#BedSocks

[celestialprincesse]

🎤♡

Luck Be a Lady closes out the night for you with cheers and claps and whistles from patrons who think that your performance is something special, uniquely for them, like it's not something you do every night (except Tuesdays) without fail. Same songs, same accompaniments, just different faces in the crowd. All but one. Although, technically John isn't in the crowd amongst his skeezy patrons, he's holed away up in a VIP booth which no one can access apart from him, listening to you sing over a bourbon from a bottle that probably cost more than your rent.

Tonight has been a more tiring one. You can already feel your throat getting tickly and sinuses getting blocked, no doubt a nasty cold coming in. The constantly changing sleep schedule and cold winter banished to he outside of the oddly cosy casino probably don't help matters, either. Upon slipping backstage, you can't help but yearn for a hoodie and some sweats, maybe some fuzzy bedsocks and a pint of ice cream to top it all off, but no luck when the stage manager gives you a quiet "Boss wants to see you."

"John." You acknowledge upon walking into his lavish office, all dark stained wood and buttery leather, plopping yourself down on the chair opposite his own - and regretting it instantly at the way it only increases your desperation to curl up and sleep somewhere warm tenfold. "Bird." Your boss coos back, already taking the initiative to flick on the kettle for you, make you something comforting. "Chamomile or green?" "Chamomile, please." You hum in response, letting your chin rest in the crook of your palm as you weakly attempt to stifle a yawn.

You nurse the sturdy mug between your palms when it's handed to you, revelling in the peace and quiet of Johns office, far from prying eyes and too loud noise, all whilst he pours himself another bourbon and settles in his own high backed office chair.

"You sang beautifully tonight." Johns voice is a low rumble that settles in your bones and warms you from the inside out. "You sing beautifully every night, but tonight you sounded especially lovely."

"Thank you, sir." The mug of tea is warm in your hands as you curl a little further in on yourself, letting your lashes flutter shut against your cheeks for just a blissful moment. "John." He corrects with an almost encouraging sternness which has a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. "Thank you, John."

"You mentioned changing the setlist last week." The nonchalant observation of your boss has your eyes opening, meeting his eyes so blue that you'd happily drown in them. "Don't look so nervous, Bird. You're the singer, I trust your judgement. Tell me more."

"I just think that - we tend to get repeat customers, right? The regulars who come most nights." John gives an encouraging nod, inviting you to continue as he takes a sip of the golden liquor swirling in his crystal glass. "We do the same setlist almost every night, and I just thought that maybe it'd be a good idea to switch it up from time to time - keep things fresh, keep the customers coming in."

"I'm listening."

"Obviously we keep in some of the classics - the signatures; Luck Be a Lady, Art Deco, Summertime. But maybe we could also do some other stuff too?"

"Like?"

At that you give a little noncommittal shrug, taking a sip of your own drink, inhaling the deliciously fragrant steam. It only lulls you deeper into your tiredness, your longing for a hot bath and the comfort of your bed.

"Fleetwood Mac, Nina Simone, Duran Duran. Stuff that people are familiar with, y'know?" "You've spoken with the band about this?" "Mhm." "Write me up a setlist and I'll sort it."

John gives you an affectionate smile as he withdraws a cigar from the leather case on his desk, a lighter appearing between his fingers not a second later.

"You mind, Bird?" "S' no bother." "You take the underground home, that right?" "Yes, Sir." "John, Bird."

You huff out a quiet little laugh at his insistence, but give him a slow, understanding nod as you sip away at your tea, letting it soothe the irritation in your throat and warm your bones.

"I'll have a car take you home." "Sorry?"

Your obvious confusion has a smirk pulling at the corners of Johns mouth, the sides of his eyes crinkling at the sides. His hand finds yours, giving it a gentle squeeze, affectionate.

"You're cold and it's snowing out. I won't have my Songbird getting sick. What kind of a man would that make me, hm?" "I have a coat - I can always take a cab." "Or you could just let me look after you."

After a few minutes of contemplation, weighing up the thought of walking the half hour to the tube station in shoes very much not made for this weather, or giving in and letting your very attractive employer get you home safe, you give a little nod, a tired, grateful smile angled his way. Wordlessly, John leans back in his imposing chair, legs opening slightly, one hand keeping his cigar between his teeth whilst the other pats the top of his thigh in a silent invitation. It's a tactical choice on his part, a gesture which you can easily ignore, or take him up on.

