#a tome of moonflowers

[gameoftomes]

All you need to know about Game of Tomes

Game of Tomes is a writing game on Twitch that models itself after NaNoWriMo (an organization with a whole mess of problems involved with not listening to anyone under the board about anything), the former NaNo House Cup (based on the books by famous TERF JK Rowling) run on Twitter (now X), and the Song of Ice and Fire books by George R.R Martin. In was concieved by narcissist SableAradia (also known as Diane Morrison, author of A Few Good Elves, a space opera fantasy that sympathizes with both Nazis and imperialistic powers as things that are bad but formed by flawed people and we wouldn't hate them if just understood them better) and her husband Erin Righ, an actual diagnosed psychopath who occasionally forgets to take his meds and then shouts at people for imagined slights

They are aided in this endeavour by moonflower_writer, someone who seems to have joined a writing community with the sole goal of being its only member, since she has a tendency to whine about people until Sable gets tired of hearing her whine and bans them. She usually is quiet for a week or two until she finds a new target of unacceptable behavior, so arguably this almost works, but not for very long

As long as you stay far, far away from the pillars of the community and founding members, the game is a lot of fun to play. We have a lot of fun storylines we aren't paying people any money to write for us or act in, and getting involved is a oneway ticket to Abuse Town, but we do encourage participation. Particularly if you like being paid in exposure and us getting all the credit and money for something you created after we bullied you into it

Do let us know how we can strip you entirely of any desire to write ever again in your life today!

(this is why you don't stab your social media person in the back, you assholes)

[slut4slytherinss]

These feelings

SEND REQUESTS!!

Summary: in which reader and Mattheo despise each other, until the moonflowers bloom.

1,767 words

Warnings: no mention of the Slytherin friend group, Tom is Mattheo’s dad in this, surprisingly I’ve managed to write no cursing so.. ooc Mattheo! Rushed and not proofread, a total cliffhanger.

2nd person pov

Gryffindor reader

Female reader

The air in the Potions classroom crackled with more than just the fumes of Bubotuber pus. Mattheo Riddle, the epitome of Slytherin arrogance, smirked across the cauldron at you, a Gryffindor simmering with righteous indignation. His obsidian eyes, a chilling reflection of his infamous father, held a challenge you couldn't resist.

"Looks like your concoction resembles swamp muck more than Veritaserum, Gryffindor," Mattheo drawled, his voice a silken threat.

You bristled, your retort sharp. "At least I haven't resorted to cheating, Riddle." You knew it was untrue, at least in this class, but the way he effortlessly manipulated his potion, his every movement oozing practiced superiority, grated on your nerves.

Professor Snape, his usual scowl deepening, swept between your cauldrons, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud. "Silence! Riddle, five points from Slytherin for your disruptive commentary. Y/n, another five from Gryffindor for accusations. Now, focus on your potions!"

The rest of the double Potions lesson crawled by, punctuated by stolen glances and silent barbs exchanged between you and Mattheo. You couldn't deny a strange pull towards him, a morbid fascination that warred with your Gryffindor loyalty. He was everything you loathed – a dark echo of the war that had ravaged the wizarding world – yet you couldn't tear your eyes away from his sharp features and the way his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

-

Days turned into weeks, the animosity between you a constant undercurrent. You'd clash in Defense Against the Dark Arts, your jinxes meeting his hexes in a flurry of sparks. In Herbology, you'd find his carefully tended Venomous Tentacula mysteriously wilting, a silent message that only you understood.

One blustery April evening, you were returning from the library, a stack of Transfiguration books threatening to topple over, when you bumped into someone. Books scattered across the wet cobblestones, a frustrated groan escaping your lips.

"Need a hand, Gryffindor?"

Looking up, you met Mattheo's gaze. The smirk was absent, replaced by a hint of amusement. You considered letting him wallow in your misfortune, but a flicker of something… kindness? in his eyes softened your resolve.

"Actually, yes," you admitted grudgingly.

Together, you gathered the books, a comfortable silence settling between you as you brushed dirt off the parchment. As you handed him a particularly heavy tome, your fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through you, making you gasp.

Mattheo's eyes widened for a fleeting moment before he masked his surprise. "Seems you're not immune to all Slytherin charms, Gryffindor," he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You snatched the book back, stammering, "It's nothing. Just… static." You turned to leave, desperate to escape the unexpected turn of events.

"Wait," Mattheo called out, his voice softer than you expected. He hesitated, then added, "The greenhouses are open tonight. The moonflowers are supposed to be blooming."

You stared at him, unsure of his motives. Was this another one of his games? Yet, the allure of the moonflowers, a rare and beautiful sight, was too strong to resist.

"Fine," you finally conceded, surprising yourself.

-

The walk to the greenhouses was filled with a tense silence. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile sharp under the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance.

Reaching the greenhouse dedicated to magical flora, you were greeted by the ethereal glow of moonflowers. Their petals, the color of moonlight itself, shimmered with an otherworldly beauty.

"They're… amazing," you whispered, mesmerized.

Mattheo stood beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. "They say they grant wishes," he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

You scoffed. "Wishes? Like childish fairy tales?"

He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the moonflowers. You felt a sudden urge to know him better, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

"Tell me about your father," you blurted out, the words catching in your throat.

Mattheo's head snapped towards you, his eyes hardening. "Don't," he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Regret washed over you. You knew it was a forbidden topic, a raw nerve he wouldn't appreciate being prodded.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, turning away.

A tense silence stretched between you and Mattheo, broken only by the soft hum of nocturnal insects. The ethereal glow of the moonflowers seemed to mock the awkwardness, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

"It's not that simple," Mattheo finally said, his voice low and strained. "He's powerful, yes, but there's more to him than just darkness. There's a reason some still follow him, a reason I can't entirely… disavow."

His words hung heavy in the air. You understood his hesitation. Voldemort, his father, was a symbol of pure evil, a name whispered in fear. Yet, a part of you couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy for Mattheo, burdened by the weight of such a legacy.

"Do you… fear him?" you asked softly, surprised by your own boldness.

Mattheo turned to you, his obsidian eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions you couldn't decipher. "Fear is a luxury I can't afford," he said finally. "But there's a constant… wariness. A knowledge that even the smallest misstep could have dire consequences."

