#Gemstone Tiles

[lovelyjewels26]

Beaded necklace , necklace for girls, Black Fire necklace,17 Inch, black stone

[snailspng]

Random PNGs, part 186.

(1. Painting by Edwin Austin Abbey c. 1904-11, 2. Ship from "Imaginary Flying Machines" by Studio Ghibli, 3. Pomegranate sculpture, 4. Opal ring, 5. "Sea horse" pottery tile by Kenneth Townsend, 6. Mirror (?), 7. "Tutti Frutti" gemstone necklace from Cartier, 8. Victorian ceramic box by Christopher Dresser, 9. Abalone pearl)

[beanlot]

MISTRESS

sevika x maid!reader

at first, you were her maid. but master liked you just enough to make you her mistress.

word count: 4.0k

genre: smut

warnings: amab!sevika, age gap, sevika cheats on her wife, slight spanking, spit, vibrator use, master/servant relationship, breeding kink

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“what a gorgeous colour.” her fingers ironing the corners of her lips, mahogany lipstick cleansing from the cedar skin in superlative fashion. she was objectively sumptuous, a classy woman surrounded by old money and platinum basin sinks; an easy life enough that she didn’t even have to raise a finger to apply honeydew exfoliation masks to her glistening skin. “don’t you think?” she stares at you through the mirror, umber eyes fanned by silky lashes - lids glossed with everlasting lustre of golden butterscotch, tempted to believe you could see your reflection if stood close enough.

“yes, madam.” you nod, fingers clasped onto a hanger, vintage dress glittered with merlot gemstones fluorescent against the sapphire tiles of the floor. you weren’t lying, it was a gorgeous colour. and madam wasn’t particularly sinister against you, or even sinister at all..

“you filthy pig.”

“don’t you dare touch my antiques.”

“look at you, fix this messy hair. i will not have guests over whilst you look like a disgusting hooker.”

mostly.

“vika loves this colour.” she sighs, french-tipped nails tapping against the argyle jewellery around her neck. her scent of prevailing pumpkin spice suffocating you momentarily when she turns around, taking the hanger from your grip; you’ll watch as she lays the dress against her body, feminine curves of her hips accentuated through the garnet jewels as she subtly twirls around. she hum, lashes batting through the scrutiny before she shoves the hanger into your chest hurriedly. “be a dear for me and tighten the waist.”

and sure, you don’t expect the best of treatment regardless. you were on the back burner, disposable in every aspect with your dull shirt collar; onyx skirt tucking in your buttons and the driest of hands from the constant polishing. “yes ma-“ a shrill bark interrupts you, and it’s when you turn around that you see a woolly poodle, pastel frilly dress, wiggling through the door.

“ugh, pinkiebear! what are you doing, my baby snuffles?” and just like that, as madam scoops the pup into her arms, you’re left alone in the bathroom. moroccan rose handwash beside her gold-plaited cosmetics, pomegranate face serums and emerald earrings; you’d wondered what the oils would feel like on your fingertips, the creaminess against your skin soaking with pulchritude. it feels like bait when you see that one tub is already open, pale watermelon serum calling your fucking name - she won’t notice, there’s no way.

so you tenderly swab at the surface, the velvety touch on your skin.. it already makes you feel pretty, glammed up, like her. and the dysphoria only amplifies ironically when you massage the pearly ointment into your cheek, the winsome highlight when you turn your head not going unnoticed.

wine glass and plate in hand as you approach sevika’s master’s study, nudging the door with your shoulder. it was smoked salmon and caviar, and if you weren’t so fond of her, it would be rational to believe she was intentionally inflicting the purgatory of starvation onto you. but she was not resentful, her muffled tone of come in prompting you to amble inside; the air murky from her cigar smoke, illuminated by dim apricot from the scattered lamps. and she’s there, with every inhale, you can decipher the ocherous flame between her lips - her fingers clearing her desk when she sees the wine bottle tucked under your arm.

“thank you, darling.” she murmurs within the fever dream, fumes seeping through her lips to which she fans out when you’re beside her desk. it’s elixir to taste, and although it’s toxin on your tongue, it’s contradicting - plate and wine glass settled against the oak, careful to avoid her disarray of books and orderly inklings when you pour the currant. she examines this, raising an eyebrow before tapping the tobacco against an ashtray. “are you hungry?”

fuck, you have no idea.

“no, master.” you shake your head, because even though you could feel your organs internally booing inside from the withering, you were under an obligation of being polite. and hell, it was reasonable for her to concern herself with your wellbeing per se: she was older, much older; yet you merely took it as manners, sympathy that you weren’t born into such opulence. so when you finish pouring, tenderly placing the bottle beside master’s glass - it’s paralysis when her coercive words refrain you from leaving the room as you intended. “come here.” she instructs, virescent globes eclipsed with hues of oxblood when you maintain eye contact from your awkward distance. she’s manspreading, white button-up loose against her chest, and the uncertainty only amplifies when master’s tone becomes demanding. “come.. here.”

so you shuffle towards her, and you’re not sure if it’s the nicotine or the peril brunt of her influential stare, but your blood pressure raises when you stop - that maybe you’d said something wrong, gotten a wine she didn’t like, or you were vicariously responsible for the chef’s error. but the neurotic thoughts plummet when you see her slice an intricate cube of the salmon, fork held out to you with sincerity.

“try it, it’s good for you.” she advises, and you’re under automatism to obey - her fingers scraping against yours when you take the fork, examining the glassy block. you’re not sure what it’s seasoned with, only able to distinguish the honey glaze and sprinkle of pepper; you couldn’t even fucking describe what salmon tasted like, a luxury that your flimsy uniform never got to see up close. and you feel emotional when it finds itself between your teeth, erupting with foreign rich oils and glacé syrup.

you want to appreciate it, had you not interpreted the investigative glances she’s giving you. skeptical eyebrows dipping in, defining the droopiness of her lids and the eclipse of gunmetal in her narrowed pupils - they search your face, because there’s something about you that master just can’t pinpoint. “you’re glowing.” she mumbles, fingers branching out toward you and framing your jaw ever so tenderly; thumb stroking along the curves of your cheekbone, the familiar and velvety texture of your skin no stranger to master. “you’ve been using my wife’s stuff, haven’t you?”

great.

of course, how could you have been so recklessly fucking dense? you’d just swabbed a few thousands onto your face and expected that nobody would’ve been able to put two and two together, and now you’re stood here like a fucking embarrassment whilst her conquering globes assess you. master was going to obliterate you for even contemplating putting your filthy wilted fingers on her wife’s belongings, and you’re just waiting for her to call the chef over to slice you into little pepperonis and use your torso as a fucking piñata for her fancydancy din-

“looks good on you.” she mumbles, and the harmonising words nosedive into your stomach with more adamantine force than waiting for her to beat you to a pulp. her fingers streamlining down your jaw before she picks up her plate, ludic smirk concealing the mulberry on her lips as she offers her plate towards you. “don’t tell.”

you look back and forth, and it’s only when she nudges the porcelain into your stomach that you realise what she meant. she was only really interested in the wine, and within her hospitality, gave you something to eat for the night.

───────────

“your muscles are all contracting, just relax.”

“i’m trying..”

“you should really look into tai-chi, saves me hours of making these for you.

i’ll be back tomorrow,

ice or magnesium for any muscle pain,

is that a chip in the wall?

anyway, i’ll see you tomorrow, my lovely~.”

you’d been waiting outside her room for about forty minutes, folded blouse and dress shirts in hand; although you liked to consider yourself respectful of master’s private conversations, not even the bricky walls and thick interior of the hallways could muffle the massage therapist’s jarringly piercing voice - one that only amplifies when master’s door opens, a tiny woman pootling herself down the hall with a bowl of water, peppermint leaves floating within the misty pool.

it’s rosemary and eucalyptus when you inhale, frissons of sweltering air blossoming your way as the door closes over only slightly. but you’re prudent, you’re conditioned to be, waiting outside her door for her to have her few minutes of privacy - but she calls you in when she identifies your shadow against her marble tiles, eyes absentmindedly tracing the silhouette of your hips.

and when you walk in, nudging the door ever so slightly, she’s face-down on the master bed; surrounded by canary silk pillows and lime basil candles, her wine cellar visible from where you stand. you approach the palladium drawers, and whilst your job was plainsailing, the difficulty of having to avert your eyes from her bare back did it’s due diligence to make it just a little harder for you. but you stay silent nonetheless, the palatable glimmering against her burly shoulders, one that made you envy a massage therapist’s expertise as you organise her shirts.

“you have pain, master?” you mumble, clearing your throat when it starts to disintegrate at the mercy of her tensing shoulders, glorious muscle twitching. “my shoulders, darling. it’s not so bad.” she doesn’t move, and although you seem satisfied with the composed silence, the thought of leaving in it made your stomach sour.

“is there anything i can do?” you offer, graphite eyes piercing into your body when she turns her head against the pillow - you can tell she’s engrossed in those retrospective thoughts of hers by the way she’s zoning out, clouding globes that flutter over you before she pats the mattress.

“lay with me..” she mutters, black pepper fragrant when she inches away, leaving you a temptingly delectable space beside her. it feels wrong, and your ears can already feel the wrath of madam’s scream when she finds out you dared even the slightest courage to lay in her bed, beside her wife.

but master was at the top of the food chain.

so you reluctantly obey, not oblivious to the raw sensation of eagerness when her bare abdomen raises slightly from the mattress - she’s toned, noir curves that only excite the vim when you’re slithering into the space she’d left you. but it’s not enough to dilute your inhibitions, your body rigid when her fingers flutter against your waist; she notices this, intoxication when her whisper caresses against your ear. “relax, relax.” she whispers, the suggestive timbre diminishing you - she waits until you slump into the satin, plumose textures under your fingertips, before her arm cases over your waist and trails you against her bare chest. it’s morally profane, warmth from her breasts contagious on your spine, skin sweltering idyllically - kittenish and lewd and wow you’re getting horny.

it’s silent for a few minutes. but you feel dirty, her vanilla comfort something you ruined.

“you remind me of my wife when we first met.” the vanilla wisps against your jaw curdling into vulgarity when her fingers tenderly clutch at the hem of your skirt, and although one part of you feels like nothing more than a doll for her to use the one night her wife is out attending a dinner, another is relieved when the wintry air strikes your thighs.

“young,” her fingers lifting the skirt enough that her perverted eyes can search your hips, the way they embrace the black straps of your underwear.

“pretty,” her nails glissading against your inner thighs, forefinger sinking between them enough that they’re under automatism to separate. you try to convince yourself that it’s because you don’t want to get into trouble, disappoint that streak of high expectations you managed to leap over the past few weeks - but by the vim in your clit, it was disgustingly undeniable it was because fantasy was becoming reality.

“fertile.” she delicately taps your clothed clit, subtle sensitivity that already gets your hips rolling into her crude touch. her engagement ring flaring in your peripheral when her left hand slinks around your body, black opal glinting as her palm rests against your breasts. “look at me.” her lips tickling against your cheek as you turn to her, hues of predatory oxblood glossing over her lead pupils. she likes that she owns you, conditioned you to be her little pet, dominated your identity to nothing more than her servant.

so the overly obscene taste on her lips when she’d pressed her forehead against yours, skin searing with wealthy indecency was no shock. she was impulsive, lips against yours, unseemly sounds of anticipated smooches as you drink up the taste of peppermint. she wants to be delicate for you, but the instinct outlasting the grace when she hears you hum. you’re heedless of your sloppy grinding, shaky exhales which only worsen when she pulls away; her thumb draping your bottom lip down only slightly. jewels of her spit streamlining into your mouth, your tongue absorbing the droplets filthily. “pretty girl.” she swallows, eyes darting along your jaw, her spit slowly drizzling down your neck.

you want to tell her that this is wrong, that she’s a married woman, but the night already feels drilled into stone when her fingers manipulate the buttons on your chest, cleavage satisfying her sadistic eyes with every one coming undone. your shirt loosens, sinking down your back and accentuating the feminine enticement master was under whilst her fingers revel in the linen cotton of your bra, the straps cunningly draping off your shoulders. “aren’t you gorgeous, look at you.” she whispers, your breasts tingling when there’s nothing there to cover them anymore, her fingers folding your bra down to your stomach.

admiring the way your nipples harden under her fingertips, delicately pinching the responsive buds. you nod, because you expect her to want you to, flinching when you roll your hips against her sturdy thigh; thick imprint of her veiny cock paralysing you momentarily.

