#≪ ⁰⁰¹⋅ ≫ ALL THAT WHICH IS GOOD MAY FLOURISH. * / call.

[weaselandfriends]

Great article about the English translation industry: https://www.clereviewofbooks.com/writing/juan-rulfo-pedro-pramo

In short, new English translations of books that already have good English translations have to somehow justify their existence, and so there is often an emphasis on translating differently than what came before, not necessarily better, though there is usually some asinine appeal to increased "correctness". Take the example from the article, comparing Pedro Paramo's new translation (Weatherford) with the older one (Peden):

Weatherford, like many before him, falls right into this trap, sabotaging Peden with a devastating, almost cruel efficiency: “a misstep in the first line of Peden’s translation has undermined that work since it was released nearly thirty years ago,” he writes. Weatherford is concerned about just one word: where Peden wrote “there,” Weatherford corrected it (his word choice) to “here.” While calling this a “misstep” is a nice, vaguely polite euphemism, the suggestion therein is much more insidious. Peden’s entire translation has been “undermined” because of this choice—it has haunted, nay, spoiled, desecrated, Juan Rulfo’s masterpiece all these terrible years.

And later:

Peden has been criticized—almost relentlessly—for making Rulfo too florid in English, but careful comparison of passages such as the one above suggests Weatherford may be the one who is translating with flourish. This is particularly interesting to consider alongside Weatherford’s own admission that there was at least one instance where Peden’s choice was so good he struggled to come up with an alternative—suggesting that the choice could have been more motivated by the sake of difference than an ear for language. 

There's also an impetus on the translators themselves to "elevate" these works in the anglosphere's cultural esteem, which this article delves into at length as well, with critiques as to the efficacy of that mission.

Anyway, read the article if you're interested in this, it does a better job at explaining than I can.

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

----

Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[reasonsforhope]

No-paywall version.

"You can never really see the future, only imagine it, then try to make sense of the new world when it arrives.

Just a few years ago, climate projections for this century looked quite apocalyptic, with most scientists warning that continuing “business as usual” would bring the world four or even five degrees Celsius of warming — a change disruptive enough to call forth not only predictions of food crises and heat stress, state conflict and economic strife, but, from some corners, warnings of civilizational collapse and even a sort of human endgame. (Perhaps you’ve had nightmares about each of these and seen premonitions of them in your newsfeed.)

Now, with the world already 1.2 degrees hotter, scientists believe that warming this century will most likely fall between two or three degrees. (A United Nations report released this week ahead of the COP27 climate conference in Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt, confirmed that range.) A little lower is possible, with much more concerted action; a little higher, too, with slower action and bad climate luck. Those numbers may sound abstract, but what they suggest is this: Thanks to astonishing declines in the price of renewables, a truly global political mobilization, a clearer picture of the energy future and serious policy focus from world leaders,

we have cut expected warming almost in half in just five years.

...Conventional wisdom has dictated that meeting the most ambitious goals of the Paris agreement by limiting warming to 1.5 degrees could allow for some continuing normal, but failing to take rapid action on emissions, and allowing warming above three or even four degrees, spelled doom.

Neither of those futures looks all that likely now, with the most terrifying predictions made improbable by decarbonization and the most hopeful ones practically foreclosed by tragic delay. The window of possible climate futures is narrowing, and as a result, we are getting a clearer sense of what’s to come: a new world, full of disruption but also billions of people, well past climate normal and yet mercifully short of true climate apocalypse.

Over the last several months, I’ve had dozens of conversations — with climate scientists and economists and policymakers, advocates and activists and novelists and philosophers — about that new world and the ways we might conceptualize it. Perhaps the most capacious and galvanizing account is one I heard from Kate Marvel of NASA, a lead chapter author on the fifth National Climate Assessment: “The world will be what we make it.” Personally, I find myself returning to three sets of guideposts, which help map the landscape of possibility.

First, worst-case temperature scenarios that recently seemed plausible now look much less so, which is inarguably good news and, in a time of climate panic and despair, a truly underappreciated sign of genuine and world-shaping progress...

[I cut number two for being focused on negatives. This is a reasons for hope blog.]

Third, humanity retains an enormous amount of control — over just how hot it will get and how much we will do to protect one another through those assaults and disruptions. Acknowledging that truly apocalyptic warming now looks considerably less likely than it did just a few years ago pulls the future out of the realm of myth and returns it to the plane of history: contested, combative, combining suffering and flourishing — though not in equal measure for every group...

“We live in a terrible world, and we live in a wonderful world,” Marvel says. “It’s a terrible world that’s more than a degree Celsius warmer. But also a wonderful world in which we have so many ways to generate electricity that are cheaper and more cost-effective and easier to deploy than I would’ve ever imagined. People are writing credible papers in scientific journals making the case that switching rapidly to renewable energy isn’t a net cost; it will be a net financial benefit,” she says with a head-shake of near-disbelief. “If you had told me five years ago that that would be the case, I would’ve thought, wow, that’s a miracle.”"

-via The New York Times Magazine, October 26, 2022

[secular-jew]

Fish and Chips’ Surprising Jewish History. Jamie Oliver confirmed it!

You may be surprised to learn that fish and chips, though wildly popular in England for what seems like eternity, was actually a specialty of the Portuguese Sephardic Jews who fled the Inquisition in the 16th century and found refuge in the British Isles. Celebrity Chef Jamie Oliver referred to this recently in an article in the New York Times, adding that, “Dishes evolve, impacted by trade, war, famine and a hundred other forces.”

Among those “other forces” are dishes born of religious ritual. For observant Jews, fish is pareve, a neutral food in kosher terms, thus an easy way to avoid treyf (non-kosher food) and possibly include dairy in the same meal. It was especially important for Marranos, the so-called crypto-Jews, who pretended to be Christian during the Inquisition. They ate fish on Fridays, when meat was forbidden by the Church, and also saved some to eat cold the next day at lunch, to avoid cooking on Shabbat.

Frying was natural for Jewish home cooks — think of latkes and sufganyiot — and as the Jewish community began to flourish in England, it spurred a taste for its beloved fried, battered fish throughout the country. According to Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food, Thomas Jefferson tried some on a trip to London and noted that he ate “fish in the Jewish fashion” during his visit. Alexis Soyer, a French cook who became a celebrated chef in Victorian England included a recipe for “Fried Fish, Jewish Fashion” in the first edition of his cookbook A Shilling Cookery for the People (1845). Soyer’s recipe notes that the “Jewish manner” includes using oil rather than meat fat (presumably lard), which made the dish taste better, though also made it more expensive.

There’s some dispute about the where and when of “chips” (what we Americans call French fries and the French call pommes frites). Many historians say that deep-fried, cut-up potatoes were invented in Belgium and, in fact, substituted for the fish during hard times. The first time the word “chips” was used was in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities in 1859: “husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.”

The official pairing of fish and chips didn’t happen until a few years later, though. Although there are some who dispute it, most authorities say that it is thanks to a Jewish cook, this time a young Ashkenazi immigrant named Joseph Malin, who opened the first British chippy, AKA fish and chip shop, in London in 1863. The shop was so successful it remained in business until the 1970s.

Who could foresee that fearful Jewish immigrants hiding their true religion and practicing in secret would be responsible for creating one of the most iconic dishes in the U.K.? The down-home dish that Winston Churchill claimed help the British defeat the Nazis, the comfort food that George Orwell said helped keep the masses happy and “averted revolution.” The dish, by the way, that was among the only foods never rationed during wartime because the British government believed that preserving access to it was a way of keeping up morale. A dish that continues to be a mainstay of the British diet.

Think about that the next time you find yourself feasting on this centuries-old — Jewish? British? — recipe.

These days, some restaurants are putting a new spin on fish and chips. Almond crusted. Baked instead of fried. Quinoa coated. Sweet potato fries instead of regular. And those are all fine; as Oliver says, “Dishes evolve.” But plain old fish and chips endures and probably always will. Good recipes usually do.

H/T : @scartale-an-undertale-au

Naveed Anjum

[pinksobg]

su-su-su-supernova 🌠🎀

What's good is coming next?

I hope you enjoy the reading! for reflection. thank you 🌠🎀🌌

pile 1: hii pile number 1! all good? a moment of stagnation will be transformed. We see here movement in some area that was previously at a standstill, for your good, for your prosperity in an area. other people can also benefit positively from your prosperity, it could be your family, your friends, your partner, your community; with community work or something like that. We see here a movement towards your own prosperity, to fill your own cup, but it also seems that what comes next will also be very beneficial to others. How intriguing, isn't it? It may be your joy that radiates, because you will return to movement in something that was previously in stagnation, which may even leave you in distress previously, or with internal conflict. This joy that you radiate will be good for you and others around you. Amazing! Another case too, this area that was at a standstill, could actually have something in common with serving others too, it could be about spiritual gifts, working in care, treating people with love and kindness, etc.

In short, something will change, a positive movement in something, a snap, an inspiration, a change perhaps in your well-being, in your energy, which will become more positive. Therefore, you will be able to move something in your situation, in your environment and/or in your life that will be very, very beneficial. both for yourself and for others. Congratulations on this great news, pile number 1! Take good care of yourself, stay hydrated, get a good sleep, ask for help if necessary and you feel like it. thank you! 🌷💌

Cards: I forgot to write them, I apologize my pile number 1.

________

pile 2 - woah! pile 2! you probably went through a tower moment, something changed internally and/or externally. We see here that it is a positive change. With the Lovers Card and the 7 of Cups, you will have many options that will sharpen your eyes! I think there are a lot of love opportunities here, perhaps you are or will be arousing interest in several people and soon you will be able to choose. 👀 hmm, interesting.

Cards: the tower, the lovers, 7 of cups.

Anything else? Furthermore, your ideas and mind will be sharper during this period. allowing you more clarity and good ideas, good projects and also providing you with willpower, inner inspiration. Cards: page of wands, king of cups.

Advice: 10 of pentacles, wheel of fortune. truly accept past events in your life, past cycles. With the work of acceptance, your personal prosperity will flourish greatly. So, accepting and letting go really isn't easy, it can take time, practice - but it's something that can be learned, isn't it? Don't give up, good luck on your healing journey. Seek help and inspiration whenever you want. thank you! take care of yourself, pile number twoo. ❤🌷

________

pile 3 - the sun! oh, finally. some weight will be left behind, recentness, hurt, something you've been waiting a long time to release. It's as if things finally fall into place with ease and a weight is lifted from your shoulders.

In the past, you may have had to choose between two things, with the two of pentacles. Your intuition guided you a lot on this path. I wanted to talk more about the positive things, but I was called to attention. Maybe it would be good for you to reflect on something, write about your feelings, your points that led you to the decision you are making/or made at that moment, if it's your case.

The oracle cards tell you:

love surrounds you. The Spirit is there for you.

There is also more advice from oracles, among them, avoid disorganization; If you feel that you are not capable of something or a mindset, improve yourself little by little and believe that part of you is already like that, the way you want to achieve it - and/or "fake it until you make it" kind of thinking if that is healthy for you and do you good in your situation.

Cheers, pile number 3! ☀☀☀ now is the time to feel loved, free, light and supported by the Universe. "Got your back!" ☀🌼🌱

________

[lilbeanz]

hello beanz, hope you're doing well! do you have any useless worldbuilding headcanons or jodt facts which are utterly useless or very mildly useful to the plot?

Hello lovely💗 I'm doing well, and I hope the same for you!

And gah! This is such a good ask! Definitely a thinker, too 🤭

The Useful Headcanons:

• The Wizarding World is called the Wixen World because fuck the patriarchy. (And yes, I realise both "wizard" and "witch" can be perceived as gender neutral, but typically, wizards are male, and witches are female (ugh👎))

• There are more magical schools than just eLEvEn, because as a wise man once said:

Take it from Hermione and Draco in GS,ch4:

“There’s around fifty in all of Europe,” Hermione began.

“Another fifty in Asia,” Draco carried on.

“Several in the Americas.”

“A handful of smaller schools scattered across the Pacific Islands.”

“And near a hundred in Africa.”

• Generally, wix are not homophobic, transphobic, or racist. Their prejudice problems revolve around blood and magical creatures.

Historically speaking, the Victorian era really fucked up Muggle society. And, yes, there was homophobic/racist ideology pre-Victorian era (1600s - 1700s), but by then, the magic and muggle world was already at odds with each other (Statute of Secrecy was eatablished in 1692) -- why would purebloods concern themselves with such trivial Muggle bigotry?

• Which leads me to my next worldbuilding point; Paganism. Traditional witchcraft and its influences on both the Wixen and Muggle worlds. Pureblood families are known to celebrate the Wheel of the Year -- equinoxes and solstices etc... Paganism existed before the statute and still exists into the Muggle world of course, which is how Muggles have wicca and the craft. Why Wiccan Muggles gather at Stone Henge for the summer solstice and all sorts. It just makes sense 🤌✨️

• Wolfstar. That's it. That's the whole bullet point. Just. Wolfstar.

• In Pureblood society, there is an unspoken hierarchy. The Malfoys' circle consisted of the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Notts (and other notable Death Eater names), as well as the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, and many other blood purist sympathisers.

Draco grew up with Greg, Vince, Pansy, Daphne, and Theo. The coming war will surely test the strength of childhood bonds...

• The divide between Draco and his father means Draco is becoming his own person as opposed to following in his father's footsteps. Draco finds himself striving to be a little more like his mother, and a lot more like himself.

The fire of rebellion flourishes inside him, but how far can he go before the flames grow out of his control?

The Not So Useful & Sort of Silly Headcanons:

• Crabbe and Goyle are not as thick as some people (*cough* Harry *cough*) perceive. Vince is a Transfiguration whizz-kid & Greg enjoys art.

• Pansy Parkinson falls in love very easily, but also very quickly moves onto her next meal -- ah, her next fixation.

• Mad-Eye Moody enjoyed a very relaxed year of his retirement from 1994 to 1995, with absolutely no home intrusions or attacks from dark wix.

• Lucius Malfoy has an unhealthy obsession with white peacocks. Especially his prized darling, Bartholomew Armand Malfoy the Third.

• Dobby has a cupboard specifically for storing all of his socks at Hogwarts.

• Professor Burbage had a groovy flower-power phase in the 70s.

• Harry sometimes finds himself talking to Draco's embroidered portrait on the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

• Erik, Nikolaj, and Katrina embark on a journey across America after graduating from Durmstrang. In their travels, they may discover many things...

I'm sure there's more! But here's what I can think of off the top of my head! 🥰💕

[ellecdc]

hello loveeee 🩷

can i request cbbh universe jily take harry to diagon alley and shop for school supplies before he goes off to hogwarts for the first time 🥹 i cant stop thinking of their reactions when harry gets matched with a wand (+ jily getting emo remembering their first time at ollivanders too 🥲) and james hyping his boy up as they get him his broom 🥹

this is totally not me tryna heal from canon trauma ha ha…

I fucking loved this - thank you for requesting! May we all heal from the trauma that was the canon HP universe.

CBBH James Potter x Lily Evans Potter // Sirius black x Vixen

The boys were practically vibrating with excitement as the group of six made their way to Diagon Alley. And by boys, Lily meant Draco, Harry, Sirius, and James.

“Okay, so we’ve got to go to Ollivander’s for your wands, Flourish and Blott’s for your books, Madame Malkin’s for your robes, and the Apothecary for potions ingredients. We’ll also stop to get you your own cauldrons...” Lily read from her list methodically.

“And we’ll go to the Pet Emporium and then we’ll get you brooms!” James cheered like a kid at Christmas. Lily wanted to chide him, but she was (nearly) just as excited as her husband and son.

“Okay,” Y/N said as she patiently patted her husband’s shoulder, urging him away from his best friend (and thus, a source of trouble). “why don’t you go with your mum and dad Harry, and Sirius and I will take Draco.”

“Wait.” Sirius barked dramatically. “Can we do the fun parts together?” 

“It’s all fun, Pad’s.” She chided.

Sirius grumbled but continued. “I mean the brooms and the pets. I bought my godson’s first broom – I’d like to buy him his first school broom too.” He stated with pride.

“And I’ve always wanted to carry on the tradition with my godson!” James said excitedly.

Draco laughed. “Aren’t mum and dad technically my godparents already?”

This earned him a gentle pat up the back of the head from Sirius. “Don’t talk back to your godfather.”

“Yes sir.” Draco said good humouredly and shared a fond eyeroll with Harry. 

“Okay. Why don’t we complete our checklists and then meet at Florean’s for ice cream before we do the fun stuff.” Lily relented.

Sirius and James cheered while Draco and Harry shared a high-five. 

“Onwards!” James declared. 

It was very important to Lily to get this experience with Harry, as well as for Draco to get this experience with Sirius and Y/N. 

Draco already lost the opportunity to experience this with his birth parents; he deserved this chance to make happy memories with his parents like Lily and James did at his age.

And she couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that had the war gone differently, she may have never gotten the chance to do this with her son. 

Remus and Regulus agreed to spend the day with Jasmine (Potter), Aurora (Black), Posie (Potter), Lyra (Black), and Leo & Stella (Black) at home for both sets of parents while they were off with the boys. Regulus grumbled and complained but also showed up to the playroom with an astronomical amount of craft supplies, while Remus was out-and-out giddy at the prospect of spending the day with his nieces and youngest nephew. 

Lily and James decided to let Harry choose which order they did their shopping in.

They began by getting him a cauldron and his potions supplies. James moaned and groaned the entire time, muttering about “Slytherin’s this” and “Snivellus that”, but Harry (the good lad he is) just assured his dad he wanted to get the boring bits out of the way first.

Then they went to get his books, which Lily was most excited about though James continued to whine. 

“Next year we should let Uncle Moony bring you to get your books, he’d be in heaven.” James said.

“Okay but only if mum can come too!” Lily called from somewhere else deep within the store. 

After they left the shop, Lily started trying to redistribute the bags so that they weighed roughly an even amount as they got heavy. She suddenly realised her son and husband were laughing at her. 