You felt a pang of empathy for him. Despite his aloofness and occasional cruelty, Mattheo was just a boy, grappling with the burden of a monstrous father.

"You're not him, Mattheo," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You have a choice."

He flinched at your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze to where your hand rested on his arm. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent question hanging between you.

The heat radiating from his arm beneath your touch was unexpected, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His fingers twitched, a silent battle raging within him between acknowledging the connection and maintaining his usual stoic facade.

"I know," Mattheo said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that's exactly what scares me." He turned away, his back ramrod straight, but you could see the vulnerability flickering in his tightly held posture.

"What scares you?" you asked softly, stepping closer. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, until you reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. His head snapped back, his gaze meeting yours, a storm of emotions brewing within.

"That this," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "this feeling… it weakens me." He gestured vaguely around the greenhouse, the unspoken implication clear - the vulnerability you represented put him at risk.

"Weakens you how?" you pressed, your voice a gentle challenge. "Makes you a target? Or makes you… feel something you haven't allowed yourself to feel before?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a grudging respect. He sighed, a tremor of vulnerability in the breath that escaped his lips. "Both," he admitted, his voice raw. "The truth is… I haven't allowed myself to feel anything for anyone other than myself in a long time."

His words hung in the air, a heavy confession. You understood. Growing up in the shadow of Voldemort, fear and suspicion were likely the only emotions he knew. The vulnerability he felt towards you was a foreign territory, something he didn't know how to navigate, something that scared him.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Maybe feeling something, even fear, is better than feeling nothing at all."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes. In that moment, the air vibrated with unspoken emotions – a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a spark of something else entirely.

"Maybe," he finally conceded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The tension started to dissipate, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

Suddenly, the harsh clanging of the castle curfew bell echoed through the night. Both of you jumped, startled by the sound.

"We should get back," Mattheo said, his voice regaining its usual composure. He offered you his hand, the gesture unexpectedly formal.

You hesitated for a beat, surprised by the formality of his outstretched hand. It was a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability he'd just revealed. Was he retreating back behind his Slytherin mask, the emotional connection a fleeting aberration?

Taking a deep breath, you slipped your hand into his. The warmth from his touch sent a jolt through you, a silent confirmation that the moment hadn't been entirely imagined.

"We should," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.

-

The walk back to the castle was filled with a comfortable silence, a stark contrast to the charged tension that usually surrounded your interactions. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile etched sharp against the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance, a flicker of hope battling the ever-present wariness in his eyes.

As you approached the castle grounds, the imposing silhouette of the building a stark reminder of the rules and boundaries that separated Gryffindors and Slytherins, Mattheo stopped abruptly.

"Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment, sending shivers down your spine.

"This…" he began, his voice husky, "this can't happen again, can it?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The danger of their connection, the weight of his family legacy, the very real possibility of getting hurt – all of it swirled in the space between you.

"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "But maybe…" you trailed off, searching his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't have to be like this. Maybe there's another way."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow, hesitant smile. "Another way?" he echoed, a hint of hope creeping into his voice.

You stepped even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to be… more. Not enemies, not exactly friends, but something in between. Something real."

He stared at you for a long moment, the moonlight glinting off the unshed tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached out and cupped your cheek with his hand.

"Maybe," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Maybe we can try."

The bell tolled once more, a harsh reminder of the world outside their bubble. With a final lingering look, Mattheo squeezed your hand gently before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the castle.

-

A/n: would you guys hate me if I ended it like that?

[iolitedoll]

Borrowed Time

Weary with worry, the witch, watched the doll’s delicate chest rise and fall in a slow, mechanical rhythm. Each tick of it's internal clock seemed louder in the silence, a cruel reminder of time slipping away. She had crafted this doll with her own hands, imbuing it with magic and love, a creation more precious to her than anything in the world.

She remembered the day she had first breathed life into the doll, how its eyes had sparkled with curiosity and wonder. It had danced and played, eager to explore the world and learn. They had shared so many joyous moments—long walks through the faewild, shopping trips where it begged her for it’s very own witches hat, evenings by the hearth with the doll's soft laughter filling the air. Those days seemed like a distant dream now.

The witch had tried every spell and potion she knew to restore the doll’s essence. She had consulted ancient tomes and sought the advice of other witches, but nothing had worked. The doll’s spirit was fading, and with it, the light that had once shone so brightly in its eyes.

The sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the room, the witch made a decision. She knew there was one last thing she could try, a forbidden spell that required a sacrifice of immense power. It was dangerous, and the cost could be her own life, but she was willing to do anything for her doll.

Taking a deep breath, she began to assemble the necessary ingredients: the luminescent petal of a moonflower, a strand of her own silver-threaded hair, a shard of vivianite crystal, and a vial containing the joy of first-snowfall. Carefully, she placed them in a circle around the doll, each item glowing faintly with residual. As she started to chant the ancient incantation, the room began to hum with a resonant energy, the air vibrating with powerful magic.

As the spell reached its climax, the witch felt a sharp pain in her chest. She could feel her life force being drained, flowing into the doll. She focused all her love and hope into the spell, willing the doll to come back to her. The room blazed with light, and then everything went dark.

When the witch opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor, weak and barely able to move. She looked up at the bed, her vision blurry. The doll was sitting up, its eyes wide with wonder and confusion. It looked down at its hands, flexing its fingers, and then turned to the witch.

“Mother?” it said, its voice soft and cautious.

Tears streamed down the witch’s face as she smiled. “Yes, my dear…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m here.”

The doll crawled over to her, cradling her head in its lap. It could feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat, growing weaker by the second. “Why did you do this?” it asked, its voice breaking.

“Because I love you,” the witch replied, reaching up to touch the doll’s cheek. “You are my greatest creation, my heart and soul. I couldn’t let you fade away.”

The doll hugged her tightly, its own tears mingling with hers. “I’m sorry please don’t leave me, I love you please stay, you can’t leave me alone, please don’t go.” it begged through sobs.

The witch smiled, her eyes closing for the last time.