The sound of your shoes tapping across the floor hits you before your actions do, and yet you can't help but sag into the warmth of his lap, curl into the hand he places so carefully on your cheekbone like a contented cat. John replaces his cigar on the pretty glass ashtray in order to pick up his bourbon, raising it to your parted lips, tipping it gently back, letting the honey coloured alcohol warm your tongue.

"My grandma used to say that Whiskey cured colds." He hums, running his fingers through your hair with gentle reverence, happy to see you relax into the comfort he's wanted to provide you with for so long.

"People also used to say that lead made for good foundation." You quip back affectionately, yawning as you lean back into his touch, letting your head rest on his suited shoulder.

"Very funny, Bird."

[favouriteconstellation]

take me back to the start

pairing: simon riley x fem reader

synopsis: simon is deployed to fight in a proxy war in lebanon, with christmas nearing - its weird you get a 2am call from him when he’s supposed to be fighting.

warnings: mentions of war, guns, violence, cliche meet cute, elf being named as the best christmas movie :), major character death :(

note: so im actually sick in the head, angst for a tuesday night felt right though. love you all, we can pretend this is a hea or maybe i can rewrite it as one? stay safe pumpkins! for ultimate angst play the scientist by coldplay. https://open.spotify.com/track/75JFxkI2RXiU7L9VXzMkle?si=DJVMJFadQ3-ixAJjib3i6w

a meet cute is what they call it in those cheesy romance movies: “(in a film or television programme) an amusing or charming first encounter between two characters that leads to the development of a romantic relationship between them.” it was too cliche to be a coincidence. you had a gun in your hands, pointed at your target, focus in your open eye as you shot and missed.

the laughing clown on the carnival stand wall. the loud sound of metal clinking as you hit a tin can instead rang in your ears and you sighed softly. you felt a presence next to you, confidence exuding from him. embarrassment flushed your cheeks, expecting a chuckle or a tongue in cheek phrase. but he spoke softly to you, despite his gruff manchester accent.

“first time handling a gun?” the man asked and you turned to look up at him. 6’5. holy shit?

“is it that obvious..?” you sighed softly, laughing and covering your face in shame.

“not a bad thing love, you wanna learn how to shoot one properly? i can help ya.”

“you shoot guns? are you even qualified to do that?”

“you’d be surprised.”

“yes please..” you smiled softly, laughing at your attempts as he nodded, walking behind you and putting his hands on your hips, lining you up properly.

“this okay?”

“mhm” you said softly, focused on the task at hand, not his huge hands on your hips. you looked back up to meet the eyes of the teenager behind the jump, i mean obviously this was a scam but you thought it would be fun. he looked about 15, can of coke in hand, gaze elsewhere clearly not wanting to work at the carnival of all places.

simon’s foot moved between the small gap between your ankles and kicked one of them to the side slightly and you yelped, but he braced you in his grip, a chuff escaping his lips.

“now dont be gettin skittish when you’re holdin a gun, not a good look, huh?” you nodded laughing softly as he lined your hands up.

“uh-uh, bend this one.” he tapped your left up softly and you bent it, the other one straight.

“atta girlll, lookin like a sharp shooter now. m’kay, need ya to pretend you’re cutting a slice of pie, one arm bent, one straight, focus on the target and adjust your aim by moving your arm softly up and down across to the target like you’re cutting pie.” you smiled to yourself at the sweet analogy and you complied.

“slow- slow..” he added softly and you slowed your pace.

“shoot.” he spoke softly and you hesitated

“i really dont think im gonna get it-”

“shoot for me love.” this time you didnt hesitate, but you yelped as a loud “YOU WON!” automated winning message rung out through the speakers of the carnival machine.

“gosh!” you sighed, clutching your heart and laughing, shocked from the sudden noise. he laughed with you. the rest of that night was spent on the beach pier, long after dark where numbers were exchanged and names were shared. a year later he put a ring on it. mrs. riley.

it was the first snow of the month. 23 days and counting until christmas, and you could not contain the excitement. tucked up in your king sized bed, covered in blankets, bedsocks, flannel pajamas and the weighted blanket you used when simon was on deployment. it was comforting, made you feel like he was right there beside you: waking up next to his blonde stubble pressed against your neck as he rested on your shoulder. it was 2am, you had just stayed up to watch elf, because its a fact that's the best christmas movie to exist, and those idiots who say home alone clearly suck the fun out of things. because m&m spaghetti? yes please. 11 more days until you could run into his sweaty grimy arms, being poked by his tactical gear and not giving two shits, because your husband would be home. christmas could finally come. you tossed and turned thinking about holding your husbands cheeks in your hands, he was probably beyond exhausted, deployed in lebanon, you weren’t allowed to know, so you didn’t ask, but he called you when he could: always during the late hours into the night for him, so he wouldnt wake you in the middle of the night. a gentleman. time zone differences sucked.