“What?” She spat in faux irritation.

“It’s like you forget you’re a witch.” James said as he looked at his wife’s confused face with unconditional love. 

James quickly cast a weightless charm on the shopping bags and shrunk them down to fit inside Lily’s tote bag.

“There ya go, love.” He said with a smack of a kiss on her cheek.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the heat moving to her cheeks. Some habits were hard to break, she supposed. 

They then continued to Madame Malkin’s to purchase Harry some uniform robes. They bumped into Sirius, Y/N, and Draco whilst they were there, and James and Sirius spent the entire time pretending to be strangers to one another exchanging pleasantries.

“Ah, nice to meet you, good sir. First time?” Sirius asked in a deep register.

“Yes, yes. This is my first born, Harold Jameson Potter the Seventh. And you?” James responded in like.

“Naw, this ain’t ma first rodeo.” Sirius said, transitioning to a (terrible) Southern American accent. 

“Yippee ki-yay.” James returned.

The boys were giggling from their platforms as they were being fitted, causing Mrs. Malkin to shush them as Harry received a stray pin to the shoulder. 

Finally, the part everyone had been most excited about, was Ollivander’s. Lily couldn’t help but remember her poor muggle parent’s – dragging a petulant Petunia behind them – trying to be supportive of Lily even though they had no idea what anything meant.

When a witch or wizard get their wand – the hope is that the wand will remain with them throughout their life. The wand chooses it’s wix, and throughout the user’s life, they learn from the wand and the wand learns from them. 

A wand is nearly synonymous with a marriage: perhaps more. 

Lily chose James and James chose Lily – but both could function without the other. If they fell out of love tomorrow, they’d both find ways to move on.

But Lily’s relationship with her wand is her longest relationship of her entire life, and without it – she would feel naked. The wand provides her with protection, strength, knowledge, and power. Without it, she’s just a girl.

And today, she gets to watch her son as he finds the wand that will provide him protection, strength, knowledge, and power throughout his whole life. She felt her sinuses sting as the bell rung above the door.

“You okay, love?” James whispered into her ear as Harry eyed the rows and rows of boxes lining every wall.

Lily didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply nodded and offered him a watery smile.

“Oh, my flower.” James said as he rubbed his wife’s back, but Lily didn’t miss the wetness of his own voice. She knew he was probably thinking about coming here with Effie and Monty at Harry’s age (and his near doppelgänger) to choose his own wand. His parents would have understood the significance of finding his first wand - how momentous this moment would be – just as Lily and James did now. 

“My, my, do we have another firs- oh!” Mr. Ollivander started as he poked his head out from the back room, interrupted by the scene in front him.

“Why...it can’t be...but, wow!” He cheered as he came around the register. 

“Introduce yourself, Haz.” Lily encouraged her son.

“I’m Harry P-”

“Potter, yes." Ollivander completed for Harry. "Of James Fleamont Potter who was matched with an 11-inch mahogany wand with a dragon heartstring around this time about twenty years ago. And Fleamont Hari Potter some thirty-eight years before that. My...”

“I never forget a customer, you see.” He clarified when Harry turned to his parents somewhat concernedly at this stranger’s familiarity.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Ollivander.” Lily said with a smile.

“Ah, and you, Miss Evan’s, or, Mrs. Potter, I suppose.” 

Without further ado, Ollivander started pulling boxes from the stacks, trying Harry on for size.

The first one nearly singed everyone’s eyebrows off and was quickly returned to its box.

“Temperamental, that was is. Hm,” Ollivander said mostly to himself as he carried on.

The second set off the sprinkler system above them and got sent back to its home as well.

Finally, a wand was handed to Harry (the wand) from the stack. An 11-inch holly wand with a phoenix feather core. Harry picked it up, and (quite beautiful, in Lily’s opinion) fireworks sprouted from its tip.

“An odd combination of wood and core – I’ve not seen many like it myself.” Ollivander admitted.

“Well, Haz is a bit of an odd guy.” James said as he ruffled his son’s hair.

“Dad!” Harry screeched as the two began to roughhouse.

“Okay, oi, this store is not big enough. Boys!” Lily reprimanded.

The trio finished up their shopping and headed towards Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream parlour. Sirius, Y/N, and Draco were already seated, which Sirius was very smug about.

“Must be hard being second best at everything, Potter.” He called out to James. This resulted in James leaping over the barrier of the parlour’s patio seating area and landing on Sirius. Y/N had her face in her hands and Draco was (unsuccessfully) trying to smother his laughter. 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Lily grumbled as she shot an auguamenti at the two boys men.

The two men shot apart like cats in an alleyway after someone threw something at them for howling in the middle of the night. 

“Go get your wives and sons ice cream.” Lily barked at them.

“Yes ma’am.” Sirius and James responded, each bringing their first two finger to their forehead and offering a salute before walking marching inside. 

After their quick treat, where Draco and Harry compared their wands and showed each other all that they had bought, they carried on to the ‘fun stuff’. 

“Have you thought at all about what kind of pet you’d like, Draco?” Y/N asked the boy.

Draco appeared to consider something before a blush permeated his cheekbones. 

“I think...I think I’d like a cat; like my mum had.” He admitted quietly.

Sirius offered a sad but delighted sigh at his son and Y/N pulled him into an embrace.

Narcissa Malfoy attended her first year with the company of a regal white long-haired half kneazle. That cat (monstrosity, if you asked Sirius) was her most prized possession for years to come after that. 

“That sounds like a beautiful choice, my love.” Y/N offered as they made their way to Magical Menagerie. 

There was a pure white long-haired kneazle cross available that Sirius was positive Draco would beeline for. 

However, surprising everyone, Draco found a small tortoiseshell kitten with a missing eye. “This one!” He proclaimed.

And so, it was.

He named her Larissa – after one of Neptune’s moons, and in the same vein as his mum’s name Narcissa.

Harry insisted on getting an owl so he could “race them with his new broom.” He landed on a beautiful snowy owl with piercing yellow eyes. Lily found her a little off-putting; “no owl should look like they know so much” she had said.

To name her, Harry decided to flip open to a random page of one of his textbooks. Harry named her Hedwig, which he found on page 158 in Bathilda Bagshot’s book “A History of Magic”.

Y/N and Lily found a bench near Broomstix and watched as the four boys walked (skipped) into the store, speaking over top of one another in their excitement. 

“God we’re so lucky.” Y/N said quietly.

Lily felt like her heart was a well that was just overflowing with love.

“We really are.” She agreed. 

@ttulipwritezz

[stagefoureddiediaz]

This quote is so heartbreaking

Newly estranged relationship😭😭😭 is bad enough but then to follow that with there’s no one in Eddie’s life really is soul destroying.

Buck supporting Eddie through this is a given - the very literal visual metaphor of Buck being at Eddie’s back - of having his back as well as being the supporting hand on his shoulder we saw at the end of the season as Chris left. This is the next phase of that and how it looks remains to be seen. The way this is worded suggests that Chris is going to refuse contact with Eddie - at least initially and that is going to really hurt Eddie.

To me it feels like we might see Buck being in contact with Chris and therefore being able to feed back to Eddie to be the one connection to Chris he has. But also then become some sort of mediator for them as things settle and time and distance allows perspective to be gained and anger to settle. This channel of communication between buck and Chris and Eddie is something we’ve seen develop through the seasons - Buck being a safe space for Chris - someone not his father he can talk to and open up to or go to for help, and also someone Eddie can do the same things with.

It feels like it’s very much going to be a continuation of that established dynamic and a way of tightening the bonds between the three of them further in the long run. It truly is very coparent loaded and really a compelling narrative to explore.

The no one in Eddie’s life really quote also is loaded. It gives rise to the concept that his reltionship with his parents is going to deteriorate as well - that they may refuse to give him information on Chris or not take his calls, not involve him in decisions about Chris that really should have his input.

I found Ryan saying Eddie’s going to lean on buck very interesting as well - especially as he also said

Bucks going to lean on Eddie as well. (Also second mentions of the relationship flourishing and being stronger than ever!)

The fact this is in direct opposition to what Tim said - that Eddie is going to end up feeling a bit out in the cold because Buck will be spending more time with Tommy is interesting. Because which one is it?

Obviously Tim likes to spin his words so they never mean what he actually says. So I take all his interviews with a pinch of salt but I do think we will see that distance he spoke about because it’s good for Eddie to have that space for himself.

Well it can actually be that both are true and that is really interesting from a story telling perspective - and not exactly as a point of conflict, but as a way of juxtaposing Eddie and Tommy - it’s the pulling of the triangle that Buck Eddie and Tommy form.

This idea that Buck is going to be dealing with Gerrard and pushing back against a very different authority figure to bobby has a lot of potential for Buck and his journey of self discovery and self love and acceptance that his arc seems to be set up for this season. I don’t want to talk about Buck and BT in a meta about Eddie though!

I’m really interested to see how Eddie let’s buck lean on him and what that support looks like. Because it will be exactly what Buck needs - Eddie understands Buck and how to nudge him in the right direction - it’s a key part of their dynamic and, I’m of the opinion that we’re going to see s8 as a sort of s3 redux so I think this next iteration of buck and Eddie’s relationship - with Eddie also leaning on Buck is going to be the fight club/ lawsuit arc but in juxtaposition. Whereas in s3 they didn’t lean on each other and support one another, this time they will - it will show how much they’ve changed and grown and trust one another since s3 and how much depth there is to them as a unit. (Which will also be a perfect juxtaposition of how little buck and Tommy know and trust one another!)

[sinisterexaggerator]

Summary: Nick Valentine hardly ever leaves your thoughts, but you're barely on his radar. Your infatuation takes a rather interesting turn; you're caught red-handed in his bed, wearing candy apple lipstick and a freshly laundered dress. What is to become of you? Will you be able to confess your feelings, or will you run away instead?

Warning: NSFW / 18+ for masturbation/being caught in the act, kissing, cunnilingus, fingering, mild wire play, angst, drama, "love" confessions, and sass.

Word count: 5.9K

Notes: I may make a part two for this after "you" get to know each other a little better. I don't see Nick letting just anybody play with his innards all willy-nilly, but I had a lot of fun writing it!

Read on Ao3

It wasn’t an eyesore, and neither was the Synth who owned it, luminescent neon laid out in letters, an arrhythmic fluctuation in voltage causing a delay in current every three point five seconds—you had counted.

How could a man with the last name Valentine—whose brand was marked with a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow—not see the underlying machinations from which your attention spurred?

He was a detective, no less, unable to work out your motivations, not understanding that every nuance—every quirk of your lips, every gleam in your eye, every smile—was for him, because of him, and that you had long ago fallen for his wit, his charm, his mind, and for his heart.

A man who wasn’t a man—thrown together in some lab—though that needn’t be your concern. It mattered little if he was flesh and bone or biomechanical, though his kind was greatly feared and for good reason.

Nick was different, he was a diamond in the rough of Diamond City, shining more brightly than even the Valentine Detective Agency’s ostentatious signage. A do-gooder who never tired, a being whose higher purpose rested not with himself, but with others, giving more to the people of the Commonwealth than they rightfully deserved.

For all the hate, intolerance, and ignorance Nick dealt with on the daily, he dished out love, empathy and acceptance in equal measure, though he was not one to take an insult lying down.

He was also passionate; fiery beneath a calm and collected disposition, his habitually stoic makeup a steadying force and welcomed counterbalance to the restless biome that flourished within these walls.

It was when he spoke to you the first time that you became enamored with his personality, whether artificial, finding him to be bold and charismatic. He had asked what brought you to the neighborhood—you were a trader who lost your caravan, your guards, nothing left but the caps in your pocket. 

Luckily for you, a man named Arturo Rodriguez had been contemplating the idea of extending his hours for quite some time, his competition employing a salvaged Mister Handy named Percy to sell goods even in the dead of night—it was a case of being in the right place at the right time, one you were thankful for.

It became engrained into his subroutine, these evening visitations, Nick sharing bits and pieces of his history with you for a lack of customers, though oftentimes short and sweet as he kept himself busy. There was always a new crime to be investigated, or a new case to be solved.

Truth be told, the detective was worried about you—a solitary woman—being out there by your lonesome at such late hours. All kinds of riffraff ushered themselves in off the streets, not caring what time of the day it was.

Diamond City was a safe haven as much as it was a magnet for undesirables, those men and women of ill repute that made life difficult for hardworking people just trying to get by. Security could only do so much; it was common for slime to slip through the cracks, portions of the city less fortified than others.

Still, Nick felt Arturo ought to be ashamed, getting a broad to do his dirty work. Little did he know this job had been a godsend, or that you were tougher than a two-dollar steak and twice as hard to chew.

Call him a gentleman, but Valentine, on more than one occasion, had gone out of his way unbeknownst to you, changing his route home simply to check in on your stall. 

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” Nick had inquired, the corner of his mouth creeping upward to indicate his offhanded chiasmus was merely a good-natured tease. 

“You know me,” you had answered back, “total slacker.”

“Stickin’ it to the man, glad to hear it,” he would drawl, voice dry and deadpan yet soothing to the ears. Even though Nick was cordial with Arturo, he didn’t mind having a joke at his expense.

“Doing my part,” you replied, wishing he’d step closer, wishing he would stay and chat a while.

“Stay out of trouble, doll,” he’d warn, tipping the brim of his hat; you were in awe at how a single monosyllabic word could drive you toward such filthy imaginings as you were then, reveling in that passing instant he had paid you mind.  

Mission accomplished, Nick would wander off to park himself at the Agency, unaware that for the rest of the night your mind was wholly occupied by impure thoughts—and it was all his fault. It was ridiculous that a simple term of endearment expressed so casually could nearly short-circuit your human brain, yet here you were.

Could he make love to you if you asked? Would he touch you if you begged him to? 

You supposed his existence was an adventurous one, wishing you could participate in something other than this humdrum life, though you assumed you ought to be grateful you were alive at all.

But it unnerved you—angered you to no end— to hear the drivel that oozed like poison from out the mouths of bigots when they spoke of Nick Valentine in his absence. They declared he was not sentient, that an intelligence such as his was naïve to think of itself as self-aware, as if they were any more autonomous than he, choosing to act of their own free-will by way of insults and disgraceful slurs.

Arturo had been accommodating, allowing you the top floor of his home until you could get on your feet. Such things were heard from rooftops, echoing beyond thin strips of sheet metal to leech its way into your ears. You roosted, enjoying the wide-open view of the sky and the clouds drifting by, only for your mood to sour, tempted to shout obscenities at the offender—usually Myrna— from your place in the dark.

You valued Nick’s company despite the rumors or the gossip about the Institute, ignoring the fact he was a Synth. You wondered if something was wrong with you, finding your short exchanges to be a thousand times more stimulating than any discourse with your neighbors—Valentine’s smile alone was worth more than all the caps in the world.

You often daydreamed about his cybernetic eyes looking down at you from your place atop his mattress, bright as sunbeams, imbued with radiant golden light. They were the windows to his soul—and you were convinced he had one— no one could tell you otherwise.

Then, more questions came. Could man love machine? Could machine love man? Ethical quandaries that knew no bounds. Those of narrow minds might call it an abomination in the eyes of God, while for others it might cause confusion, or effectuate ridicule.

Somehow, none of that would matter, not if Nick returned what was undeniably blossoming into not just admiration, but desire. Could Synths feel desire? Could androids dream?

And the man did flirt, if only feigning attraction, but not with you—you did not assume you were boring or undesirable, but you carried yourself the opposite of Piper, or even his assistant, Ellie. These women were always present in his life, women you tried not to be jealous of, though the ease with which they spoke, the familiarity of their years together ate away at you, knowing you might never reach the level of intimacy you so craved.

Besides, nothing good came of getting close to someone in this day and age, yet you wanted to be—scared of heartbreak, of them being stolen from you too soon, or of being sorely disappointed should they show themselves to be something other than what you thought them to be. There were risks at every turn; you had to decide—would you ever be brave enough to tell him how you felt?

Then, one day, you heard about the love between Ms. Edna and Mr. Zwicky, a robot and a human getting married of all things—it’s what prompted you to stand outside Nick’s door right this very moment, staring long enough at the glowing, heart-shaped outline for it to be burned into your retinas.

The sun was sinking just beyond the wall, Diamond City winding down as its citizens took shelter in their homes or closed up shop—it was thankfully one of your nights off.

You couldn’t get it out of your head, the very idea of a single touch, a single kiss—an affectionate word shared, a smile meant just for you. To make him smile would be the most gratifying thing of all. Too often Valentine looked glum, his thoughts weighing on him, dragging him down along with all the horrors that came with living in a post-apocalyptic society.

To kiss it away, to ensconce him in your embrace—to make him forget he wasn’t human, if only for a few minutes—your heart raced at all the possibilities, all he had to do was let you in.

You assumed a knock was in order, deep, slow breaths doing little to calm your nerves. You had adorned a dress for the occasion, something someone had traded for extra ammo. It was soft blue in color, and in relatively good condition. Ultimately, it was clean, and that was all that mattered to you. Arturo had no use for it, so it had wound up in your possession. Now you would wear it to confess, though you were nervous, a wellspring of anxiety having burgeoned behind your ribs.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” you had asked yourself, fingers curling as you raised your arm. After a few more seconds delay, you made a move to rap against the door, painted red to match the sign out front. There was just one problem—it opened before you could, Ellie’s eyes widening as she jerked a step backward, the woman obviously on her way out.

She said your name, denoting her surprise. You would quickly apologize, already on edge.

“Sorry, Ellie, I—” You paused, averting your eyes to stare at the ground that had suddenly become so interesting. “I was hoping to see Nick,” you bashfully admitted.

The woman quirked a brow, amused for some unknown reason, as if she was in on your little secret just by the way you carried yourself. You attempted to straighten up, offering her a smile to throw her off your scent; you weren’t sure that it was working, though she was kind enough not to comment.