“lean over in that drawer.” she gestures to the bedside cabinet, and you’re sceptical when you lean over, your skirt hitching up ever so slightly. and if the humiliation of having your ass presented to her like a fucking showpiece wasn’t degrading enough, the barbaric strike of her palm against it was. you squeak, flinching necessarily - her palm easing the inflamed area intricately, before walloping back down onto your skin. you want to fucking weep, blinking through the blur of your tormented tears, opening the drawer to which a plaited vibrator lays.

“that’s the one.” she confirms, taking it from your fingers as you lay back into the mattress, ass ignited with scorching goosebumps from the brutish force behind her arms. you go to defend yourself, because honestly, you feel lower than the bottom of the food chain - you were no blossoming mighty oak, but rather a withering sunflower under her assertion.. but she knows what you’re about to say. “master, i haven’t do-“

“you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. i’ll make you feel good.” she sits up, and although she intends to comfort you, it only intimidates you further when her tongue wets her lips; fingers slewing the fabric of your underwear to the side and leaving your slit prey to her predacious stare, only amplifying when she unveils how truly drenched your folds are. but she doesn’t say anything, only leaning over whilst a bullet of her spit seeps between her lips and missiles itself against your clit.

you already feel numb, the heavenly pressure of seventh heaven when you hear the whirring of her vibrator, your thighs quivering with the company of your stimulated whines when the tip purrs against your clitoral hood. “that’s it, atta girl.” she praises, her breasts pressing themselves against your bare spine when she situated herself beside you again. it’s nirvana, humping against the vibrator so primitively, erogenous arcady to hear your incessant whimpers echo throughout the room. you’re sweating by now, at peace with the fire and brimstone breeding on your skin - but you want more, your fingers grazing over the stiff imprint of her desperate cock.

her breath is jagged, submerging the vibrator harder onto your clit, your ankles starting to twitch at the susceptibility. you’re not sure if it’s enough to make you come just yet, but that thought deteriorates when her finger glissades down your slit and streams itself inside of your hole. “fuck.. you’ve made my cock all hard.” she sighs against your cheek, your walls greeting her indiscriminately; spasming with every hum against your clit. she’s testing the waters, fingertips taking a liking to the spongy textures when she tenderly twines it upwards, the pornographic desire in your clit to orgasm more reckless than ever. but you’re not the only one suffering, because sevika is finding that her cock is actually starting to fucking hurt from the distress of not being able to just have her way with you again and again and again.

but she’s patient, finger gliding itself in and out of you; assaulting that carnal pit in your walls as your thighs tremble as she fucks you with them. instinctive sobs leaving your throat unmonitored, and honestly, you wouldn’t be able to describe it even if given a fucking thesaurus - sneezelike corkscrew ballooning itself inside your hips when she hooks another finger inside, arousing squelching with every hammer against your folds. “please..” you whisper, unbeknownst to the soreness in your fingers as they lock, clenching tightly on her belt.

and when she’s satisfied with how vulnerable you are under her, the sensitivity just right, she’ll admire the quavering of your hips and the tightening of your thighs before dragging the vibrator away from your clit. “huh?” you squeak, cunt clenching around her fingers at the sudden loss of her manipulation. you’re about to complain, wail about how much of a fucking tease she is, but she relieves the anguish by leaning over your thighs; her tongue replacing the device and doing its dirty work when it swipes over your hood, delving between your folds and schemingly flicking over your erect bud.

just like that, you’re shaking again, thigh hoisting itself up and planting itself on her bare, burly shoulder. your mewls of master twirling repeatedly in a rabbit hole of ecstasy when her damp lips envelop your clit and suck with cruelty, fingers maintaining their agonising operation; battering into you with precision and artsy discipline, like she’s done this too many times before.

but it’s dispiriting for her, because she wants to be a lovemaker for you, wants to appreciate you for the fine young woman you are - yet the throbbing in her cock conquers that yearning, and it’s then that she pulls away with such self-hatred. “are you gonna let me put my cock inside your cunt, darling?” she exhales, fingers slewing out of your brimming hole, selfishly drizzling your discharge over the mattress and coating over the sable leather of her belt when she goes to unbuckle it.

“yes. yes, master.” you comply, ultramarine daze when you blink; pixels of orchid blooming in your vision when you even did as much as look down to her belt. fingers tackling the every latch, submerging as they frame her veiny shaft - cock springing out and admittedly, inciting nothing more than disruptive thoughts of am i going to fucking live to see tomorrow after this.

she’s thick, and monumental.. fucking handcrafted by gods with such clarity. enough that all of that internal envy becomes more.. not envy, because you know this is gonna really fucking hurt, and you’re not liking how much she exceeds your expectations at the expense of what’s gonna happen to your poor fucking vagina. “do you still want this?” she murmurs when she notices the hues of uncertainty in your eyes, superficial doubt that she interprets easily - it’s an ego boost, artificial concern to conceal her everlasting inclination to ruin you. but you blink at her, flickering between her eyes and the slightly palatable mulberry tip of her cock, before you nod.

it would be cruel for her to nosedive straight into you, and even she knows this, her tip glissading through your folds and lubricated with your slick. she’s slightly sensitive, the warmth of your cunt only amplifying the immense throbbing, but she’s consistent this time - your clit rubbing against her head only instantaneously as she accustoms herself with your textures.

“this might hurt, my love, just a little.” she whispers against your jaw, fingers grappling at your hips as her own angles forward, tip insidious as it skims into your walls; your body merely a betrayal of your conscience when your walls welcome her. but it’s smooth, as she pushes herself in with such fucking entitlement, your insipid moisture coating her cock.

because she owned you, every little fragment.

her mindless breaths against your bare shoulder, the subtle rocks in her hips purely intuition. she hasn’t felt this in years, the vehemence of her girth wrapped around such a fine woman, and it motivates the urge for her to start thrusting your hips back into her. your whimpering sobs with every cudgel of her skin against yours, the indignity of her abdomen pounding against your spine and the raunchy heat of her cock assaulting your cunt.

influx of adrenaline when she hears you mewl, her sloppy kisses on your nape sultry and blistering. “i know, i know it feels good..” she sighs, both hands clenching at your thighs, your hips, your waist- anything to feel herself become adaptable inside of you, anything to get a taste of the rapture inside of herself.

“pretty.. pretty girl..” her muffled groan echoing in your ears as she gets herself off into you. she was dictating your self-worth, dictating your fucking life.. and although some of it felt as if it was just pulling the pieces together, another felt it all shatter into irreversible ruins as her left hand compressed itself onto your clit; engagement ring ever so slightly abrading itself against your wet folds.

and that’s when you feel it.

the sheer pinnacles of rhapsody so distinct as her fingers roll your clit in circular motions superlatively, cock swollen and erect. “please.. please..” you sigh, the jagged timbre exposing how receptive your bundles of nerves were; fingertips touching the very eminent icicles of orgasm when she speaks her foul language in your ears.

“i’m gonna come inside you, do you want that?”

“uh huh.”

“gonna make you the mother of my kids..”

“mhm-hm, master please..”

and then it erupts inside, whirlwind of frenzy that you could only compare to what felt like being edged for hours. your clit numb and jaded, the overstimulation aggravating as your walls pulse around her cock so tightly that she doesn’t even need to continue pummelling into you. conclusively, you were a mess - her palm sealing itself over your lips to repress the uncontrollable cry, tone it down ever so slightly, arms that confine your body as you tremble and do your upmost fucking best to recover.

and after a few minutes of her rocking a few inches back and forth into you, the dishevelled grunt and adhesion of her bangs against your cheek; quivering fingers against your lips and hips that airbrush themselves to divinity let you know that she’s just came.

and something feels off, seriously off. so full and saturated, and it’s when her cock slews itself out of you that you know there’s no way you’re the only one behind all the mess; looking between your legs and flinching at the pearly cream drizzling out of your hole, thick and balmy. your juices meshing together in such harmony that you feel disgust, and yet hypnosis. because she never wanted a maid,

she wanted a mistress.

[bestlittlebunny]

The steaming water trickled down the curves of my back. I took a deep breath and arched backwards, letting it drench my face and hair. I let myself get lost among the mist and steam, melting away the stress and anxieties from the day. It felt good to relax and to focus on nothing but the sounds of the shower and my body.

I dissolved so deeply into the atmosphere, that I didn’t hear the keys jingling, the door open and shut, or the footsteps to the bathroom. I didn’t notice the shadow outside the curtain that slowly undressed and then stepped into the shower behind me.

It wasn’t until a hand caressed my shoulder and two tender lips softly kissed my neck that I realized he was home. I didn’t have to say a word, he could read my body language and moans as though they were nothing more than a children’s book. His hands stroked my arms, his left moving to my hip, his right lifting my hand to kiss it and then place it on his cheek. He then moved his right hand down my, now lifted, arm, across my ribs, and cupped my swollen breast. His left hand ran from my hip across my waist as he supported my protruding stomach with his broad forearm. I leaned against him, feeling his hot skin against my body, letting him support my weight. He kissed my neck softly, growing more passionate with each peck, working his way down in a line, before finally biting and sucking where my shoulder meets my neck. I moaned at the sensations it sent through my body. He turned me and leaned me against the cool tile wall, immediately kissing me tenderly. The heat and intensity could have caused ice to melt. He inched his way down my body: neck, shoulders, collarbone, pausing at my breasts. Massaging them and cupping them with his hands, he placed his lips to each nipple in turn and gently kissed and sucked, allowing himself to taste the sweet nectar that leaked from within them. Then he continued down my body, paying extra attention to the round abdomen before him, as it housed his pride and joy: His baby girl. Once he was satisfied with his interaction, he told me to turn to face the wall. I smirked and pressed my back harder against the tile, crossing my arms defiantly.

“Turn and face the wall, please.” He requested, once more, still on his knees. This time with more command. Once again I shook my head with a smirk.

“Make me.” I dared him. He looked up at me and raised a brow. He slowly stood, now looming over me. He straightened up, his shoulders broad, his hands by his sides.

“This isn’t a request, anymore. Turn and face the wall.” Unfortunately for him, I was feeling bratty and playful, so I stood my ground and rolled my eyes in return. “Very well.” he stated as he placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me, firm yet gently, towards the wall. “Now bend over.” This time, I did as he said. I bent forward and placed my hands against the wall to balance myself. “Good girl, but you’re still going to be punished.”

Before I could make a snarky remark, a hand slapped against my right butt cheek, stinging the dampened skin. I jumped and let out a yelp. I heard him groan in pleasure, proud of the reaction he had caused, and felt the next spank against my left cheek. I hid my smile between my hands. This was as pleasurable for me as it was for him.

“Thank you.” I whispered.

“Thank you, what?” I could hear the smirk behind his words.

“Thank you..... Master.” I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him. He leaned towards me, lifting my face by my chin, and kissed me.

“I love you. Are you up for a little fun?” as he spoke, I stood and turned back towards him, placing my hands against his firm chest.

