace else, the necromancer smirked. “I do. And I’m glad of it.  Follow me all over Eorzea, little dogs.  My trail will stay fresh so you cannot find the other trails you seek.”

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Hauntober Day 18 Toad

Witches

Geralt gets turned into a toad. Jaskier has to save him. Cross posted on Ao3. Gerlion/Geraskier rated T for implied sexual content and language. Enjoy!

Geralt had agreed to take on one final contract before returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The village had informed him that there was a creature wreaking havoc on travelers coming to and from the village, local villagers, and even the local farms. Unfortunately none of the villagers had enough information for him to piece together what it was he was hunting.

“Humanoid. Feminine. Lives deep in the woods. Possibly in a cave. What do you think it is Geralt?” Jaskier asked, pulling his travel cloak tighter. The wind was blowing wild and cold around them. It whipped their hair into their faces. The rain stung like bees.

“The description is too vague. You should have stayed in the village.”

“M’fine Geralt.” Jaskier said, glaring at the white haired man. Geralt didn’t even spare him a glance. He watched as glove clothed hands gripped Roaches reigns tighter. The forest was too dense to ride.

As they drew further into the woods the darkness seemed to encroach upon them. Geralt's eyes glinted in the darkness. Jaskier moved closer, the dark unsettling him. Geralt stopped abruptly and turned carefully. He cast an arm out in front of Jaskier and paused, eyes searching the darkness. His other hand came up to grasp the jolt of his sword.

“Geralt, what is—“

“Shut up.” He growled.

The next thing Jaskier knew he was flat in his back and Geralt was nowhere to be seen.

“Geralt?” His voice was pitched far too high.

“Geralt!?” He looked around the darkness. Roach was standing there looking at him and instinctively he grasped her reigns.

“Not funny Geralt. Where the fuck did you go.”

“Quew quew”

Jaskier stopped. What the hell was that noise.

“Quew Quew. Quew.”

He looked down in the failing light to see a toad sitting upon a pile of leather and Geralts swords.

“Shit. Geralt? Is, is that you?”

“Qurew, qurew, qurew”

“What the fuck?”

“Hahahaha.” A loud cackling pulled him from his fear induced staring. He looked up and locked eyes with a decrepit old woman dressed in animal skins and stained linen.

“Oh, uh, hello. Who. Who are you?” He licked his lips and glanced at the toad.

“My name be not of import, lad.”

“Okay… Uhm why are you out here?” He glanced around , subconsciously tightening his grip on Roach.

“Qurew, Qrew, qurew.” The chirping continued as the toad moved towards Jaskiers feet.

He glanced down and then back up at the woman with the wild hair.

“Are you a witch?”

“That I am.”

“Do you know what happened to my friend?” He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. The toad turned around and hopped toward the witch.

“Quew. Quew, quew!” It threw it’s tounge out at her aggressively.

“Well then Toad, perchance I deem thee friend unworthy of my secret.” She turned to go.

“No wait!” Jaskier stepped forward, arm outstretched, “wait. Please. Did you, uh,” he swallowed hard,” turn my friend into a toad?”

“I did.” She said over her shoulder.

“Why? Will you turn him back.”

“Alas poor fool, I cannot return thee friend to his true form. The spell may only be broke by true loves kiss.” She winked at him, “good luck.”

He took a breath. “Wait!” But the witch was gone.

“Damnit.” He slid to his knees and looked at the toad, Geralt.

“Okay, this is fine. Jaskier you can do this. Well just fine Yennefer. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Okay. Roach, we're going to find Yennefer.” He leaned forward and gathered Geralt's clothing into a bundle with his swords. He attached them to Roach, all the while listening to Geralt chirp away.

He took another deep breath and knelt to pick up the toad. He hesitated, how gross. He pulled out a handkerchief and picked up the toad. Geralt chirped louder and burrowed closer to Jaskiers palm. He sighed and looked at Roach.

It took him a long time to navigate his way back to the road. When he did he looked at Roach again. She whinnied and nudged his shoulder. He sighed and whispered, “Thank you. Dear Melitele thank you.” He mounted her and headed back towards the the villiage.

Three days later Jaskier had not slept at all. Geralt was insufferably loud. He chirpped and quewd insesintly. Jaskier was exhausted and had no idea where Yennefer even was. He felt like crying and screaming and he get gross, Geralt insisted on sleeping on some part of of him. He shivered against the cold and the memory of toad skin against his. Then there was the worst he was concerned about contracting. Things just couldn’t get worse.

It snowed.

“Oh sweet Meliteles tits it’s cold.”

Geralt was flush against his stomach and it was everything he could do not to grimace as he inflated his gullet and exhaled with a croak. It was odd but he didn’t need Geralt to freeze to death. He grit his teeth and pulled his gloves back on. How the hell dod Geralt ever find Yennefer. She always seemed to show up when he didn’t want her around but now he needs her for Geralt and the woman is no where to be found.

Finally he came across an inn. He payed well for Roach to be tended and went to find a room and meal for himself. He was half way through a bowl of soup when he heard a familiar voice drawl,

“Is Geralt with you, poet?”

“Oh thank the Gods!” She stared at him.

“Jaskier?”

“I have been looking everywhere for you! There was a contract and it turned out to be a witch and she turned Getalt into a toad!” He thrust said toad out towards her face and she recoiled, all sound in the inn stopped as everyone turned to look at them.

“Qurew, qurew, qurew. Qurew!”

“So she did. I can see the curse. Did she say how to break the curse or am I going to have to figure it out myself.” She quit led and eyebrow to match her amused smile.

“True loves kiss. Which is ridiculous. I know I’m a huge fan of the romantic but come on!”

“Let’s go up to your room we’re getting stared at.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, “grab my ale.”

“Cranky much, bard.”

“Yes actually! I’ve been traveling with a toad for weeks looking for you. In the snow Yennefer. I could get warts! And he won’t shut up. Do you know the last time I slept?!?”

He stomped up the stairs,

“And my lute please!!!” He called back to her.

She blinked and obeyed. Alright then. Jaskier was pissed off not just cranky. She followed more slowly, the embodiment of grace.

“So why were you looking for me?”

“Uh you too love each other don’t you? And even if not your a sorceress you can figure out how to change him back. Can’t you?” Desperation colored his voice as he yelled Geralt back towards the mage. She took him, gently, from Jaskiers chilled hands.

“So you want me to kiss the toad.”

“Geralt.” He corrected.

“Qurew, qurew, qurew.” He chirpped between the two of them.

“This chirp is the sound he’s been making the whole time?”

“Uhm yes with me but not with other people. It was different with the witch and Roach and other people.”

The toad turned towards her and

“Quew, quew, quew!”

“That’s the one he used with everyone else.”

She laughed, “I’ll kiss him but it won’t break the spell. Also, Jaskier, you don’t get warts from touching toads.”

He glared.

“Kiss the fucking toad.”