you huffed as you flipped your pillow over to the cool side and laid your head down annoyed at your inability to fall asleep. your phone’s screen lit up the room, your lockscreen making you smile, a photo of simon teaching you how to chop wood in your backyard, your head was back, laughing as you wore a typical ‘lumberjack’ flannel because you thought they were sexy, simon refused much to your demise to wearing one as well. the lockscreen was replaced with his name, an incoming call. your eyebrows furrowed, it was late. but you supposed it had been 3 days since he last called, this was probably because he just got access to reception. you lazily reached over, hitting click and closing your eyes, falling back onto the pillow and smiling when you heard his voice.

“didn’t think you’d answer, you should be asleep, baby.” he spoke into the phone.

“always answer for you, si. what, late night booty call?” you giggled into the phone, you were joking of course, but you wanted to hear him laugh. and he did.

“hilarious one, you are.” he shook his head, laughing heartily.

“mhmm thats why you married me.”

“thats why i married you.” he parroted back to you, softer this time.

“i missed you, its been 3 days.”

“i know baby, im sorry- it’s been tight here.” you sat up softly, leaning up against the pillows

“is everything alright?” you asked a little concerned.

“yeah. uh-” you heard him wince softly, hearing shuffling in the background.

“si? what’s- are you hurt? where’s johnny?” you said seriously, eyebrows furrowed.

“baby..need you to listen to me, can ya do that fr’ me?” he said pained.

“simon?” you choked out, out of bed, pacing out the bedroom.

“mission went south. i uh-..” he paused and you held onto your phone for dear life. “i don’t think im gonna make it back to you sweetheart.” he almost whispered. you didnt respond for a moment, choked sobs filling the room, and his end of the call.

he was pressed up against a sandstone wall, his men were killed in action, he avenged them, but at what cost? he lay there, shot in the abodmen, cuts all over him, laboured breathing as he held his stomach.

“nono- no.. baby, i dont- we cant- .. i dont.. we’re running outta time, yeah? cant have my last time hearing ya be hearing your sobs.” he began to break down, his voice shaky. you wailed.

“you cant do this! you cant- how, i dont- im not even going to be able to bury you! this isnt fair, we were.. this wasnt supposed to happen.”

“sweetha’rt- please listen to me. dont have time. we dont have time” his voice pitched as he winced in pain. “fuck.” he choked out, head thrown back. “i love you, you know that? more than anything in this fucked up little world. you’re keeping me going here.” he said softly into the phone.

your hands were cradling your head, ear pressed to the phone as you accepted this fucked reality that the cards dealt you with. you finally found it. safety, love all for it to be ripped out from underneath you for some fucking proxy war he had been tasked to fight in. his stocking hung up by the fireplace next to yours, already filled with new cologne and underwear.

“i love you- iloveyou more than i could even put into words. please simon, please dont do this to me.”

“i dont have a choice lovie. you’re my strong girl, you can be brave for me, yeah?” you didnt speak into the phone, too pained.

“honey.” he said sternly.

“i promise i will be, of course i will be.” you responded breathing erratically.

“tell me about today.” he said sternly.

“what? no, simon.. thats”

“please. need to hear you speak to me.”

“i-.. i um, i got the oil changed today for the car, and i know you said you wanted to do it because i get ripped off at the mechanics but i couldnt wait… i made gingerbread today, and i gave some to the next door neighbours because im used to you eating what i bake within seconds, and it was too much for one.” he smiled softly into the phone, you could hear it in his voice.

“what i would give for some of your fuckin gingerbread right now.” you sniffled softly, nodding.

“it snowed. it snowed today, a whole foot. i thought of you.” you smiled into the phone, your nose dripping and your cheeks streaked as you blubbered.

“you’re in the snow, im in a desert.” he laughed weakly at the irony.

“simon i cant do this, pretend this is a normal conversation, i cant let you die. dont die, dont leave me here.” you wailed loudly, clutching at your heart.

you could hear him sigh, not out of frustration but out of defeat, he cursed the fucking suicide mission he had been sent on. what about this shit fight was honorable? this wasn’t war, this was just killing for the sake of killing.