I paused for a moment, looking him over. Every inch of him was perfection. His black hair, now wet, fell like silk fabric in waves against his face. His brown eyes glistened like a tiger’s eye gemstone in the golden light of the shower. His nose, strong and prominent like a Roman’s should. And his smile, perfectly curved and balanced by his soft, succulent, full lips. His neck led perfectly to his broad shoulders, that ran straight into his arms. The arms that held me and kept me safe every night, that hugged me each morning and each time we reunite, no matter how long or short our time was apart, that will, someday soon, cradle our little girl. Connected to his large hands that showed the battles he had been in, but only if you looked closely enough. Hands that intertwined with mine, that knew just where to go when they needed to, and could do any work that was asked of them. Then there was his torso, with his firm chest and perfect abdomen. The ones he was self conscious about, but that I looked at and saw a God’s body in. Down to his hips and his.... Well, he was certainly well endowed, and I was never disappointed. Quite the opposite. His thighs were bold, muscular, as tree trunks holding him up, connected to his calves that could belong to an olympic track athlete. And finally his feet that had this way of being goofy, but still somehow endearing and beautiful, and this is from someone who hates feet. Everything about him made me fall in love all over again.

“I love you, too. I could be up for some fun. With the right person.” I kissed his cheek and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself and walking to the bedroom.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

nobody is coming to save you

Din Djarin x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 14 - blood-stained tiles | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 1.4k

summary: You get caught by a Mandalorian bounty hunter after fleeing your marriage.

-- am I really a Din fic writer if I don't do a "reader is a bounty" story?

warnings: ambiguous/open ending (I may return to this one...), reader attempts to negotiate for her life, discussions of pregnancy/abortion/menstrual cycles (reader had an abortion, it's discussed without detail, do NOT come at me with discourse I will not engage anyway), mentions of blood, allusions to abuse

dividers by @saradika-graphics

“Nobody is coming to save you. Get up.” 

The words fell flat through the distortion of his helmet. Was it pity? Amusement? Disgust? He wasn’t wrong, though. The crowd that had suffocated the market lane moments before had mostly cleared in the wake of the Mandalorian. 

He stalks over to where you’re still sprawled on the ground. It didn’t seem urgent to get up, to make it easier for him. With a huge gloved hand digging into your bicep, he pulls. 

You go limp. You’re not going to help him, and you’re fairly confident he doesn’t have authorization to kill or seriously harm you. 

You’re vindicated when he holsters the pistol, not that it’s a pleasant victory. He cuffs your wrists in front of your stomach and then simply hoists you over his shoulder. 

“Where’s the cargo?” he asks. 

This close, you can almost hear the grit of his real voice beneath the electronics. 

You mean to ignore him, but his question is a thread that needs pulling. “What cargo?”

“He said you stole something from him.” 

His words churn your stomach like rancid Bantha. That worm. “Well, you’ve got it,” you say bluntly. 

He doesn’t question it, and you assume he’s clocked the ostentatious jewelry as the target. Trev always did like you shiny, whether with gemstones or tears. 

He’s probably a little rougher with you than he should be, given that you’re not running anymore. But he’s a bit kriffed over the whole situation. He only took the bounty because the price was so high — but not being allowed to carbon freeze the bounty was almost not worth it. 

But the client wanted his pretty little wife back without the side effects, and he was willing to compensate for it. He had said she could be restrained or gagged as needed. Had said Din would probably want to since the “bitch never shut up.”

It wasn’t his job to give a shit, so he didn’t. He did figure the client’s name would come across a puck sooner rather than later, though. Whatever he was peddling to afford this had the man under severe paranoia. 

He drops you to your feet at the bottom of the ladder and nudges you with the barrel of the pistol. “Climb up and wait. Don’t touch anything.”

He expects an argument, given that you both know the blaster is mostly a farce. He’d be willing to take a cut on the fee if you tried anything, though. A bolt to the foot wouldn’t kill you.

But you don’t. You climb in silence, with him close enough behind that your bodies overlap. You’re acutely aware of his helmet’s proximity to your ass, and he’s acutely aware that it’s been too long since he paid a visit to a brothel. 

He doesn’t manhandle you once he crests the platform to the cockpit; just jabs a finger in the direction of the seat to the left of the pilot’s chair. It sits slightly behind, the viewport partially obscured. He separates the cuffs and magnetizes them to the arms of the chair. 

The engines rumble to life once he’s seated, switches flicked, and buttons pressed in the wake of his deft fingers. He doesn’t speak a word to you.

When Karga answers the comm, he interrupts the man’s pleasantries to get right to the point. “I’m confirming the status of the bounty as requested. She’s alive and in custody.” 

“Excellent, excellent; I knew you’d make quick work of it, Mando,” Karga says, clapping his hands together. The holo flickers. “The client has requested that you avoid hyperspace travel upon your return.”

“What?” Din snaps.

“There’s extra compensation in it for you, of course.” 

“That’ll take eight standard days,” Din gripes.

“Your expenses will be covered, as well. Food, fuel, any lodging.” 

“Fine,” Din says and closes the line. He sits in silence for a moment, sifting through the new information, before he stands abruptly and turns to you.

“You’re pregnant,” he says bluntly. 

You dither about how to respond. In the end, you don’t. He can’t be trusted. So you purse your lips and look away.

No one needs to know that the first thing you did when you got far enough away was fork over one of your bracelets for a termination at a no-questions-asked clinic. They had been kind, if not overworked and undersupplied. 

“That’s what you stole, isn’t it? His baby?”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t back down from his gaze, either. His baby. The phrasing sets off so many warning bells it’s like a ship-wide alert. 

Din’s first instinct is anger. It’s too close to his own gaping wound, too close to where Grogu lives with Luke Skywalker, a man who hadn’t even given Din his name before taking his kid. And yeah, he’s supposed to feel like he did the right thing, but his son is gone, and it doesn’t feel like the right thing. Not at all.

He looks at you and wonders how you could be so cruel.

It doesn’t last, though. He’s seen enough to know the way this story usually goes. So, instead, he looks you over and sighs. “I’ll see what we can do for other accommodations,” he says, a loose hand gesturing to the cuffs. 

“Thank you,” you say, though you don’t feel very thankful at all. But you know a little politeness to your captor goes a long way. You know that like you know how to breathe.

It works until it doesn’t. On the fourth day, you wake up at the inn he had agreed to for the night and smell iron, and you know the ruse is up. You try to sneak to the fresher but quickly realize it doesn’t matter. You have nothing to hold back the blood, anyway.

You sit in your soiled panties on the cold metal tile and resign yourself to free bleed until he inevitably wakes and finds you.

You don’t wait long.

“We’re not far from a clinic,” he says cautiously, from where he leans against the doorframe. 

“Don’t need one,” you mumble, looking anywhere but him. It’s bad enough that you couldn’t come up with an explanation—knowing you’ve bled through enough that he can see it is on another level. 

“You don’t know that,” he says with what you think he thinks is compassion. “There might still be something they can do.”

The truth flickers across your face for only a moment, but it’s long enough for him to catch on. 

“It’s your cycle,” he says, flat and loyal to his thoughts. 

You nod. No use lying now. 

“Were you ever pregnant?”

“Yes.” Your voice is clipped, your face pulled sharp. 

“How long since?”

“Two weeks after I got away. Six before you found me.”

Two months. You had made it two terrifying months on your own. And now, thanks to this monster, you were being dragged right back. 

Trev had to have spent a fortune on this bounty. You feel feverish at the thought, a cold sweat creeping across your spine. And when he finds out you’re not pregnant…

Wait. 

“You know, you won’t get your money,” you blurt, hardening your eyes as you stare him down, shoulders squared. 

“I will. Whatever happened to you isn’t my problem.”

“No, you won’t,” you say, taking a breath before jumping in front of the proverbial blaster. “Not after you were so rough when you captured me, and I lost the baby.”

His head snaps to you. “What did you say?”

“When you found me. You tackled me, knocked me to the ground, and attacked me. The trauma was too much, and—“

And he has you pinned up against the wall where you sit, a hand around your neck. “You really think this is a smart idea?”

“Go ahead,” you hiss through his grip. “Leave marks.”

He lets go immediately, seething. His gloves creak as his fists tighten around nothing. 

“What if we can work something out?”

“I don’t negotiate with quarry. What’s stopping me from putting you in the freezer now?”

“My jewelry,” you say in a rush. His threat isn’t idle; you can feel its wrath as if his hand never left your throat. “It has to be worth at least as much as he offered. Tell him there was a complication, send him the ring, and you can have the rest.”

He doesn’t respond; just storms off. You, of course, stay put.

[xxdemonicheartxx]

The flights and their major exports

Ice: furs, fish, culinary or food grade ice, unique and seasonal herbs, spices and flora that only grow there in the spring, super rich culinary culture has formed here and it attracts tourism and foodies, cooking oils and fats, seeds and nuts for consumption

Nature: lumber, meats, spices, fertile soil, insect cuisine, perfumes, freshwater fish, houseplants, seeds and shoots for farming, decorative plant or wood working, plant based oils for cooking or fuel

Light: wheat, plant based fibers and fabrics, paper and or papyrus, chalk and marble, huge bread and baked goods industry, baskets, porcelain, exotic percivore cuisine, pigments, seasonal fruits

Earth: cactus fruits, minerals and stones, gemstones, terracotta creations or construction pieces, ceramic work, glass tile work, roots and tubers, fossils, pigments,

Wind: rice, grains, construction grade bamboo, paper, rice paper, fabrics, plants and small birds for consumption, instruments (specifically wood-wind), silks, ribbon, sonorous sculptures

Shadow: fungal harvests, wire craft, tactical suits and mantles to conceal the body, iron weaponry with decorative detailing, insect and plant exports, huge root farming industry, lantern exports, candles, woodturned tools/utensils/decor/etc

Water: shells and abalone, fish, seaweed and kelp cuisine, boats and boat blueprints, crustacean cuisine, huge huge huge provider for the pescatarians, opal

Lightning: machinery parts, batteries, cactus harvests, insulation for both heat and electricity, exotic insect cuisine, dried and aged foods, electricity is produced in excess enough to provide immediately to the surrounding territories

Arcane: stained glass, lumber from the starwood strand (has unique properties and could be used for construction or artistic works), magical batteries made from the crystals, tomes and books, lenses, exotic herbivore cuisine, luminous pigments, tapestry work

Plague: immunizers/immunizations, craft and construction grade bones, leather, ale/mead/wine/whiskey/etc because they have the most intricate and detailed brewing and fermenting processes due to the understanding they have surrounding bacteria, pickled foods and pickling kits, surgical grade tools, cheeses, dry aged meats, medical practices unlike any other

Fire: weapons and armor, exotic carnivore cuisine, glasswork and glass blowing, obsidian and basalt export, geothermic energy(they can provide power enough to the surrounding territories) intricate mosaic and tile work, mineral exports, ceramic exports, blackened foods, metal shells and armor for vessels and vehicles and mounts

These are just what I can think of by examining the map and element at face value, there are millions of things these places can produce and export but I think these are the big ones or what they are known for, maybe even just the best quality versions of the export! If you want to use these ideas or add your own feel free!

[golvio]

Since Echoes of Wisdom is a top-down Zelda game, I’m not expecting the game’s story to be super complex or involved, but I’ll admit I am curious about certain characters & implied background events.

In particular, I’m curious about who these three unique NPCs from the Gerudo Desert region are:

The woman with the golden trident is most likely the current Chief, given that I’ve seen screenshots of her standing up from a throne holding the trident aloft are circulating around. But who are those other two people?

