#clever lady in a purple coat

[dreamersinthedaylightinspo]

Eunomia slept like a rock. The healer worked over her while she rested and she woke, eventually, to peals of laughter and golden sunlight streaming into the birthing room. Nahida pronounced her able, and she found that she was able to stand and walk without help. A servant came to bring her pastries and fresh flower-scented tea with a wedge of lemon. Her body still tingled with the effects of the magic; though her body moved when she willed it and she wasn't in pain, she felt strange and tender and empty.

And, again, mostly, she missed her mother.

At first, she'd cried helplessly at the idea of bringing a child into the world without her family's support. Even after months, the pangs of anxiety she felt never lessened. But she found, when she stepped into the hall and was greeted with elated cheers and congratulations from half the living creatures in Rosehall, that she needn't have worried in the slightest.

The birth of a faerie child - of a High Lord's child - had caused celebratory commotion like Nomi had never seen. It was comparable to the breaking of Amarantha’s curse in Rhodes. After she managed to fight her way through the well-wishers, Tamlin informed her that they were expecting guests - representatives from the nearby villages were coming to Rosehall to pay tribute to Spring's new princess.

In response to her expression, Tamlin shrugged.

"If anything, this is your fault, my dear. Everyone likes you; they didn't care nearly so much when I was born."

Indeed - by lunchtime, the hall was swarming with faeries of all sorts. Stout dwarven-kin, nimble goblins, pixies and sprites, even tiny wil-o-the-wisps no bigger than the nails on her littlest finger. Wraiths and nymphs peeled themselves out of trees and ponds and sat themselves down for lunch in the gardens. The sentries and stabelhands joined the kitchen staff to help prepare meals for the travelers but many seemed to have brought their own food.

And with that, the gifts. Nomi accepted cuttings from gardens, little dresses and shoes and hats, music boxes, dolls and pillows and blankets, and all manner of more impractical things - a necklace of freshwater pearls, a loadstone, the branch of a cherry tree with a single, eternal pink blossom affixed to the end.

The other High Lord's, too, were prompt in their tributes. Helion sent a basket of fruits - pomegranates and oranges, adorned with rosemary, and other symbols of prosperity and longevity - and a handwoven blanket with the solar motif of the Day Court. This was Nomi’s favorite present. Thesan sent the most practical gift: a clever pair of looking glasses that were meant to be placed, one at the cradle and one on the parent's nightstand, enchanted so that they would know if the baby became fussy at night. Naturally, this was Tamlin's favorite.

Tarquin sent a set of seaglass windchimes to hang above Semele's cradle. Kalias sent her a practical winter coat - deep purple and lined with white fox fur, a few sizes large so that she could grow into it - and a matching hat, mittens, and boots. Eris sent a circlet of bronze and gold apple blossoms, which was very pretty though both Nomi and Tamlin agreed that they couldn't really picture Semele wearing such a thing.

The Night Court sent a note affixed to a bottle of wine. It read, "Good luck, you'll need it."

"Its not even a good vintage," Lucien complained when he saw this. He popped the cork and took a swig, swallowing bitterly. "Cheap bastard."

"No cursing in front of the baby," Elain scolded. Her smile was fixed to her face, though, and she promptly returned to cooing at Semele, who slept through all of this, somehow, and to Nomi's immense relief.

"You know," said Elain, leaning over to give Nomi one more peck on her cheek. "I don't recall nearly so much fanfare when Nyx was born."

"Typical of the Night Court," said a passing sentry, dispassionate. "Hide the lady's pregnancy til the last moment, then pretend it's business as usual."

"Its different here," Nomi agreed, shifting Semele slightly in her arms. She was heavy, and yet weightless, and soft. "What do humans do, when a child is born?"

Elain shrugged. "Oh, not much. It'd be bad luck to celebrate anything until they're about five or so - too old for faeries to want to eat them and such."

"No talk of cannibalism in front of the baby," said Lucien.

Luckily for all of them, Tamlin was utterly obssessed with his daughter and was cataloging her every expression or new experience, and told these stories with enormous pride to anyone who happened to stand in his presence.

///TO BE CONTINUED

#my fic writing #tamlin #my ocs #the spring court #ahhh i needed to flex my writing muscles after a bit

[strawbrygashez]

Postal 1 Dude x Postal 4 Dude (w/ eventual side P2xP3)

Camping (PART 1)

Yepppp they r going camping. The title is so amazing and clever I know..😯!! This ended up a little longer than I thought it would be so I’ll post a part 2 later bc I don’t think it will let me fit the whole thing!!! TW for ableism and mentions of old sh scars

————————————————————————

Try as hard as p1 might, he couldn’t honestly understand why he exactly agreed to this. Not that the weather outside was awful or that he didn’t really want to not be here, but in the past, there would have been no way in hell he would have agreed to go on a bit of a camping trip. Surprising himself even more was the fact that he was wearing a lot less than usual. As he hiked up the trail besides his boyfriend, he was in cargo pants, a worn out shirt with a alien head printed on it, and most surprisingly of all, he wasn’t wearing his trench coat. Obviously this outfit was way out of his usual comfort zone but due to his boyfriends concern of him overheating, he’d decided to give the oversized clothes a break.

Of course he wasn’t mad at him, he knew he was just concerned, hell he had even took the time to help him by putting his hair into two braids for Christ sake but man it sure felt different. Especially having..all his old lacerated scars out in the open on his arms but P4 didn’t look at him any different. Him himself had ditched his usual purple robe for the occasion and P1 knew it wasn’t something his boyfriend liked to go without often so he decided, if his boyfriend he could, he could obviously as well..and he guessed changing his look up a bit instead of dying of heat would be a fair trade. P1 tried to remember the last time he’d gone without it as they made their way up the trail, watching his boots kick up dirt as they went. He’d been stuck in his mind for a while until a sudden sigh made him look back up to next to him.

“Man..I feel like we’ve been walking for at least a hour.” His boyfriend grumbled as he wiped his forehead with the hand that wasn’t preoccupied holding his cane. P1 grinned a bit and took in the near by surroundings from where they stood. “I’m sure they aren’t that much further away..do you wanna take a break?” He asked as he glanced back again to p4. The older of the two nodded before looking to his other side, glad to see there was some bushes not too far away. “I need to take a leak anyways. You’ll be alright for a second without me?” P1 nodded. “Of course. I’m not that defenseless…just make sure you don’t piss down the edge of that little cliff onto someone. Don’t wanna be kicked out just yet.” His boyfriend chuckled while shaking his head. “You take the fun out of everything yknow?”

P1 only rolled his eyes with a grin as he watched p4 turn off into a direction near by to go at least behind some trees. Hey, at least it was some kinda improvement. Like p2 and p3, his boyfriend wasn’t exactly out of the mindset it’s weird as fuck to piss anywhere at anytime. He was pretty sure he was the only Dude in the universe who acted like a normal human-being about that stuff but whatever. He wasn’t perfect either.

He finally took his eyes off him as he glanced back over to the trail. And only to his slight annoyance, it looked like a couple was heading up their way. P1 quickly put the chewable part of his necklace into his mouth as he backed up a bit as the two came closer; a man and a woman, and to his dismay, the man wouldn’t stop looking at him and just somehow, he knew the man had something on his mind or something to say. Even though he’d been working with P4 to get over his social anxiety, he still pretty much despised any interaction that wasn’t with another ‘postal dude’ so he tried to act oblivious to the two, but of course it didn’t work.

“Hey man. Do you have any idea how much further the camp sites are from here? Me and the lady are about to pass out from exhaustion.” The stranger spoke. P1 couldn’t help but to naturally make eye contact but..he knew that was all that was gonna happen. He hated people talking to him and asking him things, especially when he had to idea what the answer was. Feeling a lump in his throat of words he could have said or should, he faced away from the two. And he shouldn’t have been too surprised at the sudden tension in the air. This always happened when P1 found himself in situations he hypothetically knew how to work through but couldn’t, the other person would take it as him as being stuck up with his sudden ‘disinterested’ manner.

“Hey fuckhead. I’m talking to ya. I know you heard me.” The man spoke again, irritation starting to rise in his voice. P1 still didn’t look back at the two, but he took the chewy part of his necklace out of his mouth and mumbled. “I don’t..I dunno.” He could still feel the eyes burning into his back as the man sternly began “What was that? Speak up.” Now p1 definitely wasn’t going to be able to say anything else. Being talked to like that was one of the things he hated the most so he just kept looking down at the ground. Like he told P4, he wasn’t defenseless..he just despised interacting with assholes..but he really wouldn’t mind if his boyfriend just finally came back from his piss break so they could get a move on and-

“What? Are you fucking special or something? I-” before p1 could whip his head back at them, he must have been blessed by whatever god there was to hear a certain voice come out of seemingly nowhere. “Excuse me? What the fuck are you going on about?” P1s boyfriend said with a slight..tone that was making him feel something but..yknow time and place. P4 walked up closer to all of them, so dignified as he adjusted his privates through the fabric of his pants. The man was took off guard, suddenly now facing this other guy. “The fuck? You his helper or something?..if you need to know this guy can’t help us out at all or even talk right. So-” For the first time, the woman in the relationship spoke up finally. “Honey, just forget about it. Let’s just go.”

It seemed like P4 had other ideas though as he took another step up to them, making p1 look up again and take notice of Dudes hand sliding back into a pocket where he kept a certain ‘tool’ for taking care of idiots. Not wanting to deal with all that at the moment and really just wanting to go and met up with the others to relax, he put a arm out in front of p4 as he grew closer and shook his head. “Cmon hon- Dude..My legs are starting to hurt.” P1 said as he looked up at him. P4 looked down to his face and while..well a lot of it was covered by his sunglasses, he could tell p1 was silently pleading. Throwing another glare up to the man and woman, and seeing that they were at a stand still of either fight or flight..he frowned a bit before looking back down at him. “Whatever..”

Hearing this, the woman put a hand on the man’s back and ‘pushed’ him to start walking again, which for thank fuck, they both did. P1 and his boyfriend stood there a while as P4 watched on. P1 knew that some dark thoughts were stirring in the confines of his mind so he spoke again as he moved his arm back down and moved to just link his arm with his. “Cmon. It’s really fine. It’s just some idiots acting like I know where anything was either.” He tried. P4 only took a moment before starting to walk again with him, suddenly adding “I don’t care. You shouldn’t let people talk to you like that..I shouldn’t let people talk to you like that..” P1 was of course a bit flattered at that last part but shook his head.

“The world is full of idiots hun. Even if we.. ‘took care’ of one there is still too many left..yknow someone taught me that.” He smiled as he added in that last part with a slight nudge. P4 was pretty much at the stage in his life where he was done being angry at everyone but both were sure that..the urge to give dumbasses the ‘what for’ would never die down in him, but they both promised they’d try to do better at least. At least seeing P1 smile got him to finally relax just a tad and smile back.. “whoever told you that doesn’t know what their talking about.”

#postal dude #postal 1 dude x postal 4 dude #postal dude fanfic

[maskedemerald]

So got a lightbulb moment before going to bed while chatting in the Invisobang discord and my brain would not shut up till I wrote this.

Apologies for any typos this was written at speed on my phone while half asleep, I think auto correct caught all of them.

Mr Lancer stared with a level of bewilderment that could only be caused by a particular Fenton. He gave a frustrated groan as he tossed Danny Fenton's file aside. There was one thing worse than calling parents for a parent teacher conference and that was calling the Fentons for one. There was however one thing worse than that, having to go in person to ask them to attend the conference, their phone number was suspiciously absent from the folder.

Honestly he wasn't sure how Danny had managed it, he wasn't even sure why… no wait he knew why. With all the trouble Danny got into lately, some of it just as ludicrous as this, it was no surprise that he had replaced his parents number with a series of intricate… for a lack of a better term pieces of art. He might have even gotten extra credit if he had been more sensible and showed them to the art teacher rather than sneaking them into his file.

Mr Lancer wrote out an invitation in the hopes of avoiding the parents in person more than he had to. He could address the missing contact information later. Once done he put it down on top of the slightly scattered contents of the file. He mentally reminded himself to tidy that up once he had his coat on. He didn't get much of a chance before the paper ignited in green and purple fire. He panicked and tried to put it out using the remains of his coffee. The fire died but the note was gone, no, the drawings were glowing and there was a new note. In a hand that was definitely not his. Far more fancy.

'We will be there.' Was written on it.

He was sure he was white as a sheet, was this some sort of joke? A ghost thing? A new Fenton invention? The last wouldn't surprise him at all.

(Break)

Mr Lancer had to catch Danny on the day of the parent teacher conference. He had tried to leave the school and claimed no knowledge of the meeting, clearly his parents had not passed along the message. Probably to distracted by their working invention, honestly while creepy and technically redundant due to phones it was clever. Maybe he'd recommend upscaling it to larger objects.

Danny shuffled awkwardly in his chair, glancing at the clock. Not late yet but the parents had only seconds before that would be the case. Danny shivered violently, and jerked halfway to his feet.

The moment the clock clicked over to 5pm they appeared. Not the Fentons, though he wished they were not late right about now. A host of ghosts had appeared settling around the room. Some he recognised while others he didn't.

There was that robot one that seemed very focused on Phantom, Ember the rockstar on his shoulder, the one that caused havoc in the school computer labs only last week, the old lady that kept harassing the dinner staff and the Box ghost. Those were just the familiar ones. There was also a boy in black and white like an old TV show asking Danny if Dash was leaving him alone. A man in a white suit with a face like a skull. A man insisting Danny should read more, so that he'd be doing better in school. A woman dressed in a medieval dress. A woman with four arms that looked like she had walked out of classical mythology. On Danny's other side hovered a figure in purple robes who had their attention on both Danny and Mr Lancer. A yeti behind him taller than all but one of the others, said other was familiar but Mr Lancer would rather forget that ordeal.

A cape of stars with a mask had settled on Danny's shoulders. He looked a little confused, if not actually dazed as he slumped back down into his chair.

"Clockwork?" Danny questioned sounding like he would fall asleep.

'Clockwork' smiled in a way that could be described as scheming. "Well then Mr Lancer, I do believe you wished to see us." There was almost a laugh in the voice.

Mr Lance did his best not to faint, he staggered to his seat wondering just why these ghosts were in Danny's file as essentially guardians. He sat down to start what was most definitely his weirdest parent teacher conference ever. He'd have a proper one while not under threat of ghosts later. Though he couldn't help but notice as Danny's daze faded with the removal of the star ghost, Danny seemed more amused and frustrated with the ghosts than scared.

#danny phantom #writing #fanfic

[go-scottishgal14]

45:03 / 1:02:13REMOVING HARRY (&ANDREW)'s TITLES/PUBLIC DEMANDS for MEGHAN SURROGACY QUESTION TO be ANSWERED/STRIKE -- YouTube of about June 22?23?....

Lady CC’s post about the children of H&M, and she especially focuses on the purple dress/red coat combo where the bump “went south by about a metre...” and wound up around MM’s knees...she has said in this YT post as well as a few others that MM is “special” and has “special abilities” that none of us mere mortals have...of course, she is being facetious and snarky towards, MM, and I LOVE it...she SERIOUSLY ADDRESSES the issue of A&L’s birth, parentage, surrogacy, LOS, etc. calling for a serious investigation...she also mentions the Queen giving Archie a waffle maker! and how H&M think of the public as “poor stupid schlubs...not as clever as we are...” and they didn’t expect ANYBODY to question anything they put out in the media, i.e., A’s first word  “crocodile”??.... LCC believes that Harry KNEW about the LOS requirement of a baby “born of the body” and believes he & M would have discussed it, but it was a way to put another one over on the RF, the public and the media (she mentions “roast chicken” as one of the ways they yank on the public’s chain)...she also questions if they are mentally ill as they get into these situations where they then have to lie, cover up, obfuscate, etc--who in their right mind really does this?...A LOT OF MEAT AND POTATOES TO THIS POST, AND LCC IS A FONT OF INFO, YET AGAIN!!!

[finneganmikkelsen9]

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[smugraccoon137]

Supergirl Season 2 episode 8 Medusa review part 2

If your curious part 1 was just my breakdown of Kara and Mon-els relationship that got way too long. But as always SPOILERS AND GAY THOUGHTS AHEAD

Me and kel get so excited when Lenas in an episode. Like practically giddy. I can’t help smiling when shes on screen honestly. And yes Katie McGrath is beautiful, but beyond that such a pretty smile and lovely voice. I’m sure ratings started to spike when she joined the cast. Okay enough about pretty girls on to the review 

Tipsy fucking Alex though guys I can’t get over this mess of a person. 

Alex: if I have to come out to my mom then I choose to do it drunk

Kara: no your not *yoinks beer*

Alex: wait no my coming out juice

Kara Danvers sneaky sneaker extraordinaire can totally interview Lena and find out Cadmus things without anyone knowing. The confidence this goofball has is top tier

Underrated relationship: Alex and Winn though. I really really love Winn and honestly Alex is such big sister energy to both him and Kara. 

wow Lenas pretty in the interview scene. A touch of auburn hair from the sunlight really makes this shot and we never get to see her with her hair down. Fan service honestly, or maybe she heard a certain beef cake reporter was gonna come by and wanted to dazzel her.

Lena: hair up is for business. Hair down is for flirting friendship time with Kara

Poor baby thinks she falls short nooooo. Your doing your best godamn your only like 25 jesus. Kara give her a hug she needs love and affection

Kara thinks shes being so sneaky in this interview. Such a golden retriever, bad at sneakin. As soon as she toes the line Lena catches on and kicks her out. Really good acting in the scene, the subtle change in expression to show Lenas guard raising. Good job Katie.

Real quick Lena why is your office so ugly? How do you keep it clean? You spend 99% of your days in this place and its whiter than a hospital room. I hate it. Why is your desk an oval? and why does it have a hole in it? Kara cant eat you out in secret anymore damn. 

OOHHHhhhh noooo the fucking gas bomb in the bar what the fuck. EVERYBODIES DEAD JESUS WHAT WAS THAT

Poor Mon-el. What happened at the bar was fucked up, and he feels like its fault when its obviously not.

Love that he and Kara are having bro time playing some Monopoly. Oh no not Kara asking if he likes her. Honestly thought these two had good chemistry in this scene. Im a sucker for dumbass not understanding certain words and phrases. So Kara having to reiterate her questions and finally being like “You don’t want to mate with me do you?” was super fun. Omegaverse vibes mfs. Although I am confused by mon-els reaction “I mean have you seen the kind of women I’ve been attracting?” I honestly don’t know what this means.