“yes you can. you coulda been a fuckin soldier, stubborn as one. you’re so strong baby, so strong. you can do it, for me you can.” he said sternly. “baby i-.. i gotta.. i gotta go soon..getting cold.” he added.

“close your eyes” you whispered into the phone softly. “close your eyes and pretend you’re with me, its okay honey. you can rest now.” you tried to be strong for him, even though your voice was shaking.

“mm.. beside you. does the house still smell like gingerbread?”

“yes” you breathed

“i can smell it. when i close my eyes and imagine… i betcha the kitchens covered in icing sugar and gumdrops.” you laughed, hiccuping as you tastes your own tears.

“i love you baby. im sorry i brought you into this. not how i wanted to go. you know that.”

“i know, dont apologise. its okay. you cold?”

“colder.” blood loss.

“i know. its okay. rest, you can.. you can let go.”

“dont hang up.”

“of course i wont. not leaving you si. you’re stuck with me.” he laughed weakly, and went quiet.

“still with me honey?” you asked, fear in your voice. a grunt of approval rung through the phone. running out of time.

“i love you simon riley. more than anything in this fucked up little world.”

the line went quiet. he died peacefully, hearing your sweet words, phone cradled into his chest as he drew his final breath.

p.s. while you did never get to bury his body (it was never found), you were given his badges from the base and his spare dog tags.

“S. RILEY"

[red-ibis-red]

Once I skulked wistfully through dim streets, aching after this unknown, hoping to pass by unnoticed in my drab dress and lopsided shoes with high heels, hoping, thus surreptitiously, to come upon it. But I was afraid, I was timid, and I did not believe, I hoped.

I thought it would be like a bird in the hand, not a wild sea that treated me like flotsam.

But I have become a part of the earth: I am one of its waves flooding and leaping. I am the same tune now as the trees, hummingbirds, sky, fruits, vegetables in rows. I am all or any of these. I can metamorphose at will.

Do you need some joy or love? Are you sodden leaves in some forsaken yard? Are you deserted or cold or starved or paralysed or blind? Handfuls and handfuls for you, and to spare!

Make them up into bedsocks, teacosies, cushions against the cold, for their electricity is perpetual warmth, and can contaminate everything, and build at one touch a new and adorable world.

This is Today. This is where all roads strove to lead, all feet to attain.

—Elizabeth Smart, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

[miidnighters]

get to know the mun.☺

what's your phone wallpaper: it's one of our wedding photos lmao

last song you listened to: weatherman by zach hood

currenly reading: I am actually not reading anything rn? I paused one of my poirot books halfway thru and I have an elsie silver book waiting but

last movie: I like. never watch movies anymore? like the answer is the eras tour movie but something with a plot? we don't know her

last show: I watched some leverage w my dad recently. rewatching criminal minds again. mostly we've been watching youtube

what are you wearing right now?: like, three layers of clothes and bedsocks and a balnket

how tall are you?: 5'4, apparently. 162.5 cm

piercings / tattoos?: I have 14 tattoos and 12 piercings (I used to have more rip my nose, tongue and nips but had to take them out for surgery). 6 of the piercings are in my earlobes tho so it's not actually that impressive

glasses / contacts: Iam supposed to wear glasses while I'm on the computer but....

last thing you ate?: I just ate a strawberry iced donut lmao

favourite colour: lemon/sunshine yellow!

current obsession: I'm about to watch bridgerton s3 so

do you have a crush right now?: I do and it's terminal (i'm married and it's on my husband)

favourite fictional character: I have always had THE softest spot for Anne Shirley, ever since I first read the books at like 8 or 9 years old

last place you travelled: I'm guessing my regular trips to the coast don't count so I think it would have been going north to Cairns to see my husband's family? we're going again this year for my younger brother-in-law's eighteenth

TAGGED BY: @whileurmine TAGGING: @sorrowsick | @epistrefei | @draconisa | @platiinums | @vitalphenomena

[lasudio]

VeronaHills, Round Nine: Monty (B)

Antonio woke with the birdsong. He'd dreamed of the will-o’-the-wisp again, as he did nearly every moon.

Putting on slippers slipped his mind; he simply allowed the lawn's dew to seep into his bedsocks as he peered into every bundle of bush and branches. The wisp had been hard to miss before, all amorphous amber, lighting up the garden. Perhaps an ember was lying in wait to be reignited by Antonio's presence. He hoped and prayed and wandered his way through the dawn until Ursula snuffled at his feet and alerted him to daybreak.