I suspect the woman in white might be the chief’s sister, since her hair resembles the chief’s hair and the gemstones she’s wearing are the same color as the Chief’s. Also, Nintendo would not have the gonads to put an official confirmed lesbian couple in their kid-friendly game no matter how G-rated “This lady’s the queen and her wife is also the queen” is as a concept. However, the woman in white also seems to be a person of importance to the Gerudo given that the guards are answering to her. There was mention of an “Ancestral Cave” elsewhere in the trailer. Could she maybe be a high priestess or keeper of some sort of sacred site of worship or burial who acts as a spiritual leader to the community?

As for the figure in blue with the gloves and the hat—they’re definitely also Gerudo, but they’re dressed in a very unusual way that sets them apart. My first guess was that this was an older woman, maybe the chief’s mother, who’s acting as an advisor given that they were standing next to the throne in the aforementioned screenshot. However, they don’t look that old, given that we’ve seen old people with wrinkles in Zelda’s court in the form of Imoa and her brother, so I have another guess.

This person might actually be a boy, the current Gerudo prince, who’s either too young to take an active part in political life, or is maybe the younger brother or spouse of the chief who’s relegated to acting in a more supportive role because of his age and gender. Their style of dress is much more formal and masculine, being somewhere between the draped turban and robes you’d expect Indian royalty to wear and the iconic blue and gold khepresh crown that some Egyptian pharaohs wore.

It’d be really interesting to get some insight into Gerudo politics, particularly if a prince who isn’t Ganondorf is involved! Also, partly because it’d give us some insight into what “went wrong” with this particular version of Ganon if we have a baseline about what the role of prince in Gerudo culture is normally supposed to be like.

Speaking of Ganon, assuming he himself isn’t just an “echo” sent by some greater force, it looks like he himself might’ve been actively looking into whatever force Tri was connected to based on how the tablet behind Zelda in the room where she was being imprisoned resembled the waypoints Tri can use to warp you around.

Given that the Rifts seem to be “stealing” land tiles and making phantom echoes of monsters, and that the rift opening ability is tied to Ganon’s own “wand” that he uses to cast spells, could he have his own little helper buddy who’s given him the power to play Sim City in his own little pocket dimension? Is Ganon’s motive like the angry guy from the popup window in Sim City 2000, where he’s picking up his toys and starting a new Hyrule in the Dark World because Zelda’s dad cut back on transit funding for that year’s budget?

Seriously, though, it’d be really cool if Ganon functioned as a “dark mirror” to Zelda during what will presumably be his actual final boss fight. (Come on, do you really think he’d be fine with playing second fiddle to a new antagonist if he had even the tiniest glimmer of his original personality left instead of being a soulless shell like in ALBW? He’s absolutely gonna be the final boss.)

[leclsrc]

Broooo your last Drabble was so good

If you don’t mind can I request a part 2 🥲

fin de siècle – cl16

genre: drabble, angst

auds here... a part 2 to this as multiple requests came through for it! listened to a lot of mid-air by paul buchanan for this one. hope u enjoy! :)

“Sorry. It’s bad luck for you to see the bride on her wedding day.”

Charles nods once, lips pursed in poorly hidden disappointment, flexing his fingers in the pockets of his slacks. The huge door to your room closes with a click that’s as soft as it is damning, leaving him alone in the hallway of this obsolete Sicilian property you’re getting married in later tonight. Outside, the Ionian sea crashes softly against the cliffs near the gardens, sun unrelenting and humid on the staff setting up outside. 

Maybe your friend doesn’t know this, but she should: Charles has always been afflicted with bad luck.

If being stuck with a slow car and slippery roads during vital races isn’t proof enough, Charles has much more to share. A stubbed toe occurs thrice a week, a hit head twice. He’s half-sure he should sue the universe for damages. He constantly runs into black cats, has looked up to find he’s underneath a ladder multiple times, and accidentally opened five umbrellas indoors. Call him superstitious, but to him, that’s quintessential bad luck.

His dress shoes click against the tile. He gazes down at them, remembers he needs to change them out for the ceremony later. He’s busy comparing the black of his shoes to the color of the tile, the contrast between light and dark. He hears slurried, anxious Italian and looks up. He’s under a ladder.

“Che sfortuna,” the staffer says apologetically, fixing the lights. Charles waves him off. He’s used to this.

Often, though, he remembers that being so riddled with bad luck means his moments of fortune are rare. Precious, like the gemstone on your finger. They’re individual, plucked out like shrines, orbs of love and overflowing happiness. Wins, successes, health. He pauses in front of the lobby, where there’s an assortment of hors d’oeuvres tables and signs pointing to the massive library where the main event will be held.

The main event for Charles has always been you. And he’s positive he was at his luckiest when you met.

You’d met at a race in Monza, back when Charles was just getting started in Formula 1. You’d never touched a mic, or conversed with a driver; both of you were getting used to growing up. Your clumsy French matched his clumsy English until you were both barely clumsy, sliding in and out of the two languages with natural skill.

Charles said he loved you just six months later. Distressed and a bit psyched out, it’d taken you a month to ease back into it and admit you loved him, too.

A year marked moving into Monaco, and infiltrating each others’ friend groups. You’d play poker with Max and Pierre, and Charles would play trivia nights with your friends, despite not understanding some of the references. (He confidently answered Lionel Messi when prompted: who discovered Facebook. He refuses to elaborate, to this day.)

There may have been fights and squabbles, but Charles always circled back to loving you. He stares now at the library from afar, still being tidied and rearranged. He debates entering, but figures he’ll surprise himself. He’s never doubted your insane organizational planning skills, and is sure this event is no exception.

He turns to explore the gardens and bumps into Will Buxton, of all people. “Charles?” Sharl, it sounds like, in the guy’s signature English cadence. 

Will continues. “What’re you doing here? And roaming around? You should be”—he pushes him toward the rooms area—“resting. Nobody’s allowed around here, let alone you.”

“Needed to talk to her,” Charles explains, his voice low and rough with unuse.

The elder laughs. He’s holding a big pile of organza, no doubt a decoration for somewhere or other. “I’ll bet my spleen you weren’t allowed to. That’s bad luck.”

He throws his hands up in defeat and walks outside, opting to take the long route. This way he’ll have scenery before retreating to his room. It’s quiet, but he suspects much of the bustle is inside each room, where everybody’s getting dressed and preparing.

He’s glad is isn’t overcast, is all—that’s the one thing you emphasized you would hate today.

Sometime in your third year of being together, you and Charles finally talked marriage, together drafting a list of yes-and-no’s. He remembers the night as clearly as he can, like he’s just staring passively at the back of his hand. You’d been fixing the apartment, because according to you, the sofas needed to be rearranged. 

Once they were, you claimed it didn’t match the coffee table. So the coffee table was moved to the balcony, the balcony table moved inside. Then a problem with the wall art, then the TV, then the curtains, then the decorations on your dining table. Spent and sweaty, you collapsed on the rearranged couch.

Equally tired from heeding your orders, he’d cranked the window open and flopped down beside you. Monaco was descending into a deep blue, after dusk had turned the room orange, set it on fire. You’d leaned into him. “I love it, but I think we just need a place together.”

That’d birthed the conversation of marriage. Neither of you were opposed to it. On a supermarket receipt and old prescription notice, you’d both jotted down what you wanted out of your wedding. He’d put: need a nice, tiered cake, with flowers on it. You’d put: bouquet of just lilies, baby’s breath, and two sprigs of basil, so it’d smell good when you pressed your nose to it. 

He’d put: no bachelor/ette parties. You laughed out loud and nodded. It’d be a trivia night for all your friends, you decided together. You’d put, then: ceremony in a library. “The one thing I’ve always wanted,” you swooned. 

He’d give it to you, he told himself then. He would. One of your big no-no’s was a rainy wedding day, which meant your previous dream location (somewhere in coastal England) was immediately out. You mulled over Greece, maybe even within Monaco, or France.

“We have time to decide,” he said. “Haven’t even proposed.”

“I expect the precious gemstone on my finger next year,” you said. “And no big proposals, please.”

“Oh, God. Must cancel the London Orchestra, Queen’s guards, and Coldplay’s special appearance as early as now, then?” You rolled your eyes, laughing before you kissed him. The list-making and subsequent reviewing had taken so long, your kiss was illuminated only by the full moon.

“Any other misgivings?” He’d chuckled, a kiss pressed to your jaw.

“We need to stay all night,” you croaked. “Leaving early is bad luck.”

Charles is by no means religious, nor is he superstitious, but he well and truly thinks luck and God might have been on his side when it came to being yours. 

He hasn’t seen you yet tonight, stationed beside Carlos and narrowing his eyes to predict when the big doors will open and let you through. Right then, the violin beats to life and everyone around him turns, faces blotched with tears and frozen with awe. Like always, you’re beautiful. Charles doesn’t need to see you in a veil and dress to realize this.

Your hair is pinned into a loose bun, your bouquet of lilies and basil green and lush. The big windows tint you a rosy orange in the Ionian sunset. You walk gracefully, slowly, swaying to the violin music. Your dress, like many of the ones you’d dreamed of then, is satin and simple. A high neckline, ending above your heels that click on the tile. You’re a brilliant force of nature, he thinks. 

You gaze up, smiling. Forget Sicily. You’re the prettiest here.  

Charles looks down, to remember if he’s changed his shoes, to remember the contrast of the tile. He needs to channel his emotions somewhere. Maybe if he looks down, gravity will just let his tears of overwhelm fall silently. His gaze is rooted to the floor, to occupy himself so he doesn’t feel his heart rip out of his chest when you pass him by. 

He takes a seat, with Carlos, watching you laugh and tear up yourself, your gaze stuck on your groom. The officiant announces the exchange of vows, and Charles can’t help but let his mind wander all over again, plant itself into memories long gone—like the day you’d mocked up your supposed wedding vows.

You had let him read yours, which willed him into a steadfast spot of never letting you read his, ever. He’d folded up the yellow pad paper he’d written it on and stashed it somewhere secret. It was the first thing he sought out when he sold the apartment after he cheated on you.

Later, at the reception, he loses his appetite but maintains a generally cheerful demeanor despite himself.

The small talk is stuffy, and Carlos is off dancing with Isa, so he’s alone. Halfway through a glass of Scotch, he turns and is met by your hand almost tapping his shoulder.

“Oh, my G—sorry!” He says profusely, downing the rest of it.

“All good,” you say with a laugh. “Lissie told me you wanted to talk earlier?”

“Oh, that,” he quips with faux nonchalance. Suddenly his whole plan, to give you a letter that had some of his old vows written into it, seems like a stupid, immature idea. “Well, I… was just going to wish you a great day. Considering everything, I’m just glad to be invited.”

“Don’t say that,” you insist softly. “Everything’s okay between us.”

“Yeah,” he says. It’s more of an attempt to convince himself than you. “Yeah.”

“Well, have fun. I hear the dessert bar is amazing.”

He watches you walk away again, and takes a tiramisu from the dessert bar.

Three bites later, retrieves his jacket from the coat check room, and ducks quietly out of the party when the third slow song of the night just starts to play, illuminated only by the full moon.

—

Being here To be able to I’ve been As nervous as 

If I told you and everyone here that I wasn’t poetic, I’d be lying. (People will laugh at this, honey.) Because although I’m not a wordsmith, in both my native tongues let alone my English, I seem to always find the best things to say about you and about our love. A dream that’s rivaled those of racing is my dream of growing old with you, and this is finally it. It’s finally happening. I wouldn’t trade anything for it.

Vows are about promises. I only have one. I promise to love you forever. Whatever it takes to keep it, I will. If it means letting you sleep in, I’m up by 5. If it means losing a race, consider the car unfinished. (Will Mattia like this joke?) If it means paving a walkway or building a library, I have the tools I need. It might get difficult, but in these moments of hardship, I promise everyday to make it easy for the both of us. 