She rolled her eyes and did so. There was no change.

“Have you tried?”

“Me!” He stammered, “wha- why- me.” She stared at him.

“One brain cell.” She muttered exasperation tainting her features.

“Just kiss the toad. I know you love him Jaskier. You don’t just follow a man around for buisness as long as you have.”

He flushed and took a large swig of his ale.

“You think I’ll turn him back.”

“I think you should try. Or, he may be stuck this way for some time.” She frowned looking down at Geralt. “Curses like this take some time to figure out.”

“Fine.” He grumbled and took Geralt back. He stared with a frown.

“Here goes nothing.” He breathed, “Just my dignity. Not a word to anyone Yennefer!”

“Not a word.” She nodded. “Kiss the toad.”

Jaskier made several face before quickly pressing his lips to Geralts head. He quickly thrust him away and reached for a rag.

“Ewwwww ohhhh.” He flushed Geralt, returned to his human form stood between them. Naked and glaring.

“Took you long enough.” He turned towards Yennefer and smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, now I’m going to go get some supper and leave you two to each other. I have a feeling you’ve got something to discuss.” With that she swept out of the room glancing between them with a smirk and a shake of her head.

“Jaskier. Where are my clothes?”

Jaskier blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get his head wrapped around what had just happened.

“You turned back.”

Geralt nodded.

“Because I kissed your warty little toad head.”

“Don’t say that again.”

“You love me?”

“Obviously. Do you think I’d tolerate you otherwise.”

“Hey! I’m good company!” Jaskier smiled and approached him with a gleam in his eyes.

Geralt tilted his head eyes soft.

“You. Love. Me.” He looked up at the Witcher and smiled.

“Want me to prove it?”

“ I won’t tell you where your clothes are other wise.” Jaskier smirked up at him and stepped closer. “ Tell me something first? How’d she know?”

“One of those sounds was a mating call.” Jaskiers eyes went wide and Gerar kissed him.

[amuseoffyre]

October Prompts - 20th

Prompt - Open old wounds

Given the choice of combat, Azirapale would by far have preferred to find himself back on the airfield than in his current situation.

“Can’t!” Crowley wrestled in his embrace, clawing at his chest. “’Ziraphale! Let me go!”

“I won’t do that, darling,” he said, schooling his voice to steadiness. “I gave you my word. I intend to keep it.”

Crowley keened, straining against his grip. “I need– you can’t– I need it– I need it to sleep!”

“No, love,” Aziraphale held him all the tighter, firm and warm and close and trying desperately not to look or sound as if his heart was breaking. “You’re an angel, Crowley. You don’t need it at all. You can do without it. You did before.”

The sound the angel made was desperate and painful. “D’you want to hurt me?” he cried out. “S’that what you want? You want to see what I’m– what my brain does to me? Do you want to hear me screaming?”

That was worse than the nails tearing at his chest and the pummelling fists.

Sometimes, Aziraphale was grateful he had the excuse of being a bastard of a demon.

He caught a hank of Crowley’s hair in his fist, twisting it, holding him still and growling a low rumble from the depths of his chest. Crowley froze and panted, wild-eyed and staring.

“Guilt trips don’t work on me, angel,” Aziraphale growled. “You don’t need any of that.”

Oh Saints and Demons, Crowley’s eyes were welling up, spilling over.

“I don’t want the dreams,” he whispered. “Don’t make me have the dreams.”

“Oh, my darling…” Aziraphale loosened his grip on Crowley’s hair to gather him closer. “I can’t stop them coming, but I will do everything in my power to drive them off.” He rocked the angel soothingly. “You’ve been on your own with them for too long. Let me man the defences for you. Let me protect you.”

Crowley’s hands scrabbled at his chest again, clinging now. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know, my dearest.” Aziraphale stroked his hair gently. “I know, but I also know that no matter what your dreams tell you of Falling, it will never happen. Not now, not after everything we’ve done. If the Almighty wanted you to Fall from her Grace, it would have happened when we were causing chaos, wouldn’t it?”

The angel shivered, but nodded. “S’pose.”

“No suppose about it, my love.” Aziraphale lay back down, drawing the trembling angel with him. “Heaven and Hell can go hang. We belong to and with the humans now, you and I. She put us here. She kept us here.” He kissed the angel’s ear gently. “She wants us here.”

Crowley’s breath gusted hotly against his cheek. “Doesn’t stop me thinking about it.”

“I know.” Aziraphale loosened his other arm to draw Crowley’s arm around his waist. “Here. Hold on to me. I’m here with you. I won’t be sleeping so if you’re distressed, I’ll wake you, all right?”

Crowley raised his head, shadow-rimmed eyes staring at him. “Promise?”

It wasn’t the first one he’d asked for, not in the four days since he had last slept. It wouldn’t be the last either.

“I promise,” Aziraphale said, drawing his head back down to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I will drive them off for you. I’m here, my love. I will always be here, until you get sick of me and turn me out in nothing but my underpants.”

The small, tired chuff of a laugh was better than nothing. “’nk you.”

It was hardly a pleasurable chore, not when he knew how much it could well hurt, so he didn’t reply automatically. Instead, he hummed, stroking Crowley’s hair over and over until the angel’s exhaustion finally caught up with him and he slowly, everso slowly, sagged against Aziraphale’s chest and into sleep.

Though it was not as bad as Crowley feared, it was certainly what Aziraphale had expected.

The angel thrashed and cried out in the throes of nightmares that had been drowned out by alcohol for centuries. Woken, he clung and sobbed, then fell into shattered sleep again. It was a long, hard, exhausting night, but by the time the sun broke through the windows of the chapter house, Crowley was still asleep, curled in a tight ball, his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thigh.

Aziraphale carded his fingers through the angel’s hair, watching him carefully. He was starting to recognise the signs now: the ripple of tension across his shoulders, that furrow between his brows, the way his hands twitched. This one came on quickly, too quickly, and even as Aziraphale reached for his shoulders to shake him to wakefulness, the angel lashed out, shouting desperately in a long-forgotten angelic tongue. No. Not shouting. Begging. Screaming at someone to stop.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale dodged the furiously fighting arms to catch the angel, pulling him close against his chest. He would have bruises by lunchtime, especially given the way Crowley kept on scratching and wrestling against him. “Darling, hush! Darling! I’m here! I’m here!”

Little by little, Crowley surfaced, though he stared at Aziraphale as if he didn’t recognise him for several unbearably long seconds, before his eyes widened in panic and he pushed himself back, one hand touching the demon’s throat, then patting its way down his chest and over his belly, as if expecting to find… what?

Before Aziraphale could even ask, the angel fell back into him, wrapping his arms tightly around him, his breaths hot and ragged on Aziraphale’s throat.

“Bad?” he guessed softly, running his hands the length of Crowley’s back.

A series of impressions filled his mind. Salt water. Cold. Sharp rocks. A sword blazing with Heavenly fire.