Kara internal reaction though: Oh thank god

Wow Kara really just has no regard for her own life, huh? she just opens the door and possibly contaminates herself. It’s good to want to help people, but love you gotta care about yourself too

Good reveal with the fortress of solitude. Oof Kara gonna feel like its her fault all those aliens died and mon-els sick. They do a really good job of showing Karas relationship with her parents through their holograms. She wants so badly to see them again, to talk to them. And she can, but not really. They just aren’t real.

Lena cattily to her mother: im used to celebrating holiday weekends alone at my desk

me to Kara: please invite her to thanksgiving

Okay so Lena being adopted is another interesting parallel to Kara. Also the fact that both Kara and Lena fall into there families shadows, and are left behhind or forgotten. Really interesting how Lena and Karas relationship is so similar to Clark and Lex’s for obvious purposes. Though the CW queer coding the fuck out of their relationship in Smallville really only adds to Supercorp fever. Its always been Homoerotic subtext Harold!

Me watching Lena and Lillian trade verbal blows: Wow ya’lls relationship is fucked up. Lex and Lionelle would spar and fence but you two are on another level jesus

oooooof that last line. 

Lena: I know your lying

Lillian: and how could you possibly know that?

Lena: because you told me you loved me. And we both know thats not true

Who wrote this jesus fuck my heart. The PAIN.

Bonus thought Lena thinks Karas smart. Goofball beefcake sneaky sneakster who doesnt know the difference between flirting and friendship is smart she thinks. I love these idiots

Wow Kara just doesn’t wait huh? Oh cadmus is going to be at LCorp? Not on my watch. Lena’s there. I know this because I tune into her heart beat just to check on her cus she likes to work late. Don’t worry Alex it’s for friendship reasons.

That LCorp security guard got princess carried for .2 seconds. Best moment of his life.

God its like dark out. Lenas working on a holiday weekend into the night. I hate this, give her friends.

Lena looks so scared when Kara gets thrown into the giant LCorp sign

And then hurt Kara looking up at her with dread.

Kara internal: fuck don’t come out now. I came here to save you

God I love the protectiveness. Its *chefs kiss*. Hank throwing the beam at Lena and Kara even in her hurt state throwing herself in front of it. Sometimes self sacrifice is gay. But how Lena looks at her after wards like “I can’t believe I’m alive. I can’t believe she chose to save me”. Met with a gruff “Get out of here!”. mm yes this is my kind of content. Fight for me.

I was robbed an aftercare scene but I doubt it will be the last time. (*COUGHS* the “im leaving” phone call *COUGHS*)

Talking about the virus Eliza: what about Lena Luthor?

Kara: What about her?! (super defensive is also a super power maam)

Winn: Luthors can be pretty good actors

Kara: No, I looked into LENAS EYES. She doesn’t know anything about cadmus or her mother

J’onzz: Would you stake Mon-els life on that?

well I guess that really puts Lena and Mon-el right next to each other in priorities huh? Which one is more important? 

Wow Lena totally has a crush on Supergirl after that. Flustered dork. 

Lena: *laughs nervously* you know that doors not really an entrance

Kara: *upsettit stone face pupper*

Lena: :,) 

Okay but the way Lena just says “Anything” all breathless and helpful when Kara says she needs her help. Shes crushin hard

Kara tells Lena her mother is in charge of Cadmus. 

Lena: >:(

Annnd the crush is dead. That did not last long. Really love that Lena has such a different relationship with Kara vs Supergirl though, good dynamic having her reactions so different. Which I believe actually relates as a Clark and Lois parallel? Seeing as how Lois has two separate relationships with Clark and Superman. 

OOf the way Lenas throat bobs with genuine sadness because who she thought Supergirl was is wrong. Shes just like the rest of them. Thinks Lena is just another crazy Luthor. It hurts

Kara: I know what its like to be disillusioned by our parents, but Im a pretty good judge of character, and you are not like your mother. She is cold and dangerous. And you are too good and too smart to follow in her path. Be your own Hero.

Wow just what a good line. They are capable of some things here and there arent they? Melissa's delivery on this is excellent. And the way Katie McGrath is able to show such depth of sadness and bitterness even from a shot of her BACK is really cool. Great acting in this scene in particular. And I can see why the “desperation to be good” is such a highlighted part of these two relationship. Its the one thing in common between Lena and Supergirl, the place where they can meet in the middle. And the way Lena looks after her as she leaves! AHHH thats the good shit, the pining

Okay big Mon-el scene in coming so if you dont want to hear my ranting skip over this part. 

Funny how as soon as Kara has this big impactful scene with Lena full of tension and emotion the writers were like: shit we almost forgot Mon-els dying. 

Kara: *staring sadly back into Lenas office kind of wanting to go back in*

Writers: *cough cough* KARA He’s DYINGGGG

Kara: Oh shit right. Mon-el Oh no. My *looks at poorly written handwriting on her palm* romantic interest?

Wow Mon-el looks like shit, poor guy. Someone swaddle this pillow princess and get him some soup.

Heres a question. Kara is visibly upset that Mon-el is dying. Is it because she’s sad that the guy shes likes is dying. Because her friend is dying? Because her father created the virus thats killing him (what the writers want us to think)? Or because no matter what Kara does the people she loves keep falling through the cracks and shes helpless to stop it?

Her parents. Clark. Her adoptive father. Now Lena. Now Mon-el. Why can’t she ever do anything? Why is it always her fault? This poor kid has some deep seeded abandonment issues

Mon-el: you know you look beautiful with the weight of all these worlds on your shoulders.

I do remember my reaction here, cus I thought this was a weird line. A line that was obviously meant to be romantic and complimentary, but it felt unsettled in my stomach. Coming back and watching the scene it sits even more uncomfortably there. He obviously means well, but this line is kind of just shitty. Its a very selfish and unthoughtful thing to say to someone. 

Kara’s entire fucking life has revolved around other people and making sure they are happy and taken care of. But having “failed” at such a young age to do the impossible things asked of her (carrying on Kryptons legacy, raising Clark) she overcompensates. Any normal person would just make their life revolve around their family and friends, not healthy but it works. But Kara feels responsibility over an entire world of lost people and lives. So the amount she overcompensates is ungodly. She does have the weight of worlds on her shoulders. This is not a joke or hyperbole. Its just her life. And thats so fucking shitty. And to have someone actually see that and acknowledge it. To make it a reality so to speak. Then to have them say “yeah you look good like this” while you’re a shaking Atlas being crushed. It is just a little too much isn’t it? That pain to have someone see you finally, and then completely miss the point. For them to go “oh wow your so strong. your so brave” instead of “let me help you. you shouldn’t have to do this at all, forget by yourself. But now I am here”. 

I imagine this was the scene that crowned my darling himbo boy Mon-Hell? Which is so unfortunate. I hope Im wrong, but I feel that his character might just end up a big missed opportunity

I want everyone to know that me and Kel screamed through the entire enxt few seconds of the scene. We knew the kiss was coming from how they were building it up. But god was it painful, especially for it to be delivered after a line like THAT. But yeah very loud angry screaming

Also not to be that bitch but Kara and Mon-els scene was a total of 1:53 RT, and Kara and Lenas ran at a 1:57 RT. Just sayin...

No Lena don’t be evil thats too sexy...

Okay but the way that Lena just tricks Lillian is so good. Shes so clever. And added bonus she makes her ask for her help, which is nice actually. Lillian's obvious vice is weakness and that is often shown in embarrassment. A woman like this asking for help borders that line of weakness and its nice to see on such a dislikable character. Lena didn’t just get what she wanted she got a point over her mother.

Lena looks good in the purple coat. Repeat she is pretty

Love the mental chess game between Lena and Lillian. Lena offering help right off the bat and giving her the isotope free of charge. And then Lillian making Lena launch the virus to prove herself. Good stuff.

Kara appears: don’t do it Lena!

Lena: why not? im a luthor

Okay so obviously Lena switched the Isotope and the Virus won’t work. But thats what makes this line so perfect. Throwing it back in Supergirls face. Like “Yeah, Im a luthor. And Ill show you what im capable of.” But instead of mass death and destruction Lena saves the day. She saved thousands of lives, and its because shes a Luthor that she was able to do that. Really nice way to full circle that 

Wow Lillian really just starts booking it without Lena, huh? bitch

I really love the scene of the virus falling all around National City. The choice of an orangish snow falling was a really really good one. Paired with some excellent music for the mid season finale.

Its sad but I do love Hank just being ready and at peace with death. Im sure he misses his wife and daughters. 

Okay but Lena calling the cops is tea. Send your mom to jail honey. 

So we’re really not gonna talk about how Lena saved everyones asses? Like don’t you think Supergirl would want to talk to the woman that A) kind of tricked her, and B) saved National City. Thats just what makes sense??? But no we’re going to ignore that the DEO is a kind of shit at their job sometimes. And that the woman that they were accusing of having a part to play in all the xenophobic shit is the one who did their job. BY HER SELF. 

Okay rant over. This was a long one review dear god. Really really good episode though. I enjoyed rewatching all the scenes even if it was a mixed bag of feelings. Thanks for reading hope you enjoyed all the screaming!

#supergirl #supercorp #supergirl review #episode review #supergirl episode review #cw #supergays #kara #kara danvers #kara zor el #mon-el #Mike mathews #lena luthor #lena #season 2 #season 2 episode review #text #textpost #sneaky sneakster #clever lady in a purple coat #sick puppy dog says some questionable things #gay thoughts #too many to count #wanna do a supercorp parallel essay at some point #maybe after ive watched more #Hope everyones enjoying the reviews #Kel always proof reads for me #get you a man that screams with you when the forced love interest is about to kiss the main character

[dovakhiindrabbles]

For the prompt 43 with Brynjolf please?

Of course! I’d be more than happy to write the prompt for you! I only hope you have an amazing day and enjoy! <3

43. “Come with me.” 

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Nocturnal was a god among mortals -- a daedric prince who oversaw the murky shadows and all who hid among them. Whispers heard throughout the world told of how she could even be found lingering in those shadows, an inky blackness clinging to her as if the very sun itself couldn’t reveal her. 

She was above the follies of mortals and yet couldn’t help herself from meddling. Especially those of her most loyal followers -- the Nightingales. 

She’d noticed from her times looming within the darkness how you and Brynjolf interacted. How hands briefly brushed and fingers just barely interlocked. How passing glances held just a second too long to be unimportant. How no matter where you went, you went together. 

Your feelings for one another were so painfully obvious an infant could see it -- so apparently the two of you had even less awareness. 

It was an opportunity Nocturnal couldn’t pass up.

Between the two of you, she first sought out Brynjolf. The man fancied himself as clever, often to such a degree that a snippy remark had slipped out in some of their conversations. 

It was during the night when she caught him, just outside the Blue Palace where he’d managed to escape from. Guards spilled out and yells could be heard from each and every corner -- even those caught in shadow. Brynjolf had slipped between two manors where the moonlight missed just so. An ornate, extravagant jewelry box clamped between his grip with more gemstones and gold decorating it than most would see in their entire life. 

From there, Nocturnal revealed herself in the darkest crevice space could offer. The darkness extended her outwards and still clung to her despite her physical form. She was a void, and the shape she created only split itself apart in the pure absence of light -- not even the brightest lantern would be able to paint her figure. 

“My Nightingale.”

Brynjolf nearly jumped into the open road in shock, smacking his back up against the wall in frustration upon realizing. “Fucking fuck are you-”

He looked up at Nocturnal’s imposing figure and thought better of himself. He spoke softly, his gaze alternating between her and the streets cluttering further and further of curious onlookers and furious guards. “My lady, what can I do for you?” 

She made a motion with her hand that brought strings of the void trailing after her fingertips. “On the contrary, I am here to offer you my assistance.” 

Brynjolf gave a cheeky grin. “Could you get me out of this mess?” 

“You are one of my most trusted followers with an agent of my own creation. There should be no situation beyond your skills.” 

“I know.” Brynjolf groaned. “Worth a shot. Meet me outside the gates, my lady?” 

She vanished without a word and Brynjolf proceeded to lift himself up onto the rim of one of the manor’s roof. He hoisted himself up and pressed his body close to the tiles, only lifting himself up to leap from home to home. In that time he truly was a shadow, beyond any light and any eyes that would make the foolish attempt to seek him out. 

Minutes later he was beyond Solitude’s walls and any outrage that still remained was drowned out by the falling and crashing of the waves below. Still hidden away safely in his coat was the jewelry box -- not so much as a scuff on it. Brynjolf impressed himself every time. 

As he began walking along the carved out path, Nocturnal reemerged. Her form freer beyond Solitude’s constant desire for warmth. She carried herself freely, and she took on a shape almost human, but not quite. There was always an unknowable aspect to Nocturnal that could never be described. Many daedra carried themselves in such a way, so that they could nearly blend in, but never be forgotten by anything lesser than a fool. 

“That was commendable.” Nocturnal hummed. Both a lightness and a deepness coexisted in her voice.

Brynjolf interlocked his fingers and stretched them out; a popping could be heard. He sighed dramatically. “All in a day’s work.” 

“I hope you are able to hide that treasure as well as you hide your feelings.” 

Brynjolf knew Daedric princes were meant to be incapable of understanding; downright incomprehensible sometimes. But this? It bewildered him. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You and the other Nightingale?” 

Brynjolf cracked a grin. “Karliah?” He tested Nocturnal’s kindness.

“The other one.” She swatted a bit of darkness at him and like a tight band flung outward, it stung him. 

“Ah, that one.” Brynjolf rubbed at his little red mark where Nocturnal smacked him like a petulant child. “What of them?” 

Nocturnal stepped in front of him, a swirling blackness keeping her from ever truly touching the ground. “You both have feelings for one another?” 

Brynjolf did what he knew best, and dodged the question. “What like hate? Friendliness? Perhaps a bit of irritation?” 

“Do not attempt to evade me, Nightingale.” Nocturnal raised her voice and the night became that much more invasive. She settled herself quickly. “You are my servant, there is nothing I do not know. The darkest, most secretive parts of yourself are the ones I know best. Fortunately for you, I only wish to help.” 

Brynjolf wrinkled his nose and cracked beneath the pressure. It was a touchy subject, apparently. “Oh yeah? And how’s that?” 

“I need only open your eyes,” Nocturnal answered. “I think you’ll find it’s clear the feelings are mutual.” 

“I don’t want to be disrespectful my lady but-” 

Nocturnal cut him off. “Then don’t be.” 

Brynjolf scoffed. “But I don’t see how that’s possible.” 

She tipped her head to the side curiously. “How is that?” 

“Because there are a million other better people knocking on their door!” Brynjolf exclaimed it like it were obvious. “I mean why would someone like that choose someone like me?”

“Someone like you? Their equal?” 

Brynjolf scowled and huffed. “Like a thief could ever be on par with the Dragonborn.” 

Nocturnal simpered. “The Dragonborn themself also is a thief. Last I recall you two work closely together.” 

“Even still-” 

“The only one creating rifts in this relationship is you, my Nightingale. What are you afraid of?” 

He hesitated and in an instant Nocturnal knew. 

“Rejection.” 

Brynjolf’s hands tightened into tight, uneasy fists at the revelation. Nocturnal raised those hands and unfurled them, tracing lines of shadow along his palm. In the most peculiar way, it was soothing, and Brynjolf supposed it was her own... unique way of comforting him. 

“If I believed there was a chance the Dragonborn wouldn’t share those feelings I would not be here, speaking to you. I only want what is best for my followers.” 

“Besides,” Nocturnal mused. “if it goes poorly, you can simply submerge yourself within the shadows for eternity.” 

Brynjolf chuckled. “I might take you up on that offer.” 

“You won’t.” Nocturnal looked up at him with an emptiness one could consider her eyes. Her ‘windows to the soul’ only unveiled further darkness, but only in the way one shrouds themself beneath the shade of a blanket to escape what frightens them -- it was a relief, protection. “Because you won’t have to.” 

A moment later, Nocturnal disappeared within the void beneath her. She sank into the night that had soaked into the very deepest layers of the earth, leaving Brynjolf to himself and her words. 

By the time he’d made it to the Nightingale Hall, he’d made up his mind. 

You were sitting in the living quarters with Karliah, seated across one another and leaned both in the old, weary chairs. You’d been laughing, and Brynjolf could tell by the edges of your lips lifted up. The moment you saw him, you lit up. 

“Bryn! There you are! Karliah was starting to think you got lost along the way!” 

He snorted. “I could’ve. What a bitch of a walk.” 

Karliah furrowed her brow, amused. “You could’ve stolen a horse like a sane person.” 

“Maybe I like the quiet. You can hardly get any of it here.” 

She rolled her eyes at the very idea. “You wouldn’t know what to do without us.” 

Brynjolf laughed. “Absolutely lass.” 

He turned to you and his heart began to thump heavy and hard against his chest. Of all the things to bring him nerves in life, it was you bringing knots and tangles in his stomach. He took a deep breath and grasped your shoulder, gesturing. “Come with me.” 

Your eyes widened like saucers, but you stood up. To say the least, your curiosity was piqued. “Alright... what is it?” 

“I just wanted to talk to you, in private.” 

You ducked your head away to hide the red that burst onto your face. You folded your lips to hide a growing smile, but you were still clearly nervous, shuffling your feet and fidgeting with your hands. “Okay.” 

He led you outside where the evening had overtaken the sky overhead in a mix of blues, pinks, and the slightest tinge of purple. It was a beautiful sight, and one of the rare gifts that came with living in Skyrim. 

Brynjolf leaned against the stone cavern of the hall and ran his fingers through his hair. This felt so much easier in his head. “I ah -- I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an idiot.” 

“Bryn-” 

“No! I just -- I want to say this, but be patient with me, please. I’m not good with... emotions.” Brynjolf laughed. “You don’t get to be a man like me by being open.” 

You nodded and stayed, you were far too patient than he deserved. 

“I-” Brynjolf swallowed hard and took a few steps forward. A part of him wanted to reach for your hand but that’d be too much, too soon. If he -- if Nocturnal was wrong he didn’t want to dig his grave any further than necessary. 

“I love you.” 

There was a period of silence where Brynjolf considered Nocturnal’s offer to hide in the shadows forever. It was a horrible few seconds where Brynjolf’s vision was stagnant and the entire world was frozen in time. 

He only came back to reality when you took his hand. You enveloped it in your own and squeezed his palm fondly. You were warm, and your grip was steadfast. 

“I love you too.” 

Brynjolf rarely smiled from ear to ear, but he did then. He took you in his arms and spun you like one only saw in fairy tales. It was something he only just now realized he’d wanted to do for the longest time. There were so many things he wanted to do -- with you -- and now, he could. 