Antonio went through the motions of drizzling oil in the pan and cracking eggs and bidding the twins a very good morning. It was a positively ho-hum routine, until Viola cried out from her room.

"Fuck! Fire!"

Fatherly instinct propelled Antonio in the direction of his daughter's distress. The ashes of Montague sat on his shoulders, cold and dark. He crashed into the doorframe and took in a breath of air that was untainted by smoke.

The wisp was bigger than before. It crackled and popped with energetic vigour. Antonio saw Hero, shimmying and sparkling under the disco ball at their wedding. He felt the heat rising from their bodies as they met on the dancefloor. He heard Viola screaming at him to get away.

"It's alright, tesoruccio. It's your mamma, she's come back to us!"

Sebastian had appeared and handed the kitchen fire extinguisher to Viola. Antonio threw his hands up in the air. "She's a wisp! It's not a fire, please don't put her out, please! I promise I'm okay!" His face was damp with tears as he threw out his limbs, all unlicked by flame. The twins shared a look and Viola lowered the extinguisher.

Nothing was burned. The wisp appeared; she appeared, danced around them, and slipped out a window crack with a sudden gust.

The next day, Antonio had his birthday and the twins moved to Mission University without so much as a "what the hell was that?" - because deep down, they knew.

The ghost of Hero appearing on the eve of familial change was just a fact - one steeped in faerie folklore - but a fact nonetheless.

[gehenna-calling]

Motion and Night for Desdemona & Lyssa!

motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

desdemona is very lucky to have celerity on her side - she moves very elegantly, and also very quietly, which means she has a tendency to jumpscare people who don't hear her coming. the word i'd probably apply to her way of movement is probably "swanning". she walks like she's on camera all the time. her clothing tends towards the impractical - tight skirts or very long flowy ones, sizeable heels - and she tends to avoid actually using the celerity speed she's capable of to avoid messing up her outfit or hair.

the most notable thing about lyssa's movement is that she jingles with every step. girl wears so much jewellery that it's a wonder obfuscate works. because she wears a lot of flowy oversized clothing, it tends to billow around her as she walks. kind of jellyfish vibes, or she's been compared to a lionfish! she's not particularly reactive or quick on her feet, so she tends to just walk at a regular pace even when there's a crisis going on. she'll get there when she gets there

night: What does your OC wear to sleep? Do they have a favorite pair of PJs, or are they more the birthday suit type?

desdemona is very much the "elaborate lacy nightgown that looks great covered in blood" type of vampire. as with most of her wardrobe, i feel she has a lot of expensive nightgowns she rotates through. she also absolutely owns one of those fancy chiffon dressing gowns with the fluffy trim, because of course she does.

lyssa is quite likely to fall asleep just wearing her regular clothes, but if she's changing to sleep she'll be wearing old-fashioned button-up pajamas. probably mismatched. she'd also go in for bedsocks and definitely a sleep mask with eyes drawn on it.

[darknessontheedgeoftowndyke]

I love you pillows I love you quilts I love you bedsocks I love you fairy lights I love you bedside lamp I love you cardigans I love you soft music I love you cat cuddled up on my bed

[thejadedjester]

They have to be #BedSocks which are big and knitty and maybe lined with fluffy material, and just for the cold time of year.

okay lets settle this

[typellblog]

when it's cold do you do anything like wearing socks in bed to keep your feet warm?

I do have some bedsocks I use sometimes it's usually not that cold tho

[deeisace]

I shouldn't go outside in bedsocks but I can't be bothered to do Shoes atm

[ladyofthelake]

Merlin looked so yummy and cute when he killed that shee in his pjs lmao <3 plus his massive bedsocks are adorable

[a-tall-spatula]

the best date

is a hole in my wellies, seeping into a soggy sock,

because she has my un-holey pair.

puddles stolen from neighbours driveways, because they're bigger there,

they like the splash.

an umbrella tilted to the side, in her direction,

they don't like the rain.

two gloves on four hands, because the other two keep each other warm,

held close together as we walk.

and

bedsocks, perfectly folded,

exactly where I know she looks.

[flyhalved]

got to work and someones hung a pair of waterproof trousers on the wall. i cant judge bc im wearing bright pink bedsocks but what

[red-ibis-red]

Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket, I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday Roast.

—Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood

[chaosreigner869]

Blamigam bedsocks knockwurst

[hellssangel]

tea and turkish delight, marzipan-scented soap, fresh roses, cashmere bedsocks, cosy mysteries, cognac-scented candles, old hollywood, jazz, and blues.