[willowser]

oh, to be a little witch of the woods 🦋✨️ with a garden of nightshade and moonflower and henbane 🌿🌺 a cluttered hut with tomes and oddly-shapen vials of glittering potions and ghastly elixirs ⚗️🕯 nestled secretly in the midst of the forest, between an ancient god-tree and a snaking river 🌙🔮

until !! a little wild boy tries to steal from your fish trap !! and has the nerve to threaten you !!

"i'm not a boy!" he warbles, all impish and stubborn. in his hands is a cherry-stained bow, small and fit for him, carved with runes that read foreign. "i'm a dragon!"

"oh, yes, of course," you muse, suppressing a wicked grin at the untamed of sight of his blonde hair as he huffs it out of his baby-face. "how could i overlook your long and scaly tail or your forked tongue?" when you hiss, his nose scrunches up, surrendering a giggle. "tell me, little drake, what exactly are you going to be killing me for?"

the confidence in his big, brown eyes falters and they dart away, down to the overgrown herb garden near your feet. silence trickles by as his shoulders rise, shy suddenly.

"is this your home? or your fish?" you're answered by the drop of his hands, bowstring going lax as he frowns at the grass; a scolded little beast. "ah ha, i didn't think so." dirt clings to his round, pink cheeks, and you lean close enough to swipe it away, turning his chin up. "though it would seem i have no choice but to offer something else in exchange for the safety of my trout."

you're bestowed a toothy smile.

without fear, the little drake stomps into your home, beastly with his manners as he begins to peer into jars and poke at your literature. dust makes him sneeze when he wanders too close to your bookshelf, and he wipes his nose on the front of his tunic.

"come, come, hatchling," you wave a still-warm loaf of bread around like a jewel, beckoning him away from the prick of your thorned roses. "i hope you'll find sweet apple jam a suitable replacement."

his blonde eyebrows shoot up, sitting on his knees at your small round table. precariously, he leans over flickering candles and fares too close to a bubbling cauldron, attention stuck to the green jar you pull from the cupboard; a clumsy little boy, in all manner of the term.

near drooling as you slather down two thick slices of oat bread, digging into them without so much as a thanks as you give him — and his forthcoming mess — all the space he should need. out of reach, you make quick work of stowing away spells that eyes as young as his should never see.

"does your mother know where you are, little drake?"

he gives a small shrug and wipes the back of one hand across his messy face, jelly sticking between his little fingers. "she's gone."

your attention is his instantly, watching from across the hut as a chill runs down your spine; so nonchalant, for such a revelation. "and where has she gone?"

"i don't know," big brown eyes drift to the crows that chatter in your window, watching them as his grip tightens on his delight. "father says she and my sister were taken by bad men."

despite his initial approach, you realize then just how kind he looks: chubby cheeks and a round face, slow-blinking lids and a wild mess of silky, ashen hair. small, for how intelligent he seems, and too trusting.

this would not be the first time you've known such heart-wrenching news, but still — yours breaks for him.

the war still rages to the north, though it hasn't touched this realm in years; regardless, greed among men poisons all, an illness that festers and spreads as spores on a summer wind. there's a very good chance a boy as young as he never even knew his missing family, and, quietly, you thank your gods for such a mercy.

you clear your throat of its itch. "and where is your father, then?"

the little drake pauses, biting at his lip as he thinks — before taking another massive chomp. "at home."

one parent, at least, that hopefully has been strong enough for the both of them, though you doubt the little boy's presence in your home is doing well on a poor father's nerves. a treasure is what you've found in the heart of these woods, one you must return.

"come then," you sink a hand into his tousled hair, which earns you a frightful little glare. "you've been away long enough."

whatever directionless path brought him to your neck of the woods is as clear as day, little feet obvious in their trample of weeds and broken branches. the little drake leads, unafraid and talking loud of all the goblins he's killed in your forest, how good he is with his bow and the tiny knife he keeps strapped to his quiver.

you don't mention the barrier you've set up, to keep the evil in its place, and instead listen to the wild flames of his imagination. it's amusing, at least, and reveals him in slow, secret ways; it's clear the measure of strength he's set is in the shape of his father, and that he thinks being able to defend oneself is the highest skill one can have. they're important things, good things, and you tell him so — but you can smell the fear bleeding through.

it paints a small picture of the man rearing him, one that must be desperate not to lose what little he has left. you think of your own grief and your stomach churns, eager to return him to safety.

"shall we take a shortcut?" at the edge of the river, you pause, calling on thick roots to curl up from under their trees and span across the the rushing water. they creak as they grow, unending, bringing about new sprouts of life as they bend to your will.

"woah!" the wild boy shouts, jumping up and down in place before darting forward. you hardly catch him by the back of his tunic, holding him in place as the bridge evens out. "how did you do that?"

"should you live to see your sixteenth year, i will show you!" you snap, frowning down at his impatience. his cheeks pink, offering small apologies as he vows to stick by your side.

still leading, though he's true to his word and dares not to run ahead any further. the only time his impatience sparks anew is when a cottage breaks your line of sight, surrounded, too, by a swath of thick trees. glee marks his face and you return it in full force, allowing him to take you by the arm as he starts to shout out for his father.

—but at the feel of eyes on the back of your neck, you freeze, hands going up in surrender as a sharp tang of fear sours in your mouth; it's been a long time since anyone has gotten the jump on you. "daddy drake, i presume?"

"huh?" the little boy turns to make a silly face at you, mouth wide open like you've just spoken a foreign language — but the looming beast steals all his attention. something digs too deep into the skin of your neck, and the boy erupts. "father!" he cries, eyes going impossiblely wider. "stop!"

at your throat, the blade hesitates but never recedes. the low voice tickles the shell of your ear, and you repress a shiver. "you've got until he closes his eyes to get the fuck outta here, or i'll skin you myself."

you hum, hiding a burst of adrenaline at the threat, and it earns you a impatient tch. "well, that's not very kind, is it, for the woman that's found your hatchling?"

before you have a chance to even consider a countermeasure, you're shoved roughly against the base of a tree, a hand fisted in the front of your robes. the man before you is — big, and you have to look up to see the expanse of his furious, unshaven face. in him somewhere, you see his son; hair bleached and untamed, a shared sharp nose, even their brows turn down to the same degree.

it would make you laugh, if a singular red eye was not tearing through your very being. if you did not know at once who stands before you.