He would have to thank Nocturnal the next time they crossed paths. 

#Brynjolf #Skyrim #tes #Skyrim tes #brynjolf skyrim #Brynjolf x Reader #Brynjolf x You #You x Brynjolf #Skyrim Fanfic #Skyrim Fanfiction #x Reader #brynjolf fanfiction #Brynjolf Fanfic #Forgot how much I LOVE nocturnal #also thieves guild might be my favorite questline

[ghost-in-the-hella]

If you are still taking prompts, and were so inclined, 47 for Gideon the Ninth!

I am always so inclined. Enjoy this... this thing. Gets a bit rude because, well, Gideon.

47. “You look like hell.”

---

“You look like hell.”

Gideon startles at the sound of Coronabeth Tridentarius actually speaking to her. She sounds more intrigued than judgemental, as if hell were an exotic travel destination she’s not yet been to but is eager to learn more about. Gideon is, not for the first time, grateful for her affected vow of silence as all possibility of coherent thought abandons her tongue. She would surely be a stuttering gay mess if she tried to speak to a woman as beautiful as this particular princess of Ida. With her feigned vow, she can still pull off the “strong but silent” affect and at least somewhat salvage the impression of being a suave badass who’s great with the ladies.

Or she could if she weren’t currently a panting, heaving, sweat drenched, bone dust coated, blood smeared, tattered mess.

It figures that Harrow doesn’t even have to be in the same room with Gideon to have completely ruined her game. Gideon draws herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders - fighting the urge to slump into an exhausted heap on the floor - and straightens her crooked aviators. She hopes that her face paint is still a badass skull and not a runny mess of gray; they’re not big on mirrors down in the facility. Her spine stiffens as Coronabeth steps toward her, smiling like they’re sharing a secret, and brushes one perfect hand lightly at each of Gideon’s shoulders, scattering fine chips of bone onto the floor.

“Poor thing,” Coronabeth purrs, locking Gideon in place with intense eye contact even through her shades. “Your necro’s really running you ragged, isn’t she?”

The last thing Gideon wants to talk about while a beautiful woman is touching her - actually touching her! Okay, touching the shoulders of her robes, but still! - is her screeching ferret of a necromancer. Her distaste must show in her expression even through the caked on layers of sweaty paint because Coronabeth chuckles prettily and squeezes her shoulder - Gideon tenses her sick delts reflexively, desperate to please - and gives her a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s alright. I won’t ask you to divulge any forbidden secrets about the Ninth House or the trials.” She runs clever fingers around the hem of Gideon’s hood - a rumpled heap around her neck, having fallen down as she heaved herself up the ladder from the facility in a hurry to get herself to a sonic - and winks suggestively enough that Gideon swallows hard. “She really must be putting you through the ringer. You know, I feel quite sorry for you cavs sometimes. So much is asked of you, and you get so little in return…”

Gideon has passed out. Surely, this must be what has happened. She’ll wake up in her nest of black blankets with a dirty magazine glued to her face by skull paint and drool, completely covered in sticky notes blackened with Harrowhark’s vitriol. Because it sure as hell feels like Coronabeth - Coronabeth Tridentarius, crown Princess of Ida, hottest necromancer this side of the funny books - is flirting with her. With her. Gideon Nav, indentured servant of the Ninth, perpetually demeaned cavalier primary to her lifelong nemesis, hottest cavalier in history to never touch a boob that wasn’t her own. With her stupid, itchy black robes that still smell faintly of Ortus Nigenad’s flop sweat no matter how many times they’re laundered, with her overgrown and uncombed hair all full of cobwebs and bone dust, with her half-melted face paint of a creepy fucking skull not quite concealing her latest acne outbreak. So there’s no fucking way that this isn’t some delightful dream inspired by too many titty mags before bedtime.

Coronabeth’s hand slides down from Gideon’s shoulder, gliding down the length of her arm - trailing over the firm roundness of her deltoid, the jaw-dropping perfection of her biceps, the corded extensor muscles of her forearms - down to seize her calloused hand with her own surprisingly strong one. “I think you deserve something in return. Don’t you?” 

Okay. New thought. Maybe Gideon hasn’t passed out, but she’s probably going to if Coronabeth keeps touching her like this.

Gideon nods very carefully, trying not to let any drool drop from her mouth.

Coronabeth’s smile is as bright as Dominicus. She tugs Gideon’s hand and leads her down an unfamiliar hallway. Gideon follows obediently despite her necromancer’s warnings ringing in her head, shrieking at her to trust no one. Well, Gideon figures, if she’s a lamb being led to the slaughter, at least she’ll die happy. A girl’s holding her hand! Flirting with her! Smiling at her! Touching her muscles! 

Much to Gideon’s surprise, she is not promptly jumped and flesh magicked to death upon entry to the Third’s quarters. In fact, as far as she can tell, she’s alone in them with Coronabeth. Sure, she had to offer up a bit of blood to the gross ward on the door, but she’s already bleeding a little bit from her adventures in the facility anyway so that’s no biggie. 

She’s relieved to note that there are two big, ostentatious beds in addition to the smaller (but no less ostentatious) cavalier bed at the foot of one. If by some miracle she does get laid today, she’d really rather it not be in a bed that Ianthe Tridentarius has also slept or - God forbid - boned in. Coronabeth hustles her past the beds (dang) toward a large and opulent bathroom. “Here, get washed up.”

A fluffy purple towel is thrust into Gideon’s hands, there’s a gentle shove at her shoulders and the click of a door shutting, and suddenly Gideon is alone in the fanciest bathroom she’s ever seen. It’s even more ridiculous than the one in the Ninth’s quarters. She catches her own reflection in the mirror and finds that she looks every inch as confused as she is. “What the fuck?” she mouths to herself.

“I don’t hear washing happening!” comes Coronabeth’s mellifluous voice sing-songing through the door.

Gideon Nav fancies herself a remarkably strong person, the kind of person who could move mountains barehanded if she set her mind to it. Apparently, she has one fatal weakness: a beautiful woman telling her to do, well, literally anything. So Gideon obligingly scours the paint off her face - Harrow’ll be furious, but Harrow’s always furious and her paint’s a mess anyway - and inspects herself once more in the mirror. Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous. Little bit of acne at the hairline and around the left nostril, bit ruddy-cheeked from over-scrubbing, but still a flawless masterpiece of hotness. 

She sniffs her armpits. Pretty sweaty. Are chicks into that? If they’re going to bone (please, please, please) then won’t she get sweaty again anyway?

Wait, are they going to bone? They are, right? They’re alone in Corona’s quarters, her terrifying sister and their insufferable cav have clearly been sent away, and Corona’s super hot and bossing her around and dragging her into her bedroom (well, through her bedroom to her bathroom, but still). If this were one of Gideon’s magazines she'd already be up to her wrist, or at least majorly winning at tonsil hockey. This is literally a textbook scenario for boning.

Okay, then. It’s on. So now what? Should she brush her teeth or something? Her breath’s probably pretty rank after the morning she’s had. Should she, like… shave stuff? 

“You may draw a bath, if you like,” Corona calls through the door again. “Ianthe and Babs will be gone for hours. And something tells me that you have never been pampered.”

And so Gideon ends up taking the first ever bath of her life in the gilded bathtub of the Third. She can’t bring herself to fill the tub more than a couple of inches, even though from her skin mags and her comics she knows a bath is usually filled until the person in it is all but drowning, or at least until the bubbles are tastefully covering the good bits (comics) or just barely not covering them (skin mags). She does throw in several of the weird perfumy things hanging out around the tub at Corona’s urging. By the end of it, she’s pretty sure she’s dirtier than when she stepped in except that now she’s filthy with scented soaps and salts and glittery “bath bombs” (surprisingly not that violent but also surprisingly messy) instead of sweat and blood. She scrapes and scrubs at herself and then gives her body and her clothes a good shake out in the sonic for good measure. She borrows some toothpaste and uses her finger as a toothbrush, then rinses with borrowed mouthwash. 

There’s a fluffy purple and gold robe that smells a bit like Corona’s perfume and seems the right size, so even though it’s a million miles off from her usual aesthetic she consents to shrug it on. It’s impossibly soft and warm and smooth. Stops a bit short on her thighs, but presumably that won’t get any complaints.

When she steps back out into the Third’s quarters, Gideon feels strangely vulnerable without her protective layer of filth. She smells like a stranger, and her fingertips and toes are wrinkled in a weird way that she assumes has to do with the bath bombs or maybe with how hard she was scrubbing. That, or she’s picked up some freaky skin disease from the Third’s bathtub. She hopes she’s not about to die or something.

Corona looks beyond delighted to see her emerge, ruddy and steaming, from the bathing chamber in her ludicrous little bathrobe. It’s a shame that it’s short on the leg coverage and heavy on the arm coverage, since Gideon’s legs are fucking awesome but not nearly as impressive as her guns. She wants to ask what Corona has planned for her now, but her stupid oath to Harrow stays her tongue. If all goes well, Coronabeth might have a better use for her tongue than words, anyway. So instead she stands there trying to look impressive rather than panicky and overstimulated.

“Come here,” Corona beckons with an elegant finger, her eyes glittering like shards of polished amethyst. Gideon’s pretty sure that Corona’s not using any necromantic tricks on her - she knows what that shit feels like by now, and it’s vastly unpleasant - but she follows her gesture as inexorably as if Corona were looping a leash of thanergy around her throat and dragging her closer. 

And then Coronabeth Tridentarius is touching her. Like, pretty much everywhere. “Hmmm, let’s see,” she murmurs thoughtfully as she palpates what feels like every trembling inch of Gideon’s being (apart from the good bits, but maybe this is what foreplay is? she’s heard of it, but her magazines usually skip straight to the main event). Instead of trying to think, Gideon focuses on feeling, which is much more in her wheelhouse.

Corona’s nimble fingers carding through her damp red locks (they could stand a trim), fingernails sending tingles through her scalp as they scratch gently against skin that’s never been touched in kindness before. Fingertips trailing down the strong line of her jaw, gently seizing her square chin and turning her face to every possible angle, her gaze as palpable as her fingers. Strong hands (how does the Princess of Ida have actual calluses on her fingers?) testing her muscles, examining her hands and paying particular attention to her fingernails (they could also stand a trim).

“You look good in my robe,” Corona announces, taking a step back and allowing Gideon to breathe for what feels like the first time since she set foot in her quarters. “Gold suits you.” She locks eyes with Gideon and quirks her lips into a subtle smirk. “Gold suits you very well.”

Gideon swallows hard, trying not to gulp audibly and concentrating on not sweating through her borrowed robe.

“Much better than black. Not that you look bad in black, mind you, but there are other colors that would be much more flattering for your lovely complexion.”

She takes Gideon by the hand and leads her over to an over-decorated table that Gideon observes is overflowing with cosmetics. “For example… Hmmm… Plum?” Corona holds up a tube of something that’s a deep, bruised purple, examining its contrast with Gideon’s skin. “Or perhaps mauve…”

Coronabeth is insatiable. Gideon is left exhausted. When she finally emerges from the Third House’s quarters (very much not laid), hours have passed and she feels as if she has run a marathon. Not from any outward exertion, but from the effort of holding still and keeping silent throughout the whole ordeal.

She is perhaps the most sexually frustrated she has ever been in her life, having never been touched by a woman (and what a woman!) so much before, or really at all before unless she counts herself or the shriveled crones of the Ninth.

She is also… well. Made over. Her hair has been combed and styled, and it reeks of hair gel almost as badly as Naberius Tern’s does on an average day. Her nails have been trimmed, filed, and buffed smooth before being painted a soft lilac and accented with shimmering gold. Her face has been rendered utterly unrecognizable; Harrowhark would likely envy the sheer amount of makeup on it if only it were in the design of a skull rather than whatever peacocky nonsense Coronabeth’s done to it. She is, at least, in her own black robes despite Coronabeth’s best efforts to get her to borrow some of Babs’s gaudy frippery.

She suspects she has, in fact, been fucked by the Third after all.

She slinks down the hall as stealthily as she can manage, thanking her lucky stars that her necro is probably half-dead in a bone or buried up to her pointy little goblin ears in ancient books or possibly both rather than being a normal, decent human being who might give a fuck where her cavalier has vanished off to for hours on end with one of her greatest rivals. She’s hoping that everyone else in Canaan House will be equally preoccupied and that she’ll be able to return to the safety of her chambers with her dignity at least partially intact when she rounds a corner and nearly faceplants directly into the solid mass of Camilla the Sixth.

Gideon draws herself up to her fullest and most imposing posture and tries to mask her humiliation as best she can. Camilla observes her cooly, but Gideon swears her fellow cav is just barely holding back a laugh. 

After a small but excruciating eternity in limbo, Camilla steps aside to let Gideon dart gratefully past. Camilla casts a few words over her shoulder as Gideon passes, and they follow her burning ears all the way down the hall and back to her quarters: “You look like hell, Nav.”

#prompt fill #prompt fic #ghost writes #prompt ghost #postfuguestate #gideon the ninth #GtN #gideon nav #coronabeth tridentarius #fanfic

[monofpoke4life]

Datr Week 2020 Day One: Missing You

(Totally forgot yo upload this last year. I think I was unhappy with it, but I can’t remember why. Anyway, please enjoy)!

"So how'd you know to do that thing to Chunk earlier?" His young voice squeaked, echoing into the dark, shapeless abyss.

"Any enemy can be felled with the right jab. It's just a matter of knowing where to hit. Most are susceptible to major and vulnerable organs like the kidneys or liver. I am particularly fond of throat punches. They're ideal for stunning an opponent while leaving them alive for questioning." Replied a feminine and distinctly accented voice.

A frown tugged at the corner of his lips, yet all it did was morph a frown briefly into a pout and back.

He felt his brow furrow, as the world suddenly came into view. It was like turning on your phone in the middle of the night. Blinding and full of color at its sudden appearance, but it didn't strain his eyes as they continued on their walk. A set path expanding in front of them far beyond their view, but materializing in front of them with each new step. One he walked what felt like a million times before. No different than all of the other times he walked it. Just the same old sidewalk with the same old cracks that were on his way from the school to his house.

Certainly nothing looked out of the ordinary, and yet, this walk was entirely different. It would be one thing if it were just the electrified thrum in his veins or the ecstatic beat of his heart from the idea of catching Zim in one of his alien schemes or running home to watch a new episode of Mysterious Mysteries. However, it was neither of those things, and had everything to do with the young lady walking beside him.

There was a tingle in his leg, but he paid it no mind as he chuckled, "I'll keep that in mind the next time those bullies try to stuff me in the trash again." He shook his head at the memory from earlier that day, before he pointed out, "But you still never answered my question." Her steely gaze of rare, purple eyes flicked over to meet his own bespectacled gaze as he elaborated, "I know you're British, but come on, "keep them alive for questioning?" You sound like you're from MI6 or something. I mean, where do you learn techniques like that?"

"Girly Rangers," came her little too clipped reply as she turned her head, giving him her full, narrow eyed attention.

At that, his heart suddenly jumped into throat. He could easily get lost in her eyes. His breath quickened just a tad as a wave of nerves crashed into him. Both the expected good kind, and unexpectedly bad kind, settling sourly in his stomach.

They stared a moment later before he called her bluff, and she quipped, "If I didn't find the idea ludicrous myself I'd have swatted at you." She shook her head as a genuine smile graced her lips, before she looked up to the bare branches of the trees that lined their walk, as she continued, "My mother was in the military. You pick up a thing or two with those you live with."

He felt the pin prickling feeling of a chill run down his spine, starting at his neck, yet his body lacked the telltale twitch as he excitedly murmured, "That's so cool!" At that remark, the corner of her lips twitched into a proud smirk at his unsubtle praise. Realizing she heard him, his face grew hot. He wanted to turn away, crawl into a hole, but the sight of her amused, gentle smile kept his eyes riveted to hers. 

"S-so what else did she teach you? Anything useful I could use on my paranormal investigations?"

The anxiety in his gut increased, and a familiar dread set in, waiting patiently for his world to shatter. The kind of dread that makes somebody want to hide under a blanket from the world. Yet he heeded it no mind as his lips parted into a shy yet ecstatic smile.

"Sure, one more tip couldn't hurt," she said, murmuring the last part more to herself. "Well, body language is always telling. When someone is lying their eyes will look up and to the right because they’re tapping into the imaginative part of the brain.”

“Wow, so you’re like a walking, talking lie detector?”

“You can if you train yourself enough,” she said nonchalantly.

“Could you teach me?” He inquired as a fluttery feeling in his gut returned. His arm nervously rubbed the back of his neck as he continued, a little too quickly, “Maybe you come over my house some time and-”

“I beg your pardon?” She inquired quizzically, yet something in her voice had an edge to it. Ice filled his veins at that, and he stammered and scrambled to recover, “I mean or your place is fine. Of course, only if you wanted to, but nobody ever usually wants to. Actually, no place is fine then. Look let’s just pretend this never happened and-”

His heart dropped from his chest only to roar within his ears as he felt a delicate finger lightly touch his lips. He froze. He didn’t dare to breathe let alone talk; meanwhile his eyes fixated upon the dainty appendage touching him. If he didn’t know better, a spark spread from her to him, electrifying him from the inside out. His whole body grew hot, and he felt like his brain would melt from the radiant blush that was surely upon his cheeks.

“Hm, so that’s where you’re off button is,” she mused aloud as she pulled her hand away. Her eyes shined with silent mirth. He gulped and could practically hear himself audibly swallow. Gawd she had to have known what that clever smile did to him! Forget his brain melting, he was going to melt into a puddle at her feet.

Dazed, he saw her lips move, yet didn’t hear a word she said.

“Sorry, I spaced out. What was that?”

“You shouldn’t apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she chided. He felt confused and opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, she continued, “I said that’s very kind of you, but unfortunately my parents and I are still adjusting from the move; however, once we’re settled, I’d love to come over.”

He blinked owlishly behind his round glasses. His flushed face cooling down within the time it took to sink in. However, when it did finally sink in, he grinned so hard his face felt like it could split in half.

“That’s great! I can’t wait until then! How long do you think that will take? Maybe a week? Oh I need time to prepare and clean my room-er-not that it’s not clean, I-” He abruptly cut off his ramble as he saw her finger raise once more. He skittered backwards with his trench coat flapping with his rapid movements. The usually heavy yet oddly light feeling backpack nearly threw him off balance, but he managed not to fall.

She snickered. His heart skipped a beat, and a warmth coalesced in his chest, emboldening him.