(I think these vows are just me raving about you, bug…)

Call it luck, call it fate. I’ll call it my moves. (Yet another great joke babe!) How could I ever have gotten a woman so beautiful, so unlike any other? The idea that we are so small compared to the universe makes no sense to me, because the fact that you and I are both here, existing, now, is proof enough that the cosmos granted my wishes.

I love you— 

Even in my moments of bad luck,

Even when you’re giving me the cold shoulder,

Even when we’re 3,000 miles apart, and

Even if one day, you might no longer be mine.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Sul sul! Meanwhile Marin is positively delighted to learn that there is a new household of four single sims in otherwise dating desert Brindleton Bay. Although she does wonder why their house is so much nicer than hers.

Don't all played Sims have a bare-arse broke starter home? Just her? Okay, cool then 🤨

Since essentially she's doing her own tiniest of tiny bachelorettes (featuring exclusively @ravingsockmonkey's Sims), let's meet the candidates.

First up is Dario, who she initially spent the most time with since she had to mentor him up to Level 2 Fishing in order to qualify for her club. Apex werewolf, otherwise housetrained.

Initially he was getting very bored moodlets around Marin, but the Watcher figured out that it was all down to his SNOB trait finding her decor a little (well, very) on the lackluster side. C'mon Dario, if I went all out and covered every spare tile, I'd be able to fry eggs while I was running the game.

However once she began to enthuse about the great outdoors, he quickly perked up. Nothing is coming up about their compatibility level, so I'm guessing that it's NEUTRAL.

Fellow gardening girlie Alana she gets along fine with, though the game keeps telling me that they have BAD COMPATIBILITY. I think it's because Alana is a LONER and Marin has the BRO trait, although I've otherwise not noticed any negative moodlets or sentiments between the two.

Gemology devotee (and spellcaster) Griffin is Marin's highest level of friendship so far, likely because she gifted him a seed-shaped gemstone that she fished up one day. And he's even responded positively to some tentative flirting on her part, though he's yet to reciprocate it and she hasn't had any whims to continue the behaviour. They have GOOD COMPATIBILITY.

Last but not least comes another magically inclined foodie, Stu. Yes, Stu. I guess this is what happens to the twin who gets adopted by the nice spellcaster family instead of being left to bounce from one foster home to another 😟

And this means that I have not one, but two Lou Howell-shaped problems in my save, because guess what their compatibility is? Amazing. Also he's the only one who has not only reciprocated Marin's flirting, but who she had whims to be flirtatious towards.

(You can't troll me, @ravingsockmonkey - only that you can, lmao)

[blerb-f1]

"At the harbour" - Charles Leclerc x fem!german!reader PART 4/FINALE

Charles and Y/N visit the party but it's just Monaco.

Here's part one, if needed. You can find the other parts and fics on my masterlist!

Blinding lights, ocean waves and shining golden watches are the things making Monaco what it is. The curvy roads leading past apartments the average human will never be able to afford, coupled with cars in price ranges covering the downpayment for one of these places.

Monaco also is Social. Monaco thrives in interaction, in glamor and in gossip. The inhabitants of Monaco, the born ones and the ones less inclined to pay taxes, love to mingle. Gossip, Chatter and Business Deals are done over a flute of champagne, over a delicacy cooked by a specialized cook flown in from Japan - all just as background noise to the large numbers being written on crisp white paper, signed with fountain pens more expensive than an average designer dress.

With the Grimaldi family throning above Monaco, as their glittering leaders, Money is what builds Monaco. The framework keeps everything up.

Being a person not from money, is difficult. The true Monegasque will be able to spit the little hair on the trim of your trousers, the crack in your diamond earring and the hole in the mask covering your identity.

Y/N was 100% underprepared for this.

Charles Leclerc sat next to her, driving his beautiful Ferrari with the Monegasque flag painted on it’s bonnet. He still hadn't gotten his driver’s license back but he clearly chose to ignore this. “Y/N, I can’t have you drive me around here! "My image!" he whined. The way to the ball wasn’t long yet Y/N understood why people went there by car. Walking around normal streets in evening gowns is quite unfashionable, no? 

Once the car came to a stop, a Clerc quickly took the keys and rushed off to park it, surely doing much better than what its owner would be capable of and also surely enjoying this special vehicle. Y/N was feeling nervous, her stomach knotting into a tight ball as Charles already got out, opening the door for her to aid her. The fabric of her dress was incredibly lightweight, making moving around quite easy. The black glittery material was reflecting the lamps and shimmering, illuminating the jewelry along with it.

‘It’s like armor’ she soon realized, looking at all the other people arriving. The women were draped in designer clothes, head to toe. Jewelry attached to them like an overly decorated christmas tree. 

Taking her arm into his, Charles led her inside the building. Large Chandeliers with hundreds of gemstones drooping down low, marmor tiles polished to perfection and waiters in crisp uniforms buzzing about. Her chin would have been hanging low, if the threat of committing a major faux-pas hadn’t been clouding her mind.

“It’s Breathtaking!”, she exclaimed, eyes wide open and still taking in the beautiful ballroom.

“Breathtaking?” Charles asked, one eyebrow quipped. “It’s the average party in Monaco.”

Y/N hissed. “Chuck, not everybody is used to this. I told you so!”

“Yeah-Yeah…” he mouthed, turning to the side before coming to a realization. “Wait a minute. You just called me Chuck? How the hell do you know that nickname?”

Y/N answered him with a defiant expression. “I looked you up, you know. Being famous has it’s downsides. I know way more about you than I ever could have wanted to know or not know.”

Charles was surprised. Y/N had consistently acted as if she didn’t care to know anything he wouldn't directly tell her.  Had Monaco changed her?

“Don’t get any wrong thoughts! I just wanted to know about you in case anyone asked me something. No way in hell I’m going to look that stupid.”

“You already look stupid.”

“Didn’t you just call me breathtaking an hour before?”

Charles turned to the side, realizing hitting him. “That uh…That was a spur of the moment.”

Y/N nodded. “Spur of the moment. Sureee. Just l-”

Before she could continue, Charles interjected. “How about we get some Horsd’œuvre, to not risk your stomach rumbling?”

“How about some Eclairs?”

Charles was too stunned to speak. “No. Not that one as well! God”

Instead, he signalised the waiter to come over. With him was a little plate of, in Y/N’s opinion, weird looking food and some drink. He placed them on a decorated standing table before disappearing again. Y/N stared at the treats with an unsure expression before taking one and popping it into her mouth.

It was not good.

She chewed quickly and swallowed, angrily pointing at the others. “These things probably cost as much as my rent! Why are they so disgusting?!”

Charles looked at them more closely. “Maybe we got a bad batch? But it’s highly unlikely anything bad would be able to pass through these doors. Loss of business and all.”

She huffed. “Well then they better start doing quality control because this is unbearable. Bah~”

As the two were talking, a rich looking business man in a suit approached. Speaking French, he aggressively patted Charles' shoulders while laughing loudly. Was this the so-called money laugh, Y/N had been hearing off before? 

While speaking, the man kept eying her with a suspicious look on his face. Charles kept lifting his hands, deflecting. He was scratching his cheek again, definitely unsure about something. Or trying to say a clear no without saying a clear no. Whatever it was, it looked like he needed help. 

She leaned forward, hooking her arm into his again while looking at the businessman. A shining grin was plastered on her face, just as fake as the one all the surrounding people had on. 

The man made an apologetic gesture, said something and quickly left looking embarrassed. Charles looked just as embarrassed  as he did. 

“What did he say?” Y/N asked curiously. 

Instead of responding, Charles looked around shyly. 

“Don’t pretend like you’re the countryside innocence. Tell me! Afterall, It looks like i rescued you, right?”

“You did…”, he responded quietly.

“Then. Tell. Me!”

“He said that  for young couples we should have gone somewhere else to flirt. And he recommended his Hotel to us.”

Y/N L/N was too stunned to speak.

“Yeah…”

“What ‘yeah’? I answered you. What now?”

“I uh- I didn’t expect that.” Y/N was very surprised.

Charles just looked at her blankly. “That’s what people here are like. Relationships are superficial, even relationships. Cheating’s quite common, you know? If both sides do it, it’s fair again…”

He sighed. “I hate that. A lot.”

Y/N looked around the hall which was starting to fill up. More and more people were gawking at him. Gawking at their Prince of Monaco.

“I know this invitation is important and all” she said. “But what if we just left?”

Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Didn’t you dream of visiting a big ball? Dancing and whatnot?”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I visited a Ball, didn’t I? Dancing can be done just as easily in any other location. I’d rather just leave now.”

Charles pondered for a moment. “Yeah, me too.” He entwined his hand with Y/N’s, leading her outside. The clerk wanted to bring the car, but was just shushed away.

The sun had started going down now and was reflecting on the harbor. Painted all red, it looked totally different than what it did during the day. 

Y/N looked around the area, imagining a Formula One setup. Cheering fans, Teams working hard. She imagined the party afterwards. The whole place being so alive and real. With beating hearts and loudly screaming voices. 

Charles and her were slowly walking along, not caring how they were looking to others or if this was going to spawn scandals. Just the two of them.

“Charles, have you ever considered leaving this?” she asked him directly, gesturing around. “While you seem to love this lifestyle, it also appears to tire you.”

Charles turned towards her, downtrodden. “I have. Many times actually. I don't want to leave Maman behind. But some days… Some days I wonder what it would be like to live a normal life. One away from glitz and glamor.”

“Like mine?”

He frowned. “Well not THAT far away. But in that direction, yeah.”

Y/N was thinking hard, whether she could ask what she wanted to. She decided that she could.

“Would you like to stay in the countryside with me for a while? That’s not like moving away, right?”

“Well that’s pretty direct.” He chuckled. “If you wanna date me, just say so. I’d like that”

Y/N huffed again. “Stop joking, Idiot. This is me really proposing that idea to you. I like your mom. I’d like to visit her again but I seriously cannot afford Monaco. That would be one hand washing the other, right?”

“Also i can’t imagine personally having a friend-”

The realization hit him like a truck.

Y/N looked lovely, with the low light reflecting of her face. Normally he’d stay silent, keep these thoughts for himself. He decided to go for his heart for the first time in a long while.

 “Y/N”, Charles said softly. “You even like my mother and want me to stay with you, what else do we need to be in a Relationship? A cat?”

“Adopting a cat sounds lovely-”

It was his turn to get angry. “Now you’re the one not being serious!”

Charles took her hands in his, directly staring into her eyes. “Y/N”. He took a deep breath, sorting his thoughts. “I Like you a whole dang lot. Seriously. Please, don’t push away my thoughts. Not like that.”

Y/N was stunned. “Did I ignore you?”

“Yeah.”

She looked legitimately unhappy with that thought. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Her words came out faster than his. “I- I’m not good with serious emotions. Really. It’s tough saying what you really want to, without sarcasm. So..”

‘How about my actions speak for my words?’, she asked herself.

A strong hand lunged forward, grabbing his tie and pulling his head to her height. The gloved hands took his head between them, placed right on his cheek as she leaned forward, capturing his lips in a short kiss. 

She continued her point from before. “I think I like that idea. Does this count as a first date then?”

Charles was speechless, his face red. Burying it into her shoulder, he mumbled:” If you want it to…” Y/N tightly embraced him back, both of them being more starved for affection that they’d actually think themselves to be. Or ever admit it.

Then, Y/N’s stomach rumbled loudly, causing Charles to laugh out loud. 

“See, that’s why I told you to eat something.”

“Not this weird stuff! I can’t do that again.”

Charles took her hand, before giving it a kiss. 

“Mademoiselle, what about a visit to the restaurant of the golden Seagull?”