"dragon, indeed."

"i'll fucking kill—"

"father!" the boy tries again, hurrying to beat his little fists into his father's thigh. "stop! stop!"

it takes the man back a step, though he still keeps you in close range. with an all-encompassing hand, he grabs both of the boys' and tugs him until he's hidden behind the wall of his back.

"stop! she's my friend!"

"she's a witch, boy!" the beast snarls, temper flared like wings. "and you've brought her straight here!"

"she helped me!" he shouts, digging little heels into the ground to steady himself as he tries to yank free. "and fed me! and—"

"fed you?" all at once, his hand drops and in a single swift movement, he's on his knees in front of the boy, gripping his cheeks as if to stop him from swallowing something long gone. "what did she feed you? the hell did you take from her?"

you scoff, offended, though the father continues searching his son's throat. "i do not delight in poisoning children, your grace."

both of their eyes snap to you, wide and full, and the little one murmurs "father?" quietly as the man rises to his feet. when he tries again, he's silenced with a low, guttural grunt. the curved blade in his hand gleams crimson in the light of the setting evening, reflecting nearly the same shade as the thick, crude jewels in his earlobes and peeking out from the collar of his tunic. with nearly the same intensity as his eye.

rumors have taken flight, of an exiled king that lost a war his arrogance began: bonded dragon slain in battle, an eye taken, long braid cut. family torn. the scar eating up the right sight of his body and face speak to his loss; an unending reminder of what pride made of him.

"go inside, hasaru."

bakugou katsuki: fire housed in human form.

the little boy — bakugou hasaru — is quick to take advantage of his father's surprise, darting to stand in front of you, like a small, wooden shield. you can't help but to smile at his bravery, his flickering defiance. "only if you promise not to hurt her."

"boy—"

"no, promise!"

"little drake," you let out a chime of laughter and crouch to his height, cupping his cheeks when he turns to you. "all the valor you have shown today gives me great courage, and i think—" you glance up at his father, smiling wistfully at his flared nostrils. "—i might be able to handle myself. it's not my wish to trouble you any further." the little frown you receive has your own lips turning down, and you pinch at his chin once, serious. "but should you ever encounter danger in these woods, do not hesitate to find me, hasaru."

"enough." the once-king grits, lips pulling back over his teeth. "get. inside."

you watch the little boy scurry off, shoulders slumped as he eyes his father distrustfully. as he reaches the top step, he looks back once over his shoulder, cheeks round and full with the pout he wears, and fat tears well in his eyes as he waves a final goodbye.

as soon as the door closes, you're digging your nails into the tree bark, passing back and fully through it to avoid katsuki's deadly swing. it catches in the wood, but he makes no move to free it, stepping out so that his singular gaze can burn into your cheeks.

"if y'know what's good for you, you won't come back here."

"i only mean to warn you, daddy drake," you sing, far out of reach and smiling at how bright his glare becomes. "that the next person to find your hatchling in the woods might not be so kind."

his left hand raises and you feel the sorcery before you see it, though it airs differently; heavy and yet smooth, like the calm lap of waves against a shore. innate is his fire, not something he's had to study, like you.

embers pop at his fingertips, smoke swirling. "that a threat?"

"not at all," you try to mimic him, thinking hard on the handful of kinetic spells stored in the tome of your mind. "just—he's a chatty little thing, you know? might want to watch out for that."

"i don't need advice from you, witch," he spits, "now leave us."

your attempts at softening his steel are fruitless and so you drop the smile, stepping as close to him as he'll allow before rearing his defenses. "i should hope they never find you or your boy, your grace—"

"don't ever—

"—but if they do," you continue, "know that i am not far."

he weighs your words, their honesty, searching your face as he considers; whatever kindness he finds is deemed untrustworthy, though you can't say you blame him. "why the hell would i believe you? because you want to help?" he snorts, turning his face so that the scar of his pride is on full display. "i'd have burned these fucking woods to the ground, had i the chance."

"oh, i don't doubt that," you murmur, retreating a step when he huffs. "but i lost the ones i love, too, once, and i would have ripped the world to pieces just the same, if it meant they would be returned to me."

the steel warms, giving away the true shape of his grief for only a moment before hardening again; the once-king says nothing, only grunts before turning with his own retreat.

"not far," you repeat, light, when he pauses on the steps of his house. "over the river and near the god-tree. the little drake will know the way."

his arrogant eye meets you over his shoulder, now weary, clouded, and he nods. wordless is an understanding such as this.

as soon as he reaches for the door, it swings open and hasaru is sticking out his little head before his father can finish gritting out his name. a toothy smile reaches you, and then katsuki as he turns to him, relieved that you are not kindling for their hearth. at the sight, the once-king warms again, offering a small tug of his lips before pressing a firm hand on his son's head and steering him back inside.

katsuki looks out one last time, as you let the wind take the petals of you away.

generally i find it so difficult to imagine katsuki with a beard, but quirkred's art is just. woof.

[noxseraph]

for nox: 6, 20, 21, 24 :3!!

excitinggg :D

6) Any flowers you associate with your OC? moonflowers (datura/angel trumpet), black roses, narcissus, forget me nots, nightshade and night sky morning glory!! 20) What hobbies does your OC have? he loves to bake, do gardening, and he likes collecting trinkets and books/scrolls!! he has a library in which he keeps tomes on all kinds of subjects and his house is ornate with lots of magical trinkets :0 he also likes to paint, dance, cook, play instruments....he likes to have fun 21) Any embarrassing secrets your OC demands you take to the grave but you will share anyway? he's head over heels over a certain someone....omggg........ (not that i can think of u.u he has secrets but they are not very embarrassing) 24) What kind of sleeper is your OC? Light or heavy? What side do they sleep on? Do they like to sleep over or under the covers? he doesn't need to sleep so he rarely does it but if he does he's an extremely light sleeper. nothing and no one should move a muscle near his room or he will hear it and open his eyes. it sleeps under the covers face down bc if it sleeps on his back it starts experiencing weird wing pain even if he has his wings dispelled </3

✨thank youuuu✨

[anansi-the-storyteller]

Aight, day 1 is complete. Good luck reading my handwriting nerds. Since commonplace books are a mix of journals and knowledge, I’m designating facts/science as black, commentary as green, and personal as purple. Other colors will get designated as time goes on. Today’s topic was Living Walls! Plant type, anyway.