“How does this Saturday sound,” He asked with all of the courage and grace a socially outcast boy, like himself, could with his first real friend. The first person who made him feel secure and supported since...gawd, he couldn’t remember! He couldn’t think!

By that point they started walking again, and that dread came back tenfold. His untrained eyes followed her right hand as she tucked a dark blue strand of hair behind her ear. A gust of forceless wind slammed into them, and it appeared as though she turned her head to shield it from the winter wind. She was always honest with him up until that point, so he had no reason to doubt her. No reason to notice how the motion drew his attention away from her eyes.

But he knew to look for it now, and all of the other times his mind replayed it over and over again within his head. On this night, as it had so many times before, that dread feeling his gut finally crashed to the forefront as everything went dark, and squealing, victorious laughter surrounded him like a stereo system. 

He went to scream, to shout, warn her, anything! Yet nothing came out. In fact, she was gone. He whipped around in an attempt to find her. As he looked behind himself, he went to turn back around, and there she was in all of her green, alien, Irken glory as she rushed at him with pak leg raised. When she was so close he could see the darker, barely discernible, purple of her pupils did he finally gasp and rocket himself into an upright position. Eyes shooting open as he nearly fell out of bed.

His stomach roiled as a brief wave of vertigo hit him from moving too quickly, especially without his glasses. With the grace of a lean yet gangly teen, he leaned on his side towards the edge of the bed. His arm flopped onto the end table beside his bed, and he hung his head between the space that separated the two as he let the wave pass. He also took the time to catch his breath.

Once recovered, he raised his head to blearily look for his glasses in the dark. After a few near misses of lightly brushing against them, Dib finally managed to snag them. As he placed them upon his face, he frowned at the sight of the slight tremble of his hand.

At the reminder of his memory, that nightmare, Dib growled at himself as he flopped onto his back. He yelped and flinched as a sharp pain shot up his leg, having hit his ankle off of a bedpost. 

The pain quickly went away as swiftly as it came, and Dib huffed and sighed. His forearm falling back to rest upon his forehead. Barely awake and he was already exhausted. Of course, the fact that he had that blasted dream again didn't help at all.

At the thought of the dream again, Dib growled and rolled over onto his side, facing the wall and his open window. He knocked his glasses up towards his forehead as he rubbed his clenched shut eyes with the heel of his palms. If only he could forget and move on. That would make his life so much easier.

And yet...the thought of forgetting Tak or how she made him feel...he could never do it. Just the idea made his heart race into a panic and sent his mind into a whirlwind. His childhood crush aside, Tak was his first friend. A real friend, or so he thought.

Pfft, just his luck that his first friend turned out to be an alien who only talked to him for his information on Zim. The thought triggered a dull, painful ache to grow within Dib's chest. One more powerful than the pain of her trying to destroy the earth. With him on it.

Dib shifted his right arm under his pillow to further support his head while he opened his eyes to pensively glare at his drumming fingers.

"Four freaking years and I still can't get you out of my head," he grumbled to one person in particular. Not that she'd ever hear him, being flung into space in her ship's escape pod and all.

The pod. Possibly drifting aimlessly in the vacuum of space. Cold and lifeless as the metal shell encasing Ta- 

He shook his head to dispel the direction of his thoughts. However, he didn't do it fast enough as he felt the slight burning tingle of his eyes welling up with tears only for one to slide down his cheek.

He grumbled some more as he wiped it away and gazed up at the midnight blue sky. The busy tizzy of his mind slowed down to a crawl as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. Find his happy place and think happy thoughts, or at least ones different from those that woke him up.

It almost worked too, as the angry tension in his muscles slowly evaporated from his body. His limbs became noodle-like and his facial muscles relaxed. The drumming stopped, and his mind drifted into a hazy fog of nothingness. He liked the nature of the nothingness. By definition, there was nothing there. Nothing that could potentially hurt him physically or mentally.

In and out. He pondered the nothingness, and how something so endless in area and possibilities could give him a sense of security, like being wrapped within a warm blanket.

Then, Dib's mind drifted to the thought of security, as it always did. The lack of it, how he could hold onto it, how he could find it within himself or others, and then finally when was the last time he felt it.

"Ya know they're wrong, right?" Tak's voice echoed from a memory that felt like decades ago. 

His younger self jumped at that, looking over at her from where she sat beside him in the library. She'd broken him out of a very important task...which was to stare morosely at his unopened book.

"Hm, what was that," He inquired, trying to sound tired to hide the sadness in his tone.

Her purple eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. As per usual her penetrating gaze felt like she could see right inside him, reading him like an open book. However, she chose to ignore it in favor of the topic at hand. 

"I said, ya know they're wrong, right? About you?"

His eyes widened in surprise at that.

"O-oh?" He paused a moment, before his brow furrowed and he inquired further, "About what exactly?" It wasn't like he didn't believe Tak. Dib had no reason to doubt her, but years had cautioned him to not get his hopes up. 

He watched her frown a moment as she paused. The question caught her off guard as she clearly thought it would be a one and done statement. However, ever the perfectionist, she persisted to speak her opinion of him.

Glaring at the pencil she twisted between her fingers, she elaborated, "Well, a lot of things. The most prominent, though, is that you're not crazy for being different, for believing in the paranormal."

He sat up straighter at that as he continued to stare in astonishment, watching her wearily for any sign of a lie. He found none, but still felt the need to ask, "Really, you mean that?"

"Of course! There's nothing wrong with being different. It-" She trailed off at that. He ignored the part of his brain that thought her brow furrowed pensively was cute. This was a serious, heartfelt situation, and it wasn't the time to make googly eyes at someone who probably didn't like him that way.

He opened his mouth to offer a word, in order to help her along, but she continued before he could.

"It doesn't make you wrong. You- you're not- you're not defective." At the word "defective," it came out of Tak's mouth with as much disdain as one would use when talking about the city's cesspool, and her gaze immediately snapped up to look him in the eye.

A part of Dib felt like she wasn't just talking to him at that moment, especially as shortly after she said it, she unconsciously snapped the pencil in half. It made him wonder who hurt her or called her that in the past, what was their address, and could he beat them up. Well, maybe die trying, but preferably not.

The other part of Dib felt like she meant every single word. Even after everything that would happen later, he still felt she meant it. The way her determined stare carved into his very soul, refusing to look away until he agreed with her. How those amethyst orbs tenaciously glared and willed him to take to heart her words of wisdom, but most importantly; the earnest, raw edge of emotion that slipped into her voice. 

No matter how brilliant of an actor she was, she couldn't fake that.

The full meaning of her words combined with her body language finally sank in and a blissful warmth settled in his chest. It quickly spread to every neuron and nerve until it felt like pure happiness, contentment, and safety was going to erupt from his mouth in the form of the widest grin he'd ever make.

However, he had enough sense to not grin at her like a fool or madman. His entire body thrummed with energy and oddly a sense of calm. 

For once in his life he felt relaxed, safe, peaceful even. Relaxed to just let things play out, and to have faith in her as his friend, as he did for her. He could say or do anything, and she'd have his back, always giving her 110 percent. It felt...blissful.

However, that bliss couldn't last, just like the nothingness as the memory faded in exchange with his conscious state. Before it fully faded, he remembered he got her to laugh

 Not a laugh at someone's misfortune, like Zim, or being victorious against those bullies, like Chunk, but a genuine, gentle laugh with a small smile to match.

The memory faded, and he opened his tear filled eyes once more. As they dripped onto his pillow, he curled in on himself. His heart was as erratic as his breathing. Trying not to sob aloud kind of does that to you.

Gawd how he missed that feeling of security, of being supported, of someone having his back, and boy did he miss the one who made him feel that way.

Ironic how an alien could act more and treat him like a human than the real humans. And there's a high chance that all of that was fake. If it wasn't, well, it was four years too late to think about that.

A choked sob escaped his lips as he angrily sighed out the window, "I hate that I miss you."

#Datr week 2020 #Datr #Dib #Dib Membrane #Tak #Invader Tak #Missing you #Invader Zim #How in the world did I forget to post this #datf

[mmvalentine]

Circus of Dreams, pt 2 | Feysand

Night Circus AU. Part 1 Part 3

Rhys wandered into the admin tent in search of Cassian, in crisp white shirtsleeves and his untied bowtie draped around his neck. After a particularly long day of performing, it was finally Sunday night. And in the circus, that meant the day off tomorrow.

It was tradition that every Sunday night, after the lights had gone of and the patrons had all been sent home, Cassian and Rhys would pass a bottle of brandy between them. Then they would sleep most of Monday, and the circus would be on the road again by Tuesday. They never stayed in one town for more than a week.

Cassian was looked up as soon as Rhys walked in, and handed him an already filled crystal glass. Rhys raised the glass in thanks, and then sat down heavily on one of the folding chairs.

"Rhysand," Cassian greeted him, sitting down next to him. "Happy Sunday." They clinked their glasses together, and Rhys took a long swallow. Cassian always had excellent brandy.

"I know moving is always a pain," Cassian commented, "but I can't say I'll be sad to leave this sorry little town."

Rhys was about to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing behind them. They spun around, and in the entrance way, there stood the girl from the show.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I would have knocked, but the tent does not appear to have a door." Rhys chuckled. "No, it does not. Please, do come in." He pulled up a chair for her, and she sat nervously. "Cassian, this is Ms Feyre Archeron. Ms Archeron, Cassian." Cassian, still wearing his bowler hat but not his jacket, touched his brim to her. "Pleased to meet you Ms Archeron. What brings you here this evening? I'm afraid the show is quite finished for the day." Feyre gave him a wan smile. "Actually, I'm the clockmaker's daughter," she said. She explained further. "I saw your advert on the box office." Rhys raised an eyebrow at Cassian. What advert? "Ah, yes of course," Cassian said. "Well, show him in then." "Oh, no, actually. I'm applying myself. You see, my father is old and doesn't work anymore. But he's been teaching me since I was small. I can fix anything."

Cassian considered her for a moment.

"The position we are looking for may not suit... a young lady," he said carefully. "The show has a number of complicated contraptions that help us to achieve the spectacle you see before you, and we are looking to have someone on staff for ongoing maintenance. Permanently," he added.

Feyre frowned, then said, "I assure you, I am in much better condition to be traveling than my father."

Rhys smirked, and Cassian's eyebrows rose.

"I only meant to say, that not many people are willing to give up the stability of their lives to be on the road with us. But if this is acceptable to you, I have no personal objection."

Feyre thought for a moment. "Will I be able to send a portion of my pay back to my family here?" Cassian shrugged. "It should be no trouble" Feyre nodded firmly. "Then it is acceptable." "Very well then. I'll have you look at a few of our machines, and if you can fix them, you're hired."

And with that, they left the tent together, leaving Rhys to drink alone.

He did not see either of them for the rest of the night. But when he was walking through the grounds the next afternoon, he crossed paths with Feyre, a worn travel bag in her arms, trailing after a stern faced Amren.

"Ms Archeron," he said in surprise. She stopped. "Hello, Mr..." "Rhys," he supplied. "Just Rhys is fine." "Well then I guess you should call me Feyre, too." Rhys smiled. "Alright. Feyre."

Feyre glanced toward Amren, who had started to get away from them, and shot Rhys an apologetic look before hurrying her footsteps to catch up. Rhys followed.

"So, you really are coming with us, then?" he asked, eyeing the bag in her arms. "It wasn't a difficult choice, really," she said. "I'm not particularly attached to this town." "I know the feeling," Rhys replied. "Can I help you carry your belongings?" Feyre held the bag aloft. "This is it," she said. "I only have the one bag." "Then allow me." Rhys held out his hand, but Feyre shook her head. "I'm quite alright, thank you," she said with a smile. "It's not heavy."

Rhys stuck his hands in his pockets instead. Even though Amren's legs were short, she walked fast.

"Were Cassian's machines alright?" he asked. Feyre smiled. "They were quite lovely. If everything I work on here is as intricate, I believe I will quite enjoy myself."

They were stopped short when Amren suddely drew up beside a caravan.

"Right," she huffed. "This one's yours. You'll be next to Morrigan, I imagine she'll want to dress you. No one's working today so you can do as you please, but it'll be a six AM start tomorrow to move out. Hope you're good with horses."

And with that, she spun on her heel and left them. Feyre stared after her. "Sorry about our director," Rhys apologised. "She's always like that. But she's amazingly clever."

Feyre looked up at the long caravan. There were two doors in the side, and large wooden wheels that made the door look too high for her to step up into.

"Ah," Rhys said, sensing what she was looking at. He reached up and pulled the door open, ducking inside and lifting out a small set of steps. He set them against the caravan frame under the door.

"You get used to caravan living," he said. Feyre smiled in thanks, and put her bag down inside the door. Rhys knocked on the other door.

"Mor," he called. "Come out and meet your new neighbour."

A second later, the show's beautiful seamstress popped her head out. "Oh hello, who is this darling creature?" she asked. Rhys grinned. "This is Feyre. Feyre, Mor makes... well, everything. The tents, the costumes, pretty much all the lovely things." "You made them?" Feyre breathed. "I did..." Mor mused, her attention on Feyre's clothing. She looked Feyre up and down, and frowned sadly. "Oh, no. No I don't think so. Do you have anything else to wear dear?" Feyre looked down at her dress, that looked grey but could once have been blue or purple.

"It's pretty much just this," she said.

Mor clattered down the steps, and hauled Feyre into her own room. "Well, we'll just have to see about that," she said. Feyre shot a helpless look back at Rhys, who just chuckled as they disappeared.

"Dinner's at six," he called. And then, still laughing to himself, he headed back to his own caravan.

Over the next couple of days, Rhys did not see much of Feyre. It rained all day Tuesday, so packing down was a nightmare, and the horses didn't want to move in the mud. It was a long, cold, miserable day, followed by a rough night of travel where the wagon wheels stumbled through uneven roads, and no one got much sleep.

Getting up the next day to set up in time for the first evening's performance was a sorry affair, and then he had about an hour to change from his dirt-splattered overalls into his tail coat. By the time he was headed to his black satin tent, he was almost running late.

Rhys was just turning the corner, when he ran into Feyre. She let out a soft oh as they collided, and Rhys reached out to steady her. "Hello, Feyre darling." He smiled at her. "Rhysand. Sorry," she said.

It was then that he noticed her dress. It appeared that Mor had put her in one of her famous creations. It looked like a black ball gown, with a tiny bodice and a long, flaring skirt. His hands, gloved, were on her bare arms. Rhys quickly let go. The gown was strapless, and Feyre had long gloves that came up to her elbow. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but honey strands of it fell softly around her face. In her embarrassment, a faint pink flush had spread over her cheeks. Over her uncovered chest. Rhys' heart squeezed.

"No apologies necessary," he said smoothly. "I see Mor's had fun with you today." Feyre fidgeted with the silken skirts. "Yes, she said as long as the circus was open, everyone had to look the part." She gave Rhys a wry smile. "Even the clockmaker."

Rhys' eyes got stuck on the tug of her soft lips.

"Yes well," he murmured. "You certainly look like you belong here."

Feyre's smile broadened then, even as her blush returned, and she dipped her head to him before she continued on her way.

Rhys stood, dazed for a moment, before remembering that he needed to be on stage in five minutes.

****

Where are we going with this? I'm not in control.

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-babies

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #acomaf #acosf #rhysand #night circus au #mine #stay with me the smut is coming #eventually

[writers-block-is-now-a-person]

Even Truth Lies in the Thicket

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

The following days were a blur. I played countless melodies on countless instruments, just to please the countless guests Lady Elowyn entertained. All sorts of Ladies and Lords came to congratulate Elm, all asked questions of the shy Astria and how he managed to get her hand.

I ignored their conversations as much as I could. I was shivering through each performance, not from fear, but something colder in me, trying to tell me something. I ignored it, my music quality was more important than silly fear.

I think it had been a week since the announcement. I had played almost every hour of every day, my fingers and arms and lungs hurt. I had never realised how much pain plucking strings and blowing flutes could cause. I had been dressed in fine silk dresses and velvet suits for each performance. It was Lady Elowyn’s way of showing me off, as well as her newly high status.

It was just after dusk, the sun had turned the sky a deep purple, stars dotted the sky. The windows were open, allowing the cool breeze in and billowing the curtains. I was curled up on my bed, the pillows creating a small nest. Lady Elowyn let me rest properly for the night, after noticing the blisters on my fingers and the darkness under my eyes.

“I forgot you were mortal, your music seems so much more ethereal for such a weak creature,” she had said, guiding me to my rooms.

“Why should we take care of such a weak creature then?” Dale sneered from his perch by the window. “Wouldn’t it be less of a hassle to enchant the instruments?”

Lady Elowyn ignored her son, he continued to glare at me as we passed.

I had used the rest of Elm’s balm on my fingers, the pain made me hiss but the bumps had started to ease. I cradled my hands as I tried to get some rest. The fire in the grate burned slowly, the logs charred ash.

A rock bounced off the side of the bed, flying in from the window. I was too tired to investigate, fae threw rocks at mortals all the time.

Another rock, round and red. I knew who was throwing these stones. These red pebbles came from Locklan’s family estate, scattering the paths that wound through their maze and gardens. Locklan wanted something from me.

I could hear him climbing the vines and bricks of the house, he was not a very good climber. His red hair and wide smile popped into the window frame. His amber eyes glowing.

“Heard the songbird was given a rest, how’s the preening?” He shimmied himself onto the sill and propped his feet up on the frame. If this was a different story, he would be prince charming coming to save the princess locked away in the tower.

I tried to smile. “My hands hurt too much to brush my hair, and I have no need for vanity.”

“So I’ve heard, songbird,” Locklan gazed around the room. He never minded the mess, his family thrived in mess and chaos. His family’s mansion was always littered with drunk fae from revels and all the ruined extravagance that came with them.

I still felt embarrassed, Lady Elowyn would faint if she knew another fae had seen the state of my rooms. I pulled my feet under me and cleared my dry throat. “Why are you here?”

Locklan rolled his head to face me, his eyes narrowed, he smiled smugly. “You know, dear songbird, so why chirp and question?”

I did know, but I also hoped tonight would be different.

Locklan stepped into my room, swinging his legs over the seats under the window. He offered his hand to me, the fire made his silhouette glow. “Come along, little song bird, time to take flight.”

The sinking feel in my gut had left, now replaced with hatred and need. I took his hand gently, he was careful with my blisters. Locklan helped me into a long coat and tall riding boots, I didn’t realise how sensitive my hands would be after playing for a week.

We stuffed pillows under the embroidered quilts, creating the illusion that I was sleeping. Locklan climbed out first, using the thick wisteria vines as foot holds. I took my time, I was not taught to climb out windows, I was raised to perform.