“When they destroyed the Book?” Aziraphale guessed.

Crowley’s fingers dug into the meat of his shoulders. “Not the Book,” he rasped. “Not this time.”

“What, th…” He trailed off at the way the angel’s grip tightened. “Oh.” Neck, chest and belly. Terminal and bloody places to cut into anything, but for a demon and with a Heaven-blessed blade? “Oh, Crowley…”

The angel shuddered in his arms and for good measure, Aziraphale – somewhat awkwardly, given the angle of the ceiling – unfurled his wings to wrap them around him too. The world was cut away from them, stifled and silenced by cream and gold feathers and warmth.

“Is that new?” he asked quietly when Crowley’s violent shivers had eased.

“Mm-mm.”

Oh.

Wordlessly, he stroked his hands over and over, soothing circles on the angel’s back. He hummed a low, rumbling melody and, as much as Crowley’s iron grip would allow, he rocked the angel gently from side to side.

Little by little, the tension drained away.

The angel’s face was tucked in against his neck. He sounded exhausted, poor dove. And he had been dreaming of Aziraphale’s death for goodness knows how long. Lord, no wonder he had been unwilling to sleep, perchance to dream.

Aziraphale drew him back down on the covers, cradling him on his chest, his wings a warmer mantle. It was better, he had noticed. The closer and more snugly the angel rested against him, the less troubled his sleep. What a terrible hardship to offer a means to ease his suffering.

“You can sleep again, love,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.”

The words didn’t even need to be said. He could feel the change in Crowley’s breathing, slower and warmer against his neck. His body slowly slumped, limp and warm and heavy. Aziraphale stroked his fingers through the angel’s hair.

“That’s right, darling,” he murmured softly, “rest again. Dream of happy things and know that if they ever come for me, I will incinerate them before they even have the chance to draw their blades.” He whispered a kiss against Crowley’s ear. “You’re stuck with me now, my love. For eternity.”

“’ternity,” Crowley murmured against his throat, teetering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. “S’nice.”

Lord, how could he make himself even more charming while half-conscious?

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, holding him close. “It is.”

[mercifuldeaths]

What Do You Wanna Wear This Season?

What Do You Wanna Wear This Season?

Michael Langdon x Reader 

Fashion AU

Warnings: smut, impact play, cum play (kinda?), handcuffs.......Gucci, of course.

Summary: It’s been a long fashion week and with your collection debuting tomorrow, you’re feeling a little stressed. Michael, your muse, is more the=an happy to help you calm down.

Notes: Thank you anon! This shook me to the goddamn core. Fashion hoe smut prevails on this blog! I wrote this in like....a few hours. Also unedited. I just had to get it out there. Hope you enjoy this concept as much as I do. Xx.

Word Count: 2.3K

It had been fashion week, of course, it was. New York was impossibly more crowded, full of models, designers, celebrities, other show guests. It was horrendous. But it also meant that Michael would be back in town. One of the more famous models, Michael Langdon was already well known and even starting to branch out into design. In fact, his first collaboration with you was debuting the next day. Which was exactly why you were sitting in your studio, piles of the discarded fabric around you, holding your head in your hands...crying.

You’ve only been in the industry for a few years, still a fresh face and trying to make a name for yourself. You figured with Michael, it would be possible. But some of the garments weren’t perfect and it killed you a little. You managed to start the ugly sobbing that commenced the second you ushered Michael out to go get more coffee for the two of you. He really was a big help, despite your reluctance to admit it.

His perchance for velvets, leathers, saturated colors offset by onyx black was the center of your inspiration and your pieces delivered. They were created for men or women or anyone, really- walking that line of masculinity and femininity. All of the pieces were beautiful, you knew. But what if they just weren’t enough.

Michael’s footfalls were heard through the hallway leading to the studio. You felt a little better knowing he held your cappuccino, the only way you were going to make it through this night, still having to fix the stitching on that one blazer and maybe inlay the string of pearls around the collar and maybe….

“Y/N?” Michael’s voice rang out. You were still sitting facing away, cross legged on the floor. “Oh, come here,” he said as he set the coffees down on the table and made his way to you looking ever so dejected in your pile of black and red velvet. He kneeled next to you and his hand went to your thigh, something he had been doing of late. You won’t lie...there was something of a spark between you two and you both knew it.

“I’m just really worried, Michael. What if it doesn’t go well-you know the Ford show and Oscar de la Renta are scheduled for the same day and people are obviously going to go there because I mean, they’re icons and nobody’s going to show up and the pieces probably aren’t even that good and--” you rambled but he cut you off.

“Stop that.”

You looked at him with wide eyes, nervous of his sharp tone.

“It’s going to go flawlessly. You’ve made it perfect. Every last detail. You’re doubting yourself-something you should never do,” he said, a little more empathy in his voice.

“I’m just...I’m just nervous,” you stuttered out, still feeling the pit in your stomach.

“What can I do to make it better?” he asked, both hands now resting on your thighs, splayed out to be sitting crosslegged.

A scrap of velvet found its way into your hand and you rubbed your nimble fingers along the luxe texture. You shook your head. No. That would be completely inappropriate. He was your partner, your collaborator.

“I saw that Vogue interview you did...Now I don’t know if you were playing at something, but I remember you like to ‘have the stress fucked out of you’? Was that it?” He leaned in and you could feel his breath ghosting over your neck. A blush rose to your cheeks and you let out a nervous laugh. You had said that...mostly as a joke...but it wasn’t. “Maybe I can do something about that.”

You felt the wind knock out of your lungs when he tugged on the velvet under you, causing you to slip back against the floor, his large hand caught your head in a gentle cradle. Attacking your neck and jaw with sloppy open mouth kisses, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to grind against your center. You were already wet, having just spent time around the man was something of a sexual experience.

“Mmmm..Michael,” you managed to slur out, his mouth now closer to yours. You were originally going to protest, but feeling his hardness against you, already seeking friction, had you thinking other things...mostly about how you wanted him to absolutely wreck you right there in the middle of the discards from your designs.

He made quick work of your leather leggings, something he had designed and a favorite of yours-so much so that you were wearing it before they had debuted. You felt your tee shirt rise over your breasts and his hand going to cup one. You shivered, exposed to the brisk temperature of the room, but the fabric under you insulating the hard floor.

Your fingers knotted in his blonde hair, slipping out of the bun he had thrown it in earlier in his stressed-out state. You’d never seen him more unkempt and something about that just made you more desperate for him. Michael’s lips made their way lower over your stomach, nipping and biting-the little tease.

“Make a move, Langdon. We have a collection to finish,” you gritted out between your teeth, starting to feel the stress rising again.

“All too right, as usual,” he mumbled against the line of your lacy panties. Pulling them to the side, he nuzzled his face into your center. “Already so wet...you’ve been wanting this, you little minx. You thought I didn’t see the way your hands lingered when tailoring the jackets to fit me? How you always wanted me shirtless for measurements. I’m not just some dumb model, darling.” His tongue slid into your wet folds, but it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t fast enough.