“He stepped out a few hours ago,” she informed you, “but he should be back any minute. You can wait here if you like, but I promised Cathy I’d go have a drink with her.” Ellie gave a halfhearted laugh, “apparently she needs a night out away from her husband.”

“Al-all right,” you managed, supposing Nick was hardly ever “home,” what with being hired for everything under the sun from finding missing cats to tracking down murderers—you only hoped for his safe and swift return.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” she offered, holding it open; you timidly stepped forward, Ellie giving you a small wave on her way out.

It was not until that moment you realized you had never stepped foot inside Valentine’s Detective Agency, something you felt ashamed of—maybe he assumed you had no interest in his work. The thought caused a frown to form, but you didn’t want to lose track of why you were here, though finding no harm in taking a look around.

You were respectful, not having it in you to snoop or pry, no matter how many folders lay open or scattered about his desk. There were copies of old newspapers, the latest from Publick Occurrences, rusty filing cabinets, overloaded cardboard boxes, and clipboards with scribbled notes attached.

You spied holotapes of unknown origin, scraps of memorabilia from times long since passed. Items you could only guess at—clues, maybe? Not to mention an assortment of tools, perhaps left over from Nick’s days as a handyman—he’d told you stories, though the idea made you uncomfortable, somehow—the Synth reduced to making household repairs when he was a being of such remarkable intelligence.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, having found yourself sitting at the man’s cluttered workspace. You stared at the painting before you, a tranquil forest scene that had been tarnished by years of grime and dust. A half-smoked cigarette in a nearby ashtray caught your eye; you surprised yourself by picking it up, placing the filter between lips painted a pretty candy apple red, having decorated yourself with a little lipstick for the occasion—you could hardly think of a better time to wear it.

The stale scent of nicotine invaded your nostrils, its taste pungent on your tongue. You struck a match against its book, wanting to experience something that had graced Nick’s synthetic lips, if you couldn’t do so firsthand.

Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, diffusing in loose curls above your head as you exhaled, feeling yourself becoming aroused by your salacious daydreams. You leaned back in Nick’s chair with a faint smile, closing your eyes to more clearly picture his face.

Your free hand groped your own breast, teeth biting down on tender flesh, imagining what it might be like for Valentine’s mechanical fingers to touch you; would it feel cold like metal, or warm like machinery? Sharp like the point of a knife, or smooth like purified silver?

You sighed with longing, chest rising and falling as you stared at the ceiling. You took another drag, finding the burn to be unpleasant as the cigarette reached its end. You bent forward and extinguished it in that same ashtray—Nick would never know the difference—forgetting your lipstick would leave a stain behind.

You normally weren’t one to smoke, feeling slightly buzzed upon standing, riding the tiny high the nicotine gave you as you spied a small space off to your right; you had yet to explore it. There was nothing to keep you out, no locks, no warning signs; you tiptoed forward, as if committing a crime that warranted the use of stealth, peeking around the corner to find a staircase, and a bed.

You glanced upward through the cracks in the floorboards; another mattress was positioned above you, but the personal effects scattered about on the bottom floor let you know this was Nick’s corner, the file folders and spare fedora on his nightstand giving it away.

You snatched the hat, twirling it over in your hands. It was one you hadn’t seen him wear too often, but that was in better condition than the one he sported on the regular, having the bold idea to place it directly on your head.

Of course, there was no mirror to admire yourself in.

You would just have to use your imagination, skimming the rim with two fingers, just like Valentine. You tipped the brim to no one, spinning once to let the full skirt of your pre-war dress swirl around your calves. Feeling pretty, you plopped down gracefully on Nick’s bare bed, wondering if Arturo might have a spare set of sheets you could gift him—did Synths sleep, you wondered? Did Nick lie here awake at night, staring at this same ceiling as you were now?

You sighed, tipping the hat lower, catching onto the unusual scent embedded within its fibers. You pressed your nose against faded leather, inhaling deeply of this strange fragrance, idly twisting bits of clean cotton, not used to wearing something so delicate and fancy; it felt odd, but the texture, the softness of the dress suited you.

This hat smelled like tobacco; ozone; coolant. Like a musty bar mixed with cigarettes. Like metal; like something organic; like wet earth after a radstorm—all things that in combination were uniquely Nick. It pulled a sigh from your lungs, loins aching for the Synth worse than ever, wishing that Valentine might show himself before you chickened out.

You thought to leave the bed; unpredicted were the moves you made to hike your dress up, legs spreading open as you gathered the excess bits of skirt into a fist. You held it to the height of your navel, exposing yourself before you had any real grasp on what you were doing, sliding the palm of your hand past your waist and hips, introducing two fingers to the elastic hem of your panties.

You grinned a little grin, feeling unlike yourself; naughty, for lack of a better word, inching your way beneath its thin layer to brush against your clit. You cooed a little sound, hips gyrating gently as you got comfortable, one of your two fingers gliding down, taking up a measure of your slick.

You massaged that part of you just begging for it, pinpricks of pleasure causing your nerves to tingle as the sensation traveled, extracting a subdued moan from bowed lips. You had the nerve to giggle, entertained in more ways than one, letting Nick’s hat fall flat against your face as you breathed in deeply, working that excitable nub in slow circles, taking your time.

You were just getting started, body reacting in tandem with your touch, exhilarated beyond comprehension at this singular act of bawdy desperation. You were where you always envisioned yourself to be, though now you conjured up something else—what some might call an abject fantasy, one where you explored the body of a robotic man to your heart’s content.

Smooth, hard flesh, or pliable and soft, warm against you, or cold like ice. Exposed wires and eyes stolen from the crown’s of angels, twin halos you would kill a man to see up close. Lips too kissable for one who wasn’t human, tongue and teeth all there, or between your legs. Metallic fingers, dexterous and nimble, the other good for groping all your biologic parts.

You were so close already, wondering if you might in some way be able to please him back. Would he have a cock you could stroke or suck? Could you dig around inside him? Could you find a button, or perhaps a jumble of loose wires to fondle, one that would make his machine-parts whir?

You covered your face more thoroughly with one arm, the fedora hiding you from your own shame. You pushed your hips into the bed as you felt the onset of an orgasm building in the seat of your belly, almost there, almost—

“Say, am I interrupting something?”

You practically screamed, throwing the fedora off with such speed it hit the bed and bounced. You shoved your dress down, embarrassed beyond belief, mortified as much as you were frightened, your heart racing as you pushed up off the Nick’s mattress and ran for the stairs. He had been so quiet—maybe there was a way out of here, up there. You would never live this down.

“Hey, now,” Nick chided, his voice taking on an austere quality that caused a bout of horripilation, the micro hairs on your arms standing at attention; the Synth had locked the fingers of his good hand around your wrist, pulling you back down to his level before pressing your body against the wall of his abode. He tilted his head, studying you with rapt attention and an almost morbid curiosity—he doubted you were some kind of adrenaline junkie, or even an exhibitionist for that matter.

“You think you can just waltz in here and use my bed to pleasure yourself without some kind of explanation? I’ve seen some things in my day, but this takes the cake.”

You could not face him, averting your eyes. His accusatory gaze was powerful, the catalyst for your tears, tiny droplets threatening to roll down your cheeks as you stammered a reply. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—”

“—You didn’t mean to masturbate?” Nick questioned, a sardonic tone lacing his old-world, Midwestern accent. “I find that hard to believe.”

There was a pause, Nick’s metallic fingers grasping you by the point of your chin. He gently guided you to face him, tears and all, his voice softening as he realized how sorry you seemed to be, though he was still skeptical.

He called you by your name, addressing you calmly, “at least be honest with me—this how you get your rocks off, or is this some kind of special occasion? If Ellie was here—”

“—she was the only who let me in,” you whispered, Nick so tantalizingly close, yet you were beside yourself in self-abasing horror at your own actions—how could you have been so stupid!? Of course he would find out, sooner or later—he was a private eye, a damn good one! Not to mention this was his place of business, his assistant trusting you well enough to behave yourself. You suddenly felt worse than before; you were sure he had seen everything.

“Huh,” Nick snorted, the gears of his artificial brain beginning to turn toward another direction. “Why the hell would she go and do a thing like that?"

You took a breath and gulped, finally having the courage to look, to get lost in the depths of  those parhelic circles he called eyes, wishing to speak, to find the right words, yet it was nearly impossible with the way he had so easily ensnared you.

“Cat got your tongue? Beginning to wonder just how many lights are on upstair—"

You steeled yourself; you kissed him rather than giving an explanation, wondering if this was another thing you would come to regret, though sparks danced behind your eyelids—worried for one moment they might be real, some side effect of physical contact—Nick forcing you off to where your back was returned to its spot against his bedroom wall.

They had been warm; his lips were warm.

“Oh, I get it now. You came here thinking you’d shoot your shot, but when I wasn’t home you got carried away in some sick fantasy, is that it? Decided to rub one out,” he derided, laying your sins out before you so coldly that your lip trembled; you struggled to break free.

“Valentine, please—"

“Could have just waited for me,” he offered; you froze with bated breath, his words having taken an unexpected turn—could he be serious, or was he simply toying with you as punishment?

“Gal like you isn’t exactly hard on the eyes…”  

“You’re not upset?” you asked breathily, chest heaving, wide, round eyes searching his for confirmation.

“Upset you thought you could get away with this,” he muttered, brushing his mouth against yours, Nick’s skeletal hand holding your chin steady. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine that he would indulge you, feeling yourself melt against the solid brick of his Diamond City home. “Not exactly a secret you fancy me; can read it all over your face, just never thought you’d have the guts to do a thing like this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” you pleaded, your own hand lifting, exploring the texture of his tattered coat, rising higher to caress the portion of his flesh still intact just below the fissure that extended beyond the brim of his hat. “Then why didn’t you say something? I only meant to tell you how you make me feel,” you whispered, eagerly returning that kiss, introducing your wet human tongue to his.

“How’s that?” he asked, ignoring the first part of your question—he wasn’t about to tell you you’d have to make the first move, he didn’t have to—his inviolate hand sliding down the dip in your waist to rest against your hip. He gave it a squeeze, aware of his own strength, applying just enough pressure to excite you, no more, no less.

“Ravenous,” you exclaimed, hiking your leg, encircling him to draw in close like you were playing the part of some wily seductress in a pre-war film. You emitted a dulcet moan, digits inching across the back of his head, taking the time to kiss Valentine more deeply in your lust.

Nick was quick, supporting your ass in his firm grip, securing your leg as he pressed his inorganic frame against yours that was supple and pliant; he met your hunger head on. “Good thing I know a trick or two.”

You shivered with anticipation, despite the Synth being almost hot to the touch. Silicone fingers disappeared up your long, flowing skirt, but only after he was sure you were both comfortably entangled.

Valentine kissed a question up the side of your neck toward lipstick-laden lips. “You wear this for me?” he asked, motioning his head toward your bartered dress.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, grasping his tie, feeding your words directly into his smug mouth. “Wanted to look pretty for you,” you conceded.

“Only thing more lovely than a bird in blue is a woman who wears her confidence like a second skin. Tell me you didn’t walk in here thinkin’ you could pull me, or are you just a nightingale pretending to be a peacock, flaunting your feathers, yet too afraid to show me your true colors?”

You were floored; you could not answer, having hoped that you could sway him, but doubting your plan from the get-go. You dare not tell him, too shy to admit your shortcomings, and too proud to acknowledge he had hit the nail on the head. Instead, you stared unabashedly, even as your cheeks burned, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you remained transfixed on eyes that glowed like candles in the dark.

“Too bad,” Valentine teased, rousing you from your stupor by way of calculated movements beneath your dress, “Suppose I’ll have to find out the hard way.”

Your breath hitched as the tips of faux fingers thoughtfully guided your panties to one side, Valentine expertly trailing his forefinger through your excess to the top of your slit. The Synth grazed the swollen sheath of glands pulsating adamantly between your legs, finding his rhythm, administering just enough friction to get a rise out of you, as intended.

“Nick,” you gasped, the fingers of one hand still cinched around his tie as the fingers of the other clawed into false flesh. He slid back down, following that happy little trail of slickness, its viscosity registering as wet against microscopic sensors, Nick’s index finger delving into something so moist, so soft.

“Speak to me, sweetheart. Tell me how long you’ve dreamt of this; tell me this isn’t some dime-store hookup you’re using to scratch an itch; tell me this means somethin’, I dare you,” he growled darkly into your ear.

You could only whimper as he worked you, aiming for the seat of your pleasure, Nick’s thumb running concentric circles around your turgid clit in perfect unison with that part of him that was introducing pressure to your G-spot. You had the gall to rock your hips, balancing like a flamingo on one leg, though he held you close between himself and the wall, not once allowing you to think you might stumble and fall.

“Always think of you, where you are, what you’re up to,” you breathed. “Never leave my mind.”

“What else?” he asked, brazenly steeping another finger, your soaked cunt riding both together as you shamelessly kept undulating your pelvic arch, already so near to climax.

“Dreamt of kissing you, making love to you. Wanted to know what touching you might feel like, warm, co-cold,” you moaned. “If you could ever want me back, if y-you knew just how much I adore you, how much I wish to be the one to make you smile…”

“Is that right?” Nick titillated you toward orgasm without any extra effort, feeling yourself spill out all over him as you vocalized to the heavens, Valentine not relenting until you were spent. Then, he retracted as simple as that, lifting you up, the Synth forcing you to wrap that other leg around him in order to carry you the few feet between him and the bed.

“And did you ever think of what you’d do if I didn’t have the parts?” he began, tossing you carefully onto the mattress. You watched in longing as he shucked his trench off for it to slide down the length of his arms, gathering in a pile at his feet.

“Fuck. It wouldn’t matter,” you insisted, sitting up on the palms of your hands. “It wouldn’t matter,” you repeated more urgently, adjusting to crawl forward, unable to keep yourself from him now that you had a taste.

“And what you’d do if I didn’t reciprocate?” The hat was next, tossed haphazardly off to the side.

You gaped at him, unable to come up with a satisfactory response, scouring his pleasing form from head to toe with your eyes, admiring his shoulder holster, his weapon of choice, and the suspenders that dug into his shoulders.

“I’m more machine than man; typically… disappointing to dames like you. But I’ve got nothing to hide, and I mean that literally,” he quipped, loosening and discarding his tie. What he did next surprised you, Valentine placing one knee on the bed. He pushed you backward, fitting himself right between your thighs.

“Never stopped me before,” he muttered, coercing you to lie back. In the blink of an eye, he had slipped your panties down and off, flipping the tail end of your skirt up and over your lap, exposing the soft mound between your legs.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” he commented; how to go down on a beautiful woman was not something he would soon forget, no matter he wasn’t in the body he was born with.

You gasped before settling into a melodious moan as he swiped his tongue across your sensitive bud, Nick noticing you were tuned to the key of C, a low-frequency tonal sound that made his robotic brain buzz with something akin to happiness.

Before you knew it, he had buried himself, embedding his articulate tongue in your tepid core. Responsive biosensors did their job of transmitting physiological data concerning the presence of chemical compounds that happened to be coming into contact with his face; the detective was well aware of what that meant without having to overthink it, appreciative of the way you writhed against the bed.

“Valentine,” you mewled, arm reaching, fingers stretching to caress a hinged jaw made of filaments and wires, more unbidden tears finding their way to your eyes.

“Kiss me,” you implored, exploring the sharp contours of his inhumane face, the actuate planes and angles, the rough textures, the smooth remnants, the electrical undercurrent that hummed beneath the surface of his pseudo-flesh, causing you to cry out as he obliged, but not in the way you had expected.

Nick lapped at your cunt like it was a second mouth, attentive to every little move your body made as it wriggled and quivered, spasming with each long lick. He showed no mercy, relentlessly fucking you with his spongy tongue at a slow and steady pace, brushing the back of an alloyed finger along the cut where hip met thigh.

“Please,” you tried again, though in your heart of hearts you did not want him to stop. He refocused on your clit, being oh-so careful as he slid a single metallic digit into your wet pith, tensile fibers remaining elongated so as not to maim and injure, but to experiment, your pelvic muscles clenching around him as he began to suck.

“I can’t,” you professed, unable to elaborate, to stop your mounting orgasm. Your back arched as your hips bucked upward to meet his all too talented mouth, forcing a sound out of you that was reminiscent of pain but indicative of pleasure as you came a second time that night, Nick withdrawing his hand, his carbon-ferrous finger, pulling back to look you in the eye.

“Sweetheart, did I—”

Valentine flexed his unsheathed digits, composed of bare metal, his forefinger saturated and glistening, yet he was worried. His painted brows quirked upward as he rose to meet your face, his palm fitting itself around the curve of your waist, as gentle as can be.

He stared into your soul with those penetrative, aureate eyes, wishing you hadn’t of done that. Wishing he hadn’t of done that—it had been just plain ignorant on his part, but he didn’t figure you’d go and move so suddenly. And truth be told, you were beautiful, a thing too good to pass up. He wasn’t exactly a hot commodity these days, though a part of him—the inhuman part—didn’t think he was worth it.

Still, it was a difficult thing to just give up when he had urges, needs, wants, desires—or at least he thought he did. It was hard to tell where the real Nick began and Synth Nick ended, but for now he was experiencing an emotion that was real enough to give him pause.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his mood turning toward something serious, Valentine wondering if he had caused anything irreparable. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he’d gone and hurt an innocent—especially like this—despite the fact he wasn’t exactly alive to begin with.

You did not answer, studying the change in his demeanor, observing as his tough guy persona disappeared to be replaced by the sweet, caring man you had grown to cherish over the past few months.

He was two sides of the same coin, but you had known that going in, purposefully trailing your fingers across denuded metal toward a gathering of thick red wires, caressing the coils between the gap in his neck with the utmost tenderness.

“I’ve never been better,” you promised, appraising the look of quiet bliss that overtook him, realizing this sort of thing might be his little secret—he came back to himself just in time to put a halt to your investigation, the Synth oddly silent as he searched for something deep within your eyes.