[chim-aera]

this or that!

honey sunrises or melting sunsets / silver stars or golden moons / totoro or howl / black coffee or green tea / cinnamon and vanilla or pumpkin and chai / cherry blossoms or moonflowers / brass coins or copper rings / celestial clocks or shining hourglasses / raven wings or owl feathers / tomes or scrolls / ink splattered robes or blood stained linens / fangs or claws / the bejeweled dagger or the moon-like mirror / hidden overflowing atriums or magnificent libraries / study or teach / Latin or Greek / Aphrodite or Athena / griffins or dragons /

tagging @zephyr-thefwoggy-likes-sandwich @maverick-the-nerd @pocketful-of-infinity @dragonladdie @dragonherder2030 and anyone who wants to do this!!!

[wellhalesbells]

✨✨ TOP FIVES FOR 2020 ✨✨

2020 was, i think we can all agree, a massively chaotic year but i have never consumed as much media before in my life, so i thought others might benefit from my slothery uh, connoisseur.... ship?  yes, that.  below are the books, comics, shows, and movies that got me through!

B O O K S .

the starless sea, by erin morgenstern - i loooove this book because it loves me back.  it says: ‘oh, you’re a reader, well i have just the thing for you.’  it luxuriates in language and story and riddles and fairy tales and it feels like an entire library in a single tome.

they never learn, by layne fargo - oh fuuuuuck, this was satisfying.  i thought it might feel a little exploitative as it is very aware of the zeitgeist and likely would not exist without the #metoo movement but it never ever did.  this was a fucking ROMP, period.  reading about a woman getting away with murdering skeezy guy after rapey guy after shitty human just made me happier and happier.

moonflower murders, by anthony horowitz - this is the second in the susan ryeland series (and the first was hardcore good fun too) and really feels very classic mystery with the artful twist of catering to the literary community.  mainly because: susan isn’t a detective, she’s an editor and she gets drafted in this time because the clue to what happened to a missing woman is in a book she edited, if she can find it.  both of the books in this series have such an excellent coming together moment that is rare af to find.

the invisible life of addie larue, by v.e. schwab - the writing in this is just so good.  it has that feel to me where i just want to drop the book and open up my own page and let my fingers fly.  it’s that inspiring kind of writing that reminds you of all the things language can do.

crown of feathers/heart of flames, by nicki pau preto - aaahhh, this series is SO FREAKING GOOD!  why is there not more of a fandom for it, why???? it is so many of my favorite tropes all resting perfectly together to the point where you almost forget they’re tropes because they just so naturally evolved there.  ugh, it’s just.... it’s so heart-bursty good.

.... number 5, part 2?  raybearer, by jordan ifueko - this was just so original and i was invested af.  like, what a brilliant idea though and an even better execution??  i loved every character and am so looking forward to the next in the series so i can get to know them even better!!

honorable mentions (sh*t i still liked a whole heckuva lot): you/hidden bodies, by caroline kepnes // writers & lovers, by lily king // i’ll be gone in the dark, by michelle mcnamara // the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, by joseph fink & jeffrey cranor // girl, serpent, thorn, by melissa bashardoust // a little life, by hanya yanagihara // the guinevere deception, by kiersten white // obsidio (and the entire illuminae series), by amie kaufman & jay kristoff // the bone houses, by emily lloyd-jones // house of salt and sorrows, by erin a. craig // we hunt the flame, by hafsah faizal // savage legion, by matt wallace // blacktop wasteland, by s.a. cosby // crier’s war, by nina varela // the empress of salt and fortune/when the tiger came down the mountain, by nghi vo // upright women wanted, by sarah gailey // the monster of elendhaven, by jennifer giesbrecht // a deadly education, by naomi novik // you let me in, by camilla bruce // when you ask me where i’m going, by jasmin kaur // the lights go out in lychford/last stand in lychford (and the entire lychford series), by paul cornell // the devil and the dark water, by stuart turton // serpent & dove, by shelby mahurin // one by one, by ruth ware // ruthless gods (this was SUCH an upshot from the first book - it’s worth sticking with if you’re on the fence), by emily a. duncan // cemetery boys, by aiden thomas // the inheritance games, by jennifer lynn barnes // the fortunate ones (2021 release), by ed tarkington

C O M I C S .

cosmoknights, by hannah templer - the art was gorgeous, the gayness was glorious, and just.... hot HOOOOOOOOT lady knights in space?!  a princess winning her own hand?  find something not to love in there, i dare you.

don’t go without me, by rosemary valero-o’connell - wow. wow wow wow wow wow.  the writing was stunning, so lyrical and atmospheric and deep, and rosemary has to be one of my favorite artists but even that managed to come as a beautiful surprise because it was just so freaking bold.

through the woods, by emily carroll - i loooove emily carroll, the convergence of spine-tingling horror and art that feeds into it, that is both visually and aesthetically pleasing, is hard to beat!  p.s. i also read beneath the dead oak tree from her this year and it was also a BANGER.

the impending blindness of billie scott, by zoe thorogood - zoe is someone that i just want to follow.  she’s just starting and i want to be there for every single step.  i love her art style and her ability to tell a story with it.

above the clouds, by melissa pagluica - this was so unique, and such a baller concept, as nearly half the entire book is conveyed only through the art and yet you’re never once lost, never once confused as to what any character is thinking or feeling.  it’s a story within a story and only one of those gets words though they both are chock full of emotion!

um.... number 5, part 2? crowded, by christopher sebela - everything about this series is fun af.  crowd-funded assassination and a hirable bodyguard who’s rated like an uber driver???  and the chemistry between the two mains is so great and gay!!