The grass was soft under the boots, silencing my mortal steps. Locklan moved like wind, silent and flowing. He held the cuff of my coat and led me through the immaculate gardens of my own home. I never had time to admire the flowering gardens of Lord Bryn’s estate, the large and colourful flowers blurred around me as Locklan hurried through.

He pushed through the surrounding wall, thick rows of aspen trees and twisting ivy, holding my cuff tightly as he dragged me through.

We emerged into a clearing, where Opal and Evora waited patiently. Opal was fluttering, her moth wings, stirring up the leaves under her. She squealed with joy and took me in her arms.

“I’m so happy to see you! It has been ages since we last talked,” Opal smiled brightly, holding my face in her hands. She was wearing a black dress with fluffy skirts and thick slippers with ribbons that wound around her calves.

“Hush Opal, we don’t want to alert anyone!” Evora whispered, her dark green cloak matched her dark skin and eyes and covered her entirely, masking her ethereal beauty.

Opal pouted and took my hand, careful of the blisters. “Of course you wouldn’t worry about not seeing her, how many times as Harper played in the palace halls?”

Evora looked guilty. “Just because she’s played in my home doesn’t mean I could talk to her, I was crowded with suitors and questions at every turn!”

Opal wanted to retaliate, Locklan made a show of ruffling his coat to get our attention. “As much I love to reunite with our dear songbird, if we keep this up we won’t be back before dawn. And Lady Elowyn will have her head if she finds out that her songbird has left their cage.”

He was right, but he didn’t have to say it like that. We all followed him out of the aspen forest and into the thicket that surrounded Folkshire. Opal fluttered next me, then seemed to blink out of existence. The first time she did this, I almost screamed, I never expected her to turn into a real moth. Her family were luna moths, able to change their appearance from fae to moth instantly. Opals teal and green wings fluttered silently around my head, she seemed happy. I could faintly hear her voice giggling.

I watched Locklan closely, his transformation was always fascinating. His pace quickened into longer strides, he seemed to shrink in on himself as he leaned forward. His snout grew from his face, ears from his head, and soon he was a red fox trotting through the fallen leaves beside me.

“I wish I could morph, all the fae who morph get up to far more fun than me,” Evora huffed next to me, she seemed far to close.

“It is rather fun, until you get caught in a fox trap,” Locklan said, voice clear from fox jaws.

The fae who could morph themselves could still talk, that’s how you got stories of talking deer and foxes in the darkest parts of the woods. It was the fae, happy to create some stories to weary travellers.

Evora couldn’t morph, she didn’t have the power to. Only very few fae could, that’s why Locklan and Opal’s families were so well regarded.

We walked silently for a while, the forest was cold and silent, I pulled my coat tighter. To other travellers, we would be seen as two young girls following a fox and being pestered by a large moth. No doubt that would create stories of a clever fox guiding lost girls to the town.

The thicket grew denser, the trunks of the trees were thicker, their branches lower. I didn’t know what type of trees they were, I guess they were magic of some sort. They had dark green leaves and even darker wood. I’ve heard stories of the woods eating people, making them turn in circles, or making them walk for days on end only to emerge with having no time pass at all.

I never liked the thicket. I don’t like these trees.

Evora held tightly onto my coat. She wasn’t touching me exactly, and my arm kept trying to pull away from her. But I knew that if she let go, I would be lost. The magic of the thicket was far stronger and older than Lady Elowyn’s, only the fae born in Folkshire can navigate it. We climbed over fallen trees and through paths I would never have been able to see. Locklan led the way, Opal’s wings gave off a soft glow.

I knew Evora could see. That’s another thing the fae have over humans. With their senses being almost double mine, they have no trouble walking around in the dark.

We climbed over one last log. Months ago, Locklan had wedged one of his red pebbles into the wood, the pebble acting as a marker for us. We had broken through into a clearing of sorts, the magic trees had thinned out and I could see the cobbled road a few metres ahead.

Locklan sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching in the wind. “This way, not far now.”

Evora and I followed, Opal fluttered higher, desperate to see the lights of the little mortal town. We weren’t going into the town, not tonight. We traveled along the cobbled road, I could see tire tracks and hoof prints. I remembered the old horse ranch that was just on the outskirts of the town. My heart ached, it ached for something I never had.

With the thicket on one side, and the mortal forest on the other, I could see the difference in trees. The enchanted thicket seemed darker, impenetrable and untouchable. The thicket looked haunted. The oaks and pines on the mortal side looked harmless, leaves rustling in the wind, branches swaying slowly.

We kept walking, following Locklan as he guided us through the outer parklands of the town. I heard the sound of laughter, the smell of a campfire and melted chocolate. The sickening need in my heart hammered away, the greed ugly.

Locklan circled the camp first, then beckoned Evora and I forward. Evora whispered under her breath and blew, the air shimmered around us. She had used some sort of glamor, some spell to keep us hidden from human eyes. We huddled behind a fallen oak tree, it’s trunk thick with moss. Evora and I watched the group of mortals with wonder.

They sat on weathered stumps and chattered around the fire. Two sat close, one holding a spool of wool while the other knitted a blanket that was draped over both of them. One was leaning forward and gazing at the flames, they seemed distracted by the flickering heat. There were two others, one held a bright red ukulele and was laughing through jokes.

I knew who the one holding the ukulele was. It was me. It was the fae child they switched me with.

They had the same hair, face shape, eyes and even skin tone. But they looked nothing like me. They had clear skin and eyes that glowed in the light. Their hair flowed like silk and they held themselves with such confidence it made me feel fake. They looked like my reflection, but maybe they were the better version of me.

The mortals around them might not have seen it, but Evora and I could. I could see their pointed ears and teeth, the black slits replacing round pupils. They were fae, but they disguised themselves to look like me.

The mortal holding the spool of wool chuckled slightly. “Come on Harper, there’s no way Caroline’s jokes are that funny.”

The girl next to the fake Harper scrunched her nose. “And what would you know about humour?”

The spool holder smiled. “More than you, morgue girl.”

Caroline stood up, Spool Holder did as well. The knitter beside them made a startled sound and pulled the Spool Holder back down. The Spool Holder mumbled apologies and sat back down, smoothing out the blanket their friend was knitting.

Fake Harper stood up and smiled. “Come on guys, no need to be mean. We’re here to have fun. Let’s enjoy the time we have before school starts again and we are all flogged with homework.”

“Says you, Straight A’s,” the boy staring at the fire said, he seemed unimpressed. “You hand up your work the day after and it’s bloody perfect. You have no idea how long I’ve spent on essays.”

Fake Harper looked uncomfortable, they swung the ukulele under their arm and smiled. “Well, I have no control over you, but I have control over the mood.”

They plucked the strings, I cringed at their melody. The ukulele was in dire need of tuning but Fake Harper sang a crude song anyway. The group laughed and smiled and sang with him. Evora frowned next to me.

“They are nothing like you,” Evora said.

Locklan had prodded my side and pulled at my sleeve. He wanted us to leave. I tried to pull Evora along with me, but I couldn’t touch her. She seemed frozen in place, hands still placed on the mossy log.

I followed her gaze, she had locked eyes with the boy who had been staring at the fire. He seemed angry, or scared, or entranced by Evora’s beauty. Locklan had latched onto Evora’s sleeve with his jaws and pulled her away, dragging her out of her trance and through the oak and pine.

We ran quickly over the leaves and cobblestones. Locklan didn’t slow down as he leapt over the log we crawled over before. He didn’t slow his pace through the thicket either, not even stopping to check if we were following. I couldn’t see Opal, I hoped she was behind us.

Locklan stopped when we were on the fringes of the aspen forest that surrounded Lord Bryn’s property. Evora and I struggled to catch our breaths while Locklan shifted to his human form. His brow was knotted.

Opal appeared, she stretched her arms and wings. “Why the hurry? What went wrong?”

“He saw Evora, or Harper,” Locklan said. “I don’t who he saw, but he saw us.”

“Who did?” Opal questioned.

“The boy watching the fire,” Evora said, she sounded startled. “I don’t if he really saw us, or if he just heard Locklan in the leaves.”

“Do you think he could have seen you?” Opal asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Surely not, my glamor cannot be seen through by mortal eyes,” Evora said, still, her voice shook.

We had ventured out at night countless times in the past few months. These only started when I was bought by Lady Elowyn, before I was her property, I belonged to a market worker who used my music to attract customers. All of his woodcarvings were horrible, so he used my music instead. My melodies attracted Lady Elowyn and she bought me from him.

It didn’t take long for Locklan to notice me at revels, he pestered me with questions and jokes in an attempt to befriend me. Then he introduced me to Opal, who then brought Evora into our ring.

When Locklan learned of my Switching, he spent days trying to find my Fae Switch. Then we started sneaking out to see them. I have seen Fake Harper laugh riotously with their friends down a dark street, ride their bike over a large rock and go tumbling into a stream, throw stones over a frozen lake and then step onto the ice themselves, unafraid of the frozen waters. I’ve watched them and the friends I should have march down the street in coloured flags.

Every action they did, they looked exactly like me, but their wide smile and glowing eyes and pointed ears meant I could never be like them. I felt guilty for the humans my Switch had befriended, and knowing that they would never like the real me made me feel worse. I would never have that human life, of eating bright coloured ice cream that stained your tongue and singing loudly around a campfire. I could never have that, I never will.

Tonights adventure had shaken us, that human boy looked straight at us. None of us knew if he actually saw us, but the prospect of his knowing there were other people in the woods would create suspicion. From what I could remember, the boy watching the fire was called Flynn, he never talked much but followed Fake Harper even if he hated them.

“There’s no way he could have seen us!” Opal said. “Evora’s magic is too strong to be seen through by mortal eyes. There is nothing to worry about.”

Evora nodded, most likely to reassure herself. “Opal is right, he must have been looking at the shadows the fire created. My magic is not weak.”

Locklan crossed his arms, he didn’t seem convinced. “Well, if your so convinced that we were not caught, how about we all retire for the night. I heard there is a tournament tomorrow so Elm can prove his strength for Astria.”

Locklan was right. I have been watching Elm practise his sword skills in the garden today, I could tell he was anxious. Elm was not a knight, but he was skilled with a sword. I hoped he had enough skill and strength to win tomorrow.

Opal took my hands again, her wings kept her above me slightly. “We can’t follow you home, Harper, but we will see you tomorrow if you’re there.” She wrapped her arms around me, fluffy hair smothering me. “Sleep well, the stars will watch you rest.”

Opal often said that. With her mother being the Royal Astrologer, Opal often said whimsical things about the stars and planets. Opal would sometimes predict the future with the stars, sometimes she got it wrong, but she tried anyway.

She fluttered back, letting Evora say goodnight. She couldn’t touch me, but she tried anyway. Her dark eyes kind as she said goodnight. She left with Opal, heading towards the palace in silence.

“You shouldn't look at her like that, songbird,” Locklan said, his gaze careful. “Princesses don’t fall for mortals.”

“It’s not that Locklan, it never was,” I lied, thankful my mortal tongue could. “She seemed to  be startled by that boy, he seemed to have shaken her.”

Locklan sighed. “Sometimes magic is weak when we don’t focus, something could have shimmered through.”

“Did you do anything?” I said, walking towards the ivy and aspen wall.

“I was under the log, watching the Fae Switch sing their horrid tune. I only noticed the boy look over when he didn’t look back to the fire,” Locklan admitted.

He couldn’t lie, not even slightly, so I knew he was telling me the truth. Locklan helped me through the ivy barricade and through the gardens. He didn’t have too, but he did. He followed me back up the wisteria wall and into my bedroom, helping me out of boots and coat.

“Can you manage the rest?” He said softly, gesturing to my clothes and the bed. The fire had died out, only warm coals left, my room was cold.

“I’ll be fine Locklan, I’m not as weak as you think I am,” I didn’t mean to be harsh, but I hated being insulted by fae.

“I never meant it like that, you know I would never insult you,” he couldn’t lie, I knew he was honest. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I know that sometimes our adventures leave you desperate for reassurance.”

He was trying to be kind, but his words still stung. I swallowed the hurt and smiled. “I’m fine Locklan, truly.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tightly, his coat smelled of woodsmoke and cinnamon. “Thank you Locklan.”

He hugged me tightly back. He let go slowly and creeped back out the window. “Goodnight, little songbird.”

He was gone, and all was left was silence. I closed the window and flipped the latch, keeping them locked for a while. I changed into something less tight and buried myself under the heavy quilts. I only had a few hours until sunrise, then a few sparse hours before I was needed.

I tried to sleep, but the face of the Fae Switch flashed in my head. Their perfect face taunting me. I could never be them, I could never be that perfect.

All I saw was the gaze of the boy by the fire. Flynn. His eyes were cold grey, he had startled Evora. He had seen something. 

I couldn’t sleep, I tossed and turned in the blankets. My fingers ached, my head pounded. And my gut kept trying to tell me something. Something was wrong, or something bad was about to happen. And I know I would see it coming, only if I knew what it was.

The sun had peaked over the horizon, turning the sky pink and my room gold. I rolled over again, burring myself under the covers. Desperate the get some sleep, desperate for some rest.

#fae #story #new writing #chapter 2 #faeries #fox #moth #royal #forest #magic #flowers #garden #thicket #mystery #harper #music #writing #secrets #old forest

[mollymauk-teafleak]

say that you’ll hold me forever

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In his more introspective moments, Alec would think that the reason night running came so easily to him, the reason he’d slipped into it like a pair of well broken in boots when it was so different from the simple life he’d been leading before, was because it was so like archery. When you got right down to it, both were about breathing steadily, keeping your eyes open, having patience and knowing when to let go. All things that had been his lifeblood since he could walk.

And because both came so easily to Alec, when something was amiss it was like having something stuck in his teeth. If the arrow he was using had warped or was made out of balance, he could sense it in a moment. If his string wasn’t oiled, he knew as soon as he drew it back. If a breeze no harder than a breath were blowing between him and his target, it may as well have been a gale for as much as it made the act feel impossible.

And if something was wrong with a night running job, Alec knew it. And tonight’s particular job felt like he was trying to shoot without an arrow.

It had seemed fine that morning, when he and Seregil had been taking breakfast in the living room at the Stag and Otter; Alec ruffling the ears of one of Ruthea’s last litter on his knee and his lover shuffling through their latest stack of messages for a cat of a very different kind while they ate.

There were a lot of them, some written on fine vellum, some scrawled hastily on notes that had since become crumpled as they’d passed from hand to hand to reach the elusive, far famed and entirely fictional burglar for hire known as the Rhíminee Cat. As Seregil was fond of saying, the nobles did all sorts of silly things in the spring and it was as fine a late spring morning as anyone had ever known. The window was open to a warm breeze and honey gold shafts of early sunlight, the bells of some temple were chiming in the distance and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

Alec barely looked up when Seregil cursed from across the table, he only hummed, “Did it again, hm?”

“It’s these damned nobles,” Seregil scowled, holding two notes and looking between them in exasperation, “They’re too used to getting their own way, it makes them such demanding customers. They want everything done this very night or immediately or bloody yesterday! No regard for a man’s schedule...”

“It’s not the nobles, love, it's the fact that you have no organisation system so you keep double booking yourself,” Alec said patiently, using the distraction to snag the last bit of bacon from Seregil’s plate to feed to the kitten on his lap.

“Well,” Seregil huffed, “Still. It’s inconvenient.”

“We’ll just split up tonight,” Alec shrugged as his little friend stole away with her prize, “You go and get Duke Amon’s ring back from whoever won it off him and I’ll take whichever job you thought was tomorrow but is actually tonight.”

Seregil folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, “I’m not that poorly organised…”

“This is the fourth time it’s happened this spring and let’s not forget the time you didn’t keep a close enough track on things and nearly placed a risque miniature of Baron Carmine in Lady Raya’s bedside table rather than the ring you were supposed to put there?”

Seregil was quiet for a long time, his mouth set in a pout until he grunted, “Fair.”

“So tell me about my job tonight,” Alec grinned, reaching over to play with one of the many curls of dark hair that stuck out from Seregil’s head after a night of tossing and turning. He knew that would chase away his lover’s chagrin.

Seregil hummed and inclined his head towards the warmth of Alec’s fingers, “So some twitterpated noble has got it into his head that he’s going to propose to his beau and that it absolutely, positively must happen tonight. He’s got some ridiculous grand gesture planned in his head, having the ring delivered to them silently in the dead of night so it’s there when they wake up. Surprised he’s not having a dove slip it onto their hand personally…”

Alec chuckled, “Perhaps it was short notice. It would take rather a long time to train a dove.”

Seregil smirked, “Anyway, the problem is he’s gone and left it in his apartments in the business end of the city by the docks, he’s a wealthy merchant of some degree, and he can’t go get it himself without arousing suspicion. So our job is to slip into his place, slip back out again and deliver it to his intended.”

“Too lazy more like,” Alec wrinkled his nose, “Fine, where is this girl who I’m hoping has more sense than her soon to be betrothed?”

Seregil shrugged, “Message only says that the address to deliver it to will be written on a label attached to the box. Probably didn’t want that kind of information floating around the city on a note being handed around some more disreputable characters.”

Alec snorted, “Bet you a gold sester her parents don’t know about this match. Why else be so secretive?”

Seregil raised his eyebrows and simpered exaggeratedly, “Perhaps it’s a heartbreaking tale of true love overcoming societal disapproval?”

“Or some fool making too much of a few friendly glances and thinking himself some heroic knight saving a girl who isn’t even interested,” Alec tugged on his lock of Seregil’s hair gently.

His lover shrugged, shaking him off and sitting back with his tea cup held in his hands, “Whatever it is, talí, he’s paying handsomely. Would you mind?”

“Sounds like the easiest job I’ve done in months. I’ll make sure supper’s on the table for when you get back.”

But that had been this morning and now Alec was perched on top of a very high wall surrounding the lavish building and he was having doubts.

Not about his route into the noble’s apartments, that was clear as day. The building itself was called an inn but it was as far removed from the alehouses and winesinks that could also boast that title as a carriage horse was from a mule. It was more like a miniature manor house, each one of it’s floors a luxury suite meant for the lesser nobles who had made their fortunes on the backs of the sailors and tradesmen that worked on the wharves the inn overlooked. This was the place they’d occupy on the nights of the working week, when business held their attention, but most would also have a place not unlike Wheel Street for their leisure time, where they kept their wives and children.