“But I want to make you feel good,” you offered with a genuine pout, but Nick held fast to your wrist, going back to how this whole game had started. His apprehension was clear, the detective reading like an overdue library book. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad, a little disappointed, instead climbing onto his lap, draping yourself over his sound thighs.

“I don’t let just anyone poke around inside me—what makes you think you’ll make the cut?” he asked, slipping a stray bit of hair behind your ear in a gesture so human it made your heart ache.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Nick.” It was the truth.

He’d redirect you for now, but you couldn’t blame him— you were surprised that you had even gotten this far.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he replied. “Tell me something about yourself. What do I need to know besides exactly how you taste?”

You smiled, assuming that one day he might trust you well enough to return the favor.

Baby steps. You could be patient. The only thing that mattered was that at that moment, you had him to yourself.

“I once killed a Yao guai with my bear hands,” you joked, taking the time to notice just how many kiss marks you had left all over him—time to add one more, just to play it safe.

“There they are.”

“What?”

“Your true colors.”

Your lips spread into a mischievous grin.

“On second thought, I think I’m going to need a drink for this.”

At least he hadn’t kicked you out yet.  

“That’s fair,” you said.

[reverieblondie]

The Dark Prince: Chapter 1, The Union

Paring- Dark Prince Rolan x Blessed Princess F!Tav

Warnings- 18+ MDNI, will include violence and smut, and two pinning idiots.

Summary- A union bathed in the silver light of a full moon, the eyes of a the fiendish usurper and the moon-blessed princess meet for the first time...

A/N: Chapter one is finally here!! We and sweet anon have been chipping away at this for what seems like forever! (Again huge thank you to them and their brilliant mind! Full credit to them writing and including the vampire spawn parts, if your curious you will just have to read it) This chapter was meant to be longer, but we are saving some fun stuff for you with chapter two

(ゝω・´★) Side note! if anyone knows how I can get some good dark Rolan screenshots to use for aesthetics please let me know! all the ones I find tumbr makes all blurry! Anyway, ENJOY!

<- Prologue

Chapter 2 -> First Night in Waldemar

Lia’s footsteps echo off the dark stone walls, each step a testament to her determination. Her pace is quick, and her anger slowly builds more and more as she draws closer to his office, still debating if she wants to scream at him or punch him. The more the thought swirls in her mind, the further she crushes the parchment. She barely hears as Cal calls her name, desperately trailing after her, begging his sister to calm down and tell him what’s wrong, but it’s too late.

Lia all but rips the dark wood door open before slamming it behind her in one fluid motion, effectively earning Rolan’s attention as his golden eyes leave his papers to meet his sister’s burning gaze. Rolan’s instinct is to ask what’s wrong, but from the look on her face, he suspects he already knows. He doesn’t even flinch when Lia slams the wrinkled parchment onto his desk, her eyes still stern on his face.

Rolan looks down at his sister’s splayed hand as it crushes the paper. His gaze lingers for too long as he sees where her middle digit is missing. Cal finally opens the door with wide, alert eyes as he watches his two siblings. Rolan quickly moves his eyes from her hand as she quickly removes it, the echoes of her scolding him not to stare reverberating in his mind. The silence in the room is defining as Cal shuts the door, and Rolan grabs the note, unfolding it, already knowing what it could be. 

Prince Rolan, 

Our kingdom praises your diligence towards leading your people and kingdom to a glorious future under your powerful rule. Our court has been vastly impressed by all you have accomplished in the few years since your rise to rulership. However, this should be no surprise when a man has such power like the bards sing that you do.

Our kingdom of Sivailon is grateful that you have seen fit to continue the friendship and alliance between our great nations without letting that peace be tainted by the actions of your predecessor. We hope your graciousness will extend towards other matters, perhaps most importantly, opening discussions regarding fostering the trade that had always flourished between our great kingdoms.”

In the spirit of this hope, Sivailon has chosen to humbly accept your proposal that we reinforce this newly reaffirmed alliance by granting you Princess Tav’s hand in marriage, and his Majesty is honored by your declarations that his dearest daughter shall stand beside you, not only as your Queen but as co-ruler of Waldemar. The people and court will miss our radiant princess, but we pray that the light of Selûne, which lives within her very being, will continue to shine and that it might help guide you toward a just and noble rule.

If our couriers serve us well, you can anticipate our princess’ arrival to your kingdom of Waldemar within three days of receiving this message, alongside three others sworn to her service. May happiness and love bloom in your union.

Rolan lets out a long sigh as he tosses the paper down and begins to stand. Lia pounds her angry fist against the large desk, making Cal jump and forcing Rolan’s attention. She jabs her finger to the note, her eyes never leaving Rolan’s, “What is this?”

For a moment, he holds the gaze of his seething sister as Cal tries in vain to console her before Rolan decides it is best to be honest, “It is a bunch of noble-born cowards tripping over themselves to keep me placated with flattery and performative elation that the vile hellspawn usurper has chosen to marry their divinely blessed princess. Perhaps the latter is more genuine, seeing as they have so readily pawned her off.”

Lia glared at him as Rolan maintained his cool demeanor while anger continued to threaten to claw its way out of her, “I thought we talked about this! An arranged marriage?! What are you thinking?!”

Rolan furrows his brows at her, his own irritation building to a boiling point. Cal is quick to try to ease him as well. Still, it’s already too late by the time Rolan responds, “I am thinking how it has been three years of us struggling to establish our rule, of us fighting against those who would sooner conspire to be ruled over by a mindless ooze rather than some bastard hellspawn! I think I have finally found a way to placate the malcontents by giving them their more palatable figurehead for them to fawn over!

“There are other ways, Rolan!”

“What ways, Lia?!”

“Ways that don’t involve forcing someone into a marriage out of fear for their homeland!” Lia yelled, her voice breaking as tears of frustration began to blur the edges of her sight.

Cal delicately reached a hand out again, silently resting it on her shoulder to console his sister. Rolan stepped around his desk, intending to do the same, but he halted his approach when Lia harshly swatted his hand away and retreated a few paces from her brothers. Her head held high, as it always was. Rolan stood there and waited while Lia scrutinized his expression, searching for any sign that his mind could be swayed from this course. He watched her piercing gaze turn solemn when she found none.

Rolan turns away to slowly move back behind the desk, distancing himself from the bitter disappointment in his sister’s gaze, the weight of it continuing to press down upon his shoulders and chest. He takes a moment to justify himself further to her, “She is a princess. Unlike us, she has been raised with the understanding that this would ultimately be required of her. If it was not to me, then it would eventually be to someone else.”

Lia shakes her head before leaving, slamming the door in her wake. Cal watches the door for a moment before turning back to his older brother, who lets out another long sigh, running his hand through his hair to cope with his sudden stress. The two brothers’ eyes meet, and Cal is the first to break the silence between them. “Rolan, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Rolan feels the hesitation bloom in his chest, but he pushes it down before it can reach its peak and show. He needs to do this…for everyone. 

“Of course I do,” Rolan says in a harsh whisper. He quickly grabs his overcoat and letter and heads to the door, and Cal follows behind. Rolan’s eyes are set forward and unwavering. “Now, come on, there is much to prepare before we can get this over with.”

Tav feels herself lurch forward for a second, her breath getting cut short as Shadowheart continues to tighten the laces of the silver and white gown. Tav groans softly before picking up where she had just been in her book, frantically reading as much of the text as possible before the ceremony.  

Shadowheart sighs as she straightens Tav’s back from hunching over the book. 

"Could you take a break from the books, my Lady?"

Tav hums in response as she continues reading The Devil You Know An Autobiography, “Just a few more pages…” Tav speaks slowly as she keeps her eyes glued to the text. 

Shadowheart frowns as her hands move to the waist cord, hastily trying to finish the braiding of the two kingdoms’ colors around in a dual-colored rope; Blue and yellow for Sivailon, crimson and dark blue for Waldemar. The Dark Prince’s kingdom, and soon Tav’s as well.

Growing frantic, Shadowheart looked around the tent before the cleric’s green eyes caught Lae’zel’s gaze with a silent plea for backup; the gith clicked her tongue as the knight took stock of what was left to do and how little time was left to do it before the ceremony needed to start.

Sheathing her sword, Lae’zel approached the princess and her lady-in-waiting before snatching the book from the former’s hands. Tav only made a small noise of protest and lifted her head for what had to have been the first time in hours. The two women stared at each other for a while, Tav mulling over her chances to quickly snatch the book back from her knight before the princess admitted defeat with a sigh as she finally allowed Shadowheart to sit her upright. Satisfied, Lae’zel placed the book on her now vacated stool before plucking makeup and a brush from among the various items Shadowheart had set out and began applying the pigment to their Lady’s face.

“This nervousness is beneath you, Princess.” She spoke in a tone that Tav once would have mistaken for ridicule but which she now recognized as her friend offering reassurance: “My offer to kill him still stands.”

Shadowheart stifles a laugh as Tav shakes her head at Lae’zel’s comment. Though she appreciates her fierce loyalty, she wants to avoid violence. 

“I am sure that no stabbings, maimings, or beheadings will be necessary tonight!” Wyll called in from where he stood guard outside the tent, the mirth apparent in his voice. Lae’zel mutters under her breath, disagreeing.

 “Though… if the Princess changes her mind…” Wyll casually adds, this earns a groan from Tav as Lae’zel nods in agreement with Wyll. 

Capitalizing on the gith’s moment of distraction, Tav sprung to her feet, dodging Shadowheart’s half-hearted attempt to stop her and giving her other knight a playful shove through the tent’s material.

“You were supposed to be the peaceful one, Wyll!” she chastised him without any real bite in her voice, “How else am I going to convince these two not to terrorize the people of my new court?!”

The sound of Wyll’s laughter followed her as Lae’zel firmly guided Tav back to her seat to finish getting ready.

“My duty is to you first and foremost, Princess, even if that means removing some heads with Lae’zel and Shadowheart.” Tav and her small group share a laugh, and the princess feels gratitude again that she will have them with her in Waldemar.

With one final pull, Shadowheart finished tying the waist cord before stepping back to look at her handy work. Tav’s dress, once an elaborate yet traditional Selûnite bridal gown of white and pale blue, was now married with the rich blood red and dark blues of Waldemar’s flag. Lae’zel was finished soon after, allowing the princess to properly thank her friends as she began to admire their work.

“I’m glad to see you approve.” Shadowheart chuckled. “I hope the gesture is worth all your arguing with the High Priestess.”

Tav hums, adjusting her dress’s long silk-like layers as Shadowheart and Lae’zel ready the veil. “It was a well-won victory.” Lae’zel asserted, “Our princess showed great tenacity in that fight. Like a proud warrior.”

“I just hope the gesture is appreciated.” Tav adds as they finally set the long veil over her, Tav studies herself closely till something in the mirror's reflection catches her eye. Shadowheart’s face glanced down solemnly making an ache rush through her chest, “Tav, I wouldn’t get high hopes… He is called the ‘Dark Prince’ for a reason.”

Wyll calls the cleric’s name in slight admonishment, but Tav only sighs, her face growing somber as well, “I know the stories. That’s why this needs to be a good first impression. So many people are counting on this, and I...”

The mood of the tent grows heavy as silence permeates the air. Tav knows what she has agreed to, but it still doesn’t remove the unease she feels—that they all feel.

“You won’t fail them.” Shadowheart says voice firm but kind as she reaches out to wrap her princess, her friend, in an equally firm hug, “I promise. Never forget, your very soul shines with the silver flame of our divine Lady. Her power will always be with you.”

“We all will be,” Wyll assures.

“And should all else fail,” Lae’zel adds as she resheaths her sword, “I still maintain my offer; should you desire, I will kill him.”

Tav smiled at their reassurance, perhaps The Dark Prince should be worried about impressing her.

Rolan felt his patience wearing thin as he continued to stand, waiting for the ceremony to start, the end of his tail beginning to flick irritatedly. It was bad enough he had to be away from his kingdom for this, the ceremony being held on the neutral ground of the druid grove lead by archdruid Halsin, but Sivailon had insisted that the wedding of their precious moon-blessed princess happen at dusk. Rolan let out another sigh of frustration. He has business to attend to and important things to oversee; they need to be getting a bloody move on.

Rolan looks out over the ‘guests’ here to witness the union, some he knows and others he doesn’t care to know. They are all here for the spectacle of the hellspawn usurper marrying a divinely blessed princess. Something many friends and foes wouldn’t want to miss. The Dark Prince turns away and lifts his gaze to the sky, hiding a poorly concealed sneer the thought brought forth. 

Soon, though still not soon enough, the fading blur of orange and soft lilac of sunset had finally given way to the dark indigo of night as the shimmering silver light from the full moon peeked out from among the clouds, allowing Selûne herself to be one more silent witness to the cold matrimony. Rolan fights the urge to roll his eyes; it just seems so pointless, but Zevlor’s words to be kind ring in his ears. “Let the princess have this one ceremonial request.” the old paladin had said. Well, now the oh-so-important full moon is here, but the princess isn’t, leaving the Dark Prince to narrow his eyes at where his bride should be as he resists the urge to impatiently tap his foot with the rising frustration at the princess wasting his time.

He has half a mind to stomp over to wherever his bride’s tent is and demand she stop dragging her feet, but his attention is drawn away when the waiting Selûnite priestess is startled by an unnecessarily theatrical clearing of the throat from off to the side. Recognizing who it was almost immediately, Rolan excused himself momentarily before stepping aside to hear what news Astarion had brought.

With the hood of his cloak down on his shoulders, Astarion seemed to be making the most of Sivailon’s insistence that this be a night-time ceremony allowing the moonlight to highlight the roguish glint of mischief in his red eyes, already cluing Rolan in that the spawn probably had good news—and if the Dark Prince happens to have find a shred of bitter satisfaction at the sight of the Sivailon elite growing almost as pale as the stealthy vampire spawn, then that, of course, was just an added bonus.

“No sight of Lorroakan or Cazador,” Astarion whispered to him “No sign of any former Waldemarians, in fact. Seems our dear Sivailon allies kept their word so far and made them all stay in whatever luxurious little holes the kingdom let them flee to.”

“I will consider their word kept once our business here is concluded.” Rolan replied plainly, even as the undeniable relief at Astarion’s news washed over the Dark Prince, “That being said, I do hope I will not have to remind you and the others to still conduct yourselves with care.”

“I promise we’ll not have too much fun on your big night.” The pale elf chortled to himself, “And don’t fret; your betrothed hasn’t fled yet. Violet saw the princess and her little posy on their way here. Turns out your dear wife-to-be really does have a gith following her around. Isn’t that interesting?”

Rolan gives a humorless scoff, not in the mood for Astarion’s teasing, no matter how much he appreciated the update. Dismissing the spawn with a wave of his hand, the vampire slipped back into the shadows, though not before giving a roguish grin at the still wide-eyed priestess to show off his fangs, and Rolan returned to where he would resume waiting for his bride. The Dark Prince leveled a harsh stare at the gaping priestess, wordlessly daring her to make something of it. She didn’t, instead merely closing her mouth as she nervously began flicking her eyes about the gathered people; be it in search of another spawn or something else, Rolan couldn’t care less.

The Dark Prince once again allowed his eyes to wander, first to the sturdy trees surrounding them all, then to the white rugs laid down and sectioning out the guests in a muting divide—a few of whom quickly glanced away as his gaze passed over them. Rolan once again restrained a sneer, for Zevlor’s sake, if nothing else. 

The old paladin, standing in front of the other guests and only about a dozen or so feet away from where the Dark Prince stood, had been adamant about attending, though Rolan also suspects Cal and Lia played a part in his general’s insistence—likely wanting to ensure their brother played nice with his new wife. Rolan had made sure the majority of his court stayed in Waldemar, preparing the castle and conducting business as usual. Hopefully Gale has been taking accurate notes in his absence, especially since Cal might be too preoccupied to help and Lia... Rolan tried not to think of the scornful disappointment she looked upon him with as he had departed. Irritation started to simmer again when soft music began to play, finally heralding the arrival of his bride as all save for the guards turned to witness her small procession approach.

First was a fair half-elfin woman with silver-white hair done up in a single long braid and robes similar to those of the waiting Selûnite priestess. A silver chalice encrusted with moonstones was cupped in the half-elf’s hands and her green eyes focused past him, as if seeing through all of this. Next was the gith, also a woman from what little he could recall on them, still armored and with her hand never straying from the hilt of her sword, her yellow eyes glaring fiercely at him, scrutinizing the Dark Prince’s every move. After the two admittedly fierce women, a man, roughly around his age, perhaps younger. Unlike the other two, he looks around at the others present, giving small nods and the occasional smile. As he walks down the aisle in his splendid blue and yellow garb, he thinks that he seems familiar somehow… maybe a noble himself or a son to one? Then her…

Dressed in an elaborate, flowing gown of white and pale blue, set with diamonds and moonstones that caused her to glisten in the moonlight as she moved. Her head was angled down towards her hands, pressed together as if in prayer, and her face remained obscured by a long veil held in place by a polished silver circlet, both just as decorated as she. While nearly the whole gathering of witnesses seemed to pause and admire the sight, Rolan’s eyes caught on her waist where, even through the veil, he spied the colors of her waist cord as she drew closer.

Admittedly, he doesn’t know much about Selûnite wedding customs, but he knows that yellow, crimson, and dark blue are not colors of the Moonmaiden. The Dark Prine bit back another sneer. What did the princess think she was playing at? Did she think a marriage for alliance was the time for... whatever this was? An attempt to stand out, to impose her own spin on something as trivial as the already decadent gown she wore?

The other cleric, the armored gith, and the man all take their places across from Zevlor to stand behind their princess. She comes to stand by the Dark Prince’s side and turns to face him even as her head remains tilted down. Rolan scrutinized his bride with mild confusion. Was she refusing to meet his gaze? Was this meant to be a display of meekness before the Dark Prince or a silent protest against the infernal creature she was marrying? A warm chuckle made Rolan look up where Halsin now stood, smiling beside Zevlor. The archdruid didn’t rush to hide his amusement from the Dark Prince, instead opting to politely glance away while Zelvor, as discreetly as possible, gestures for Rolan to lift and join the princess underneath her veil.