Y/N laughed along. “I’d like that a lot, Sir Leclerc.”

##############

Blerb thoughts:

If you want to be added to the tag-list, hit me up!

Proud of myself for finishing this! Though i don't think i'll write any actual series again. One-Shots with more parts, yeah. But no direct series. I don't want to finish on a cliffhanger.

Taglist:

@barcelonaloverf1life

@itsjustkhaos

@randomnessis-mine-me

@appl3-0rchard whom i can't seem to tag

[bomberqueen17]

switchplate covers update/tutorial

So the thing to keep in mind with this is that we gotta see how well the wear. A switchplate cover is a pretty high-traffic thing, and subject to a lot of wear. If these get too dingy I'm absolutely going to have to go buy fancy ceramic ones or something.

But. That said. Here is my final result, and below the cut is how I did this, partly because I want to remember how it worked LOL.

[Image description: A combo lightswitch/outlet with a black three-prong plug plugged into it, set into a white subway tile wall with a wooden breadboard leaned against it. The plate cover is painted with a mottled effect to look like a turquoise gemstone, complete with inset glitter to mimic the pyrite inclusions found in some raw turquoise.]

A better view of the glitter:

[Image description: Another turquoise-painted outlet faceplate on the background of a rumpled white dropcloth, my fingers visible tilting it toward the light so the flake glitter catches the light from the window.]

So I searched up for tutorials and found a few, each of which was like "can't believe nobody else has done this"; I'm sharing the most helpful one here. What was thee very most helpful thing, though, was the writer's pointing out that many different configurations of turquoise exist, so you can just pick a reference image and build off that. I did not in the end come very close to my reference, but decided instead to make it look sick as hell. LOL. I was just having too much fun doing whatever I wanted. So these are not super realistic! But then you wouldn't... make an outlet faceplate out of real turquoise, so I felt like I wasn't fooling anyone. Anyway--

How To Paint Faux Turquoise.

So the first thing I did was find some very fine-grit sandpaper (I think I got 320? I found a mostly used-up sheet of it in the basement and just used the unused edge from where it had been fastened around a block, LOL) and went over the whole front surface of each plate I was going to paint, and then I washed them with dishsoap and hot water and dried them with a dish towel, because I figured finger grease, hand dirt, and sanding dust would keep the paint from sticking. I started with white plastic ones, the kind you get for up to a dollar at the hardware store.

Then I got a plastic container lid, put dollops of various of my paint samples in it, dug out the craft paints I got cleaning out Auntie's basement and the sole tube of acrylics (Mars black) I could still find from the last time I did any painting, and went to town. The first couple, I did the pale shades and let them dry and came back to add the darker marbling. But then I was like, these are latex/acrylic, you don't have to build them in layers? So I just did the rest of them with all the shading in more or less one pass.

Acrylic art paint and latex housepaint are both water-based, so there's no conflict with using them intermingled. I've combined them before, I used to do a lot of sign painting and it works fine. Housepaint's runnier, idk. Don't mix oils and latex, is the thing to keep in mind; they just don't stick to each other real well.

I went to the art supply store to get some water-based varnish, because all i had was polyurethane and that's oil-based. It'd probably work as a topcoat but I was worried and the internet's advice conflicted. I wanted to go get better glitter anyway, so I did. I happen to live near Hyatt's All Things Creative, so I take every excuse I can get to go there.

I bought some sick-ass glitter (over in the resin pouring section, hell yes), and puzzled thru the various offerings. (@sassaffrassa's advice proved invaluable on this thank u.) I got just-- "Gloss varnish acrylic medium", the Hyatt's brand, for four dollars and sixty-nine (nice) cents, and then because I was feeling spendy, I also bought Krylon spray-on glossy varnish. Belt and suspenders, y'know? Also to make the brush strokes less obvious.

The critical thing, though, about the gloss varnish, is that it says right on the bottle that you can either incorporate it into the paint as a medium to enhance the sheen, OR brush it over the finished work as a protective coating. Dries absolutely clear. So I knew, THIS is how I'm attaching the glitter. I'd been thinking like, mod podge? elmer's glue? mix it into the paint? No.

[image description: the gloss varnish bottle. It is this product. The relevant text says "can be used either as a medium to enhance the sheen levels of acrylic paint or as an over-varnish on finished artwork to provide a non-tacky, protective gloss coating".]

So I carefully got open the little bottle of glitter (no sneezing! it was "white gold flake" style and cost eight bucks for like half a gram. to my knowledge it's not actually made of gold but it was priced like it was) and painted little fine patches of gloss varnish onto the spots I wanted glittered, and then used tweezers to apply glitter just in those spots, and mooshed them around with the little varnish-covered brush until they stuck where I wanted them. (I put them on the darkest bits of the veining, because that was what my source image looked like, mostly. I wanted to be really liberal but then I thought, no, a little pop of glitter is more exciting actually. Still not sure, but it does look good so. They say measure that shit with your heart but I went light because I figured I could add more later, and then I didn't.)

Then I came back at the end and painted more gloss varnish just over the glitter, just to make sure it was all really stuck down and wouldn't flake off with wear.

Let that dry for a couple hours, then used a larger brush to spread gloss varnish as evenly as possible over the entirety of each plate. It did leave visible brush strokes, which I didn't mind. The art shop guy suggested using a really soft brush to minimize that, and I was like "yah sure ok" but then, well, I didn't, I just used the brush I had.)

But then I let that dry overnight, and in the morning I put the plates all in my giant overspray cardboard box, and gave them each a liberal coating of the spray varnish. (Yes of course I have a giant cardboard box I keep in my basement to spray paint things in. I know it says use in a well-ventilated space but what I do, see, is I do that and then I leave the room, which is almost as good. LOL it's 24F and snowing I'm not doing it outside.)

That bottle says two hours until handling on it, so I left it two hours, and then I put up the plates that were in spots where the painting was done or wasn't happening, hence my example image being against a tiled wall.

The screwdriver immediately scratched the first one a little bit, but not super obviously. But I kind of would expect a screwdriver to scratch just about anything, so that doesn't mean much.

I won't guarantee how well these'll hold up but if you were interested in doing something like that, there's how it worked. (Hi, future me, you're welcome for writing it down lol.)

I'm sort of sorry for no more process pictures but honestly most of it was following whimsy and doing what I felt like and kind of drawing on what I hadn't realized was a lot lot lot of hours of past paint-handling in my life, so pictures wouldn't help anyone else recreate this. But it did remind me that I love to paint and should do that more. So, I'll try, I guess.

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

If you are still taking prompts: 'new mythologies', focused on the witchy trio. Curious to see what you come up with if you wind up selecting this prompt! I greatly enjoy your writing. :)

There is a woman in the moon (the second moon, that is.) she waxes, she wanes shies and flares but she always stays tethered to one spot and tired of running away. Where she paused her orbit centuries ago crystal arms and legs sprout from the grass and the tides of rivers are pulled, evaporate from heat into clouds that mass. If you do no cover her from your view you will not sleep if you look to someone with her over their shoulder you will not need to speak and if her lightning were to strike, the gemstone-limb-lands will become the petrified home you did not seek.

There is a woman in the sun (there is a second-sun, too.) feels close enough to reach, though she can’t be lassoed she doesn’t spend all of her days here steals - what is offered - takes, often disappears to a more peculiar sky where she instead anchors in time and the flora and fauna with petal trumpets and sinew harps dance and dine on top of beds of canopied candied leather leaves and filigree skeleton branches then returns, here, intermittently, with what she had taken and what was newly granted jewellery adorning flaming tendrils that smelts and pours liquid gold between the fault lines and the landfills Sometimes the sun stays late to greet the moon, others she arrives early to share the sky of the long summer days with her But the sky is still a sky they cannot often share, so once a century they shadow one another reach out for each other with hands of flame and lightning when their fingers converge they tie in knots and bows, in threads red and ribbons green and all who are bound will be unaware, gift-wrapped in what is reality and what is dream can unveil bliss or purgatory there in the in-between- - there is a woman in the sun, another in the moon. They have been there longer than I can remember… longer than my mother can and hers, too

There is a woman in the moon and she is always blushing ‘Red sky at night - shepherd’s delight Red sky at morning - shepherd’s warning’ mourning a crack, a howl, a breeze can be heard from the densest of city cobblestones and the highest of mountain peaks a lonely tune bereft of its melody searches out shadow and turns it to static energy

There is a woman in the moon -a woman in the sun, too and ruins of temples to old gods (I’m told) glass panes long dissolved from between lead canes corners of masonry rounded by rain shingles masking floor tiles carpeted in ivy, grout replaced by root and rot and if you were to build the moon an alter lightning will sunder, shatter, strike it down but the sun accepts offerings, bleaches colours to keep the hues for her own collection, peacocks them as a crown

There is a witch in a cottage in the woods in a clearing, on stilts and platforms and pontoons her garden grows, in both the light and shadow and she wears death like a lace fine-spun from her own marrow land flush with lilac, lavender and violets here it is, where the moon is moored above the glade where the sun passes often on parade and the witch knows both the sun and the moon by name strings up tapestries and dolls from between the branches so that they both can see of friends and loved ones between threads of red and ribbons of green

[olivyh]

hi,

if u are not busy with anything, can u do malleus x reader with angst to comfort?

Great work, take care of yourself

A/N: I have so many requests that I haven't gotten around to I'm sorry guys ;;;; I'm on a motivation kick so I'll start getting those out as soon as I can! ALSO IM A SUCKER FOR POETIC MALLEUS AND IT MAKES MY HEART GO BOOM bc tell me why Malleus is literally the "my love, I am intoxicated" meme

Happy chapter 7!!!

TW: Drowning, maybe suicide if you look a little closely

Malleus is constantly reminded of the day he nearly drowned in the tub as a child.

It's silly, to think that the heir to the Valley of Thorns would be destined to face death in a bathtub.

It wasn't his fault that it was silent aside from the dripping of the water that poured from the side of the tub and leaked onto the tiles the more he sunk into it. Not his fault that he was so exhausted from his daily lessons that his hands burned and cramped as he felt a knot where his neck met his back that he couldn't seem to get rid of no matter how much he fidgeted and stretched. The warm water of the bath seemed to seep deep into his bones and nestle within him, reigniting the fire that had been so thoroughly burnt out from his short time of living as the crown prince of the valley of thorns.

Malleus stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled howling of the wind outside and trying to bite back the chill of the air that rests on the tip of his nose as a harsh contrast to the comfort of the water, heated by his servants' magic and maintained by his own. The intricate carvings of warriors and magicians alike; fae and human both dueling as sparks flew across the tapestries and danced within the stone, jewels embedded within the eyes that seemed to stare at him.

As a child, Malleus used to fear the unspoken words that lay within those gemstones. He could not decipher if they were cruel, or if they were kind. Did the human wish to speak to him or kill him?

The fae that stretched from the marble seemed even more daunting, their eyes glowed in the dim candlelight of his bathroom casting long shadows across their sharp face as they glared down at the boy who sunk deeper into the bath at their gaze. They seemed to be frowning at him rather than at the much smaller human they were dueling.

"This is your fault," He imagined them saying. "What kind of ruler are you?"

"I'm not..." Malleus would sniffle, his tears dripping into the water, masked by the dampness that cascaded from his strands and streaked down his worried face, bright, innocent green eyes filled with too much worry for a child so young as him. The weight of the world upon small shoulders, too much a weight for a child alone to bear. The sins and torment of war, the blood of human and fae alike on his small hands that had just learned to hold a pen properly. What was he not? What was he, truly? The crown prince of the valley of thorns? A Dragon fae? Among the most powerful in the world?

Was he not the ruler he was told he would be? Was he a ruler at all?

Power was a heavy burden, much too heavy even for the child who had the delicate balance of the world placed in his care.