Alec could see precisely how he would vault from the wall he now crouched on, land on the lip of the roof, follow it a little ways around the shadowed inn and slip into the window of his mark, safely untouched by any lamplight from the main street. It couldn’t have been simpler. But still, uncertainty sat in his stomach like he’d eaten a heavy meal.

He hesitated, trying to summon the clarity of mind that usually accompanied his night running or at least a concrete reason why things felt so plainly wrong but he received no answer except a gentle lifting of the wind that stirred the hood he’d pulled up tight around his head and carefully tucked his braid into.

If I don’t move quickly, what’s going to be giving me doubts will be a bluecoat’s quarrel in my chest he thought with irritation at himself. He abandoned his misgivings on top of the wall and sprightly hopped up onto the roof, his well muffled slippers barely making a whisper as he landed and began the slow, careful walk along the slates.

As he crept along in the shadows, he had to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of such a clear night. Rhíminee never looked more beautiful than when it was observed from the top of some high place Alec wasn’t meant to be, when it was nestled in the purple shadows of twilight, all glittering lamps in winding streets and a hundred yellow eyes blinking as people set candles into their windows, either to go to bed or to welcome new patrons in the brothels and gambling houses of the Street of Lights. The palace and the Orëska House were like looming candles, their towers still a deep orange with the last of the setting sun, their expansive floors the deep purple of true night. There was a sense of the city settling down, heaving some kind of silent sigh as another day ended and a whole new Rhíminee awoke.

And somewhere in it’s shadowed depths, Seregil was about his own business, chasing down a family heirloom some arrogant lord had wagered on a hand at the Dragon.

“Luck in the shadows, talí,” Alec whispered to the twilight, feeling the tug of the bond they shared as the thought travelled along it’s thread to his love.

The latch on the window was tricky though he expected nothing less at such a fine establishment with so many wealthy clients. There was a lot to protect within its whitewashed walls, after all. Still, between his clever fingers and the pick he kept in his braid, it was barely a few minutes before Alec had it open and most of that was looking down for watchmen or dogs in the yard below.

The room was dark, the noble of course off with the love he hoped to make his wife. Alec wondered if he was nervous, holding her tight as she slept, both anxious for the dawn to arrive and rather afraid of it at the same time. He could only imagine how it must feel, to ask someone to share their entire life with you, to hand them a piece of your heart in the shape of a simple loop of metal and gemstone, without something as sure as a talímenios bond.

It made him a little jealous, if he was honest.

He dismissed the thought quickly, seeing no sense in wanting things he couldn’t have. The window opened, he swung himself inside, landing on the rich woven carpet so no one below would hear him. As soon as he righted himself, the feeling came back as strong as it had been outside, the sensation that something was amiss.

There was just a string sense of the place being...unlived in. Sure the trappings of a young, overly wealthy man were spread around the room- fine coats in a number of rich fabrics hung by the door, the walls lined with books and the fine art on the walls, the plush looking furniture and tasteful hangings- but it was as if a layer of dust hung over it all. Alec knew how to read the traces a person left in their home, how to track their daily routines in which chairs had the deepest depressions and which books were always slightly out of alignment based on how they sat on the shelf. And this place held none of that. It was as if the place were deliberately posed, like the set for some elaborate play, but never intended to be lived in.

Alec’s hand twitched for the knife concealed in his boot. He knew a trap when he saw one.

He made no movement for the window or any other escape route. He could handle himself, whatever was about to appear from whatever shadowy corner of this place, but Seregil would scold himself for weeks even with no way of knowing that of both of those notes in his hand, of all the hundreds of summons they received, this would be the one that turned out dangerous. Alec was already dreading the look on his face when he brought the news back to him.

He moved far more carefully now, stepping into the place, heading for the desk where he’d been told the ring box was kept. His feet didn’t catch a single creaking floorboard, no figure moved from any direction. All was silent.

Frowning, he double and even triple checked the locks on the drawers. No poisoned needles, no dart ready to spring, no trap to close around his fingers. It was just an ordinary piece of furniture with a painfully average lock he had open within seconds. And that only made his suspicions deepen.

Seregil had said nothing about who’d sent them the summons, there was no way to tell if this was some secret enemy after them in particular, someone who had a grudge against the shadowy Rhíminee Cat or if this was one piece of a much more elaborate game. All there was to do was find the ring box, see where it needed delivering and wait for the tension to resolve itself. Some hands you just needed to play, even if you knew they were rigged.

First drawer, empty. Second drawer, nothing but a few clumps of dust. The hair’s on the back of  Alec’s neck stood to attention, why weren’t there any ledgers or papers, nothing so much as a pen to prove that a living, breathing man actually worked at this desk?

The box was in the third drawer along, a long, oblong shaped wooden box with a metal clasp. Far too big for a ring box, Alec thought. This must be the crux of the trap, the spring wound tight and ready to pounce. He steadied his breathing and felt cautiously for any hidden blade, catch or wax plugged holes. Were they being used as assassins here? Was he supposed to deliver death to this poor woman’s bedside table?

All his search discovered was the promised label, fastened around the clasp. Frowning, Alec checked the paper for any poison dusting one last time before turning it over to read it. He didn’t think he’d be delivering this box tonight, not until he’d had Seregil and maybe even Thero check it over or it could mean death for whoever’s name was inscribed upon it-

Alec’s throat tightened. The name on the label was his own. Not even the name Rhíminee knew him by, his true name.

Alec í Amasa.

No address, just the name. And at a glance, Alec knew the hand that had written it.

Even when he’d been certain this whole affair was a trap, his heart had stayed beating it’s usual steady rhythm in his chest, his breathing had been silent and shallow. But now his heart was pounding in his chest and it was such an effort to keep his hands from shaking as he pulled back his hood and carefully opened the box.

There was a ring, a simple band of polished coppery coloured metal. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw attention; a ring that could be worn on any number of night running jobs and never attract notice but he would always know it was there. But the ring had been threaded around the shaft of an arrow. Not an ordinary arrow, at a glance he knew this wasn’t made for shooting. This was beautifully carved, expertly wrought in polished wood so the shaft had been transformed into a gorgeous scene of an otter and a stag curling around one another as they raced in flight, surrounded by cunningly made flowers that he recognised in an instant. The exact same kind had grown around the cottage where he and Seregil had spent that winter together. The more he looked, the more he saw depths in the design; there were fingerling dragons as small as his littlest knuckle chasing each other around the span of it, there was a mountain range carved into it that reminded him so strongly of his earliest home, there were symbols inscribed all the way along in a clever pattern that spoke of a hundred places and a hundred adventures.

The arrow told a story. It told their story.

And burned into the base of it was a question, composed of two words. Marry me?

Alec didn’t jump when he heard the footsteps behind him and he didn’t turn immediately. First he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes but it was no good, new ones sprang to replace them. It helped that, when he finally did face his lover, Seregil had damp cheeks too. And that familiar, crooked smile he loved so much.

“I...I know it won’t mean anything, not legally,” he was standing in the doorway, dressed in the simple evening clothes Alec had left him in last, looking uncharacteristically nervous, “But...I don’t care. I want it for us, we’re the only ones who need to know. I was thinking...maybe a small ceremony at Watermead, just our friends, some rings, a few words...but I want to be able to call you my husband, Alec. Even if it’s just between us, even if I just get to look at you and think it then...it would be something.”

Alec exhaled, voice soft though it carried over the small space between them, “Seregil, it would be everything.”

Seregil laughed, more tears catching the dusk light outside the window, opening his arms. Alec needed no more invitation than that, flying into his embrace, holding him so tight he couldn’t ever imagine letting go. Whether they were crying or laughing or both, neither could really say, as they sank to the carpet still clasped together.

“You sneaky bastard!” Alec finally managed to get out, grinning against Seregil’s shoulder, “How do I keep falling for this?”

“Ah, talí, but I’m so glad you do,” Seregil murmured back, drawing away enough to kiss him.

The kiss would have lasted until they had no more breath to give, if there wasn’t something Seregil wanted to do even more. The arrow was held fast in Alec’s hand so he slipped the ring off the shaft and placed it gently on his lover’s finger, first kissing the spot where it would lie for the rest of their lives. Now Alec could see there was a twin of it on his own finger.

“I told you about when I was young, yes?” Seregil murmured, stroking his thumb across Alec’s knuckles, “How I would sit in my bedroom back in Aurënen and imagine the person who would be my talímenios, how I would dream of you before I even knew your face...even then, I couldn’t know how it would feel to love you so much. How much you would make me want to be a better man, how every morning simply waking up and seeing you sleeping next to me would make me feel so damn lucky. I didn’t know, Alec í Amasa, how happy I would be with you.”

Alec just shook his head, tears sparkling like diamonds of the most precious sort as they fell to their clasped hands, he didn’t have his lover’s skill with words. He just leaned in and kissed him again, murmuring every time they stopped for air, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

But those were the only words Seregil needed to hear.

#nightrunners #lynn flewelling #alec i amasa #seregil i korit #watchers #nightrunner series #seregil x alec #alec x seregil #proposals #fluff #look I don't know if this is how proposals work in this universe #but let me have this #fic #please reblog and comment!

[acdhw]

ACD meeting Oscar Wilde

From Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle, by Daniel Stashower:

Why, then, should he have wanted to make his detective a drug user? For the modern reader, the image of Sherlock Holmes plunging a needle into his arm comes as an unpleasant shock. To Conan Doyle’s way of thinking, however, the syringe would have been very much of a piece with the violin, the purple dressing gown, and the interest in such abstruse subjects as the motets of Lassus. With Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle intended to elevate the science of criminal investigation to an art form. To do so, he needed to cast his detective as an artist rather than a simple policeman. Conan Doyle himself, with his broad shoulders, muscular frame, and ruddy complexion, could easily have passed for a stolid London patrolman. Holmes offered a striking contrast. He was thin, languid, and aesthetic. He easily fit the pattern of a bohemian artist, with all of the accompanying eccentricities and evil habits—one of which, sad to say, was cocaine. “Art in the blood,” as Holmes was to say, “is liable to take the strangest forms.”

The image of the Victorian habitué would have been very fresh in Conan Doyle’s mind as he sat down to write The Sign of the Four. Only a few days earlier, he had met a young man he regarded as the very “champion of aestheticism.” In August of 1889, Conan Doyle found himself invited up to London for a literary soiree. The editor Joseph Marshall Stoddart, of Philadelphia’s Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, had come to London to arrange for an English edition of his publication. While in Britain, he hoped to commission work from some of the country’s promising young writers. At the time, Conan Doyle’s work was receiving far greater exposure in America than in Britain, owing to the lack of American copyright protection for foreign authors. Several of Conan Doyle’s stories had appeared in pirated anthologies, which, he noted with dismay, “might have been printed on the paper that shopmen use for parcels.”

Conan Doyle may have regretted the lost profits from these unauthorized printings, but they brought him a substantial American readership at a time when his name was less well known in Britain. Now, with Joseph Stoddart anxious for a meeting, Conan Doyle had reason to feel warmly toward his American audience. “Needless to say,” he later wrote, “I gave my patients a rest for a day and eagerly kept the appointment.”

The dinner was held in the West End at the prestigious Langham Hotel, a setting that would feature in three future Sherlock Holmes adventures (SIGN, SCAN, and LADY—my note). Two other guests enjoyed Stoddart’s hospitality that night. The first was Thomas Patrick Gill, a former magazine editor who had gone on to become a member of Parliament. The second was Oscar Wilde.

At thirty-five, Oscar Wilde was already a notorious figure in London society. Though his great plays were still ahead of him, he had made his reputation with his early poetry and with essays such as “The Decay of Lying” and “The Truth of Masks.” From the first, however, his true fame owed less to his literary output than to his celebrated wit and flamboyant personality.

It would be difficult to imagine two men more unlike each other than Oscar Wilde and Conan Doyle, and their first meeting must have produced raised eyebrows on both sides. The hale and hearty provincial doctor, with his bone-crushing handshake and earnest, direct manner of speaking, had traveled up from Portsmouth in his best professional suit. The world-weary, languorous Wilde cut a rather different figure. “He dressed as probably no grown man in the world was ever dressed before,” the actress Lillie Langtry once wrote of him. “His hat was of brown cloth not less than six inches high; his coat was of black velvet; his overcoat was of green cloth, heavily trimmed with fur; his trousers matched his hat; his tie was gaudy and his shirtfront very open, displaying a large expanse of manly chest.” One assumes that such attire was not a familiar sight in Southsea.

The two men also differed in their literary views. Conan Doyle, the champion of historical realism, was a born storyteller, and took pride in his clear, unadorned prose style. Wilde, by contrast, had set himself up as the leader of a movement dedicated to “art for art’s sake.”

Even so, the two writers got along famously. “It was indeed a golden evening for me,” Conan Doyle said of his meeting with Wilde. “His conversation left an indelible impression upon my mind. He towered above us all, and yet had the art of seeming to be interested in all that we could say. He had delicacy of feeling and tact, for the monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman at heart.” Only eight years earlier, Conan Doyle had gone up to London to see Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, which featured a thinly disguised parody of Wilde in the character of Bunthorne, the “fleshy poet.” Now he found himself sitting beside the “singularly deep young man” himself, while the pair of them basked in the attentions of a renowned American publisher.

Wilde impressed Conan Doyle with his “curious precision of statement,” as when he described how a war of the future might be waged: “A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.” Not all of Wilde’s remarks showcased his famous wit. To Conan Doyle’s surprise, Wilde had not only read Micah Clarke but expressed enthusiasm for it. One must treat this report with caution. It is frankly difficult to conjure an image of Oscar Wilde, the archetype of Victorian aestheticism, with a lily in one hand and Conan Doyle’s robust epic in the other. In The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Bracknell expresses her disdain for the “three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality” that she has found in a perambulator. One imagines that Micah Clarke would have brought a similar reaction from Wilde, though he may not have wished to say so to the author.

The evening ended with both men agreeing to produce a short novel for Lippincott’s. A few days later, Conan Doyle wrote to Stoddart to propose an idea. “I shall give Sherlock Holmes of A Study in Scarlet something else to unravel,” he declared. “I notice that everyone who has read the book wants to know more of that young man.”

Oscar Wilde also did well out of his association with Lippincott’s. His contribution was The Picture of Dorian Gray, one of the finest novels of the age. Upon publication, however, Wilde’s book came under attack for its perceived immorality. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,” Wilde declared, by way of defending himself. “Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Conan Doyle, who came to regard some of his own stories as a trifle risqué, would not have endorsed this sentiment. Nonetheless, he thought Wilde’s book was excellent and sent a letter saying so. “I am really delighted that you think my treatment subtle and artistically good,” Wilde wrote in reply. “The newspapers seem to me to be written by the prurient for the Philistine.”

——

To summarise, this excerpt supports the points previously discussed elsewhere:

1. The influence of the aesthetic movement and Wilde in particular on the image of Holmes. No wonder Holmes comes off as queer-coded. He is queer intrinsically.

2. Doyle admired Wilde and was vocal about it but chose to be more cautious in his own writing.

Picture credits: londonremembers.com, hauntedjourneys.com

@garkgatiss, @sherlock-overflow-error, @sarahthecoat

#acd #oscar wilde

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging needles 27

On Ao3

Masterlist

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 26 - Chapter 28

Chapter 27 - Unwell

I might be okay, but I’m not fine at all.

(—)

A month after Sherlock’s death and Amelia found herself standing at the front of his grave with a single pink carnation dangling between her fingers. 

“It looks nice,” she commented to John, studying the newly erected grave marker. “Very... him, I guess.”

The friends stood in silence, staring down at the ground, each juggling their own complex emotions about the whole situation.

“I’ll let you-,” John cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his coat pockets, shuffling away to give her some privacy. 

Others had clearly come to pay their respects since the funeral. Notes of gratitude and blooming bouquets covered the sleek obsidian stone. 

“This one means ‘I’ll never forget you’,” she mumbled, feeling a little foolish talking to a rock. “I thought it was a little more appropriate than bringing a sprig of aloe to symbolize ‘grief’. Granted, I ended up digging through an old farmers almanac for reference since I left my books at Baker Street and well-.” 

 She stepped up to the grave and draped the carnation over the top. Stepping back to her spot, she tugged at the sleeves of her coat anxiously. 

“I dropped out of therapy,” she confessed quietly. “I think John knows, because he’s been asking about my appointments. She just kept bringing you up and I just couldn’t- it still really hurts, you know?” 

The stone didn’t reply, though a small sparrow did hop near the carnation and poke around its petals. 

“I swear I saw one of the nurses who was there the other day,” she continued, biting her bottom lip and staring up at a nearby tree to try and blink back some tears. “John swore it was just some lady from your homeless network, but she was wearing this bracelet that I swear-.”

“Maybe I should go back to therapy,” she muttered under her breath. “I just have this overwhelming feeling that this isn’t... it’s never this simple with you. It just doesn’t add up. I can’t talk to anyone about it because they think I’m this crazy grieving mess- which is true but- come on. We both know I’m right.”

The sparrow pooped on the stone and fluttered away.

“Right,” she nodded to herself, laughing at how ridiculous she felt venting to a grave. 

(—) 

Amelia found herself at the grave again the next day. 

It was raining, so she’d bundled herself in one of John’s old rain coats and huddled under an umbrella. She was alone this time, but brought another flower. 

“Purple hyacinth,” she held up the small flower to the stone. “It’s means ‘sorrow’. Pretty apt, don’t you think?” 

She moved to place it next to the carnation from the day before, but found the flower was missing. A quick glance confirmed the weather hadn’t knocked it astray, so she assumed it was snatched up by a bird or passing mourner. 

“Maybe they needed it more than you do,” she reasoned before telling him a funny story John had told her the day before. 

(—)

Amelia wanted to visit a third day in a row, but before she left for the graveyard, she wanted to pick up another flower at the small flower shop near the site. 

It was while she was debating between a violet and a blue salvia when she noticed a familiar face parting the graveyard. 

Replacing the flowers into their displays, she darted after the person. Against her best judgement, she called out and flagged her down, throwing on a smile when she greeted her. 

“Uh, hi,” she started, catching her breath. Amelia knew she needed to play this subtly. She thought back to the ways Sherlock had explained how to pull information out of people. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” 

The woman blinked at her in confusion a few moments before her expression lit up with a brief recollection. 

“You’re Holmes’ lady,” she noted with a nod. Her expression immediately fell somber. “I was just paying my respects. You know, before he died, he helped land me a job over at the DVLA? Just said he owed me for all my help over the years.”

So John had been right, Amelia noted, giving the woman a once over. She must have been part of his homeless network. Though not that she was face to face with her, Amelia was even more convinced she was the same nurse she’d seen that day. 