honorable mentions: monster and the beast, by renji // long exposure, by kam ‘mars’ heyward // fence, by c.s. pacat // invisible kingdom, by g. willow wilson // ms. marvel, by g. willow wilson // heathen, by natasha alterici // not drunk enough, by tess stone // giant days, by john allison // die, by kieron gillen // be prepared, by vera brosgol // ascender (sequel to descender, which is also great), by jeff lemire // the unbeatable squirrel girl, by ryan north // bang! bang! boom!, by melanie schoen // gideon falls, by jeff lemire // life of melody, by mari costa // cry wolf girl, by ariel slamet ries // the tea dragon society, by katie o’neill // ptsd, by guillaume singelin // heartstopper, by alice oseman // solutions and other problems, by allie brosh // finding home, by hari conner // the magic fish, by trung le nguyen // something is killing the children, by james tynion iv // the weight of them, by noelle stevenson // spill zone, by scott westerfeld // skyward, by joe henderson // miles morales, by saladin ahmed

F I L M S.

parasite, dir. bong joon ho - oh it was satisfying, oh it was suspenseful, oh i had to watch some of it through my fingers but i loooooooved it.  such a good story and so well made.

knives out, dir. rian johnson - okay, everything about this movie was amazing.  every single character was fun as hell and i could’ve watched an entire movie about each of them.  what a great fucking mystery!

blindspotting, dir. carlos lopez estrada -  this made my heart hurt so damn much.  what glorious writing, acting, and story!

portrait of a lady on fire, dir. celine sciamma - gooooorgeous cinematography, amazing chemistry, and such a soft, atmospheric film.

the farewell, dir. lulu wang - i cried and my heart felt so full and i love it so so much.

um.... number 5, part 2? someone great, dir. jennifer kaytin robinson - no part of me expected to love a netflix movie this much but it’s a love story that doesn’t get told that often??  the end of a relationship and the true love of friendship and i love these girls and i love jenny and nate’s broken relationship.

honorable mentions: eighth grade, dir. bo burnham // booksmart, dir. olivia wilde // midsommar, dir. ari aster // the curse of la llorona, dir. michael chaves // the secret life of pets 2, dirs. chris renaud & jonathan del val // jojo rabbit, dir. taika waititi // the invisible man, dir. leigh whannell // the favourite, dir. yorgos lanthimos // can you ever forgive me?, dir. marielle heller // troop zero, dirs. bert & bertie // ready or not, dirs. matt bettinelli-olpin & tyler gillett // brave, dirs. mark andrews & brenda chapman & steve purcell // the half of it, dir. alice wu // palm springs, dir. max barbakow // doctor sleep, dir. mike flanaghan // uncut gems, dirs. benny sadfie & josh sadfie // birds of prey, dir. cathy van // bloodshot, dir. dave wilson // the old guard, dir. gina prince-bythewood // enola holmes, dir. harry bradbeer // hocus pocus, dir. kenny ortega // always be my maybe, dir. nahnatchka khan // finding dory, dirs. andrew stanton & angus maclane // die hard, dir. john mctiernan

S H O W S .

black sails (2014) - this show, this shooooooooow.  i cannot, it just makes me want to cry with how good it is.  the characters, the EMOTIONS, the story, the plaaaaaan.  like, the creators clearly had a plan for every single step of this show and it was a gOOD, GOOD PLAN.

the untamed (2019) - truly, cheesy good fun with one of the best gay romances ever.  i love these characters and their relationships to each other and the way it glories in its own ridiculousness.

the righteous gemstones (2019) - one of the things that bothered me about my next choice (the ratio of female to male nudity) was so much more realistic in this one (i mean, we’ve all gotten five thousand dick pics and i know like three people?  so the fact that there is so rarely male nudity in shows when there are tits everywhere..... no, how does that even make a tiny bit of sense?).  this show was such great, wonderful, awful fun.  they’re not great people and the show is under no delusion about that and it’s GLORIOUS!

the witcher (2019) - this was just hella fun, i loved the characters and the fantasy elements.  i’m excited for the next season, it’s just entertaining swashbuckling through and through!

fargo (2014) - all of this was really very enjoyable with the through line being somebody fucks shit up and gets involved in something they really shouldn’t be involved in that’s going to swallow them whole.  season one and season three were my stand-out favorites but they were all so violent, clever, and vicious!

um.... number 5, part 2? central park (2020) - um..... so many of the hamilton actors in a muscial cartoon drawn and written by the bob’s burgers team? WHAT ABOUT THAT DOESN’T SOUND AMAZING?!  it was such a joy to hear daveed diggs and leslie odom jr.’s voices again!!

honorable mentions: schitt’s creek // the mandalorian // mr. robot // broadchurch // mindhunter // jack ryan // the good place // the end of the f***ing world // big little lies // elite // kidding // servant // letterkenny // curb your enthusiasm // i am not okay with this // ozark // buzzfeed unsolved: true crime/supernatural // you // runaways // dear white people // dickinson // brooklyn nine-nine // will & grace // 9-1-1 // dead to me // solar opposites // never have i ever // killing eve // what we do in the shadows // grace and frankie // avenue 5 // roswell, new mexico // the bold type // evil // tuca & bertie // impulse // the umbrella academy // watchmen // infinity train // corporate // search party // on becoming a god in central florida // a.p. bio // criminal: uk // the morning show // mythic quest // last week tonight // prodigal son // the great

[ashleys-doodle-corner]

So initially I had wanted to post the DND icons I made for the group, but one, they were super teeny tiny because I didn’t realise Owlbear could scale the icons, and two, they were kinda... generously borrowed off the internet’s Google search. But I started making updated ones again, and now I’m finished with all of them (with tweaked designs for the ones not originally drawn by the players).

This is our party, the Stronk Bois! From left to right and up to down we have:

The Stronk Bois  (sans Ann)

Hexnilav Pyreia the Dragonborn Fighter (Battle Master) Annabeth “Ann” Elysse Brunaj the Warforged Cleric Agua the Water Genasi Bard Dillon Norris the Tiefling Bard (College of Spirits) Delmirev Thotiana the Dragonborn Bard (College of Lore) Loramae “Barbie” Phoenixboobs the Half-Elf Sorceror (Draconic Bloodline) Chad Thundercock the Drow Warlock (Fiend Patron: Pact of the Tome) Elbereth Sinnodel the Moon Elf Druid (Circle of the Stars) Pooliswag the Grung Druid (Circle of the Moon) Sidhon “Moonflower” Galasticia the Human Ranger (Beastmaster)

[ofheroesandvillains]

Dorian II - Geralt

Words: 2.7k Warnings: None for now. Summary: Geralt investigates, a deal is struck, Jaskier sleeps. Nothing new.