“God Michael, come on.” You grabbed him by his blond locks and pulled his face back to meet yours, crashing your lips together. You could taste yourself on him. Untangling one hand, you reached lower into his low slung slacks and palmed his cock, already hard and ready for you. Without hesitation, he slid them down to his knees and pressed all his body weight onto you. You felt his cock press into your cunt and the pressure made your eyes roll.

You sighed and he started slipping himself through your wetness. A gasp fell from your lips. Suddenly, all pressure and warmth was removed. “Michael?” you cried out, confused, as he stood and walked over to the table that held some of the accessories you had planned for the show. Because it was yours and Michael’s collaboration, of course, there were some more...risque elements. One being that the models accessories were whips, chains, paddles. The most iconic being a set or vintage Tom Ford for Gucci handcuffs. Something out of Michael’s personal collection.

The silver gleamed in the dim light of the studio menacingly. Before you could even react, they were around your wrists, tight enough to leave bruises. Unable to stop him, with your hands now behind your back, he flipped you over onto your stomach and lifted your hips up, pressing your front into the floor. Your cheek and tits pressed into the red velvet under you, back arched to allow your ass to be presented to him obscenely.

“Now that’s quite the view. Considering I had to watch you waltz around in those leather leggings, I imagine I should get rewarded for my patience.” Out of nowhere, he pulled out the YSL paddle, something from your personal collection. You were an interesting pair, that’s for sure.

You couldn’t see clearly, him being behind you and all, but you felt his hand tease your cheek, gently rubbing it in soothing circles. You did expect it, but the crack of the paddle against you still caused you to lurch forward and let out a small shriek. His hand went back to rubbing small circles, soothing the blushing skin.

The velvet, as soft as it was, started rubbing into the side of your face that he had roughly pushed into the ground. The definition of face down ass up. Another loud crack echoed and you lurched again, this time a whimper escaping. You could feel your wetness start to seep onto your thighs and Michael chuckled. His long fingers started to tease your entrance, slipping one inside but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Michael, please. No more teasing,” you choked out, completely desperate and at his mercy.

“If I fuck you good, you’ll finish the collection nice and relaxed?”

“Yes, yes, please-I’ll be so good.”

He slid into you so slow you felt yourself push back onto him, eager to take all of him. When he was buried in you, you felt his hands move to your hips, having to still you as you were still grinding back onto him. It was perfect, the stretch, how he fit in your cunt so wonderfully tight.

“Well then, we have no more times to waste.” And with that he was relentlessly pounding into you, your gasps and ragged breaths escaped into the fabric, still under you but now slipping from the movement. He bottomed out each thrust causing a moan to fall from your lips with every single one, unable to help yourself.

You knew you wouldn’t last long. The stress had gotten to you and yeah, when overworked, you were always more horny...and plainly a slut for Michael Langdon. “Fuck, fuck, Michael-I can’t-please I gotta.”

“Okay, I’ve got you,” he said and you felt a hand reach around to stroke lazy circles into your clit, a sharp contrast to the relentless pace he kept that was keeping you breathless. “So fucking tight, look at how well you take me, god.”

His thrusts were becoming more sloppy, you felt his pace falter. Obviously, the stress was getting to him, too-both of you in a desperate need for release, not taking the time to savor each other like you really wanted- To take him apart piece by piece.

Your back was jerked up, him using the cuffs to maneuver you, causing him to shift angles and hit that spot few other men have managed to get right. He rested back onto his heels and pulled you back to sit on his cock, him practically impaling you onto him. He pressed the cuffs down further, making your back arch against him, him practically holding your entire upper body with a goddamn designer sex toy.

He stopped his movements, despite his desperation but you picked up the slack, working yourself over him, hard and reckless. “Fuck, Fuck Y/N I’m gonna-”

“Go ahead, babe.” You could feel the spiral of heat pooling, as well, All you needed was just a few more expert circles against your pulsing clit.

You felt yourself uncoil first. “Michael, Michael-Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you practically screamed, hoping the other studios next door were long empty. You couldn’t help the clenches your cunt gave, needing more of him inside you always. While you were coming down, you could feel him losing himself in you, wanting the pull of your core to make him cum but he did have other ideas.

Pulling out he took himself in hand and pumped just a few times. With the memory of your walls pulsing against him in mind, he came with a grunt and a few gasps. You felt him paint your ass cheeks, still red and burning from the spanking he gave. Taking a few deep breathes to calm himself he took your ass in hand, still presented to him like you were his. But you really already were.

He hummed as he smeared some of his cum into the red welts that he left behind, soothing the burn, his thumb circling one of the more intense ones. “Hmmm, that’s beautiful.”

“What? Me covered in your cum?” you asked, trying to swivel around to face him but he held you in place. He took one of the black velvet swatches in hand and gently wiped his essence off your pert cheek.

“Well, that of course. But also the pattern of my cum dripping out of your cunt makes on the fabric,” he leaned in close and flipped you onto your back, cuffs digging into you and making your back arch awkwardly. “I think I just got an idea for our next collaboration,” he smirked, his voice lilting and looking all too pleased with himself.

“God, Michael,” you signed out, feeling his cum continue to drip off you in the most obscene manner. Your head fell back against the floor in resignation, despite the awkward angle created with your hands still pinned behind you back.

A rustle of fabric piqued your interest, as Michael moved to reach behind him. “Michael?” He turned to you, a devilish glint in his eyes and he lazily swung the YSL paddle around his finger.

“Yes, Y/N?” He smirked

“Don’t do it-” You practically read his mind.

He took the paddle and landed one last smack, this time against your soaked cunt, open to the air with your legs still spread before you. The impact in addition to your overstimulation tore a moan from your chest, eyes rolling back, feeling like all too much at once but never enough.

“Come on, there’s plenty of work to do. And your cappuccino has probably gone cold,” he said, back to business as he tucked himself back into his slacks and attempted to help you up onto shaking legs. “Maybe if you finish the trim on that cloak we talked about, I’ll let you ride my thigh like the little whore you are while I’m in those velvet trousers, hm?”

Expensive Hoes: @ccodyfern @michael-langdon-appreciation @starwlkers @sojournmichael @americanhorrorstudies @lovelykhaleesiii @wroteclassicaly @aveiangdon @langdonsrapture @langdonsinferno @langdonsdemon @i-will-die-for-jim-mason

[luminary-gremlin]

The Jesting Host (Part 4)

A/N: Welcome back to part 4 of the Jesting Host! I don’t really have any comments but once again this fic was fun to write! Let me know how you feel about this fic!

Word Count:1913

           Now that the Jims have been taken care of, it was time for Host to check up on their little star of the documentation, Bim Trimmer. He flexed his wrists and fingers before taking a deep breath, this next recreation will require him to create quite a large object. He felt a surge of energy rush through him at his plans for the optimistic gentle soul.