With a sigh, Rolan lifts the obscuring veil, now understanding its ridiculous length. He inwardly grumbled at having to partake in yet more ridiculous custom he was never privy to. Still, Zevlor’s words echo in his head once again as the younger tiefling carefully sets the veil over his horns. “Let the princess have this ...”

Once her soon-to-be husband has settled with her beneath the veil, Tav finally allows her gaze to lift and meet his.

Though she had done her best to prepare herself, she still felt her breath catch in her chest. The eyes of the Dark Prince stared back at her, amber glowing against inky pools of black like the fiery light that rings the moon during a solar eclipse. Standing so close to him, Tav was able to examine the fearsome usurper of Waldemar. Her sheer veil had partially obscured her view of what seems to be a pair of well-kept horns, accentuated with gilded rings and horn caps inset with small gems. Dark chestnut hair was partially pulled back, slightly covering pointed ears and hanging in loose waves that fell just to his shoulders. Tav had known he was a tiefling, but those who had fled from him to Sivailon apparently had overlooked a few features in their descriptions of the Dark Prince. Such as how his sharp features were decorated with a smattering of freckles on pale red skin, giving slight sweetness to a rather striking face.

Fearsomely handsome her old handmaids had whispered… she just wasn't expecting it to be true.

She is only half paying attention to the words of the High Priestess, though Tav still tries her best to keep up with the ceremony’s beats even as they skip certain steps. With every small stepping stone of the ceremony they reached, the arrangement felt more and more real.

 “Now, under Selûne’s radiant light, we ask the Moonmaiden to bless this union, to guide them towards prosperity that shall never truly wane.”

With how quickly the ceremony moves, it takes Tav a moment to realize they’ve already reached the imbibing offering. She’s apparently not the only one lost for a moment, as it takes an urgent look from the High Priestess and a friendly alert from Wyll before Shadowheart hurries to the princess’s side to hand her the silver chalice. Tav catches her friend’s eye as she accepts the vessel full of milk from her lady-in-waiting, giving her a small smile, which the cleric returns. After uttering a short prayer, the princess takes a sip of the cool liquid, focusing on the refreshing chill down her throat, before holding it out to the Dark Prince in turn. His brow furrows as he silently looks down at the cup, confused as if she were holding out a toad.

After a beat, he leaned in slightly, “No, thank you.”

Tav might have found mirth in how the High Priestess balked at the Dark Prince’s rejection had it not also taken the princess herself by surprise for a moment, though she kept a grip on her own expression.

My customs are not his, she reminds herself, so she instead merely passes the still partially filled cup back to a wide-eyed Shadowheart. The princess catches a glimpse at Wyll’s equally wide-eyed expression before he subtly places a firm hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder; the githyanki’s hand had moved to clutch the hilt of her sword in a death grip as her slit eyes glare daggers toward the Dark Prince for his public insult to her princess.

After that brief hiccup and skipping over the ring exchange, it was time for the part they knew was coming: “Now to bond this union with a kiss.”

It’s as if the forest itself is watching, waiting with bated breath for the divinely touched princess and the infernally tainted usurper to proceed. They haven’t even had a conversation yet, but now they must...

The Dark Prince looks down at her, and Tav feels the weight of his scrutinizing stare as surely as she feels that of the attendees, even as his expression gives little else away. His luminous eyes flick down to her lips. With a steading inhale of the cool night air, the princess lets her eyes flutter shut and tilts her head closer. Tav feels his warm, clawed hand cup her cheek, her heart thrumming as she feels his breath calmly cascading over her flushing face. Then, the brush of soft, firm lips alight upon her cheek.

It was so chaste, so brief that Tav hardly registered it had happened at all before the tiefling was already retracting his hand. Hells, she’s sure the guests are probably as equally surprised.

The head cleric seems stumped momentarily before they wrap up the ceremony. The King and Queen of Waldemar, whose union was sealed with a kiss on the cheek…

The High Priestess also seemed stunned, stumbling over her next few words as the ceremony ended and Shadowheart removed the veil from their heads.

Though the haste of this whole affair was far from traditional, the two newlyweds still went through the motions of walking hand-in-hand down the aisle as the attendees lauded the new King and Queen of Waldemar, whose union was sealed in a rather unusual way.

Once away from prying eyes, the Dark Prince leads Tav to a pair of carriages already hitched and ready to leave. Standing by them, she sees three cloaked, rather well-dressed, rather pallid individuals standing guard. Three sets of red eyes look back at her, and suddenly, Tav feels her blood grow cold as she realizes what they are.

“Leaving your adoring public so soon?” one of them, an elf with white curly hair, coos at their approach, grinning in a manner that feels anything but friendly and which doesn’t even attempt to conceal his vampiric fangs. He wears a fancy doublet of dark maroon with silvery and gilded embroidery, which glints in the moonlight, along with the dagger he casually twirls about in his hand.

An elven woman with her own fanged and mischievous smile giggled, coyly brushing a lock of pale, wavy, and elegantly coiffed hair from her shoulder to tuck it behind her ear. She was garbed in a comparatively simpler, but no less splendid, dark red outfit.

Before the elven woman could speak, the third, a tiefling herself with black hair that had been braided and pulled back into an elaborate bun, hurriedly hushed the other two, “Violet, Astarion, enough.” Her eyes flicked from the newlyweds to the other two vampires to the ground as her clawed hand nervously adjusted the string of small medallions decorating the dark blue coat of her delicately constructed outfit; the vibrancy of the red cloth underneath only further drawing attention to the pallor of her red skin.

Tav hadn’t realized her own feet had stopped moving until the Dark Prince—Dark King—gave her hand a tug before releasing it. With his warmth gone, she lets her hand fall limply as she watches him keep his stride. 

Coming back to herself, she becomes aware of an older, armored tiefling—who she recognizes as the man standing behind her now husband during the ceremony—sharing a handshake with Halsin.

The burly elf gives her a warm smile when Tav approaches, once again offering thanks for allowing the ceremony to take place on their land and with such short notice.

“The land is not ours, your Majesty,” Halsin rumbled soothingly, “We only live among its bounties and shield it from undue harm.”

“Then we thank you for trusting us with it for this evening.”

Halsin’s kind smile grew even further before he seemed to remember something, “Before you and yours depart, I thought it only appropriate that our grove offer you both a wedding gift as I understand the others in attendance have.”

Tav didn’t have the chance to assure the archdruid that such a thing was unnecessary before the large elf presented her with a string of leaves.

“I’m afraid it is not as elaborate as the other gifts you will receive from this night, but these are from the sacred oaks at the center of our grove.” he explained, “I felt it was the only thing befitting this occasion.”

Tav felt her mouth drop open slightly at the druid’s words, and she reached out for the gift offered before hesitating. Reaching up to unclasp the heavy necklace she wore, she passed the jewelry over to Wyll, who stowed it away in one of his pockets, before accepting the string of oak leaves and having Shadowheart help her affix it around her neck. Halsin’s expression, having momentarily dimmed in confusion and worry when her hand had retreated, warmed once again upon seeing her now carefully ghost her fingers across the leaves.

Tav opened her mouth again, either to apologize for having concerned him or to thank him once again. She wasn’t sure, and she would never get the chance to know. 

“Your husband could be in more of a hurry, but then his ass would be on fire…” Shadowheart sneered, prompting Tav to look behind herself towards her friend and lady-in-waiting.

“I’m sure he has his reasons.” though her words don’t come out sounding as self-assured as she’d hoped, even to her own ears, “We-Sivailon insisted on having the ceremony so soon in order to have it done beneath Selûne’s full gaze. He- We probably have other things we need to get back to in Waldemar.”

“Well, it seems he is rather eager…” Lae’zel hissed, her eyes focused on something off to the side with undisguised contempt, “Your husband and his undead are already leaving in the carriage without you.”

What?!

Sure enough, as Tav hastily turns to follow her knight’s gaze, the newly made Queen is greeted by the sight of one carriage already departing. Neither her King nor his vampires were in sight—at least not until a dainty pale hand briefly poked out from the carriage window to give a parting wave before disappearing again.

Tav’s brow furrows, but she quickly tries to school her expression as Halsin politely goes to take his leave and return to the grove. Not sure what else to say, Tav thanks him once again and the archdruid and the older tiefling part with an exchange of well wishes that carry an air of friendliness beyond mere cordiality. As the druid departs, his large frame vanishing into the forest, the sound of metallic armor shifting and brushing against itself alerts Tav to the armored teifling’s approach.

He gives her a tight but seemingly genuine smile and bows, “Your Majesty, my name is Zevlor, General of Waldemar’s army and, tonight, your carriage’s extra guard to help lead you and your people to our palace.”

“Pleasure to meet you, General Zevlor.” Tav lowered herself in a small curtsy, nearly missing how the older tiefling’s eyes widened slightly, “I appreciate your guidance and protection, but may I ask you a question?”

“Of course, anything.”

“Isn’t it customary for the King and Queen to ride together?”

“Ah...” Zevlor’s expression pinches for a moment as if trying to restrain a grimace while his gaze briefly flicks over toward where the King’s carriage continues to draw further and further away from them, “Rolan—that is to say, the King—thought you would be more comfortable traveling this way. You will be riding together once we reach Waldemar proper, but until then, it seemed right to allow time for you to… adjust.”

Adjust?!

Tav pressed her lips together, now holding on to a tight smile of her own as her mind screeched in frustration that such a decision had apparently been made for her. Dragging in a purposefully slow breath, she focused on the sensation of the crisp night air filling her lungs rather than the rising tide of her irritation. They had not been married for more than an hour and had hardly stood in each other’s presence for much longer; it was far too early to lose patience with her co-ruler now.

Yes, Tav reminds herself, it had been the Dark Prince’s idea that she would be ruling at his side. It certainly would not be good for her to fixate over what had to be an unintentional and ultimately minor slight from her husband.

Releasing her breath, she smiled now more sincerely at the general, “Well, we had best make haste, lest we keep the others waiting.”

[breelandwalker]

Flower Moon - May 22-23, 2024

Ready your gathering baskets and your best shoes for traipsing, witches - it’s time to greet the Flower Moon!

Flower Moon

The Flower Moon gives us the fulfillment of the first flush of the Pink Moon, with fragrant blossoms greeting us at every turn and heralding the merry month of May. The floral name for this particular cycle is shared by a number of indigenous nations, include the Algonquin, Anishnaabe, and Dakota. Other names include Budding Moon and Frog Moon (Cree), Planting Moon (Dakota and Lakota), and the Moon of Mulberry (Choctaw).

European names for this moon include Milk Moon (Anglo-Saxon) and Hare Moon (Celtic, allegedly). Some modern pagan circles also call it the Grass Moon as well, since the flourishing of grasslands is more common in some areas than the appearance of flowers.

This full moon peaks during daylight hours in the Western Hemisphere (around 9:53am EDT), so the moon may appear to be full on both the nights of the 22nd and 23rd.

What Does It Mean For Witches?

As we pass the spring rites and move toward the summer season, it’s the perfect time to celebrate your growth and the ways in which you want to flourish. This is the season for romance and love, and not just that which comes when we put on flower crowns and go a-Maying. This is a time to love ourselves as much as each other, to celebrate our bonds, and to be reminded of our own beauty and strength. Remember the things you love about yourself and consciously take a moment to remind your loved ones how much you care for them.

It is also a time to celebrate fertility, be it animal, vegetable, mineral, or spiritual. Put new plans into action, start that project you’ve been meaning to do, embark on that new hobby or activity you wanted to try. If you have a long-term goal or a big project, now is the time to outline your path to completion and plan how to direct your energy so you don’t burn out halfway through. Don’t hold back - break through the walls of imposter syndrome and anxiety, indulge in your creative urges, and let your inspiration soar. What you choose to plant and nurture now determines what you will harvest later in the year. And above all, remember to have FUN!

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

If you’ve been feeling the urge to do some flower-related magic, now is the perfect time! Familiarize yourself with the wildflowers in your area and if possible, maybe grab your basket and scissors and go on a foraging trip. Remember to properly identify flowers before picking them, don’t overharvest, and don’t take anything from private property without permission or from national parks full stop. You can press the flowers with a notebook and something flat and heavy, or you can dry them in hanging bunches, in a cardboard tray, or in a low-temp oven for later use.

This is also a good opportunity to get your hands in the dirt and connect with the land where you live. If there are plants in your care, take a little time to do some pruning and watering. Check them for spring pests and treat where needed. Give them some love - talk to them, sing to them, encourage them to grow tall and strong and abundant. Bless them as you tend their plots and reaffirm your commitment to be a good caretaker.

As an exercise, try making flower crowns, garlands, bouquets, wreaths, or centerpieces using plant correspondences, flower language, or color magic for a desired effect. This can be done with real flowers or silk ones, depending on how long you want to keep them around. Try your hand at making flower water with roses or other blooms - it makes a wonderful base for moon water!

Experiment with recipes for dishes and drinks that use edible flowers too! Whether it’s color-changing butterfly peaflower tea, sweet and peppery nasturtium, adorable pressed pansy shortbread cookies, or the tried-and-true comforts of chamomile, flowers have many tasty secrets to offer. Don’t be afraid to add botanicals to your health and beauty routine as well! (Just make sure nothing’s going to negatively interact with your meds or irritate a pre-existing condition. Safety first!)

Whether you do so with your near-and-dear, your witchy circle, or by yourself, celebrate everything that blooms - including you!

Happy Flower Moon, witches! 🌕🌼

Further Reading:

Additional Lunar Calendar posts by Bree NicGarran

Flower Moon: Full Moon in May 2024, The Old Farmer’s Almanac

Moonrise and Moonset Calculator, The Old Farmer’s Almanac

Flower Meanings: Symbolism of Flowers, Herbs, and More Plants, The Old Farmer’s Almanac

Floriography, the Language of Flowers, AllFlorists.co.uk

Flower Power: Flower Moon Spiritual Meaning and Stunning Magic, The Peculiar Brunette

How to Dry Flowers 5 Ways, MasterClass, June 7, 2021

DIY Floral Water or Hydrosol, Patti Estep, Hearth and Vine, July 4, 2021

17 Edible Flower Recipes, Better Homes and Gardens, March 8, 2022

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

[dazed-and-confused23]

Momma's Pretty Bird

Summary: After a long two weeks of undercover work, Keigo finally gets to come home to his momma.

Pairings: Takami Keigo x Female Reader

Warnings: Kissing, light petting, more sickeningly sweet than anything. Mommy kink. Sugar mommy. Older!Reader 3.2k Words

Hawks met you like he met everyone else, rescued during a villain attack. Some upstart had decided to rob a local jewelry store, and Keigo was called in to investigate. He'd flown in to see you standing protectively in front of a pair of scared teens, a scowl on your face as you faced off against the perpetrator. Something in his chest had tightened at the sight, and after apprehending the villain with ease, Hawks sent out a feather that snagged the back of your shirt and brought you to him. 

“That was incredibly brave and pretty stupid, sweetheart,” Keigo smirks down at you, not that the distance was much, you stood just under eye level with him, his hands on your upper arms to steady you after the sudden repositioning. 

You'd rolled your eyes, gave him a challenging smirk back, brow ticking up, and said, “Someone had to do it until the hero got here.” 

And then you took a look around, Keigo would find out later that you owned the place and sent him a smile full of pride -for him. 

“You did a good job keeping my place in one piece, hero. Thank you.” 

Hawks’ chest had tightened again, his heart speeding up as his cheeks flushed a light pink. Of course, his fans and the people he saved thanked him all the time, but to have someone praise him? To tell him that he'd done a good job? Keigo liked the way you made him feel.

“Oh ah. You're welcome. All in a day's work, ya know,” Keigo stuttered out, but you'd taken his sudden nervousness in stride, a gentle smile on your face as you examined him with a keen eye. 

“I'm serious, Hawks. You did an excellent job,” you insisted softly, and boldly reached out to snag his hand, giving it a quick squeeze of appreciation before letting it drop. Keigo swallowed harshly and said the first thing that came to mind. 

“Can I have your number?” 

His relationship with you flourished after that. You understood his need to be gone for long periods of time, Keigo cared about his hero work after all - even the dirtier bits, but you were always there for him with open arms and sweet words the moment he returned to your side. You made Keigo feel safe and wanted in a way he'd never felt before. 

You introduced him to so many new things. From different foods to media and music, but most of all, you introduced him to the world of being the center of someone's attention, your attention. You aren't strapped for cash; you have your own business thanks to your quirk, which allows you to form different gemstones once you have enough familiarity with them. And so you doted on Keigo, buying him anything that his golden eyes landed on while out and about. From snacks to expensive clothes that allowed movement for his wings, you gave him anything he wanted. 

Keigo wasn't oblivious to the fact that you were basically his sugar momma, but he knew that you had feelings for him, and lavishing him with gifts was one of the many ways you showed him how much you loved him. After a while, he may not have started to call you… momma in his head. 

It was embarrassing as fuck, but the hero couldn't help it. You were so kind to him, never raising your voice or admonishing him for his faults. Never getting upset with him when he came to you bruised and broken from a rough mission. No, you welcomed him with a gentle smile and encouraging words, assuring him that he was your good boy and your sweet bird. 

Keigo loved you for it, and he loved you even more when you'd only sat him down when he slipped up and called you momma to your face. 

“How long have you been thinking about this, baby?” The two of you sat on the couch, Keigo’s head pillowed on your thigh as you slid your hand through his shaggy hair. He bites his lips, but you only hum in encouragement, patient as always. 

“For a while,” Keigo finally murmured. You knew about his childhood already, so it made it a little bit easier to get the rest out, “You just take such good care of me, spoiling me with things, making sure I take care of myself.” 

Hawks trailed off. His wings puffed up as his nerves spiked, but, like usual, you were nothing but a calming balm. 