Amelia continued idle chatter a moment, more formally introducing herself and inviting her to a late lunch at a diner up the street. 

Sarah, Amelia later learned, was quite clever. 

She’d shared a bit of her sad tale, of addiction and a string of abusive partners that landed her locked outside her flat one day with no where to go. 

“Holmes helped cover some basic living expenses,” she explained, sipping at a mug of tea. “He knew I’d made some connections in the streets and the work was easy to come by. Even once I’d found a flat, I helped him. Nothing easier than dressing in a mess and watching all day.”

“You said he helped you get a job at the driver’s licensing agency?” Amelia inquired casually. 

“He mentioned his brother could pull a few strings,” she shrugged. “I’d been trying to find more stable employment for a while now. Go back to school. That sort of thing and he offered to help.”

“Just out of the blue?” Amelia chuckled in disbelief. “That hardly sounds like him.”

Sarah laughed, her lips smiling in an unspoken agreement. 

“You know him best,” she hummed. “He needed a little help with a case. Just some eyes and ears. I found a few people I trusted and I had an interview the next week. Just a shame what happened, the poor man. I don’t believe a lick of it.”

“It’s a bit sad the jurors came clean after the fact,” Amelia agreed bitterly, the sweetened tea she’d sipped going sour in her mouth. “I’m glad I ran into you, Sarah, truly. I haven’t had the best time talking to anyone about this and well... thank you.”

Sarah seemed moved by the confession and took Amelia’s hand tenderly. 

“Oh it’s no problem, you seem like a sweet girl,” she sighed before reaching in her purse and pulling out a piece of paper and pen. “Text or call me anything. We can do lunch again or I’d be happy to visit the grave with you.” 

She scribbled down her details, passing the note to Amelia with another genuine smile. Before long after that, she had to leave, citing a meeting with a cable installer. 

“I lived under an overpass,” she stated, sighing. “Now I’m scheduling services like a real adult. It’s something, isn’t it?” 

“You never mentioned what Sherlock needed help with?” Amelia chuckled, helping her toward the exit and holding the door open. “Was it a recent case?” 

Sarah paused, hesitating slightly before that disarming smile flashed back on her features. 

“Kind of,” she answers cryptically. “Got to play a little dress up, which was a nice change of pace.”

“Huh,” Amelia shrugged. “Sounds like Sherlock. Be safe.”

They parted and Amelia fished the small paper out of her coat pocket to enter in Sarah’s information into her phone. She was almost confident her suspicions were right, though almost switched to definitely when she flipped the paper over and realized with was a business card. 

A business card with Inspector Greg Lestrade’s name and contact information printed on the other side. 

(—)

Later that night, Amelia brought the subject up to John who chalked it up to coincidence.

“But how could it be a coincidence? She had to have been there,” she insisted. “Maybe I mistook her clothes for scrubs. We both know Greg hands out his cards to witnesses in case they remember something.”

“You said she was homeless, right?” he asked tersely, glaring up from his newspaper. “Maybe she was offered some help? Or witnessed some other crime? Greg is a very busy man, his world doesn’t revolve around the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“You have to admit it’s weird,” she challenged. “I knew I recognized her face and sure enough, she said she’d been visiting Sherlock’s grave!”

John tensed and folded his paper under his arm, standing abruptly. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, or why you’re so preoccupied with all of this, but it’s not like you’re going to find any answers,” he snapped at her, retreating toward his room. “It’s just going to lead to more hurt. Sherlock is gone, Amelia, it’s time we move forward with our lives.”

He closed the door to his bedroom on that note, leaving Amelia standing in the middle of the apartment with her mouth agape. 

He’d called her Amelia. 

John never called her Amelia.

She wasn’t sure what to do. Deep down, she knew John was hurting as much as she was, perhaps even more. They’d been as close as brothers, and she could imagine the betrayal he felt at his friends final decision. Maybe even guilt. 

She certainly felt it. Everyday she felt it. 

Moving toward the door to his room, she knocked lightly and listened for a response. 

When none came, she decided to just apologize and let him know she was going out for the night. 

“Don’t wait up,” she added with a mumble, grabbing her things and leaving the apartment. 

She wandered through the neighborhood a while, collecting her thoughts as nighttime began to fall over the city. London had such a unique air to it that varied so much from her home in New York. 

Her home. 

She supposed London was her home now, or at least Baker Street. Now she wants so sure. Amelia had put her home in a person, rather than a place, and now she felt unbearable lost. 

Hands stuffed in her pockets for warmth, her fingers touched Lestrade’s business card. She pulled it out and frowned at the office number listed. 

It wasn’t too late. Maybe he was still on duty?

But what could she ask him? That some random woman named Sarah was at the scene of Sherlock’s death? 

It was probably like John said, a big coincidence. It wasn’t like Sarah had shoved the detective off the rooftop. Amelia had seen enough to know he leapt of his own physical will- his emotional notwithstanding. 

The was no way Lestrade would even let her access the files either. Thatd be ridiculous. A total breach in protocol-

“Looks like a Sarah Patterson was interview the day of the suicide,” Lestrade bit into the sandwich Amelia had brought and plucked the file out from one of the boxes stacked next to his desk. 

Tossing it toward her, he focused on the meal, thanking her again for offering to pick something up on her way over.

“You’re just going to let me read this?” she asked, eyeing the folder suspiciously. 

“I think yoI forget I’m used to dealing with your dead boyfriend,” he replied bluntly, cringing when she frowned at his words. “Sorry. Still fresh. I know. I get short when I’m dealing with- it’s why my wife- just open the damn thing, get what you need and let me know if you’re going to do something stupid. Least I can do is make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Amelia snorted back a laugh in response, flipping through the file and skimming through the details. 

“It says you interviewed her,” she noted in surprise. “Do you remember what she looked like?” 

Lestrade huffed out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. 

“You’re aware I talk to a lot of people, every day,” he explained. “Just give me her ID number and I’ll pull her up in the system. I’m sure there’s a driver’s license on record with a picture.”

Amelia listed off the numbers in the corner of the file and after typing in the sequence, Greg turned his computer monitor around to show her the woman’s face. 

Sure enough, Sarah, the woman she’d met earlier, was staring back at her. 

Amelia looked back down at the file and noted the details. 

Sarah was apparently a nurse who’d witnessed the fall and responded immediately. She’d taken the pulse of the subject and was able to describe the state of the body with somewhat harrowing medical detail. 

“Get what you need?” he asked, turning the computer back toward him. 

“I think so,” she closed the folder and passed it back to him. “Any chance I can get a copy of that license?” 

“It’s on the printer on your way out,” he nodded toward the photocopier outside the office. 

“You’re a gem, Greg,” she smiled up at him appreciatively. 

“Let’s do dinner with everyone or something soon,” he called after her. “You look terrible and I know Molly misses you.”

“Right,” Amelia answered absently, snatching up the paper and typing the ID’s address into her phone. 

(—)

Amelia stirred to someone nudging her foot. 

“Dr. Brenner, this isn’t exactly the best neighborhood to take a nap in,” Mycroft’s voice stated dryly. 

Eyes snapping open, she jolted awake, disoriented from her dazed state. 

“What are you doing here?” she yawned, double checking her wallet was still safely tucked away in her coat. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, gesturing to a waiting car. “It’s nearly 4 in the morning.”

“I was waiting for a friend,” she lied, and Mycroft quirked a brow. “Why are you on this side of town?”

“Your phone’s GPS went offline,” he answered. “This was its last location.”

“Why are you tracking my phone?” she asked, trudging toward the car and sliding inside when he opened the door. 

“Because I had an inkling that you would go off and do something irrational like sleep on a bench in an unsafe area in the middle of the night,” he stated. “There is still an ongoing investigation into Moriaty’s holdings and you are a prime target now that my brother has... passed.”

“Aw-,” she hummed, leaning back into the comfortable interior and closing her eyes. “You’re like my guardian bureaucrat. Did you volunteer for the job? Or does someone in your office have a twisted sense of humor?”

“Would you believe me if I said both?”

“And here I thought you hated me.”

“Hates a strong word.”

“Dislike then.”

“I was under the impression that was how you regarded me.”

“I’m a little ambivalent given the fact you traded your brother’s life for some ill gotten victory on a maniac.”

“His death prevented thousands more down the line.”

“Thanks Spock, cool motive, still killed him.”

“Are you still living above the flower shop?” he asked, changing the subject.

“It’s not really a flower shop. Burnt down remember?” she replied, opening an eye to peek at him. She supposed if he was tracking her phone, he probably knew all about her and John’s move to the new flat. 

“Have you considered reopening? It might be a nice distraction from your internalized rage,” he suggested, crossing his arms.

“Is that your interpretation or John’s?” she challenged, opening her other eye and glaring at him.

“Mrs. Hudson’s,” he answered with the smallest smirk. Amelia could have smacked him for finding any sort of amusement from this, but god if the Holmes’ brothers didn’t share that identical grin. “She’s concerned. John hasn’t been answering my calls, but apparently he’s been sharing quite the stories with her.”

“Internalized rage is a bit of a stretch.”

“Grief is a complex emotion, we all handle it in different ways,” he continued. “I know my brother was… special to you.”

Amelia let out a dry laugh at his words. Special. As if Mycroft wasn’t well aware of the relationship between the two of them. As if he hadn’t found her shaking on the roof, meters aware from where the detective had leapt to his death. 

“And let me guess,” she saw they were approaching the street of her apartment. “You handle it by being a total jackass? Or is that just how you normally deal with the deaths of siblings?”

“In my position, you have to take the positives in even the most devastating of circumstances,” he murmured and Amelia caught him glance down at his lap. Was that a little emotion she spied? “I regret the loss, but he was my brother and I have to respect the decision he made to protect others. Certainly that hasn’t been lost on you?”

The car came to a stop at the curb and Amelia reached for the door, pausing as she considered his words.

“It wasn’t,” she answered. “But I firmly believe the world would have been a better place is he were still in it.”

“I think we can both agree on that.”

(---)

Chapter 28

#Sherlock Holmes fanfiction #sherlock BBC #sherlock fanfiction #Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #sherlock/original female character #Sherlock/OFC #sherlock/reader #Sherlock/OC #original female character #sherlock original female character #sherlock ofc

[unicyclehippo]

just a simple prompt if you want one: beau and jester play a game. interpret however you like!

ok so what follows came abt bc i thought of a joke that made me cackle & i wanted to write it in the context of a story so: ur welcome 🤙🤙

//

the fancy flop, like all good bars, is small, dimly lit, and grimy. the bar itself is sticky with spilled drinks that have accumulated over time into a thin laquer that coats the dark-red wood and beau’s cloak sticks to it as she leans over it, making sure that the bartender is well and truly busy with another patron down the opposite end to see her making off with a bottle of his best.

she wouldn’t do it ordinarily—and if she had, she wouldn’t’ve set more than the cost of the bottle in its place, as she does now—but she’d spotted the dusty plum purple bottle earlier and couldn’t get it out of her head. kamordah—her family—keep popping up like a cursed copper and beau figures, fuck it, why not face it head on for once?

so yeah. she steals—and then promptly pays for, because the bartender seems like a good enough lady—the bottle and scarpers, out the door and into the street, slipping the bottle into her bag before she catches up to the rest of the nein wandering their weaving way back to their inn.

‘beau!’ fjord greets her, laughing. his cheeks are flushed and his eyes glossy and beau notes, a little fuzzy herself, that his smile seems way more genuine, way bigger too, ever since he stopped fiddling with his tusks. ‘where’d you go?’

‘around,’ she tells him, makes a big show of complaining when he slings his heavy arm around her shoulder and neck and pulls her in. ‘you’re drunk,’

‘we’re all drunk!’ caleb corrects. beau glanced sideways to the faintly smiling clerics, shakes her head. ‘drunk on life, beauregard!’

it’s her imagination, probably, that makes her think jester narrows her eyes. because beau certainly didn’t earn a look like that, didn’t flinch at the sound of her full name.

‘drunk on mead, caleb.’

the man smiles. tilts his head up to the moon. ‘that too, my friend. that too.’

//

they shepherd everyone back to their rooms, to their beds, and it’s nice how these things go. the shuffle and bump of getting changed, the low murmurs from the washroom as teeth are cleaned, the creak and slow rising snore as friends fall into beds. beau guides a well-toasted nott into the room she shares with caleb, watches him lever up on the mattress when they cross the alarm. she lifts nott, sets her into bed alongside him at the mumbled instruction; beau watches as her friends curl up together without a care to her or what she might see in it, and leaves them be.

stepping out into the darkened hall, she catches a glimpse of a horned head, a flick of a spaded-tail as jester turns the corner, headed down the steps into the common space.

curious, beau follows.

it’s habit to drift toward the shadows, instinctual to tread gently and avoid those places in the floorboards where they bend and bow and creak. even so, she knows she hasn’t managed to hide her approach from jester, because the girl is waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. perhaps a little more hidden than she thought, actually, because it isn’t until beau is a few steps down to where the light of the common room washes pale against the stairs that jester blinks and shakes her head a little and smiles up at her.

‘oh good! i was hoping you’d come.’

‘me?’

‘mhm!’ she holds a hand up to beau, wriggles her fingers invitingly. ‘come on!’

‘where are we going? jes?’ beau asks, but if there is an answer she misses it, mind wiped blank by the feel of jester’s cool fingers twining in hers and the dizzying rush of being yanked forward, all while already the tiniest bit drunk.

they don’t go far.

jester has found, it seems, a mostly hidden table in the inn built into the corner, where support beams stand to block anyone’s view of the table and the roof sits low overhead. it’s close to the kitchen and awfully warm, fires still smouldering away to heat the water in gurgling pipes, and the scent of fresh baked breads travels out on curls of steam. jester slips into the alcove first, pulls on the hand she still hasnt released so that beau slides in beside her on the cushioned bench, not across as she would have done otherwise.

‘nice place you got here.’

jester grins, bats her lashes. ‘i’m good at finding sneaky places.’

‘i know that,’ beau nods. ‘yeah. this,’ she knocks on the wooden post. nods again. ‘solid.’

jester still hasn’t let go of her hand. beau swallows. hopes that her hand doesn’t feel as sweaty as she thinks it does. she always gets alcohol sweats, and with this sauna jester has found, she can feel her whole body prickling with it.

‘why are we - you couldn’t sleep?’

‘i’m not tired yet. and i wasn’t drinking.’

‘milk.’

jester rolls her eyes. muffles a small laugh with a look of exasperation, like she can’t believe she’s laughing at such a bad joke. her fingers slip over beau’s, tangling and slowly slipping away. beau makes an attempt to keep hold before she realises what jester is doing; cheeks flushing, she looks away, stretches her arms out to rest on the tabletop, fingers drumming on the wood, tracing over the slices and crude carvings, fingers swirling over the letters.

‘i wanted to play a game,’ jester tells her, pulling from her bag a deck of cards. it makes beau’s stomach plummet until she realises she doesn’t recognise them: these are not the brightly painted tarot, but considerably smaller and battered.

‘playing cards?’

‘uno!’

beau frowns. ‘the game you wanna play with your dad?’

‘yeah!’

it’s the drink making her bold, or the closeness of jester pressed soft to her side, that makes beau smirk. tilt her head. ‘if i play with you, does that make me your daddy?’

jester smiles back, all sharp teeth and hooded lids. ‘i don’t know, beau, does it?’

beau doesn’t recognise the tone, not from jester anyway, but it sends a bolt of energy lancing through her from the top of her now-prickling scalp to her core.

‘uh.’ she unsticks her tongue from the dry roof of her mouth. ‘um.’

jester giggles. drops her eyes to the deck, quickly splitting it and shuffling. beau is thankful that it gives her a moment to recover herself, swear at herself for losing her senses; beau is not thankful for the way it draws attention to jester’s clever hands, easily breezily moving the cards through a shuffle, a tilted riffle and a cut, before pressing them in a weave and cutting again.

‘holy shit. you’re really good at this.’

‘i like cards,’ jester agrees, nodding, but beau notes that she looks pleased by the compliment.

‘is it a problem that i don’t know how to play this?’

the cards explode out of the riffle, scattering across and beneath the table, a few smacking up into their faces.

‘ow.’

‘oh no, my cards!’

‘it’s fine, it’s fine, lemme—hold on, let me help,’

beau dives out of the nook, scrabbles around for the little cards. she slaps a few handfuls onto the table, ducking under it to find the remaining ones as jester counts. it’s hot, and dark, and jester’s tail snakes out to tap against beau’s arm as she fumbles around.

‘okay down there?’ jester calls.

beau grunts. ‘there’s—ugh—it’s like they washed the whole place with beer.’ her fingers brush against something furry that moves as she yelps, moves back too fast and knocks her head hard on the table above. ‘ow—fuck!’

‘beau!’

‘i’m fin—are you laughing?’ beau slides out from under the table, peeks over to confirm that jester is in fact laughing at her, wounded in the course of finding her fucking cards. ‘wow. real cool,’ she complains, though her hearts not in it, not with the way jester is having to fight to keep from busting a rib, eyes glittering with it. ‘did i get all the damn cards?’

jester counts them quickly. ‘two missing,’ she tells beau, who sighs and crawls beneath the table again, this time pulling down her goggles.

the first she finds under the opposite bench, while the second takes a little looking. it isn’t until jester moves her feet to try and help that beau sees it, the thin card stuck in the floorboards by jester’s feet. she reaches out, knuckles grazing against jester’s stockinged leg, and plucks it up.

‘got ‘em!’

beau climbs up, flops into place beside jester, who takes the cards with a quiet,

‘thank you, beau.’

‘don’t mention it.’ beau rubs at the top of her head. ‘i think i broke it. am i bleeding?’

‘lemme see.’ jester wriggles up onto her knees, bending over beau’s head. she’s of a height where beau has to keep herself very still and maybe close her eyes because jester’s chest is right there—and then her eyes flash open with the feeling of cold lips on hot skin, pressing gently to the bruised spot, and the warm fizzing feeling of magic crawling out from that space. ‘there,’ jester says, sitting again, the green light fading from her eyes. ‘all better.’

beau mumbles something that was hopefully an agreement, and tries to hide behind the cards jester hands her.

#cr tag #prompt fill #tagging my stories #beaujester

[anteroom-of-death]

Life, For Dummies p10

a/n: too long, i am now brain dead. time for death. but enjoy this crappy cracked inside look at my ongoing mental health crisis. fluff, lemon, intrigue and gift giving ensue!

You sat at the table, too excited to drink most of your coffee, only a few frazzled sips here and there. The looming threat of a surprise had you on the edge of your seat. He was very good at hiding them from you, save for a few hints here and there to help you deduce what it was, then praising you for how clever you were. 