Malleus sunk deeper into the water, feeling his body relax further as his tail wrapped comfortingly around his leg. He often daydreamed that it would be his mother combing his hair and dousing the thick ivory strands, telling him tales of when she was a young child, a Princess before a Queen, as he would play with the suds that floated gently to the surface.

In that world, his parents were both still alive and well, not yet cast carelessly to the whims of the underworld. His grandmother would still sit with him and listen to his babbles and his fairytales, not yet burdened with the work of three royals- the crown prince not yet ready to wear the crown's weight (he feared that if he were to wear it, it would slip around his neck and crush his windpipe, the weight too large and the boy too weak).

He sighed and sank deeper into the water, exhaustion pulling at his soft eyelids and gushing him into a dreamless sleep. He felt the warmth around him- perhaps the warmth of his mother's arms or his father's hand upon his head. The warmth of his grandmother's coat and of Lilia's encouragement as he tucked him into bed (Malleus supposed that he missed that most of all, the thought of Lilia dying on the battlefield leading to many tear-filled nights sobbing quietly into his pillow. He missed the bat fae most of all, and dreaded the day the man's troops would come back into the kingdom and General VanRouge would be nowhere to be seen. Oh how he longed for Lilia to have written down a story or two for him to read on long nights such as these.).

Suddenly his lungs were filled with that warmth, and Malleus was sure he was drowning as he stared through the surface of the water back at the scenes that played out on the ceiling.

What scared him the most was that he did not flail, nor scream nor cry nor beg the stars for another chance at life. He was at peace as the water took him, as it filled his being and blurred his vision beneath the soapy water.

Bitterly he thought that a lavender-scented death would not be the worst.

The servants pulled him from the bath and pampered him, escorted him into his room and helped him get into his pajamas (luxurious, yes, but the collar was much too tight and reminded him all too much of the scratchy lace of the collars he's forced to wear day in and day out, a constant reminder of the threat that came with his title. One wrong move and he will lose his head, he's sure.).

Every day Malleus was reminded of that peace, of the chill that bit at his cheeks from the storm outside, of the absolute bliss that came with finally allowing his body to float in the vastness between life and death.

He was no longer a child, and the shadow of the crown that loomed overhead became more and more solid as it reached for him, thorns that wrapped around his limbs and held him to the ground, biting into his pale skin and ripping into his leathery wings until he grit his teeth and set them all ablaze in a green glow that consumed the world should he lose control. Malleus was forced to twirl in a macabre waltz with his destiny, the destiny that doomed him to centuries of solitude, of isolation from the warmth he sought oh so desperately.

By the time Lilia had returned from the war, Malleus was no longer the wide-eyed, innocent child that he once had been. The fanciful stories no longer filled him with warmth- it filled him with the dread and the sorrow that came with knowing that he could never achieve that fairytale ending that he craved. Even Lilia could not undo the effects of the jeers of the citizens of the Valley of Thorns, the trauma cause by sharing death after death that lingered within the tall stone walls of the castle- all caused by the war that was declared by his own blood.

He was a prince, yes. But he could never fill the role of being someone's savior for he was the villain in everyone's story but his own. He could never hold someone as close as he wished, for he would rather lock them away in a tower far, far away from everyone else because he would finally have something that was his, someone who did not stay around him due to obligation or fear- someone who stayed simply because they wanted to.

Perhaps that part of his nature was what made him so villainous, so unlovable to all those who were near.

His loneliness left him in more agony than the thorns that had detained him from birth. The isolation was similar to the cold that nipped at his porcelain skin that same night. He'd imagined that only a watery grave could lift the weight of the crown from his head. Malleus often imagined that same warmth as he watched the jeweled headpiece float to the surface as he sank to the bottom. With a morbid curiosity he often wondered what it would feel like to give into that craving for release- would the people mourn him? Or would they instead mourn the empty position left over?

Yet, the chill of the night seems to be at bay as he sits now with his lover in his arms, head resting against his broad chest as they sleep peacefully, face twitching with every movement within their dream. He slowly wraps the blanket tighter around them as his eyes trail to the small fireplace that sat in Ramshackle's lounge. The fire crackled and snapped, small embers rising up the chimney as the walls creaked with the same wind that shook him to the core that very night.

He had found his warmth, his breath of air as he broke free from the surface. The crown would still lay heavy atop his head, would still scratch at his horns and get tangled in his hair as the vines would still bite into his skin as he tore away at them only for more to appear in their places.

He would bear all that and ten times more for his love.

Malleus rests his hand against their head, smiling softly at the way they stir in their sleep as they felt his icy hands make contact with their own heated skin.

"My Love?" He whispers, deep voice reverberating in his chest against the peace of the night. "Would you stay if you truly knew the burden of being a royal?"

No response, not that he expected any. The fae continues anyways, feeling his jaw clench as tears stream down his face.

"Would you deny me if you knew of the agony you would go through? Would you shut me away and leave me forgotten in this wasteland if you had a mere taste of the burden that is loving a prince?" His breaths were becoming more ragged as the tears continued to fall. "Would you still hold my affections within your heart if you'd heard of the condemnable thoughts that race through my mind- the thoughts that tell me to hide you away and keep you safe from this damnable world we call ours?" The war and the blood and the grief from the blood spilled, isolation, endless nights in his study, a prince forced to be alone by himself for centuries, discarded if not for the blood that pumps through his veins.

"Would you mourn me if I allow your warmth to be my demise?"

"Mal?" He hears them murmur. He feels a twinge of guilt for waking them, unaware of his sniffling and how it disturbed their slumber.

"Apologies, my Love."

"Don't be sorry," They rub their eyes and Malleus feels as though he held his very future within his clawed hands, images of seeing them in this state day and night flashing through his mind at such high speeds that it makes his head spin as he subconsciously holds them tighter. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Please, rest."

"Are you sure?" They sit up and press their forehead to his as they allow their eyes to slip closed once more, pressing a soft kiss to his cold lips and pulling away far too soon for the greedy dragon’s liking. "How can I help you?"

"Hold me, please," Malleus can't hide the desperation that seeps into his voice as the words climb from his throat. They wrap their arms around his neck and pull him closer into the plush couch. He wraps his arms around them as well, one arm snaking around their waist while another entangles itself in the hair at the base of their skull as he buries his face in the crook of their neck, careful of his horns. It's only a matter of seconds before his lover is fast asleep once more, and Malleus feels the pull of slumber upon himself. He allows his eyes to slip closed, pulling the human closer to him and praying to the stars that he dreams of this moment for now and forever.

[gelidponies]

"I can't believe the shopkeeper gave us this blind buy completely free!" 

Sunburst whinnied with enthusiasm, practically skipping behind his wife like a foal. 

"I'll make sure to have Spike remind me, we have to send them a donation! I guess it's what we get for spending every weekend there!" 

"Maybe this was their donation to get us out of their manes for a while!" 

He mused in response to his wife, making Twilight chortle and giggle. 

Twilight placed the barrel on the tile of their bedroom, splayed out just like they did when the couple played their favorite board games. The top of the barrel opened with ease...albeit covered them in some dust. 

In seconds flat there was a war of magic beams as Sunburst and Twilight ravaged the barrel of its sweet sweet antique and vintage books. 

Normally, the lack of variety would be disappointing but not for these two. The next half hour was spent passing each book back and forth until they came to a realization. Every single book was one neither had read before! Some even Twilight of all ponies had not heard of before. 

"Sunburst look! The Brain Chemistry of Friendship!" 

When she went to continue Sunburst joined her, the two exclaiming in unison. 

"Like dopamine and serotonin!" 

Even princesses and royal advisors needed lazy days sometimes. With Twilight's abilitiy to speed read they could get through all the books in no time. 

So they began. 

Only, a few minutes into reading when Twilight went to reach for a highlighter she clumsily bumped her leg into the barrel. 

It made a strange noise as though there was something still inside. 

"Strange." 

Sunburst's magic aura rummaged around for a moment before picking up a long slender box. 

His wife's eyes lit up as she saw it. He should have known something strange was up when something was able to tear Twilight from a book. 

"It sounds like...a game?"

He mused as he shook the box. Loose pieces rattled against the inside, small and many but not fragile. 

Upon opening all the tiles scattered in front of them with a loud clattering sound. All that was left was a folded piece of paper. 

"It is a game! It's fascinating! There's old ponish on some of these tiles but the instructions are written in modern english!"

"And theres gemstones on some of the others! It's fate if I do say so myself!"

"Although it's more likely statistical coincidence."

Sunburst playfully cleared his throat, urging her to move on.

"There aren't many instructions here, how curious. 

The pieces are split in to two, one side has questions the answers to which will have a matching gemstone piece. 

When all the questions are correctly answered and the pieces connected, flip them over to reveal a secret message!"

Putting the instructions down she began to fumble with the pieces. The old ponish text was so small they had to squish their faces together to read it. 

"There are only 6 pieces all together, I can't imagine this game has much replayability." 

Sunburst chuckled nervously, fearful he would dampen the excitement. 

"Oh! Perhaps it's a prototype!" 

He perked up with his realization. 

"That would explain why it ended up at an antique shop. The old and new ponish present together leads me to believe it's vintage and made to look much older! Isn't that so cool!" 

She said, clapping the ground with her hooves. 

"Ok ok, the first question, get your gemstones ready!" 

Twilight winked.

"This gem was featured as the most expensive ingridient in Cleotrotra's cocktail."

This of course was Twilight's wheelhouse so she quickly connected that question to the piece that displayed a freshwater pearl.

"Long ago, ponies believed this story was true, but now most experts think it is just made up. Stallions who wrote about Cleotrotra would make up all kinds of stories to smear her reputation." 

Sunburst nodded knowingly, gemology wasn't Twilight's forte but he was always amazed by the ways their skills intersecting. 

Not to mention, seeing her be so right and elucidate on said fact was quite attractive if he did say so himself.

"Let's see if you'll get this one Twi! This gems rarest and most valuable variant is colored black." 

Twilight scanned the selection of gemstones in front of her, biting her lip as she wracked her brain for the knowledge. 

"Well consider me stumped!" 

She beamed from ear to ear.

There was nopony it was safer to make a mistake around than her love. 

"Well I know how much you love a chance to learn something new! The answer is Opal."

"Doy! I should have known that one! Rarity would kill me if she was here."

Twilight's sentence trailed off into a nerdy chortle. 

"Aw, don't be so hard on yourself! This is one I know you’ll get!"

Sunburst lovingly stroked Twilight's hoof, making her wings flutter like a hummingbirds.

"Let's see, ancient ponies believed this gemstone kept you from becoming intoxi-"

"AMETHYST!-"

She yelped, her cheeks turning a deep magenta.

"-ahem. The answer is amethyst." 

The puzzle was almost done with only one more question to go. 

This day had turned out to be so much more eventuful than either of them could have hoped. Some magic in the air made it feel like things could only get better.

"Well I know, one amethyst that absolutely intoxicates me so perhaps we've stumbled on another apocryphal tale."~ 

Sunburst mused, to anypony else it would be a little...cringeworthy but to Twilight...well...

"W-what? I...I, my coat is heather! I have no idea what you're talking about! LETSJUSTREADTHELASTQUESTIONTOGETHERPLEASE!"

With the paper placed on the ground between them Twilight bumped heads with Sunburst in her stupor. When her vision cleared they could both see the last question.

Not a gem but a rock, this brightly colored stone is mottled with white calcite and brassy pyrite.

A short knowing glance saw the purple alicorn pushing the old ponish piece to the final remaining gemstone. Lapis Lazuli.

They took turns flipping over the puzzle pieces until the message they had been waiting for was revealed.

"Foal?" 