“Mhm, I love spoiling you, sweet bird,” you murmur and slide your hand down from his hair to gently grip his jaw and turn him toward you. Hawks looks at you with stars in his eyes, his expression a mix of hope and resignation. 

“You can call me that if you want to, baby. Nothing wrong with trying something new.” 

Hawks had blushed and buried his face in your thighs, excited relief coursing through him. You'd gently coaxed him to turn back to face you, and Keigo smiled shyly and murmured his thanks. 

You quirked a brow at him, then sent him a mischievous little smile. “What was that, baby? Thank you, what?” 

A sharp sting of arousal shot through him at your expectant tone, and he is hard-pressed to not flat-out moan. Instead, Keigo gave you a demure look and repeated himself, “Thank you, momma.” 

~~~

You push away the fond memory with a smile. It always makes you feel a little better knowing that you were the one that Keigo had chosen to be with. He was such a kind, good soul, and you didn't think he deserved to deal with the things that the Hero Commission put him through. Thankfully, they turned a blind eye to his relationship with you, but you can only wonder how long that would last. 

It's been two weeks since the last time you'd seen your sweet bird. He couldn't tell you much, but you understood what he was dealing with was dangerous. You would be ready to deal with any possible lashing out that the stressful mission caused, just like usual. First, however, you would need to get through the rest of the work day. 

The store was busier than usual, with couples ducking in and out to try and find the perfect engagement ring or anniversary gift for their other half. You loved seeing the joy on your customers' faces when they found what they were looking for. You took pride in what you did, for your quirk was your career, and without it, you wouldn't be able to take care of Keigo the way you liked to. 

Today, you planned for the two of you to go to a spa this evening to unwind if your darling boy was feeling up to it. You knew it would depend on what kind of mood he was in. Sometimes Keigo just needed some encouraging words, and worshiping hands to make him feel better. Other times, however, the hero needed you to take charge of everything, trusting you to take care of what he really needed in such a vulnerable state. 

If he didn't want to go out, you'd already set his favorite cleaning products out in your bathroom so that you could take care of him yourself. You enjoyed the intimate action of preening his wings, it was one of the few times that Hawks would allow his quirk-inducted instincts to come out. You loved the soft coos and chips the hero would make when you touched his wings, and you couldn't help but greedily want Keigo to want to stay in tonight. 

Customers thankfully made the day go by a little faster, and it was near the end of the day when your phone chimed. You swipe open the screen, a giddy smile on your lips when you see that it's Hawks. 

C u soon, momma. I've missed you so much ❤️ 

I missed you too, sweet bird. Are you home already? 

A customer gets your attention before you can see his next text, and you curb any irritation you felt at the interruption. 

Yup! Do u want me to fly u home??

You smile at his helpfulness. He was so cute. 

That's okay, baby. I want you to relax until I get home, and then momma will take care of you, okay? 

Ur the best momma. I love you ❤️ 

I love you too, sweet bird 💗

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Just from how the hero had worded his text, you could tell that he would need you tonight. You still had another two hours before you could start closing up, and you could only hope they went by quickly.

~~~

Keigo fluttered around your apartment. After being gone for two weeks, undercover once more, the pro hero was more than anxious for you to get home from work. Thankfully, your home is cluttered like it usually gets when he isn’t there to pick up after you, so he was at least able to keep his hands busy while he waited. 

He’d already dressed down, wearing soft, silken shorts and comfy cotton socks that you’d bought him some time ago. You liked it when he made himself comfortable in your home, or his home too, as you liked to assure him of over and over. His heart always beat a little quicker whenever you insisted. 

A soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he opens the dryer and pulls out the fresh clothes. He buries his face in them, his sensitive nose picking up your natural scent even through the detergent. Hawks had missed you while he lurked around the LOV hideout. Even though he knew it was his duty as a hero, you had shown him a life outside of that duty, and Keigo was desperate to return to your side as soon as possible. Eventually, he begins to fold or hang up your clothes and then moves on to the next load of laundry. 

The pro is in the kitchen starting the dishwasher when the door opens. His wings puff in excitement, and Keigo zips to the foyer to greet you. He hardly gives you the time to set your bag down before he sweeps in, his arms sliding around your waist to clutch you close to his chest. Hawks presses his face into the crook of your neck, and a happy chir escapes him when you slide one hand into his shaggy hair and tuck him closer to you. 

“Hello, sweet bird,” You greet, a smile in your voice. You feel bad that it took you so long to get home when Keigo obviously needed you so, but you push it away. You’re here now and could make it up to him. 

“Hey, Momma,” Keigo coos sweetly, and you melt at the affection in his voice. He rubs his nose up and down your cheek, his eyes closed in content as he finally feels himself start to relax. Hawks was so happy you were finally home. 

You take a look around, and huff when you notice that he’s picked up, “Thank you for cleaning, baby. You didn’t have to.” 

Keigo pulls away to look at you, eyes squinted in a proud little smile, “Who else would if I didn’t do it?” 

You roll your eyes and reach up to gently pinch his cheek, “Okay, sweet bird, you make a good point.” 

You just don’t like the thought of someone else in your space that you share with Keigo coming in even just to clean. Your home was his safe haven, and you’d be damned if that was taken away from the hero. He’d explained to you once before how sensitive his instincts could be to something unfamiliar entering his nest. 

Keigo catches your wrist and tugs your hand up so that he can press his lips to your knuckles and his golden eyes turn soft. He slides closer, letting your hand drop between them before he leans in and pulls you in for a sweet kiss. A soft sound leaves him when you press into the embrace, and his heart stutters when your soft hands come up to curl along his jaw. Your thumbs smooth back and forth over his stubble, and he tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss. 

The chime of the washer steals his attention and makes the hero jump. He sends you a shy smile before kissing your brow and stealing away to go take care of changing the clothes over. You hum in fondness and kick your shoes off then move into the kitchen. You finish up with the dishwasher and then retrieve a glass bottle of your favorite beer. The first sip has your shoulders slumping, and the touch of Keigo pressing his front to your back finishes you off. 

“How are you, baby?” You ask softly and reach up to wrap your hand around his wrist. You feel his grip tighten, and wait patiently for Hawks to get his thoughts in order. 

“Okay, this time. It could have been worse,” Keigo whispers, and you tilt your head to the side, allowing him access to trail the tip of his nose up and down the collom of your throat. It’s not the best answer he could have given you, but it’s not the worst either. You know that much of what Keigo does is classified, and you could only hope to help shoulder that burden with him one day, but for now, you hoped your solid presence was enough for him. 

“Better than a code red, my love,” you murmur and turn in his hold to smile up at him. Your dear hero looks tired, worn out, and strained at the edges. You can’t help but wonder when the last time he’d gotten a good night's sleep was. You quickly change the subject to a happier topic when your stomach suddenly cramps in hunger, “How about we order takeout, baby?” 

Keigo lights up, wings perking up and shifting behind him, “Can we get fried chicken?” 

You laugh and dip your head in a nod, “Of course we can, baby. Anything you want. Go get my phone and we’ll order online.” 

You follow the hero back to the living room where you curl up on the couch. Hawks tucks himself against you, body pressed against you as much as he can until you relent and let him lay his head in your lap. He scrolls through your phone, unsure where to order from until he finally decides on good ole’ KFC. You grumble at the choice a little. It’s not that you don’t like the greasy food, but you do wish that he would have picked something on the healthier side. 

Keigo asks about the two weeks that he’d been gone and you regale him with tales of customers. From the unruly teen looking to try and make a quick buck, to the elderly man who’d come in looking for a certain gem that his wife loved. Hawks loved listening to you talk about your day, basking in how easy and domestic it all sounded. He loved being a hero, loved saving people, but sometimes he was just a little jealous of how… normal your life was even in today’s society. He never let you know that of course, it made him feel bad enough as it was. 

You had swiftly become his everything. Keigo had plenty of money, plenty of people who would roll over for him at the drop of an order, but none of those people were you. You took care of him in a way that his handlers or the Hero Commission never could, and he loved you for it. You spoiled him, and bought him things Keigo wouldn't have even dreamed of owning. Not from lack of funds, but more of a lack of knowing if he would enjoy that kind of thing. He relaxes even more the longer you speak, your voice like a balm on his anxieties as he buries his face in your stomach. 

It hurts that he can't tell you everything. That he can't tell you how dangerous his missions are becoming and how scared Keigo is that one day, he might not make it back home to you. Would you still want him if he couldn't be a hero anymore? 

“Baby, what are you thinking about? Your wings are bunching up.” 

Keigo bites his lip and forces himself to relax again. You've had a long day, and he doesn't want you to worry about him. 

“It's nothing, momma. Just sad thoughts,” He murmurs, knowing better than to lie to you. 

Your brows crease, and you gently scratch his scalp, “You know you can talk to me, sweet bird.” 

You feel him nod, but Keigo doesn't speak back up. It makes you sad that your sweet boy is under so much stress, but you will do your best to be his rock. You clear your throat and force a smile on your face. 

“You're mine for the next couple of days, right?” it wasn't often that the Hero Commission gave Hawks more than a weekend off unless it was for his rut, so you definitely planned to take advantage of your time with him. You continue when Keigo nods again. 

“Then how about we go to the Mall tomorrow? We can watch that movie you told me about the other day and then go to the arcade after?” 

Keigo can't help the excitement that zings through him. He knows that the movies and the arcade aren't things that you usually like doing, but it makes his heart thud in affection knowing that you want to do things that he likes doing. He shifts so that he can peek up at you, one golden eye shining in interest. 

“Can we get cake after?” He asks, and you smile down at him, thumb coming up to gently rub away the scowl between his brows. 

“Of course, we can love,” you assure him, and then your expression becomes a bit darker, and lust swims to the surface, “I was also thinking that my baby could get all pretty for me in the evening, and I could take him out on the town. Show off how lucky I am.” 

Keigo blushes prettily just like you knew he would, and shifts so that he can sit on his knees. You watch, eyes half-lidded as he preens under your attention, his own piercing gaze soft and affectionate for you. 

“You think I'm pretty?” He coos quietly, and fuck. You love it when the hero gets like this, all sweet and demure, and all for you. 

You reach out, tucking one hand under his chin as you meet his gaze. Your thumb smooths back and forth, and a devious smirk paints your lips. 

“I do, sweet bird. Especially when you're all flushed like this, eyes bright and wings quivering. Beautiful, love.” 

You could have gone on, could have waxed poetic words and whispered sweet nothings to your sweet boy, but it's then that your phone chimes to inform the two of you that your food is being brought up. You grit your teeth in frustration even as Keigo bounces up, the hero excited for greasy takeout, but it's swiftly replaced with that same, soft affection for pro. You would have plenty of time to lavish Keigo with your attention in the next couple of days.

More Hawks -> HERE

[blues824]

Hello again! I don’t know if you remember me but I requested the Black Butler characters x Shinobu! Reader and came back to request another. If isn’t too much may I ask for a Morticia Addams! Reader for Malleus, Lilia, Azul, and the Tweels just imagine them with a Morticia! Reader with them being seductive, elegant, and very motherly. They take care of their carnivorous plants and can see the beauty behind everything.

Hello, again! Did you like the new Wednesday show? Because I loved it so much. Truly a work of art.

Azul Ashengrotto

Somebody’s blushing~ Nah but for real, the first time he saw you he fell hard and fast for you. You were just so elegant and kind, and so unusual compared to the other humans around NRC. You were able to see right through him and help him through his insecurities.

He finds it comforting for you to be there waiting for him after a long day of school and running the Mostro Lounge. You would walk with your arm in his as you looked like you were glowing in the moonlight. 

The first time you brought your seductive side out to play, he was super flustered. He’s having trouble breathing, he feels very warm, the tweels are teasing the living heck out of him. He’s very overwhelmed. However, he can’t say that he dislikes it.

Once, when he went to visit you in Ramshackle (which you obviously feel right at home in) he saw you taking care of a few Venus Flytraps. It wasn’t unusual to see someone taking care of plants here, but to see you snatching a fly out of thin air and feeding it to the plant was definitely out of the ordinary.

It’s refreshing to see someone with such a positive outlook on everything. He tends to see things in a more negative light, so you brought a new perspective into his life. He returns the favor by getting you many gifts that remind him of you.

Jade Leech

The Gomez in this situation. When he looks into your eyes, all you can see is pure love and adoration. You both dance the nights away as you enjoy being close with each other. He thinks you’re absolutely beautiful as you both sway together.

It leaves a warm feeling in his heart when he sees you enter the Mostro Lounge and request to be seated in his section. Once you got your food (which he paid for), he would take his 15 minute break to spend time with you.

The first time you brought out your more seductive nature, he reciprocated it immediately. He would do the thing where he starts kissing your hand and slowly moves up. It makes others so envious because they wish they had a relationship (with you) like that.

You both have a green thumb and offer each other tips on how to allow your plants to flourish and thrive. You’ve gifted him a few Satan’s Bolete mushrooms and he’s given you Nightshade seeds. It gives you both a reason to visit each other often.

I would say he’s fairly positive. More so than his twin, at least. Of course, your positive view is more macabre than normal. Once, while you were dancing, a sparrow landed on a nearby branch and you whispered that it would make for a good trinket. He smiled, glad to finally find someone like him.

Floyd Leech

He would most likely call you ‘Dolphin’ because you’re graceful, intelligent, friendly, and most importantly… you have a darker side to you. Another thing he has noticed is that you're loyal to those you love.

Whenever he has to work a late shift at the Lounge, his bad mood is almost immediately lifted when you walk in the door. He will run over and give you a big squeeze, telling you about how much he missed you. You have a very strong pain tolerance, so only you can handle his hugs.

When you first start acting like your seductive self, he is both flustered and entertained. If he sees you being particularly affectionate, he will pull you into his lap where you both will act all lovey-dovey with each other.

As silly as it is, he gets jealous about how much attention you give your beloved plants. He will sit and pout as you whisper positive affirmations towards the Flytraps you love. Of course, once you finish, you turn around and start cooing at him lovingly and he just melts.

We all know that he has intense mood swings. However, whenever he’s with you and you’re giving him attention he remains happy and content. You’re the one he goes to whenever something upsets him, and sometimes you even come to him because you both have an emotional connection with each other.

Lilia Vanrouge

You both make a very playful couple. He immediately warms up to you as you do to him. You remind him of royalty: elegant and graceful, friendly and charming. Even Sebek is happy that the two of you found each other.

He loves trying to scare you because it never works. Instead, you put your hands on the side of his face and pull him in for a kiss. Since you do this every time, he makes it a point to try and ‘scare’ you at least twice a day.

He is mostly amused when you bring out your more seductive side. He smiles as you sit yourself on the arm of his chair and run your finger up his neck and move your face closer to his while whispering how much you absolutely love him. He leans even closer, whispering back. Your lips never meet, but it’s enough to make everyone else jealous.

He loves the concept of being a ‘plant parent’, so he will co-parent with you. You have a lovely bed of Nightshade, some Venus Flytraps, Hemlock, and a couple of Ghost Orchids. The orchids are especially valued as they are as odd as the both of you.

You both tend to be very positive. You even have the same macabre interests that you bring up. A lot of the others see you dancing together out of nowhere. No music, just enjoying the time spent in each other’s arms. 

Malleus Draconia

The fact that you 1) aren’t scared of him and 2) are actually quite like him makes him fall so freaking hard for you. The chemistry between the two of you is unfathomable. You can just look into his eyes and he’d look back just lovestruck.

He loves to see you waiting for him to get Ramshackle for your nightly walks. He thinks you look absolutely divine underneath the moon’s pale glow. The things you say are very interesting as well. You have plenty of stories to share about your time with your family, and he has all the time in the world to listen.

Bringing out your seductive side can do one of three things: confuse him, amuse him, or make him flustered, sometimes all 3. If you use human ways of seduction, he will be confused. Thankfully, you had read up on dragon courting rituals. You would wear the emerald that is the heart of his horde as a necklace and would remain close to him at all times. Others would often see you with your arm in his.

He’s glad that you were able to find a hobby that wasn’t destructive. He’s surprised to see that Ramshackle was turned into a sort of greenhouse in itself. He’s also noticed that the plants at the normal greenhouse were thriving more than ever. 

His view on the half-empty-half-full cup changes depending on what happens that day. However, when he’s with you, he can only see the half-full cup. You turn him into a puppy and he longs for you whenever you have to be away. The absolute look of adoration in your eyes puts anything to shame. The way you hold his face in your hands and he holds your waist as you both go in for a soft kiss brings a warm feeling to both of your cold hearts.

[sirianasims]

Chapter 43.6

My mother taught me that sometimes it rains. Sometimes it pours, and you’re soaked through and miserable and it feels like it may never stop. But no matter how heavily the rain falls, no matter how drenched you get, you are not the rain.

Some day you will be dry again.

Things have been easier since I blocked Paul, the pain slowly fading to a dull ache, barely noticeable as long as I don’t dig too deep. I try to keep myself distracted, reading Lucky Girl for what must be the fifth time. It’s my comfort read, Evie reminds me a little of myself. I think we could have been friends, hanging out and agreeing that being in love is the absolute worst, actually, while we yearn for our respective idiots.

The memory of Paul is not the only thing I’m trying to escape. With all my channels inactive, even the haters have gone quiet and my views are dropping every week. I’ve toyed with the idea of simply abandoning everything and starting a new brand, but I don’t want to rebuild my follower count from scratch. I don’t have time for it. My bills are starting to pile up, and while I can still pay them for now, it won’t be long before I have to either crawl back to mom and dad and ask for help, or get one of those real jobs people keep talking about. I’m not even sure which option I would hate the most, so I hide in my book for now.

A sharp knock on the door jerks me away from Evie admiring Jude in an art gallery and back to reality.

I hesitate for a moment. I have no idea who it could be, and I don’t want to see anyone, especially not some smarmy salesperson – or worse, my landlord. With a sigh, I put my book face down on the armrest and shuffle to the door.