           Bim was currently touching up his make up for the next show, everything had to be absolutely perfect before he dare show his handsome face to the world. He extra polished his spectacles in such a way were any smudge was eradicated off the crystal surface. He fixed his beautiful raven hair until it was perfect without a signal stand out of place. It often took the man such a long time to perfect every single detail that his show wouldn’t start until another hour! Not to mention helping Wilford and trying to keep calm and then fix himself again.

           Host perceived his form with his mind eye, now…how on earth was going to play this out WITHOUT possessing the man. As he brainstormed millions upon millions of possibilities, he picked up with how frantic Bim would check his schedule…he only did that if something different was planned…perhaps he may not need to order Bim to do his bidding, thank god, but rather persuade him.

           Bim squinted at the mirror closely, did he use “MAC Powder Blush – Mocha” or “MAC Powder Blush – Blushbaby”? Yes this was very important, one was just a smidge to dark for his paling skin, evidence from the lack of staying outside. Maybe he should take it off and start all over again.

           He sighed as he grasped the make up remover and wiped down his face before splashing himself with cold water to refresh his face. Okay no big deal you can do this Bim. He looked at the folded paper that laid on his make up dresser. He was for sure he knew what was coming up…but one more glance couldn’t hurt. He fixed his crystal spectacles and muttered the list out loud before gasping dramatically.

           “A MAGIC SHOW PARTICIPANT?! IN 10 MINUTES?! Oh god how did I miss this?!”

           That was the Host’s cue to lightly knock on the door, disguising as a magician that Marvin would be jealous of. The showman flinched before screeching out,

           “I’M NOT READY DON’T COME IN!”

           The Host came in anyways and Bim hurringly covered his clean baby face, muttering swears into the towel.

           “Ahem, I apologize for the sudden intrusion sir, but perhaps you would be interested in possibly quickly practicing for our small act. I would prefer preventing any chance of actually cutting you in half.”

           Oh my, Bim didn’t think about that. He had never done this before! How could he get so absorbed in his facial features. He hesitantly dropped the towel and discarded it before facing the masked stranger.

           “Yes yes of course. Apologies for the naked look, I was just trying to fix up and something went wrong. What exactly is your name?”

           “...Ganjileom. But please, call me Gan for short.”

           Bim blinked at the name and held out a hand, in which the man named Gan firmly shook. It ease Bim’s nerves with how friendly and patient he was, almost as if it was a familiar feeling he’s had before. He clapped his hands readily as if he was about to announce something.

           “So! What was that about cutting me in half? Oh that was always my favorite trick in magician shows!”

           “Yes yes, I have brought the box with me for practice. Please step in. This act often is a people pleaser with the illusion of someone cut in half and surviving as well as put together.”

           Bim gulped nervously…yeah, that was why it was his favorite act. He slid off his Gucci dress shoes and lied down on his back in the silk covered box and pushed his feet through the holes, in which “Gan” had locked them in with a devilish grin.

           “Now to begin, you will come on stage as my assistant after I have announced my act. You will climb into the box and I will lock you in. I will announce to the crowd that the box is all one piece and spin you around and then just to show the people these are indeed your feet, I will give them a little tickle. Are you ticklish perchance Mr. Trimmer?”

           Oh god Bim blushed…this was the reason. Just the way how a magician would teasingly tickle the assistant’s feet just to prove they were real, even if it was just for a second, made him feel all bashful. He began to cover one socked foot with the other in a shy manner before speaking.

           “A-ah yes, just a little.”

           The Host’s evil smirk grew in to a toothy grin and lightly scratched one of his exposed soles to test the waters. As he suspected, the gameshow host squealed outloud and wiggled his sensitive foot around. It was worse that he couldn’t see and therefore unable to predict what would happen next.

           “Excellent. Now after that I will get my saw out and place it inside the box. This blade will absolutely NOT touch you. I wanna tell you this because it may get close, but I will not let anyone get hurt under my watch. Do you feel that slight vulnerability around your ah…buttock?”

           To be honest Bim was feeling a much more different vulnerability around his feet, but the moment Gan pulled the box in half he felt his butt almost…sag down a bit. Ah so that’s how it’s done. He arched his back to let the box slide back in. He felt quite confident now with the current situation.

           “Wow, it’s that easy? I never thought magic could be that simple!!! Now ah, shall you undo the stocks?”

           “Possibly, but first…I am awfully curious about your feet and their sensitivity. This sort of thing cannot go unnoticed. Most of the time I hear a giggle or so, but you…you’re different. Different in a good way of course!”

           Bim flushed a beautiful bright pink at that and rubbed his feet together bashfully. It embarrassed the heck out of him whenever people commented on his ticklishness. He felt dread pool into his stomach at the realization…he was stocked, he couldn’t see, his trapped feetsies were going to be tickled! Not that he minded of course.

           The Host grinned at his flustered silence, sensing the emotion Bim felt at the realization, and then began. He slowly peeled off his socks to expose the soft, well taken care of skin of Bim trapped soles.

           “My my, it seems your facial features aren’t the only thing you take care of Bim~”

           The Host purred. He then dragged a single finger up and down his soles greedily, enjoying the squeaks and sweet laughter of Bim. It was almost amusing how one little finger already got the poor man to unwravel.

           “CEHEhehhHEHEHEase AHAHahhahAHHAt OHohohOHonce FihihIHiHiHend!”

           “…Fiend? You call such a simple, gentle gesture…fiendish? Well, well, well…it seems someone needs to be reeducated about what such a word ACTUALLY means!”

           The Host sneered before snapping his fingers, causing Bim’s toes to uncurl and spread open as far as the could comfortably before freezing in that position. Bim couldn’t move an inch and now his toes where completely open under the “magician’s” mercy. Oh how he wish he could take it all back. If he had just kept his mouth shut. Before he could apologize, he was cut off with hysterical laughter at the feeling of something super, feathery soft like a make-up brush teasing the ball of his left foot along with 5 blunt, scratching nails traversing up and down his sole.

           “BWAHAHHAHAHAHHA ANOHOHOHHOH PLEHEHEHEHHEHEHASE!!!! GEHEHEHEHHEHT AWAHAHHAHAHAY FROHOHOHOHM MIHIHIHIHIHY FEEHEHEHHEHET! IHIHIHIHI’LL SUHUHUHUHUE YOU WHEHEHEHHEN I GEHEHEHEHT OUT!!!!”

           He howled with laughter. He banged his fists against the box for a way to open it. He shook his head wildly as red blush burned his delicate skin. It was blissful ticklish agony. The two wildly different techniques on different areas of his feet was driving him mad. Meanwhile the Host was having a blast of a time. He had made sure to check in on his levels as to not go too far.

           “Now tell me Bim, which tickles more? The make-up brush or my nails~?”