Oh. My. Word! The amount of support part one received was beyond any of my expectations. Seriously, folks…you blew my mind and I’m so, so honoured. Thank you so much for all of the kind words and interest shown, I hope this part doesn’t disappoint as it is more of a filler. I wasn’t expecting to write more than two or tree parts for this little story, but your encouragement had me coming up with something longer…unless you’d all prefer something shorter, then I can do that too!

Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

(Gif not mine, credit to the creator.)

Jaskier’s pretty barmaid had retreated to the backroom for the rest of the night, much to the bard’s disappointment. Fortunately, the Inn was within stone’s throw of the tavern, because Jaskier could barely walk by the time he was done drowning his sorrows, and Geralt wasn’t feeling generous enough to carry him any further.

Not when he had other plans in mind.

She had a particular scent. There was something fragrant and flowery clinging to her skin - moonflower, the type of scent most women preferred, but alongside that was something Geralt hadn’t expected.  

At first, he thought the scent of various herbs and spices lingered around her because of her time in the kitchen, but wolfsbane? Basilisk venom? He thankfully hadn’t detected either of those in Lyssa’s special soup.

But it raised the question of where they’d come from in the first place.

And so, after all but throwing Jaskier onto his bed - who then proceeded to roll off and onto the floor - Geralt made his way back downstairs and into the cool night air. The streets were dark, and a few stragglers were stumbling their way home in the early hours of the morning, but the Witcher found himself wide awake. 

A crescent moon hung in the sky, barely offering enough light to illuminate his surroundings, but the closer he came to the bustling tavern, the lower he tugged his hood over his face.

He passed the front entrance and rounded the corner. Even now, if he focused, he could smell the odd combination of scents. It made it entirely too easy to find what he was looking for.

Geralt glanced over either shoulder, despite his senses telling him that he was very much alone, before scaling the vine-covered lattice that sprawled across the side of the building and led to the second floor. The wood creaked beneath his weight, and he felt it splinter the moment his arm hooked over a stone balustrade. Each room had a small balcony, and he knew from the overwhelming stench of sweat, and the sound of thundering snores, that this was not hers.

He leapt from balcony to balcony until he reached his target, pausing only when a drunken patron waddled along the road beneath him. Slipping a blade through the gap of her window, he flicked the latch open. The long, cream curtains billowed in the wind as he stepped into the dark room.

It was more spacious than he’d expected, with a four-poster bed pressed against the far wall, a writing desk to his right, and a vanity to his left. There were books scattered across all available surfaces, but the one that caught his attention was a leather-bound tome that sat in the centre of her desk.  

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he traced the symbol etched into the dark leather.

A bestiary.

With a curious hum, he flipped the book open.

DROWNER, it read at the top of the page, an impressive illustration beneath it was framed by lines of information. From sightings to weaknesses, the book seemed to cover all things pertaining to the monsters, and as Geralt leafed through the pages he realised that it was incomplete. The later sections were either half finished or entirely bare, and the colourful inkpots scattered across the desk told him all he needed to know.

His eyes shot over to the entrance.

The staircase down the hall creaked beneath light footsteps and he snapped the bestiary shut.

———

It had been a very long night.

Lyssa had finally managed to chase her out of the kitchens and send her off to bed, but she couldn’t find it in her to even think about sleeping. Not with the way her bodice was digging into her back - there wasn’t a better feeling in the world than stripping it off after a long day.

But more importantly, her mind was restless.  

When she was a child, Mistress had always told her that her curiosity would get her in trouble one day.

‘If you must ask questions, girl, at least stop asking the right ones.’

Curiosity was sweet, endearing even, if you asked silly little questions that held no real weight and revealed no knowledge. Unfortunately, no such question existed to a Witcher, not where monsters were involved.

Geralt of Rivia - The White Wolf, they called him.

He wasn’t the first she’d met, but he was the most impressive according to gossip. Thorough too. That was how she knew that she’d made a mistake mentioning the Wraith in his presence without context. She knew from the way he watched her that she’d unnecessarily triggered his suspicion, even if that wasn’t her aim.

It had been so long since a Witcher had visited Dorian and regaled her with tales of myths and monsters.

She threw the door to her room open with a sigh.

What she wouldn’t give to have his knowledge, his experience. It would certainly make finishing her book that much easier.

She closed the door behind her and smiled. Maybe if she asked Jaskier, he could give her an honest recount of their travels.

A cool breeze ruffled her dress and…a cool breeze?

The smile slipped off her face when she noticed that her window was open. The very same window she made sure was locked each time she left her room. She stumbled back into the door with a thump.

“Don’t be afraid.”

She jumped, eyes darting over to her bed, where a hulking form sat. His words were said in vain, because her heart raced like a hummingbird’s.

Her muscles tensed as he slowly extended a hand, and a small flame flickered in the lantern on her desk.

“Geralt,” she scolded, shoulders sagging and a hand pressed to her heaving chest. “What are you doing here?”

He knew her outrage wasn’t due to his presence, but rather the unnecessary fear it had caused her. His fingers traced the cover of the bestiary in silence. He hadn’t known what to expect next - surprise, perhaps fear, maybe even anger. But she showed none of those.

Instead, she sighed as he so often did whenever he heard Jaskier’s voice. Then, she turned her back on him and loosened the laces of her bodice. Geralt watched as she eased out of the garment and hung it up in the small cupboard by her vanity.

She’d never quite understood what it felt like to truly feel someone’s gaze on her until that moment. His eyes, those striking, cat-like eyes, burned into her back and sent a shiver down her spine that she did well to suppress. He already held the advantage of surprise, she’d give him no more.

“If you’re going to just sit there, at least make yourself useful.”

She approached him and planted herself between his thighs. Geralt cocked his head to the side when she turned around.

An amused hum rumbled deep in his throat and the bed creaked as he stood.

His warm breath caressed the bare skin of her neck and left goosebumps in its wake, scattering across her shoulders and down her arms. She bit her lip as deft fingers plucked at the laces of her dress and felt it loosen around her waist. She should have expected that he’d take it a step further. Witchers, she’d come to understand, were never to be outdone.