Miranda is leaning casually against the doorway, her high heels making her look almost as tall as Samara. At their feet, a couple of large shopping bags are threatening to fall over and spill their contents on my doormat.

“See, Samara? I told you she was still alive.”

“So you did. Then I sure hope she has a very good excuse for refusing to see her best friends for almost two months!“

I feel my cheeks get hot. “Uh, hi. I’m sorry I disappeared, I’ve just had a rough time since, you know. But I promise to call you, maybe we can make plans soon?”

“No need, we’re here now, so you won’t have to worry about that.” Samara’s smile is cheerful, but her tone is resolute. Even so, I try to object.

“Seriously, it’s not a good time, I haven’t even showered for like three days, and the place is a mess.”

“Girl, since when do we care about mess? We’re here because we love you – stinky or not.” She wrinkles her nose, making the freckles on her face dance.

“What is this, some sort of intervention?”

Miranda smirks. “Pretty much. Sorry, but someone’s gotta save you from yourself, and we’re not letting you waste any more time moping over a man who didn’t deserve you. We’ve got snacks and a box of rosé with your name on it, so you might as well get out of the way.”

“Fiiine, but no judging the absolute state of the place.” I roll my eyes and invite them in with a dramatic flourish of my arm, but I can’t help but smile. Samara bounces through the door despite the heavy shopping bags, and Miranda goes straight for my laptop.

“What’s your login?”

“It’s just my birthday, and before you come for me, yes, I know that’s bad.”

Miranda shakes her head as the laptop plays a jaunty tune and lets her in.

“You’ll get the full security lecture another day, right now it’s time to declare inbox bankruptcy. We’re getting rid of all this bullshit so you can get back to business.”

“Miranda, there are literally thousands of messages. It’ll take days to go through, maybe weeks.”

She doesn’t even look up, her perfectly manicured fingers a blur over the keyboard.

“Give me an hour. I’m going to delete anything that contains profanity, and then I’ll sort the rest into folders, so don’t worry, you won’t be losing anything permanently. But I’m going to mark everything as read and archive it so you can get a fresh start. If anyone wants something important from you, they’ll reach out again, trust me.”

I stop myself from protesting further. Miranda knows what she’s doing, and it really would be a relief not to worry about everything.

Behind me, Samara has stopped unpacking the groceries.

“Just let Miranda work her magic and get your smelly butt into a bath. And make it a nice one, soak for a bit and pretend you’re a mermaid or something. We’ll get everything set up in here while you scrub off the sadness.”

I feel a slight pang of embarrassment as I walk into the bathroom. The sunlight is creating little islands of warmth on the black tiles, but it also mercilessly illuminates the limescale in the shower and a couple of cotton swabs that missed the bin. The sink is decorated with a few dried clumps of toothpaste, each of them outlined in red from last time I dyed my hair.

How did I let it get this bad?

I turn on the taps and leave them running while I undress. Then, I lower myself awkwardly into the tub and let the water cascade through my fingers. It would be nice if it was this easy, washing away the sadness and frustration, the longing and the hurt.

The gentle sound of flowing water is mesmerising, and before I know it, the tub is full. I add a small handful of bath salts and swirl it around. A soothing scent of lavender rises with the steam.

When I lie down, the hot water envelops me like a hug. It feels like it’s thawing something in me that I didn’t even know was frozen. I close my eyes and listen to Samara and Miranda laughing about something. It’s almost like being home and hearing my parents talk softly in the other room. It always made me feel safe. Less alone.

As the water begins to cool, I scrub down, slowly, methodically, running soapy hands along every inch of my body. It feels good, like I’m massaging life back into my limbs. Tonight will be fun, I decide. We’re going to stuff our faces with junk food, get absolutely smashed on cheap wine, and pretend that my heart was never broken by some has-been actor from Tartosa.

I watch as the tub empties, imagining that all my sadness is flowing down the drain with the water and the tiny undissolved purple specks from the bath salt. Finally, I move to the shower to wash my hair and rinse off.

When I get out, I stop and examine myself in the mirror. I look a little tired and worn, like I’ve been sick. In a way, I guess I have. But the black tiles are radiating warmth under my feet and there are birds singing outside my window and I’m beginning to feel like everything is going to be fine.

Samara’s blue face glitters in the candlelight. The packaging from the masks we’ve applied is littered with adjectives like “rejuvenating” and “revitalising”, bold statements, but they do actually feel pretty good.

“Sorry, Julia, I know you love this crap, but I just can’t get over the cake tongue. Who decided cake would be the best bait for people? Are we really that obsessed with desserts?”

I look over my nails one last time and put down the file. “I’m actually more disturbed by the whole chin udder situation. I mean, who came up with that?”

Samara makes a disgusted face, but she’s not ready to change the subject. “Seriously though, even if you were absolutely starving and cake was your favourite thing in the whole world, would you really approach a plant shaped like a giant cow head with huge teeth? Really? And then try to grab what is obviously its tongue?”

Miranda giggles tipsily. “No, but can we talk about how Ned’s relationship with the cow plant is super toxic, though? I mean, it always starts out slow, right? Oh, so it eats meat, little bit of a red flag there, but it’s probably fine. And before you know it, you find yourself luring your neighbours to their deaths just to keep it happy.”

“Yeah, it’s classic, the way he keeps making excuses for her? She didn’t mean it, she’s just misunderstood! She only bites me because she loves me! I’m like, Ned, your girlfriend is eating people, you need professional help.”

Samara laughs. “I guess some men would literally rather feed their neighbours to a plant than go to therapy.”

My phone vibrates on the armrest behind me.

“Sorry, it’s Marten again, I better let him know I’ve got company. He’s been super busy with his exams so we haven’t had much time to play lately.”

Miranda raises an eyebrow.

“And he’s still fine just being your friend, is he?”

“Why wouldn’t he be? I mean, he was fine being my friend even though I was dating Paul. Besides, I haven’t even seen him in person since GeekCon, it’s been almost a year…”

I stop. Almost a year since I met Paul. It feels like a lifetime ago. I wonder what would have happened if I’d cosplayed as someone else, or if Paul hadn’t been there that day. Maybe I could have been dating Marten instead of having my heart trampled by some fickle celebrity. Nice, normal Marten with his mousy hair and his robot facts. I smile.

“Anyway, there’s nothing between me and Marten. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Miranda sends me a mischievous grin. “That reminds me, you know that hot bartender from The Rooftop? Super flirty, cheekbones that could cut glass?”

“The one who gave us free refills on Samara’s birthday? Shane or something?”

“Yeah, him! He asked about you last time, wondered why you hadn’t come with us for like three weeks in a row.”

“How does he even know my name?”

“He didn’t, he just asked about our red-haired friend but you’ve clearly made an impression.” Miranda winks. “Maybe he’d be willing to help you get over Paul.”

I shake my head. “No thanks, I’m pretty sure he’s slept with like half the regulars. And I’m not looking for hook-ups, not now. I need to get my so-called career back on track, but I want to do something… different.”

I think of Paul, of late nights in hotel rooms, laughing at the most ridiculous b-movies before having amazing sex and falling asleep with his arms around me. “I don’t want to do cosplay again, absolutely nothing with movies or comics or superheroes.”

Miranda looks thoughtful. “What about just fashion stuff? I started out with just my shoe reviews and now it’s more general style advice and outfits to match your heels, but you have an eye for it and you know a lot about cuts and materials and design.”

“I guess? I don’t really know a lot about classic fashion, though, like couture and such. And it’s a really tough business to get into, plus I’d kinda like to keep the expenses down for now.”

“You could always just jump on one of the big trends. I bet you’d make bank as one of those clean girl aesthetic influencers or something.”

“That’s actually a good idea. I mean, I can probably get pretty far with just the makeup and clothes I already have. And I could move my sewing machine and rearrange the room, set up my camera and the lights…”

Miranda laughs. “We can start right now as long as it means we don’t have to watch any more terrible movies tonight.”

I reach for the remote. “Not a chance.”

beginning / previous / next

[acapelladitty]

When The Lights Go Out: Riddler

Summary: Richard Madison is a crook but a strange encounter with a man calling himself Edward Nygma may prove to be his undoing.

Part 1: When The Lights Go Out: Scarecrow

AO3 Link ☆ Fic Masterlist

The miraculous release of Walter Johnstone from his asylum incarceration was not the only odd thing to have occurred in Gotham that day. Nor would it be the last.

It was certainly a day that Richard Madison was never likely to forget.

If you asked the average person to describe Richard Madison they would have a host of phrases ready to spring forth in his praise. As sweet as sugar, one might claim. Honest as they come, another would cry. A good man with a good heart. However, there were those who saw another side to the man and those individuals would quietly lament his misdeeds and misgivings.

Both opinions are entirely valid to their holders, as all opinions are, however those who believed in him were only witness to the facade which he presented to the world.

To put it simply, Richard Madison was a crook.

Oh, how people loved being around Richard. They whispered promises in his ears, slipped offerings into his pockets, and overall doted on him in exchange for the opportunity to engage. To have their needs met.

And he was never a man to deny the people their needs.

When it suited him.

Emerging from the elevator to his private office, his shoulder clicked as he stretched his arms before him to prepare for the next few hours of sitting at his computer and running his small empire from the comfort of his favourite chair.

However, an unexpected sight stopped him dead in his tracks.

Standing in his office as though he belonged there, lounged a suited man. His body was on the thinner side and even from this distance Richard could tell that the bottle green suit, expertly styled as it cinched his frame, was cut from expensive cloth. Boyish features shone from a face which could not have been a day over forty and his appearance was made all the more striking by the shock of flame red hair which sat atop his head, mostly covered by a lurid green bowler hat which perfectly matched the shade of his suit.

“Richard Madison!” The man exclaimed in a showman voice, his excitement radiating from him in waves. “In the flesh! The man of the hour!”

Reaching out as he approached Richard’s stunned position, he gripped his hand in a firm grasp before shaking with an almost comedic level of effort. His arm swinging up and down in the grasp of the madman, Richard politely let go before hiding his hand within his pocket to prevent any further touching.

“Who are you?” Richard asked. This was his private office and absolutely no one got in here without first jumping through a series of hoops designed to keep out any 'undesirables'. “And what the hell are you doing here?” He allowed his shock to manifest as anger as he roared at the red-haired man.

“Lovely office,” throwing an arm out with great flourish, the man ignored the open aggression to gesture wildly around the room, “you must tell me who your decorator is.”

The stark minimalism of his office stared back at him as Richard's eyes swept the room. His room was boring, intentionally designed as such, so was he joking?

“Look, buddy, I don't thin-” cutting himself off, Richard clenched and unclenched his fist as he repeated his earlier question. “Who are hell are you?!”

“My name is Edward Nygma.” Flashing a smile, Edward dropped his head in a dramatic nod and allowed the green bowler hat to topple from his scalp and into his waiting hands before tucking it below his arm. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Madison. May I call you Richard?”

Now exposed, his red hair was perfectly coiffed into an old-fashioned style which felt very out of place in the modern office.

“I suppose.”

“What about Dick?”

Pursing his lips as his eyes narrowed, Richard was unable to tell if this man was mocking him or his earnest manner was genuine.

“I usually insist on Richard.”

“Then feel free to call me Edward.” Edward answered. “And to answer your earlier question, I am here to make you an offer which I know you will be unable to resist. We are both men of knowledge and money, so I know that you will want to hear what I have to say.”

“I’m not a trader.” Richard spat back, the surreal nature of this meeting making his aggression feel more performative that anything. “If you want me to invest in some shit you’re cooking up then go to Wall Street and pitch to the sons of bitches there.”

“Oh, I met the fools at Wall Street. Quite a long time ago.” Smirking as lips curled into a smile, Edward flashed his white teeth. “I gave them all the clues and all the opportunities to be honest men and they chose to ignore me. And then? Can you believe it? BANG!”

At this, Richard jumped in place as Edward smacked his hand against his thigh with some force.

“It all came crashing down. The Wall Street Crash, they called it. More than a few brains came to decorate the nearby paving after that, but they can't say they hadn't been warned. I gave them every chance.”

He's definitely mad, Richard thought. Edward did not look a day over forty and yet he had the gall to claim that he was present for the Wall Street collapse in the 30's?

“Talking like that will get you locked up in Arkham.” Richard warned.

“Oh no,” Edward exclaimed, “oh no, no, no! That would never do! I am far too intelligent for that and besides,” leaning in close as though divulging some information that only he was privy to, the green of Edward’s eyes twinkled madly for a moment, “an old friend has already made himself comfortable in those harrowed halls. It would be rude for me intrude on his delicate work.”

“You have connections in Arkham?” Such things were not unheard of and Richard himself had at least one guard on his payroll to ensure that the odd piece of information here and there fell into his hands. “Staff or guests?” He added.

“Staff today could be guests tomorrow and vice-versa. Let's not judge people based on their current position, particularly when that position is fragile at best. Fantastic things are afoot in Gotham right beneath your nose,” Edward insisted, “and my associates and I are here to see what she has to offer. So much filth and rot and chaos all wrapped in a pretty package of gothic architecture and urban landscaping.”

“Associates?”

“Oh, don't you worry, Richard. You are very unlikely to ever meet them as we tend to stick to our roles somewhat rigidly.”

“I need to make a phone call.” Richard interjected quickly. “Excuse me.”

Quickly retreating back to the doors of the elevator, Richard snatched his mobile from his suit pocket and quickly hit one of the numbers on his speed dial. This man, Edward, seemed to have decent connections and money to his name but he wanted to be sure before moving any further.

To his luck, his secretary picked up after only two rings.

“Hello, Richard Madison’s office. How may I direct your call?” Came a feminine droll from the other end of the line.

“Hey, Sam.” Relieved to hear a familiar voice, Richard continued. “Need you to run a quick background check for me.”

“Sure, boss.”

“Claims his name is 'Edward Nygma'. Never heard of him before but he looks like he has some decent coin behind him.”

“Okay. And where is he currently?”

“Standing inside my office.”

An audible hitch of breath.

“Okay, boss.”

Immediately on to business, Richard could hear the frantic tapping of her keyboard as she sought out the information he needed.

“The name is coming up here, boss.” As though reading from a script, Sam listed off her findings. “Edward Nygma. Business owner and entrepreneur. Apparently considered rather handsome. Worth…”

A pause.

“What?” Richard asked.

“Billions. Christ, he could put Wayne outta business. He’s absolutely loaded.”

“Billions! How have we not heard his name before?”

“He's a noted recluse. Very little personal details available here. All I can see is that his net worth is mind-blowing but the only thing he has name officially to is a production line of different types of toys.”

“Child toys?”

“Puzzle toys. For all ages and ranges.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s not a lot to go on but it’s definitely there. Good source too. He's legit.”

Hanging up with a shaking finger, Richard could smell opportunity like a shark could blood. A noted recluse worth billions, right here in his office. He could take advantage of this in a way which he and all others had been unable to do so with Bruce Wayne; a man so wrapped up in his holier-than-thou attitude that he refused to engage in any business which would dirty his hands.

Richard hated him.

Taking a deep breath, he dropped his phone back into his pocket and started to move back towards Edward. He had not moved an inch since Richard had disappeared, but his attention was wholly focused on something which was clutched between his hands. As he approached, the flash of the brightly-coloured item in Edward's palm also drew Richard's attention and he squinted as though a sharp light had accosted him.

“What's in your hands?”

Rolling the offending object between his fingers with a practised ease, Edward brought it into the space between them.

“This?” He asked. “A curious little thing. I am very fond of puzzles and I haven't seen anything quite like this before.”

Recognising the piece, Richard squinted once again.

“A rubix's cube?” He asked, incredulous.

Who is their right mind had never seen a Rubix cube before?

“Rubix cube.” Edward repeated with a look of contemplation. “After the man who created it?”

“I guess.” Confused as to what exact relevance the puzzle held to the current discussion, Richard gestured vaguely with his hands. “I don't know what this has to do with-”

“Oh, of course! Of course!” Exclaiming loudly, Edward slapped a hand good-naturedly on his knee as he smiled. “Excuse my ramblings but you must forgive an old man his pleasures.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Watered down whisky doesn’t agree with me, Dick,” Edward declined. “And I would think a man like yourself would want to watch his health. The liver can be a tricky old thing, especially six years down the line.”

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Nygma? I doubt this is a social call since we don’t, uh, know each other.”

“I have an opportunity which you would be a damned fool to pass up on. A new line of puzzle and magic toys, fabricated and distributed across Gotham and her sister cities.”

With Edward waving his hand around, Richard was able to catch a glimpse of his watch and found himself momentarily stunned by the beautiful timepiece and the various gemstones which were embedded within.

“Toys? Just toys? Surely we cou-”

“I have meetings today with others, including a meeting with a very interesting man named Wayne who seems to have taken a liking to my products,” Edward grinned.

Richard’s chest clenched with anger at the familiar name and he immediately backpeddled on his scepticism, “That won’t be necessary. I would love to enter into a business deal with you, Mr. Nygma. I hear you have quite the reputation.”

“I’m certain I do,” Edward replied, “and I would like to bring you onboard before I return to my other duties. $10 million would suffice as a minor investment, one which would see major returns.”

Wincing at the amount but desperate to keep the vaguely gullible and eccentric billionaire within his grasp, greed already blinding his thoughts as he imagines various ways of involving the fool with his less pleasant ventures, Richard nodded at the proposed amount.

The conversation flowed smoothly after that, discussions of timescales and proposed returns forcing Richard into the belief that he was making a smart choice. His mind focused despite the whirling nature of Edward’s demeanour; Richard felt the thrill of his greed thrumming in his veins as he catered to his latest potential cash cow.

“So, do we have a deal, Dick?”

Extending his hand with a showman smile, Edward allowed it to hang in the air between them with a sense of finality.

Willing to ignore the nickname this one time, Richard nodded once more and accepted the handshake before dropping his hand to his inner pocket. Mobile phone in hand, it took Richard less than five minutes to have the investment money wired over to Edward’s accounts – ensuring that he retained a firm copy of all Edward’s account details should anything go awry with their deal.