           Oh god don’t make me choose, he thought to himself. There was nothing worse than having to focus on what was the worse than the two evils. The scratchy, suuuuper tickly claws of this magician…or the feather soft brush teasing such a sensitive spot. The choice was horrible as it was about equal, but he knew he’d have to give an answer quickly for fear of upsetting his captor.

           “THEHEHEHHEH MAHAHHAHAHAKE UP!!!!! THEHEHHEHE BRUSH THEHEHHE BRUHUHHUHUHUSH!!!!! THHEHEHEH BRUSH IHHIHIHS WOHOHOHOHOHOHRSE!!!!”

           He cried out in hysteria. The Host continued to keep an eye on his limit, figuring that despite the man having excellent stamina, he would prefer not to push him to his limit. He was such an innocent one after all.

           “Excellent. The H- Ii-i-I mean…the great Ganjileom is delighted that you willingly answered his question. You are granted freedom from the box.”

           The Host unlocked him out from the split box, lifting him up and setting him in the chair while fetching a cold bottle of water. Bim’s lungs were on fire, sweat dripping from his skin, his hair was a mess as tears stained his adorable cheeks. Once he was given the water, he greedily guzzled it down thankful for its refreshing coolness. The Host then placed a cool rag over his head as well as cleaning up Bim.

           “Ah it’s impossible. There’s no way to fix this and the show is about to begin! I can’t go out there!”

           “Perhaps Bim, you are focusing too much on your perfect complexion. Yes a bit of foundation may help with making you appear correctly skin colored. But is perfection really necessary? The crowd loves you for your personality. You’re able to wow a group using a pinecone and a crunchy leaf!”

           Bim…hadn’t thought of it that way. He’s been so obsessed with how he appeared to others, that he had forgotten his talented skills of show business!

           “W-wow…you really think so? W-why thank you…I guess…I HAVE been obsessed…but is it possible to at least quickly fix up?”

           The Host chuckled fondly at him and nodded.

           “Well of course, you don’t think I’d actually expect to leave you like this did you?”

           With a snap of his fingers, Bim’s features were all fixed up. He wore a brand new tailored suit, clean, combed hair, as well as clear, fixed spectacle. His eyes glistened and hugged the Host happily.

           “HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU DO THAT?!”

           “A magician never tells his secrets~”

           “T-thank you! I swear I owe you one! Anything! Let’s knock this event out of the park!”

           “Yes indeed let us…and by the way… ‘Blushbaby’ appeals more to your skin than ‘Mocha’.”

           And so the two men set out on their performance together, receiving quite amount of applause and cheers for their act. Bim was able to crack some jokes and wow the crowd with his own commentary as well as assure the crowd their favorite showman was quite fine after being cut in half.

4 down, 9 to go

[ko-yeop]

Lovecraft: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Coming Soon

Characters: Saeran Choi x Reader

Word Count: 3,811

Genre: Witchcraft!AU, Slow burn

Summary: After an unfortunate drunken night, you, a fortune teller who was cursed from a young age by an unknown witch, breaks your own creed and read your own fate. Seeing nothing but ruin and isolation in the future, you seek out an apothecary named Saeran, who gives you untested potion called Aphrodite’s Blessing, not for free though. In return, he wishes to study and document it’s effects on you. Can his creation not only save you from fate, but also break your longstanding curse?

Authors Note: I don’t usually care to write multi-chapter fics, but I felt this would be a better format for what I’ve planned out. I greatly appreciate critique, and reading your comments. Let me know what you think!

You could feel each curve of the cobblestone path pressing against the thin sole of your boots. They were worn down, patched to no end, seams parting once again… Not that it really mattered to you. You were destined for a life of solitude, ruin, destruction at your own core. Being a fortune teller, it was your own creed to not read your own fate. You were a medium. A pawn used to relay fate, you weren’t meant to know your own. You never really wanted to anyways, after seeing so many disastrous readings in which the card’s warnings weren’t headed. A few nights ago, in your drunken stupor you thought reading your fate would be a good idea. You were horrifically wrong.

You hadn’t intended to drink so much rum. The bartender was just so whimsical in the way he mixed his concoctions. The way silver strands jostled as muscular arms shook drinks in the same rhythmic way, every time. Maybe you’d thought that if you ordered enough, you’d catch him skip a beat. Maybe that chiseled face, surely crafted by the gods would take you home and ravage you. You swore you could still taste the spice in the back of your throat when you coughed at the chill in the air. Your esophagus burned when you took a swig from the water jug you carried on your hip.

All of this could simply be a physical manifestation of your current mental state though. Plagued with anxiety, you proceeded to shove those like you, wandering hopelessly, aside in the crowded streets. You tugged the wool of your navy cloak tighter around your shoulders, hoping to retain some bodily heat. You thumbed at the white edges, lined with constellations. This was the last gift you’d been presented with by your father before you left home for the big city. The cloak was like the summer night sky, at the last moment before shadows filled the sky in its entirety. It was home to you, a comfort item of sorts. You never wished to part from your dear parents, the only people who’d cared for you all these years, but the village was no place for a fortune teller to find a living. You could only tell the same twenty people the same thing the cards and skies told you so many times. Small towns like yours were a place for those strong enough with their craft to practice elemental magic. To freely cause boulders to rise and be flung about with no worry of guards rushing about, offering threats if one persisted. Elemental magic was still seen as a dubious concept, one that only the rich elite would have access to. However, it was becoming more common knowledge that a gifted student of any class could obtain the ability to practice creating breezes with proper guidance. The outskirts of town could be easily accessed, with no need to walk half the day to reach a far off stream to try to cause the water to bubble and boil, harnessing both fire and water spells. You could often find apothecaries wandering in your town, searching for new foliage, inquiring about preservation methods from those most acquainted with living off the land.

“You there! Prophet!” A ragged voice called from the entrance to his shop. A tailor, by the looks of the sign. “Don’tcha need them raggedy boots patched up? Can’t have someone like yourself lookin’ like yer livin’ off tha streets,” You gazed down at the black suede, knowing fully well they were tattered beyond return.

“No thank you, I have little coin to spare, and am equipped with a needle and thread myself,” The man did not look like the sort you’d trust to repair anything. He was scarred, war torn, and brash. His red beard was caked with dirt, bits of food clinging to the ends.You didn’t believe such chubby, calloused fingers could even hold a needle. It was more likely he was a thief, pretending he owned the shop as he stood in front of the door, taking payments and items from unsuspecting victims until the merchant came to scurry them away. You did not offer the chance for him to reply, simply carrying on your way. You had business to attend to, after all.

It was by chance that the discarded paper ended up in your path. On that treacherous walk home from the pub, it stood in your path like a beacon. Perhaps this was some deity giving you a second chance with your mistake soon to come. “Lovecraft: Potions and Vulneraries” it read in pink lettering. It had been torn at the edges, footprints having left their mark on it, but you still tucked the page in your pocket. Perhaps you knew all along that you’d need it.