But this one? No hints! Nothing you could think of to even suggest one besides the faint mention last night…

It was making you even more manic than he was. And he was dancing around the console room, singing a song, fiddling with wires and occasionally booping you on the nose as he attached devices to the TARDIS’s mainframe. 

“Oh, my pet, you’re really gonna love this!” He’d occasionally jeer at you. You were toiling away in your mind, wracking it for all it was worth.

You had a few more sips and decided to take a mental chill pill. You inhaled and held your breath, then released it. You once took a class on DBT during your year of longing and were trying to remember the steps to a healthy breathing pattern. 

You shook yourself sane again. He was winding you up on purpose most likely.

You eventually questioned, “So, what are you going to do? Go back to the night of my 16th birthday and save me from a truly horrible fashion incident?” 

He paused at that and inhaled, “I could spend a million years studying humans and you still say the darndest things!” He laughed then went back to his mania.

You spoke quietly into your coffee, “Yeah, and Time Lords are really such easy reads..:”

You got up and shuffled back to your room, going for your medicine chest and taking a few painkillers as a precaution. With his dancing across the console and all the thinking that you were doing, you felt like it was a justified choice. 

You felt indescribably thankful he let you have a big room and a separate bathroom from him, even a little balcony of sorts with a simulation of whatever surroundings you wanted to fall asleep with if you wanted. It allowed you a solitary sanctuary for just you, your thoughts and your own little things. He rarely came in, only on invite. You were beyond thankful. 

Kept you sane and reminded you that you were a human, and human was good. 

Even when he would rail against humans in general, it was hard to keep centered, what with you earning a universal reputation and your dual infamy as a couple. You, in the eyes of many weren’t as weak as your humble heritage suggested. Some people even thought you were a Time Lady. 

You, in your humble human eyes, thought that was hilarious.

If they ever knew that they were under fear of a human? 

Not that the growing sadist in you didn’t want to reveal that one time and see the wheels of brains turn and explode.

You stretched and got back to the console room and sat down, he was starting to flip switches. 

“Oh, I got a good feeling this will work!” He pet the underside of your chin and kissed your lips gently. You pressed it more and kissed him back. 

You went to take your usual position as co-pilot but he swotted your hands away and tsked. “No, no. Special treat. Pets aren’t in need to know.” You rolled your eyes as you felt the TARDIS lurch violently and shudder to a stop.

“Off you pop. Outside.” He shooed you to the door and shrugged on his jacket. 

You walked out into a near-blinding white void. If it weren’t for the obvious bottom you were walking on, you would’ve been highly concerned you were going to fall for an eternity and a day. 

It also felt hauntingly room temperature. A little too even. 

You turned to him, the open door, his outfit, him and you being the only colors in this massive nothingness. “What is this place?” You looked at him and were not sure whether or not to be put out or confused. 

“Soon...give it time…” He purred. 

You turned around and put your face in your hands to hide it. A slight groan slid out of your throat. 

You decided to follow his instructions and went around mildly exploring to see what this all was. Maybe it was some gift and he was having it be hidden somewhere within all this white?

Maybe this was some obscure Time Lord fetish?

In your mind, this was going on forever. 

“Is it time yet?” You whined.

He was breathing gently, whispering eyes closed, suddenly the eyes snapped open, “Oh, I feel it soon, some are not mentally cooperating here.” He smirked like an inside joke happened to befall him, and only him.

You blew out air from your lips and let it bubble over your lips. You were getting very bored. You blinked a few times pointedly in his general direction and sighed melodramatically and twirled at your hair.

You began to rub at the bridge of your nose in frustration and were about ready to march your ass back in there and shut this whole thing down. Then the hair on the back of your neck began to prickle and you felt the air pressure shift and drop suddenly. As if you were in a plane that made a hard landing or something. Your ears certainly were popping and crackling like a bowl of wet Rice Krispies.

A gentle, yet persistent ringing started in your ears as what sounded like a door slamming open. You yelped and legged it to the TARDIS door before the Master comically caught your arm and turned you around.

“I’m arriving!” He pointed out as a man who resembled that Prime Minister that killed the US president then was shot by his wife but older and hotter strode out, eyes both fish dead and suspicious and alight, with your screwdriver in his hand.

He was dressed in all black save for a sliver of red on an inner lapel. 

The Master shot some sideways finger guns at him and smiled, “Welcome me!” He then raised his hands in a very “let’s do lunch!” Fashion. “The other may be coming soon! Pet! Come meet my past!” He pointed at himself then made a flourish with his arm towards the taller man

“Your past?” The man glared at the Master.

“Don’t tell me this is what I become…” He crossed his arms cynically. 

“Meet the Master!” He proudly showed you off, holding a possessive hand on your shoulder and hunching down as he spun you around and forward. “I’ve got to drag the best of me kicking and screaming here and make it so I don’t remember this at all.” He smiled and flopped his hands out and up.

You offered a cautious hand out to the man before you. 

He took it, but looked highly annoyed, especially after Your Master started speaking in Gallifreyan and even begged a bit.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like that crazy Prime Minister?” You asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Oh, you’re very observant!” He replied, bitingly sarcastic. “Does he keep you around for your excellent inductive reasoning skills?” He kept looking at Your Master, like he was so disappointed and pissed off.

He went over and you grabbed at his arm and instructed, “Don’t interrupt him.” You smarted. 

He looked at you and went to his screwdriver, and you went to yours. Like a bad western movie- high noon happening in the white void.

“That’s mine!” He growled and went for it.

You stuck your tongue out at him, “Mine now!” 

This Master was hot, but an annoyance. None of this Master’s tenderness nor wit.

He glowered at you and you rolled your eyes as you saw two waltz out of other doors in the void. A tall man with green snake-eyes and a floor length Matrix coat and a small dandy sort in a smart old fashioned suit. 

Your Master stopped and snapped back to reality. 

“Welcome!” He cooed. 

“This is my pet...and once Missy and another one of me come…’ He shrugged and blushed and smiled, his fingers twiddling on the backs of his hands, he looked half gone mentally, but you had to admit, the disheveled look really did suit him best. It was so slutty and his blush suited his favorite purple and gold tones so well. 

“I have a special request!” He smiled and gaped his mouth.

You were scraping the palms of your hands with your index fingers trying to get your attention back to assess these new Masters before you. 

Though, you though, You were finally going to meet the shopkeeper killer hat lady herself! That was a fun thought.

The tall one was an American and he just waved and did a half nod. 

The dandy strutted towards you with such confidence. “A radiant beauty..” He brusquely whispered, kissing your hand like a prince from a Disney film. “I am, as you know, the Master.” He traced an elegantly gloved hand down the side of your face, “Tell me, what luck did happen to me, to find such a beautiful travel companion.”

You half scrunched your face, half beamed, as this one was trying to charm the pants off of you. “Honestly, just kind of happened. He saw me once and decided to steal me.” You laughed and felt yourself curtsy. 

Your Master came over and chuckled, “Did you just curtsy?” 

You looked at him and made a jumble of indignant noises at him. He rolled his eyes and turned you around, a man dressed head to toe in velvet with tails and a neat beard and glowing blue eyes came forth and looked like he hit the jackpot. 

“A room filled with me? My my, aren’t I a lucky bastard.” He licked his lips and raised his eyebrows. 

“Hello, sailors and soldiers.” A sharp Scottish accent trilled out as a short woman dressed like Evil Mary Poppins undulated out, “And human?” She asked. “Oohhh…” She leered and sat on an umbrella she had, kicking her leg out.

“Has my male egos gotten big enough for an orgy?” She cheesed.

Your Master clapped his hands and tried to get order, “I’m right. This is an orgy.” 

“My beautiful, talented, dashing and clever little girl here has always wanted to be in an orgy and also wanted to be in a gang bang.”

You slammed your palms to your forehead and shrieked, “Some thoughts! Are meant! To be! Private?” Hitting a new octave with every breath.

He smiled, “Pet, it’s only me who knows.” Half assuring you, half mocking, “Well, now me...and me. But it’s only technically two people.” 

The beardy Prime Minister one balked, “You assembled us all together to please some sack of ape flesh?”

“Hey, in an indeterminate amount of, G-d knows how much time, this sack of ape flesh? Your main squeeze.” You called him out and curled into your Master’s side. 

“Now, I don’t wanna share, and I want her dreams to come true, so I’ve been assessing her crushes she’s had over the years, from Hans Gruber to the gal who played Lilith in Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, and I’ve gotten the best of us together.” He started to justify, with hand gestures.

“So, since she’s been really good lately, and she’s excelled in her Gallifreyan lessons and her TARDIS flying skills are way better than the Doctor…’ He paused, as if he were Jerry Seinfeld, doing a punchline. 

He raised his arms. 

“Have at her, just return her in one piece.”

He leaned down and whispered into your ear, “Happy birthday, little pet…”

You turned to him, and your mind raced. Was it your birthday? You’d lost track of all remnants of time. But if your birthday was today, what an interesting gift.

There was a mixed assent from the assembled audience. 

Missy was already taking her clothes off singing some outdated bubblegum pop song. 

The swarthy one went and slightly dragged Your Master to the side while the Prime Minister one lounged playing with his laser screwdriver. The rest of the Masters were comparing and contrasting a very different screwdriver. 

Missy, with all the energy of a drunk preschooler was already naked and prancing around cheering, “Mommies got some moves to show you all!”

You were having a moment or two, a semi-nervous creak escaping your lips.

“But, I cannot take a partner I do not yet know!” You heard the swarthy one counsel to Your Master. “And presumably will forget once this is over...no paradoxes or rips in time to create, I presume?” 

Yours leaned over gently and placed his hands on his knees. “Trust me, this one’s worth it. And duh, I’m not a moron.” He assured his younger self.

“Go strike up a conversation- she’s loads of fun!” 

You were feeling a bit overwhelmed.

But oddly ballsy. 

“Okay,” you nervously demanded answers, “Before we begin…” You glared at the Prime Minister pointedly, “Does anyone have an STDs? Can Time Lords get the clap?”   

“Why did you think I have one?” 

“Harry Saxon fucked. A lot of your ex interns told tales after you got nerfed by your dang wife. To the Press.” You straightened up and took a bold step forward. The ghost of who you were outside this room creeping into your core. If it was your birthday, the birthday girl couldn’t be spoken down to in any way, shape or form. A fire built in your chest.

“Unless you’re scared of disappointing me? What is your current body lacking?” You made a hooking motion and crinkled your nose at him.

“Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you.”

You rolled your eyes but suddenly Missy popped onto your shoulder, pressing her naked body into the fabric of your clothing. “Come on, let’s have fun! If no one else is going to ruin you, I will!” She blew a raspberry in your ear before yanking you down and pantsing you on the spot. 

“Nice bottom!” She drew on in her brusque Scottish accent before pinching your ass hard.

She pulled you down on top of her and wrestled you down from behind before pinning you down with her legs. 

She smiled and hunkered down before biting your neck and licking the blood she drew off your neck. 

“Girls night!” She screamed as she somehow managed to produce a strap on that was both hyper realistic, yet comically large out of the pockets of her nearby overcoat. “Stay put, poppet, Mommy’s going to fuck you much harder than Sad-Eyes over there can!”

You looked over, noticing that Velvet Daddy Master was stroking his cock watching you and Missy tangle on the floor and Your Master had taken to arguing with the Silver Prime Minister Master. Your Master hit him on the top of the head. (Quite a feat considering the three inches that the victim had on Your Master.) The Swarthy Gentleman Master sat watching the thing, a twinkling of mischief in his eye as he lazily lit a cigar and observed. Obviously weighing pros and cons. You could respect someone who did that. 

“Watch it kiddies!” Missy said whipping her strap around before entering you without any regard for other foreplay besides wrestling and biting. 

You screamed a little. 

“Oh! You scream! Fascinating!” She flicked a switch on the side of the harness and it began to vibrate as she shivered. You assumed it was pleasuring her as she thrust into you. 

The Velvet one made his way over and pet your lips gently with a velvet gloved hand. He had his bare hand on his pale, long cock. 

“You have such elegant lips! I think I’ll fuck your face to feel them...” He muttered, almost making it seem like a question. 

He gently stroked your lips and gently slid a few gloved fingers in, mesmerizing you gently, taking precautions with you. He seemed like a good fellow, like someone who’d get the door for you just to see your ass walk in. Filthy but genteel.

He stroked your hair before he pardoned himself into you, gently thrusting in and out of your mouth while Missy made like a runaway jackhammer. 

So many emotions took over you, and sensations. 

The American Master sat behind Missy and stroked your legs and sucked on your toes. You had to stifle a laugh so as to not bite the cock in your mouth. If anyone was to have a toe worship fetish, it had to be the American. 

Your Master walked over and asked you if you were having fun and felt okay, you gave a quick thumbs up.

He laughed and sat next to you, crossed legged. 

“So, after this, I figured we would go to Taco Bell and or a Nandos. I have another gift to give you.” He told you, as if you were leg up on the side of the counter and he was making coffee, plotting the day. 

The nonchalance was oddly off-putting…

You felt guilty for that thought, here he was ripping time and space apart, probably committing several war crimes and doing ten other unnatural things and you were focused on his tone of voice. 

He hummed lightly as he stroked your skin lovingly. 

The American Master bent Missy over and asked her to move along and made her sit somewhat on his lap, while he entered your ass with no prep and started massaging and tweaking at Missy’s nipples, which truly kicked her and him into a speed competition. You were mildly worried and aroused and so confused at once, but all your faith that Your Master would monitor this all.

You felt him in your mind, Assuring you that the moment you were no longer having fun, that he’d shove all them away with all he had and anything that it would take, and that he’d spend the rest of the day taking care of you. 

Despite generally being into this, you nearly cried. He really did care about you.

The Silver one was sulking, but eying up the scene with a primal curiosity. Not that you had much of a view of anything at that moment, but with your heightened awareness and all the nerves in your body rapid firing, sending many messages, you were picking up on everything.

It was a kind of heaven though. You were being used and pleasured and you had to admit, the Master was hot in all these bodies. Your Master had given you an attractive smorgasboard of himself. You just had to focus on being a hole and enjoying this experience. 

The Swarthy Master came over and still had his cigar and twirling it. 

“Elder me, my dear. May I take over massaging. I cannot partake currently in experiencing this vision carnally, but I can pleasure her!” He produced a small vial of a fragrant oil and massaged your breasts and abdomen and hips. He found the tight knots in your shoulders and lightly moved his other self as he straddled you and lightly sat on you, working on your shoulders and you felt him release a warmth into your brain. It wasn’t like Your Master’s mind probing, but it was similar enough that you let him in and he pleasured you mentally. You felt two Masters in your mind and it was highly irregular and yet, totally reconcilable. Your Master was guiding you, protecting you and keeping check on you, this one was giving you pleasure and a tender warm, tingling relaxation. 

You gave in to all the sensations and breathed in and out of your nose. You had literally nothing to do, as everyone seemed to be self sufficient here. 

You liked feeling useful.

So you just let the two Master’s presences take over you.

Soon enough though, you saw the Silver one come over, completely stark naked and start shoving versions of himself over in an untamed fashion and fully erect. 

“I’m going to cum in your whore!” He spit at your Master, who was tenderly holding your hand and stroking your thumb. “And you lot are just going to have to continue elsewhere.” He ordered. “Then I’m leaving!” 

Your Master was about ready to tell him off, but you patted him and looked compassionately. “Hey, let him. Then we can continue on without his grumpy aura around.” You smiled then smirked at the two.

He shoved Missy out of you and plunged in, bracing his full weight over you and thrusting and berating you and your Master, as well as making an alphabetized list of why humans were the lowest species to ever evolve. It was fun but he came and then went. 

Afterwards you all lazily returned to your dogpile, Missy attacked your hair with fake flowers and florist berries she kept dragging out of her coat's pockets. 

They all came, and you came multiple times. 

Missy opted for a girl chat after her orgasms and doing your makeup and hair fancy, “For your date night...keep fresh…” She ordered, smearing you with kisses.

The Swarthy gentleman gave you a few puffs of his cigar and kissed your hand, “My dearest, I was pulled from an important meeting with some Autons, but I regret not taking company with you in this lifetime.” Then kissed you deeply, in a very old Hollywood style then shaking Your Master’s hand, “You take care of her. You need her more than she needs you.”

He rolled his eyes at that and you thought you heard him mutter, ‘Duh.”

One by one the other Masters left after communicating.

Missy was the last, kept trying to convince you to run away for more girlie time and “Mommy’s special fun!”  You laughed and hugged her, assuring her that waiting would be worth it. And more fun for her.

She left after a pouting match with your Master. 

“They’ll forget this ever happened.” You said sadly, returning to the inside of your TARDIS.

“But you won’t.”

You went and got cleaned up, you had already arrived outside of a Taco Bell, and the Master was dressed down in a tee-shirt, a button up, a patterned outback vest and jeans with purple socks.

You ordered your food and sat on the swirling high seats and sipped at your drink.

The Master produced a small box and handed it to you, his big eyes beaming at you.He never looked more beautiful, all filled with himself. You had the best looking one, and he was yours. He smelled the best and every cell of him screamed “Home” and “Yours”.

“Be careful, that canary you ate might ruin your burrito.” You observed. 

Carefully opening the box, you found a diamond on a long silver chain.

“Wow. It’s so beautiful!” You kissed his cheek, “Thank you!”

“It’s a warp star. You crush it and it’ll explode anything that I can’t keep you safe from…” He swallowed down harshly, “Because…” He swallowed again, “Because…” He inhaled sharply and let it out quickly, “I love you.” Then he clammed up and took a big sip, blushing furiously. A tear starting to leak from his eye and more threatening in the other.

You started to cry, “You love me?” You questioned. 

It took a few more side-eye sips and a shaky breath, “Yes. I love you.”

You knew how hard that it was to admit that for anyone, especially him. You hugged him and fastened it to your neck, it dangling beautifully under your collar. 

With a careful whisper, “I love you too…”

“Happy birthday little pet.”

“Thank you, Master. Best one of my life.” She smiled and pulled yourselves together.

You both finished your meal and walked hand in hand to the TARDIS. He bathed you again that night and you joined him in the solarium, you fell asleep shortly after him.

You dreamed a dream of him, your Master. Your One, your Only, yours and no one else's...

#personal #i wrote this #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #everyone from Delgado to Dhawan #dhawan!master x you #doctor who self insert fiction #the master x you #the master x reader #the master #the master x the master #lemon #so much is wrong with me #and i shall never write anything this long again