The word lingered on the air for a second, Twilight silently watched the gears turn in his head. 

"Oh! We never considered that this might not just be a prototype but a translated version from another language. If I had to guess it was meant to say fool! A practical joke on the overthinker?”

“Quasi-homophones are easily to fumble for an equish-as-a-second-language speaker….however.” 

Twilight stepped away for a moment and pulled out something black and laminated.

“I think it has something to do with something I shared with our close friend, the antique store owner.” 

Sunburst didn't understand the convoluted nature of Twilight's theory until he laid eyes on what she handed him.

An ultrasound.

“F….Twilight I don't understand do you mean….?”

She nodded, blushing profusely and hiding her face in her wing.

Sunburst couldn't stop himself from jumping for joy. He was married to the smartest, most beautiful mare he had ever known and they were going to have a foal together. He had to have been dreaming!

“The girls helped come up with the puzzle, Pinkie even had her sisters chip in. It ended up being harder AND simpler than I could have guessed.”

She looked down at the scattered pieces and the image of the unborn foal inside her.

“I suppose the rest of our lives will be like that now.”

“You know what the old ponish ponies say Twi!”

Twilight joined him, answering in unison.

“Reward prefers risk!” For @kindheart525 's https://www.deviantart.com/kindheart525/journal/Thirdverse-Ships-Contest-OPEN-988129888

Twilight's CM by https://www.deviantart.com/blackgryph0n/art/Twilight-Sparkle-Cutie-Mark-204983087

Background by https://www.deviantart.com/rhythms7

[valdiis]

FFXIV Site Write #5: Stamp

Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and soaked his shirt. Sweat glistened on bare arms in a fashion some might find attractive if they found shining, wet biceps attractive. Sweat plastered his dark hair to the back of his neck despite how much of it had been pulled back in a stubby little bun. In short, Vy'thanis Lusignon was hot - and possibly even too hot (or too sexy) for his shirt.

The worst part about it all, really, was how the sand now clung to his sweaty skin. Sand and dirt and grit that he stamped off his booted feet as he entered his apartment in the Goblet. First, he set down a large bucket filled to the brim with rocks. Then he shrugged off an equally large backpack, equally filled with rocks. The relief of shedding that much weight was immediate and he let out a gusty sigh and a groan. His shirt was sticking to him, along with the sand. "Gross," he said to the empty living room.

He took off his boots and left them in the boot tray at the door that he had bought specifically to minimize the dirt tracking into his house. The rest of his clothes followed in short order, dropping into a soggy pile next to his boots. There was enough dirt there too that he didn't want tracking around. If he had to peel himself out of his boxers, well, that was pretty common on days like today. At least once every other week, he went out mining for the gemstones that made up his living. Some weeks, he was smart about it and went looking for amethyst in the Shroud where it was shady and temperate in the summer. Other weeks, he was an idiot and went looking for malachite in Thanalan in the dead of summer.

Completely naked, he padded barefoot through the living room and tried not to think about the grit he could feel between his ass cheeks. The shower was so near, and yet so far when every step hurt and grated and stunk. But he made it there and he reached into the curtained enclosure to turn on the water. Not hot, no way, this water was cool and clean and delightful. He also didn't have to wait for cool water to warm up, so he could step right in. The next sigh of relief echoed off the tile walls, accompanied by the steady patter of water.

Vyth ducked his head under the spray and let out a sound that probably would've earned him scandalized looks in public. Water ran over his brown skin, taking with it the sand of Thanalan and the dirt of its hills. He was so tired. And hot. And stinky. The water was helping with at least two of the three. At a leisurely pace, he scrubbed his hands through his black hair, loosening the sand and grit until it washed away. A dollop of shampoo helped ease it free until his hair felt like hair again and not muddy dog fur. Soap and a washcloth took care of the rest, leaving Vyth feeling like a whole new man. He stood under the water for long minutes, not worried about running out of hot water. There was not a single thought in his head, no cares or plans or musings - just the rush of water sluicing off his body. It was lovely.

It wasn't until his fingertips were pruney that Vy'thanis finally turned off the shower and reached outside the curtain for a towel. He dried off briskly, full weary of being lightly damp. Leaving the bathroom, he headed for his bedroom with hair still dripping lightly down his back. It was far too reminiscent of the sweat, so he was in a hurry to find a shirt to absorb the worst of the sensation. Even with shade and windows and fans blowing, an apartment in the Goblet in summer was hot, so he opted for a sleeveless shirt and loose shorts. Unlike other gemcutters, he didn't have to wear protective clothing to shield himself from chisel slips unless he wanted to.

Once dressed, he headed back to the front door and the bucket resting there. Without really looking, he pulled the first rock he saw off the top and carried it over to his workbench. He didn't have to worry whether or not there was malachite in the chunk of rock; he could feel it within, humming faintly with that resonance that spoke of bands of light and dark green, of copper hiding in limestone, and of a rejection of wind-aspected aether. Refined malachite was used in wind ward potions, among other things.

Vyth wasn't entirely sure what he was going to use this malachite for yet. He usually let the stone tell him what it wanted to be. Sitting down at the workbench, he ran his hands over the limestone encasing the gem within. Ordinarily, he did his gemcutting the old-fashioned way, the proper way with chisels and hammers and water. Today, he was hot and tired and lazy and just wanted to let one stone sing to him for a little while. In the safety and privacy of his own home, he let his magic loose. Smoothing - still pruney - fingertips brushed away the limestone in chunks and then sand as it revealed the green stone within. He smiled at the swirls of darker and lighter green and asked nicely, "What do you want to be, my friend?"

The stone told him, and his hands worked to shape it with palms and pads and nails and knuckles. It wasn't like molding clay, but neither was it chipping stone. He shaped the stone through will and aether, a talent that could give him shapes no chisel could recreate. But he was very cautious with that, rarely ever creating sculptures or cuts that couldn't be replicated by a master. He didn't want word of his talent getting out. Since he was a young child, he'd known that it wasn't safe to tell the world he could hear the gemstones singing in the rocky matrix they were trapped in underground. Someone would enslave him for a power like that. So he worked in secret, coaxing the shapes from the raw chunks of stone until he had what he - and the stone - wanted.

Today, it was a malachite apple - simple, clean, and beautiful. He could even polish it to gleaming with a pass of his palm. Smiling, he set the apple down and leaned back in his chair. He'd get up and get another rock in a few minutes. First, just a brief moment to close his eyes...

He woke up four hours later with a terrible crick in his neck from falling asleep in his chair.

[dreadfutures]

100 Serault Prompts

Inspired by the atmospheric and enigmatic game, Dragon Age: The Last Court, here are some prompts for art or writing. Don't forget to send the prompt along with the number to help your creator out!

Utterly indebted to the #SaveSerault preservation project, and @silvanils Plot Guide here.

The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind.

Nightmares breed like maggots in meat.

Wolves howling in council, or prayer, or song.

Gnomic messages scratched into fragments of bark with a knife-point.

Beware of crows.

Painted Masked Goddess in the bluebelled glade.

An inquisitive wind stirs in the woods.

Questing roots crawling over a secret, locking it away against the centuries.

The forest returns to its sleep and its long, green dreams.

Streams suddenly freezing despite the sun.

A laughing wolf.

A pensive bear.

A spider the size of a carthorse.

There are stranger directions than ‘North’ and ‘South’.

Power is a difficult steed to ride. Not everyone can stay in the saddle.

Today's answer could be tomorrow's treason.

A Baker’s Breeze, early in the morning. Upon it, the scent of bread rising in the ovens.

A coy breeze carries the sounds and smells of the market.

Spice. Lies. Laughter. The play of coin.

A grey wind drones in the fireplace.

A slow rain drones on the windows.

A hard wind blows from the east, carrying fat, gloating ravens.

A song of old Serault: the Stag and the Rose.

A star-wind, high and swift, pushes silver clouds to and fro beneath the moon.

The lap of the river upon the castle’s stone feet.

The scent of leaves and nodding barley.

White feathers drift like snow.

Eels in the dark rivers.

The Applewoods are dappled with shadow and filled with succulent midnights. Come closer.

The Biting Wind that Masked Andraste keeps leashed like a dog.

The sun swarms the river.

The Chateau’s four cats stretch out on the roof-tiles.

The wind eddies in corners, making dancing columns of dust. It comes from nowhere, goes nowhere. A Fade-wind, the Dowager calls it.

The Chateau’s pennants crack like whips.

“Payment in Glass” is the Serault motto.

Dappled in gemmy light.

The Green Chapel in the Deepwoods, where wolves go to pray.

A line of grey in the dark; fighting, failing, dying.

A sound like tearing silk.

Burning blue with rage.

Sun as warm as the touch of a hand.

A garland of aster and cuckoo-flowers.

The Masked Andraste isn’t as keen on chastity as her moon-faced sister.

A mage must be a poet, a philosopher, and a butcher.

To see behind the world.

To hold fire by the throat.

Familiar territory, but never quite safe.

Serault’s pride is like her forests: root-deep, thick-skinned, hard-won from the world’s edge.

A bereskarn.

Rune-strewn bones of a fell beast.

A forest victim: flowers sprouting from their eyes.

Hands burned to the blackened bone.

The Tower of Lights, as it never was: scraping the sky, mantled in light.

Weep tears of silver.

Smashing a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

Your true face: a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

The Glassworkers' Guildmaster elections.

This is the Grand Game. Play or drown.

A glass Guildmaster's sword, the hilt spinning fractures of light across the floor.

Freedoms for the Glassworkers: to leave, and leave to marry.

If it doesn't fight back, you drink it.

Secret liaisons with the Lover: Candlelit meetings. Fingers tangling briefly in the corridors. The door to your chambers creaking softly open when the guards change their watch. Stifled giggles as a servant passes.

A change of lovers, and the fallout.

An old tome. Dense, inseparable uncials cram the book. The ink fades. Mold speckles the flimsy pages.

A pig farmer advises the Marquis.

A grin as tight as a gallows noose.

A mosaic floor.

Honor is a game that others play.

Your Chevalier Commander, and her loyalty.

Serault Town: Gold stone, red roofs.

The Horned Knight's hold: a round tower, jagged as a chipped tooth, its floors all collapsed in on one another. A great tree grows within it, spreading a canopy of burgundy leaves where the roof once was.

Grass sparkling with shards of an old, shattered mirror.

Fat partridge, simmering in a pot with sweet onions and pale beans, then a plate of round cakes, peppered with poppyseed and laced with honey.

The mother has eyes of fire; the daughter, a heart of it.

Twilit riverbanks untrod by mortal feet, and rings of tall blue stones that were not raised by human hands…

A hall where the trees walk and the stones speak.

The Horned Knight: clad in armor of forest green, with an ivy cloak that hisses along the flagstones.

Hounds in the kennels, baying for the hunt.

The effects of High Twilight.

The effects of High Peril.

The effects of Rumors of Revolution.

The Dignity of the Huntress, Glass Rose of Serault: deadly, beautiful, adored, dreaded.

The Freedom of the Scholar, who might be the one to bring change to Serault for the good of the common folk.

The apples have interesting properties: astringent... intoxicating.

The Chateau stands on an island in mid-river.

The Acerbic Dowager (Counselor)

The Cheery Baron (Counselor)

The Dashing Outlaw (Accomplice or Bodyguard)

The Elegant Abbess (Counselor or Lover)

The Kindly Knight (Counselor)

The Muttering Banker

The Purveyor of Teas (Accomplice)

The Seneschal (Counselor)

The Silent Hunter (Bodyguard)

The Smiling Guildmistress (Counselor)

The Wayward Bard (Lover)

The Well-Read Pig-Farmer (Accomplice)

His Dour Lordship (Counselor)

The Scornful Sorceress

The Anchoress.