The wooden sign creaked in the wind, tugging at its chain links, the peeling paint threatening to join the wind and it’s journeys. Red bricks were chipped, but it certainly had its charm. It was wedged between a bakery and a magical equipment suppliers shop. The thump of tomes being tossed on the counter could be heard through a cracked window pane, coins being tossed into palms and the scurry of yet another mage to be purchasing the essentials. Fresh bread could be smelled in the air, sweeping its way across the street. It warmed your bones. You walked up the steps, lightly dusted with snow, its pristine placing showed no signs of anyone visiting within the past hour. You heard a small chime as you pushed the splintered door open. The heavy floral, herbal scent hit you like a wave. Various coloured bottles lined the shelves, dried basil leaves dangling from the ceiling. Wax candles that spilled over, dripping onto the shop counter flickered at the breeze that drifted in along with you.

“Welcome! What can I help you with?” a voice called out. The man, standing behind the counter fiddling away with the soft petals of a sunflower, turned around. He lowered the burgundy hood on his cloak to reveal a soft, round face, hair as white as the snowflakes flitting about outside, bits of pink clinging to the ends. Perhaps it was some kind of pollen from a flower he utilized? You wondered about how he’d achieved the mix of hair colours, but quickly shoved those thoughts to the back of your head. It wasn’t all that important at the moment. The boy seemed quite young, not much older than yourself, if at all. With his age, he was most likely an apprentice. It was usually men and women in their late teens and older who ran shops, seeing as how the younger generation typically couldn’t afford to start up their own shops.

“I’m looking for the owner of this shop, would he be around perchance?” You questioned. You were always wary of apprentice apothecaries. They had quite a knack for creating potions that backfired in the form of bodily alterations that can’t be undone, using their craft as a guise to create aphrodisiacs that they’d slip into ladies’ drinks at the pubs, having bottles combust because they couldn’t be bothered to check what fumes would be emitted, and how they’d fill the glass until they burst…

“That’d be me,” He pointed to himself, looking slightly dejected. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“I-I’m so sorry!” You blurted. “I’m just used to shop owners being much older, and you look quite young…”

“That’s to be expected,” Placing down the mortar and pestle he’d been using, he walked around the counter, leaning up against the front of it casually. “I...Kind of inherited this place from my teacher, that’s why someone as inexperienced as me is running it,” You could sense that something grave had happened to him by the way the man’s tone dropped.

“Oh… If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to him?” You tried to evade asking him if his teacher had died, point blank. Instead choosing to give him a bone, and let him tell you as much as he wished. It wasn’t exactly polite to be inquiring about such a personal story, but you did wish to know why such a young looking guy was running a shop.

“He passed away a few years ago. The cause was unknown... “ His mint eyes darted down to floorboards, his foot playing with a loose one that was near ready to pop out. “But in his will, he gave everything he owned to me. Shop included. I just decided to keep carrying on practicing what I’d been taught, so here I am, running my own place,”

“I’m so sorry… About your loss, I mean,”

“Thank you for your condolences,” He smiled sadly. You figured his teacher must have been dear to him, seeing as how he acted as though he’d passed away a few weeks ago rather than a few years. “But all that aside, what can I help you with today miss?”

“I’ve… Found myself in a bit of a predicament, you see,” Averting your eyes, you took sudden interest in a stray thread on your cloak. It was embarrassing to tell your story, it was foolish that your answer wasn’t as easy as “go out and make friends”. You’d never been able to form close bonds with anyone who wasn’t family. It wasn’t that you were unkind, or deemed a monstrosity by society, but rather… A lack of connection. There was never any sort of click that went off when you spoke to people. Everyone always seemed at a distance. Civil to you, but it was like you were a minor character in a book. One who appeared for a page or two to fill up a moment, to hurry along the plot, and then you were abandoned by the writer. You were certain it had to do with the curse your parents whispered about in the night. It was only ever bits and pieces that you heard, but you knew the truth, deep down. Someone, somewhere, had cursed you to never find companionship. Not among friends, not among lovers. You could only wish you knew why or whom. It took an exorbitant amount of time and effort to learn how to curse. Anyone who wished to learn how would’ve required a deep seated motivation to curse someone. You never did let your parents know that you knew about this curse. You didn’t want them to feel sorry for you, so instead, you focused on your studies into divination rather than making friends, quickly being able to accel in your field. Taking on the guise of a cheerful studious girl, you were able to ease their worries, if only a little bit.

“I’m a fortune teller you see, and I accidentally read my own fortune, and my fate… Was not good to say in the least,”

“How do you accidentally read your own fate?” He questioned, confusion laced in his voice. Truthfully, it was an odd thing to say. Reading fortunes was a long, drawn out process, not something done with the flick of the wrist.

“I was a drunken mess, and it’s my personal vow to never tell my own future, but, well… Rum really gets to you, doesn’t it?” His face was skeptical, seeming as though he was analyzing your tale for lies.

“So what about your fate?”

“The cards foretold of a horrid future. One where I am alone for eternity, no companions, no family, no lovers. All that awaits me due to my isolation, is ruin at my own core.” You truthfully wished that this was a jest by the gods, however, cards did not lie. This, you strongly believed, was a warning. “I don’t wish to succumb to a fate like this, so I was wondering if there was perhaps a potion of some sort that could help me?”

“You’re an odd one, you believe in fate, yet you think it can be changed?” You’d piqued his interest. Why would someone who practices divination say the complete opposite of where their beliefs should lie?

“Destiny is not absolute.” You could go on for hours about your thoughts on fate, but you didn’t want to bore him with your long winded explanations. He nodded at this, you weren’t sure if it was of acceptance of your answer, or agreement.

“I might have something, give me a moment,” Turning his back to you, he walked into a nearby backroom, leaving you by yourself while he sifted through glass bottles. Grasping a nearby vulnerary, you examined it’s bring blue contents. An scrawled label read “Bane of Phobetor”. Carefully popping the cork, you sniffed at it’s contents. It smelled of the sickly sweet cough syrup your mother used to give you as a child, the kind that stuck in your throat, and you could taste with every swallow. Just what was this for? How much was it? This boy had a lot to learn about running a shop if he couldn’t even attach price tags and descriptions to the oddly named vials. You shook your head, sending melting snow flying off your cloak.

“Here it is!” The boy emerged with a heart-shaped bottle in hand. It was filled with a bright pink colour. The dim candle light caught on the glass, reflecting it in your direction. “This is one I’ve been working on for some time now, it’s called Aphrodite’s Blessing.” He shook the bottle gently, swirling it’s contents about. “I’m warning you though, it hasn’t been properly tested on anyone yet,” You weren’t sure how to feel, taking an untested potion. By an unexperienced apprentice who had his shop given to him by his deceased teacher, no less. But was this your only hope to save yourself?