“This account is one of my more selective accounts and I would appreciate its use being kept on the quieter side of things. I am sure you understand,” Richard muttered with a put-on smile.

“Of course, of course! My lips are sealed.” Edward winked, placing his bowler hat atop his head with a dramatic flourish. “A silent account for a silent partner.”

His smirk actually blossoming into a genuine smile, Richard took the initiative to end their meeting.

“A pleasure, Mr Nygma. I hope to work with you again.”

Tilting his head with a wicked smirk of his own, Edward answered in kind.

“I’m sure you’ll think of our partnership often.”

x-x-x-x-x

Stepping into the familiar office of Salvatore Maroni, Richard inclined his head to the goons who remained on guard as he joined both the owner of the office and their mutual friend, Daniel Mockingbird, by taking a seat on the only available chair.

“Evening, boys. Pour me a decent one, eh, Sal?” Richard asked, inclining his empty whisky glass to Maroni. A glass which was quickly filled with amber liquid as the man in question poured him a healthy slosh of scotch.

“You’re chipy as fuck today, Richard. Balls finally drop?” Mockingbird cut in, his thick Italian accent glossing over the words with ease.

“Funny,” Richard deadpanned as he sank a gulp of the scotch, “but anyway, how has your week been gentlemen?”

“Great, I got me a new business partner and I think he’s going to be one for the books, boys,” sipping from his own glass, Maroni appeared pleased with himself as he divulged his luck to the other two.

Surprised, given his own unmade announcement, Richard inclined his hand to Maroni as he indicated for him to continue.

“Yeah, some fucking freak. Came here to ask me to partner on an investment deal for some shitty kids toys and-”

“Bullshit!” Mockingbird called out, surprising both men at the outburst. “You met with Nygma too?”

Open shock playing on his face as he watched the two speak, Richard dropped his hands to his lap as his head darted between the two like a tennis match.

“Yeah. Showed up here asking for $10 million.” Maroni confirmed.

“Fuck! Same from me.”

“Same, huh? For the toy business?”

“Yeah, for the fucking toy business. He didn’t say nothing about having other partners.” Running a hand through his slickened hair, Mockingbird was clearly unimpressed with the fact that his great deal had not been as exclusive as he thought. “Jesus Christ man, $20 million from us both. Sneaky fuc-”

“$30 million,” Richard intercut with a frown. “I also received a visitor yesterday.”

Genuinely speechless, all three men grumbled their discontent into their glasses as they observed the others with open suspicion. Their friendship was tenuous, agreements always being settled under the table to ensure that the dirt they could hold over each other was limited, and an event like this would only breed discontent.

Unable to muse for too long as his phone started vibrating madly in his pocket, Richard pulled it free with a gruff greeting as he pressed it against his ear.

“Mr. Madison, we have a problem.”

Sam. Sounding thoroughly distraught as her voice stuttered across the words.

“What is it?” Richard asked, a sinking feeling dropping his chest into his stomach.

“It’s gone, Sir. Everything. All the money from the secret account.”

His heart stuttering at the information, Richard barely noticed when both Maroni and Mockingbird picked up their own ringing mobiles.

“What the fuck do you mean it’s gone?”

“The account is empty, Sir. The $10 million transferred through to the Nygma account but the rest has disappeared. It’s gone, Sir.”

“No, no-NO!” Richard snapped, snarling his words down the phone. “You find me that money, Sam. Find it and get it back. Hunt down that fuck Nygma if you need to because I think he has something to do with it.”

Slamming his phone shut, his heart pounding in his ears as his blood pressure reached new levels, Richard zoned back into his companions to find that all hell had broken loose across both men. Maroni’s face was a stunning shade of puce as he screamed insults into his mobile while Mockingbird was speaking in Italian at record speed, his expression equally as angry.

Allowing both men the time to finish their phone calls as they went through a similar disbelieving anger to himself, Richard understood without a doubt that they had all been swindled in a similar fashion.

“What the fuck is happening?” Mockingbird hissed, throwing his glass to the floor as the scotch splashed across the carpet. “One of my private accounts has been tanked! Gutted! Fucking robbed!”

Maroni pulled his lips back into a snarl, “Same here! Fuck! The account I used yesterday. That sneaky fuck Nygma is behind this and I’m going to find him, boys.”

“Pull our resources! I’m going to kill that red-haired fuck.” Richard added with a roar.

“Red hair?” Mockingbird face was confused despite the rage, “You mean black hair? Short little fucker too, only about 5ft? Weasley as fuck.”

“What?” Squinting, Richard shook his head. “No. He was wiry with red hair, probably about my height and thin as an addicts piss. Sal?”

His voice so low that both men struggled to pick up on his exact words, Maroni growled his own description.

“Brown hair. Slicked back. Slight build on him. Had a stupid cane with him. I even got the bastard on record.”

Snatching out a voice recorder from a nearby desk drawer, Maroni fiddled with it before clicking play on the recorder as all three men stared at it with narrowed eyes.

“-an excellent choice, Mr Maroni! I admire your taste in being able to pick up on a good deal when it comes your way. So, let’s get down to business and I can be on my way. Shall we say around $10 million as an investment? With that I cou-”

His heart racing at the familiar voice, Richard saw a similar look of rage on Mockingbirds’ face as he listened to the recording.

“That’s him!” Mockingbird grunted, his fists clenched against his lap. “That’s the smart-mouthed cunt.”

“How the fuck can that be the same man we all met?” Richard asked reasonably, rage giving way to confusion. “Sure, he could wear a wig or change his clothes, but his height? He wasn’t a fucking magician. This shouldn’t be a fucking riddle. How much did he take from you?”

Directing the question to both men, the grave looks he received in response no doubt mirrored his own. If their loss was as great as his own then they were looking at an easy collective loss of over a hundred million. A hundred million dollars, gone in a puff of smoke.

All dirty.

All untraceable.

As it was designed to be.

It was a perfect theft.

“Play the bastards voice again, Sal.” Mockingbird hissed. “I want it committed to memory so I can remember to have his tongue ripped out when we catch the prick.”

Thick fingers pressing the play button of the audio recorder, Maroni startled in place as the casual conversation which had previously been loaded on the device was replaced by a loud, cackling laughter – the rising cacophony of Edward’s mirth making all three men shiver in place as something dark curled around the joyful sound and rattled them to their cores.

Richard Madison was a crook, but he was no fool, and, as Mockingbird fixed himself with the sign of the cross, Richard could not shake the furious anxiety which seared in his chest as he realised that something evil had held counsel with him in his office yesterday and that his money was gone somewhere he did not dare to follow.

[gabessquishytum]

Penniless Artist Dream doesn't have a choice but to take a position as house staff/live-in tutor for Widower Hob's Robin/sell the last of his art supplies for the livery for the job, and while he knows he didn’t have a choice, working on anything not his art makes him very sad.

And he's convinced that Master Gadling (No, Dream is not going to call him Hob) only gave him the position out of pity - which Dream can't abide.

Hob thinks Dream is fantastic! A fantastic artist and person; and so good with Robin. Hob doesn't know how, but he's going to figure out a way for Dream to start doing his art again....Hob's okay if Robin becomes an artist. The finger paintings and hand turkeys that Dream has him making are so great! Hob has kept all of them.

I can't decide if this is Regency-y or Modern Times-y, because Robin+Dream Art would live in a place of honor on Hob's fridge; but Old Time-y Hob getting all the canvases framed at expense and put in places of honor all over the house,,,,,that's totally a thing too.

AND when Dream finally gets back to his art and does a best selling gallery series with Robin's little Gadling handprints all in them,,,Hob would give it to him soooooo good.

Omg. We absolutely need artist Dream with Hob as his patron!! And lil Robin as his biggest fan!! And hey, I cant resist a little regency au in my life *winks at @seiya-starsniper *

Dream is a good tutor, but Hob can see that he's an even better painter. He wants to see Dream thrive and flourish! And so he causally offers him a commission: he wants a painting of a particular view from one of his favourite spots on his estate. Dream is hesitant at first, but Hob persuades him gently. Robin is still quite little, so he doesn't need Dream to be teaching him all the time. Hob can take him out for rides and play with him while Dream works on his art! He's missed playing with his little man anyway, so really Dream will be doing him a huge favour. And so, mostly because the money is too good to resist, Dream gives in.

He paints a magnificent landscape and Hob gushes about how much he loves it. He hangs it in the most important place in the house and makes all his guests look at it. He offers Dream more commissions and Dream can't resist Hob’s puppyish enthusiasm. He paints and paints and teaches Robin at the same time, until the boy is quite the budding little artist. Hob is so proud!

He even suggests that they should send one of Dream’s pictures off to the royal exhibition in London. Dream is very hesitant but Hob is persuasive, and he's got nothing to lose: Hob is paying all the fees. Dream just has to wait and see. When they find out that Dream’s painting is going on display, Hob pulls Dream into his arms and squeezes him, practically lifting him off the ground! He can't wait to take Dream and Robin to see the exhibition! No doubt, he's got it bad for his artist.

They make love for the first night in Hob’s London home, trying to be quiet so nobody will hear. Dream puts his lovely slim fingers in Hob’s mouth and muffles his moans into Hob’s chest, both of them completely floating away on a wave of love and joy. Hob wakes in the morning to the sight of Dream, sketchbook in hand, drawing out his naked form. They're both covered in charcoal by the time they're finished.

Dream isn't exactly a roaring success in London, but he picks up a few commissions from those who saw his painting at the exhibition. It's a huge improvement on his former situation, and he has plenty of room to grow. Although it may be difficult to persuade Hob to let anyone else buy the paintings - he's a liiiiittle possessive. And he'll always worship everything Dream creates <3

[silverview]

maybe the details of art are common knowledge, but i only read up about it yesterday. it's interesting! it opened in the west end in 96 & was something of a popular hit

it's about three old friends who fall out when one of them buys an expensive painting that's an almost-blank white canvas (a quiet night in); one of them aggressively disapproves, calling it pretentious; and the third is caught in the middle trying to keep the peace

had a ton of casts – a new one every three months. (the effect of this is interesting – more on that below.) tlog were selected to be the last lot before it closed in 02. if you don't already know, who do you suppose played each role? it has nothing to do with the weirdly deceptive promo pics. answers & more below the cut

mark played the friend who buys the painting, steve played the one who disapproves, and reece played the guy caught in the middle. i wonder how that decision was made. i wonder if they considered any alternative configurations (bf had steve & reece switched, which i think makes a lot of sense). as always i'm like. but what does the character say about YOU

they got mixed reviews. nearly every review singles out reece's delivery of this monologue, though they disagree on whether it was good or not. perhaps surprisingly, they don't uniformly characterise it (or his performance in general) as particularly angry. not to be dramatic but i would kill and die to have seen it, just that monologue alone

so below i've collected the most interesting parts of surviving reviews. the last one is my fav. some of them have interesting things to say on the effect of the rotating cast, sort of the opposite of the in9 meta-character effect, which i think is pretty funny & fitting

BBC

Reece Shearsmith is a little too giddy with Yvan's furious diatribe about his impending wedding - the laughs are landing so hard that some others are being lost in the process. But he is a particularly touching and vulnerable go-between, desperately sitting on the fence in the conflict that erupts between his friends Serge (Mark Gatiss) and Marc (Steve Pemberton), and finding - as you do - that those who sit on fences are liable to get splinters.

GUARDIAN

[A] play as bland and flimsy as this requires actors who are not only heroically talented but who also have formidable technical skills. Pemberton, Gatiss and Shearsmith don't. They are likeable, even mildly engaging but you are always aware that they are putting on a performance. What's more, they are far less funny than the two other casts I've seen. Shearsmith, for example, flunks the timing of his long monologue so instead of making an audience rock with waves of laughter, he gets only one big laugh right at the end. The silences in the evening, in particular the famous olive scene, are not eloquent, just empty.

THEATREGUIDE

I've heard, though, that other casts have had other dynamics. With some, it plays as light comedy, satirising everyone's pretensions to high passions. Others make it a touching study in the fragility of friendship and all three men's hitherto-unrealised need for it. The cast changes every three months or so [...] Just be prepared for the fact that the show you see will be different in tone and effect from the one your friends saw last year, and will probably be a glib skating over the emotional issues and implications it raises. [...] And while the laidback, indeed colloquial, approach of Mark Gatiss (perky Serge), Steve Pemberton (laconic Marc) and Reece Shearsmith (wickedly neurotic Yvan) may not be to everyone's taste, it's undeniably perfect casting to complete the spectrum of wall-to-wall talent that's made the show such a feature of London's theatrical landscape. [...] Playing cheekily with rhythms of speech and timing, they create a very English rendition of what is essentially a French play, substituting the de rigueur dramatic devices and flourishes with frighteningly real personalities that transcend the dramatic crutch of Yasmina Reza's Continental-style philosophizing text and sub-text. Admittedly the first ever cast of Courtenay, Finney and Stott all those years ago set the benchmark for the production (though I found them yawnsome and wooden) - and the League have the advantage of tapping into the accumulated performances that followed.

i think "laidback," "colloquial," "cheeky," "English" and "real" might be euphemisms for northern – more on that below

CIX

Having now seen��Art three or four times (to be honest, I forget which), I've begun to muse that in some strange way it's a metaphor for itself. It's not just the performance dynamics, our impression of the trio's relationship, that varies from cast to cast... it's the very sense of how much real content there is in Reza's play, of whether it takes its thematic concerns about inherent versus attributed qualities (whether of a painting or a person) very far or not. In a sense, the performers are the series of diagonal white lines painted on to the white canvas of the play. And like the lines in the painting on stage (or so we're told), they're not pure white: some are vaguely yellow, some are sort of ochre-ish... In the case of the League, the bizarrely unrelated publicity images make clear that what's hoped for is a kind of fake-blood crimson tinge. So although there's no real indulgence, director Jennie Darnell allows the three to turn in a slight caricature of the naturalism with which the piece has usually been played, that little unreality often seen in the kind of sketch comedy where the group cut their teeth. The elegant apartment set is a world away from the League's fictional town of Royston Vasey, but the casting of the individual members plays to respective strengths familiar from their various screen guises. As Serge, who has paid 200,000 francs for the picture, Mark Gatiss exudes an appropriately smug and supercilious cleverness. As Marc, who faces off against Serge by declaring the canvas "shit", Steve Pemberton is more mercurial, with an air of suppressed violence. Reece Shearsmith, the relatively cuddly one [sic], succeeds in focusing audience identification on Yvan, the less smart piggy-in-the-middle. All three are of course skilled performers, and you can see the rapport gained from up to fifteen years' collaboration in, for instance, the way Gatiss and Pemberton trade facial "mugs" as they first consider the painting. However, this very affinity with each other enables them to skim over deeper elements in the play. When Shearsmith gabbles out Yvan's great bewildered set-piece about the complications of his wedding arrangements, we applaud the high-speed delivery but don't pick up enough of what he says to engage with Yvan's travails.

kissing this reviewer on the mouth for specifically describing what he thinks their respective strengths are & especially for describing reece as THE CUDDLY ONE like... idk if it shows but i'm obsessed with how people see them, and how they see themselves & each other

EVENING STANDARD

Not so much a piece of headline-grabbing stunt casting as three trained actors flexing their thespian muscles [...] bona fide drama graduates, not comedy chancers. This immediately shows, from their poise, projection and presence. Only the dimple-chinned Pemberton as intolerant Marc comes close to his rogues' gallery of BBC2 personae during moments of rage when he cannot come to terms with Serge's purchase of an overpriced minimalist painting. By contrast, Mark Gatiss as the punctilious, pretentious Serge is the epitome of restraint, as cool as his sharp, charcoal suit. The comic moments are all in context. Shearsmith, as the boyish Yvan, is increasingly troubled by his imminent nuptials. This eventually spills out in a breathless pseudo-Pythonesque rant against marriage that is as funny to witness as it is difficult to say. But throughout, the trio respect Reza's text, sidelining their insatiable appetite for the grotesque that has made their their brand of humour so distinctive. This may, however, be problematic. Having sold out in the West End with their sketch show a couple of years ago, some of the threesome's intensely passionate fans may see Art as a follow-up and feel shortchanged. The eye-catching poster may compound the deception, the chopper, axe and chainsaw being wielded suggesting some Grand Guignol flourishes which never materialise.

BBC AGAIN

The northern accents do not quite ring true in the sophisticated setting of a Paris apartment and often lead to flat performances, where one gets the feeling their brand of wit is not quite enough to portray Parisian conceit. The strongest display by far comes from Mark Gatiss (Serge) - the eerie butcher in League of Gentlemen - as the tall, slightly effeminate doctor who acquires the painting, striking just the right balance of preciousness and acerbic wit. The diminutive Reece Shearsmith is adequate in his portrayal of Yvan, the put-down-upon soon-to-be-married stationer caught in the middle of the feud between his two friends. But the biggest disappointment comes from Steve Pemberton, who plays Marc, the critical compadre who takes Serge's indulgence for contemporary art as a personal slight. Pemberton, normally the trio's strongest performer, well-known for his brilliant turn as Pauline in the League of Gentlemen, seems ill at ease in the role. His northern persona cannot quite stretch far enough to inhabit the part of Marc, an angry homeopathic freak whose insecurity finds it hard to cope with his friend's show of independence over the painting. Like the painting, the play does not remain colourless throughout however. One of the highlights is Shearsmith's 10-minute tirade about the difficulties of coping with the women in his life ahead of his impending wedding.

yeah this one is definitely my favourite. casually calls them ALL scallies, then calls each of them out INDIVIDUALLY for being a) gay b) short c) shit. absolute legend. did they ever find this reviewer's body

related, from this article in the guardian:

"When we first did Art, a review said 'Yes, but can they act?' and that made me angry," said Shearsmith. "I remember thinking 'What have we been doing in The League of Gentlemen? It's not standup."

in 2013, reece said art was his favourite ever play to do. highlights from the replies