“What’s the intended effect?” You inquired.

“I designed it to draw love and companionship to the user, a love potion, essentially.”

“So what, I’m supposed to take this and prince charming will pop up out of nowhere and save my pathetic soul for eternity?” As silly as his explanation sounded, you were desperate. You’d already sought counselling, you’d spoken to those in your field about your predicament, and none could offer any help. Would this be powerful enough to combat the curse you were bestowed upon? You’d heard of certain potions being taken daily to combat effects of a curse, but overcoming your own would depend on the unknown strength of the curse, and the apothecary’s potion.

“Not quite,” He laughed. “I created it out of accident. I was originally trying to create something that would bring my long lost twin brother back to my side, but I found the creation seemed to show promise of helping new relationships form well.”

“I thought you said it hadn’t been tested, so how did you come to that conclusion?”

“I tested the original formula on myself, but since then, I’ve done some alterations. I changed the intention to focus on helping the lonely souls of the world rather than trying to bring people back,”

“I see…” Oddly enough, he didn’t seem to bear any ill will. His aura was not malicious in the slightest. You were at your wits end, and even though you were wary, it didn’t seem like you had much a choice in the matter. You were doomed if you didn’t take it, so might as well try your luck with taking it.

“How much?”

He was a bit taken back, startled that you’d try it. He was expecting a solid no, and for you to carry on your way.

“Um...Actually, I can give it to you for free, for a favour,” It had to be a hefty kind of favour in return for the cure-all that you were about to receive, you thought.

“What kind of favour?”

“I’d like to study the effects of this on you so I can properly document its properties,” A reasonable request, after all, he said this batch hadn’t been tested. You would help him in his craft, and if this potion worked, you wouldn’t face a future of loneliness. “You’d just need to stop in a few times a week so I can record any changes to you,” This bargain wasn’t sounding too bad at all. And you’d get to see him again, he was kind of cute, you had to admit.

“I’ll do it...” You muttered.

“A-Are you sure? You don’t need to if you don’t want to,” He stumbled over his words, worrying he’d pressured you into making a decision in his favour. As eager as he was, he didn’t wish you to do something you weren’t comfortable with.

“No, this is my only chance at obtaining happiness. I want to try it,”

“Alright.” Placing the vial in your palms, he began to recite a list of instructions. “Ingest this once daily, if you can use a rose quartz spoon that would be best for enhancing the intention. Don’t mix it with other vulneraries, as we don’t know the effects yet. Stop taking it if you feel there’s something wrong, and let me know immediately. I have other potions for healing purposes should something go haywire,” You nodded, trying to mentally jot down the grand list of things to remember.

“So when would you like me to stop by again?”

“Maybe in two or three days? That should be enough time for the effects to begin.”

“Alright then, I shall see you soon then, um… What is your name, by the way?”

“It’s Saeran. Saeran Choi. Yours?” You gave him your name, and smiled as it rolled off his tongue. “Good to meet you miss, well, enjoy the rest of your day,” You waved as you opened the door to the brisk temperatures, braving them once again. You hugged the bottle tightly to your chest as if to protect it from the chill. You raced home, dodging the people scuttling about the streets.

Quickly, you shut the wooden door behind you, locking out the frigid cold. You placed Aphrodite’s Blessing on your nightstand, watching as condensation formed on the outside. A gentle finger swiping at the droplets, as if brushing away its tears. You finally, finally had some hope to save yourself. Far too long had you lived a lonely life, only thankful that the curse was not strong enough to shake the bonds you held with your parents. If the curse couldn’t totally isolate you, that meant this potion might be strong enough to overcome it. Maybe you’d find comfort in the arms of the bartender, perhaps that sweet lady with the glasses at the bank would look your way more than once, who knew what could be around the corner if this worked?

You began sifting through a drawer to find that rose quartz spoon you knew you had. It was quite common to have a few crystal utensils these days, they were useful for things such as enchantments and basic magic practice of any type. You thought it was wonderful that the common folk had learned enchantments, and that they’d become widely known to all. It was one of the simplest forms of witchcraft, and finally it was being taught to those who weren’t among the elite.

“Ah, there it is,” You tugged it from underneath an old altar cloth. Taking it to your sink, you quickly rinsed it of any dust.

The cork made a pop as you opened it. The smell of the concoction was sickly sweet, an overwhelming floral scent. You could smell the rosehip, the violet, the basil, all his ingredients mixing together. Tentatively, you poured a small amount into the spoon. It had the viscosity of a light syrup, but didn’t seem to be sticky. It was rather oily, as your rubbed a small amount between your thumb and index finger. You gulped down the spoonful, not trying to savour it’s taste. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but you weren’t a fan of barely flavoured cheap bubblegum. You weren’t sure if the slightly buttery taste was from a pollen, or if it was added to make the potion more bearable to drink, but nonetheless, you appreciated that Saeran had tried to add some more favourable flavours to it.

You sat, as if waiting for some form of instantaneous change. In the back of your mind however, you knew change would take it’s time, and all you had to do was go about your life and let Saeran record any changes. You did admit though, you felt a little warmer inside. Was it the excitement? The fear of the unknown? It was hard to say.

After placing your cards and gems on the windowsill to charge under the moonlight, you tucked yourself underneath the heavy quilt, eager to wake tomorrow and begin witnessing the change to come.

“Dear child, you know this won’t work,” Your head turned abruptly in the direction of the voice. “I am darkness itself, why do you think his potions will cure you?”

“Who are you?” You called out. You could only see a silhouette, a dark, toxic aura emanating from the person.

“Darkness, did I not already state that? But you, oh, such a sweet, foolish child of mine… You’ll soon see why your fate was such. The tower is not always such a bad card to pull.”

“Reveal yourself! What do you know about me?” You screamed, too afraid to take a step towards the figure. Why did they know your fate, and how did they know one of the cards you pulled?

“Why would I do that? My fun would end all too soon. I’ll enjoy seeing you put together these pieces my silly child,”

“What are you talking about?”

“Me. You. The apothecaries. We’re all connected, you’ll see. And you, you’ll be my finest child yet. You’ll see. Good luck out there, darling,” The figure offered you no chance to respond, to inquire any more. Waving a bleak hand, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, sunlight pouring through your window.

You grabbed the notebook sitting beside you, scribbling down anything you could remember from your dream. Hand, something about Saeran, total darkness, a child…. Whatever this was, you’re sure it had a deeper meaning. Dreams often could be used in divination, but this… Was so vivid. Could it be a side effect of Aphrodite’s Blessing? Is there someone trying to tell you something? Your subconscious? Only time and a consultation with your local potions dealer could tell. You placed the pen down, feeling the dream fading away from your memories, your consciousness becoming more aware of reality. You tried to forget the feeling of panic coursing through you, that the reasoning for became less and less clear as you woke. It was just a dream, right?

Well, it was time for another dose of the potion anyways.