His scarred and calloused fingers gently dipped beneath the neck of her dress and slipped it off her shoulders until it came tumbling down to land in a pool at her feet. His hands were slow to leave her skin, but leave her they did.

His face was blank when she turned around, but those eyes were still on her, flickering across her face briefly before meeting her own. She smiled, a hint of bashfulness setting in when she remembered that she only wore her slip.

“Thank you…”

She snatched the dress up from the floor and moved to hang it up beside her bodice.

“You told me to let you know if I needed anything,” Geralt finally said. “How about answers?”

“I have no idea what you’re-“

“You tell me about the Wraith,�� he interrupted, holding out her bestiary, “and I’ll help you with this.”

Her eyes widened. “Deal.”  

His lips curled up slightly as she eagerly accepted the book from him.

“What do you know?” asked Geralt, tone lighter.

She strode over to her desk and rooted through one of the draws. Geralt cocked his brow at the stack of parchment she produced. She smiled and gestured to the spot beside her on the bed. The first sheet she held out to him was a call for help, a little rough around the edges and torn in places, but clear enough to read.

“A man came from Vizima weeks ago - Akron, I think his name was - said three people had died in as many days and that a hefty reward was waiting for the one who dealt with the beast.”

“More and more often we have folks come through asking for directions.” She frowned. “Average men who fancy themselves master swordsmen. They hardly have any training, but for some reason they believe they have what it takes to be…well, to be like you.”

The rest of the sheets were much like the first - from Vizima, Novigrad, Maribor - describing a variety of monsters. Each was a contract requesting aid from anyone willing to provide it, and offering an impressive reward for the one who succeeded.

But a single question nagged a Geralt’s mind.

“Why do you have all these?”

She parted her lips to answer, but thought better of it. Would have gotten away with it too, had he not been so attentive.

“Y/N…” Geralt warned. “Keep in mind I know when you’re lying.”

She didn’t meet his eyes as she answered. “I can’t draw them if I’ve never seen them…”

Geralt’s jaw clenched and he tore his gaze away from her.

“It’s only from a safe distance!” She reassured, but it did little to placate him. “I’d never approach one. Never.”

“There’s no safe distance,” he growled, eyes ablaze. “They’re predators and you’re their prey. They won’t wait for you to approach them.”

“I know,” she whispered, shoulders slumping.

Geralt would’ve liked to think that he didn’t care that she was sad, that his concern instead stemmed from the knowledge that Jaskier would have his head (or at least try to) for upsetting the so-called lust of his life. But he wasn’t one to lie to himself.

“Does Jaskier know about this?” He asked, and her wince was answer enough.

“Where is Jaskier?”

He sighed at her poor attempt to change the subject and she shot him a stern look.

“The last time he was left alone at the tavern a merchant broke his arm. He’s my friend and I’d like to know he’s-”

“Safe?” Geralt supplied, brows raised.

She gave him a sheepish smile.

Hypocrite.

“Passed out on the floor of the Inn the last time I saw him,” Geralt offered a sarcastic smirk. “Safe and sound. And don’t change the subject.”

“Of course he doesn’t know,” she huffed. “And he doesn’t have to know now that I won’t need to go looking for them again…”

She bit her lip nervously.

“You did mean it, didn’t you? That you’d help me?”

Geralt almost groaned at the question.

Realistically, he knew he should have left and taken whatever remained of the night to rest for the journey ahead. And he would have, were it not for the spark of excitement in her lovely eyes, and the hopeful way she clutched the damned bestiary to her -almost bare- chest. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d shown weakness when faced with a beautiful woman who looked at him like he was more than the monster most believed him to be.

Geralt shook his head at his own foolishness. A deal was a deal.

“Show me what you’ve done so far.”

Her smile was blinding.

He’d sleep when he was dead.

———

Jaskier awoke to the slam of a door. Awoke, perhaps, wasn’t the best word for it. The sound had been so sudden that he’d jolted out of his lumpy straw bed - when had he climbed back up? - and onto the floor in a heap of flailing limbs.

“I’m up!”

Geralt paid him no mind. The room, unfortunately, was the last available. He’d shared with Jaskier before, but those nights always seemed to stretch the longest. Spending a day around his endless chatter was bad enough, hearing him mumble in his sleep was excruciating.

“Uh…” Jaskier frowned, glancing around the room with his hair askew and sleepy eyes squinting against the morning sun.

“Are you only just getting in?” He asked, seemingly appalled by the thought. He took Geralt’s silence as confirmation, and his mind instantly lost all traces of sluggishness when he realised just what could have kept him. He cleared his throat.

“Busy night then? Exploring what delights Dorian has to offer…” He trialed off with a shrug. “Making new friends, perhaps?”

Geralt cocked a brow and shot a glance over his shoulder. Jaskier offered a gawky smile.

“Maybe someone I know?” He suggested off-handedly.

Geralt rolled his eyes with a drawn-out sigh. “Just ask what you want to ask.”

Jaskier wasted no time. He sprung up from the floor, ignoring the ache in his head, and scrambled over to perch himself on Geralt’s bed.

“Did you bed her?” He blurted, barely giving Geralt the chance to answer before he held up a pacifying hand. “It’s alright, I won’t be mad. You’re both consenting adults, and if anyone knows what it’s like to lose oneself in the throes of passion - Oh! - I can imagine it now, the heat of the moment and her sweet, sweet -”

“No.”

Jaskier blinked. “What?”

“No, I didn’t bed her.”

“Oh!” The bard smiled, looking more surprised than Geralt had ever seen him. “Good, because I lied. I would have been absolutely envious.”

Geralt’s lips twitched in amusement.

“I just undressed her,” he shrugged, gathering his change of clothes and heading for the door. He may not have slept, but he wouldn’t turn down a bath.

“She has soft skin,” he called out over his shoulder before disappearing from sight.

Jaskier gaped like a fish. “I…you…excuse me?”

“Wait!” He tripped over his own feet as he hurried to follow. By the time he’d pulled himself up and thrown the door open, Geralt was already gone.

“Geralt, you get back here!” Jaskier cried, and he knew he wouldn’t be seeing the Witcher for a while yet. “At least give me some details, I’ve waited seven bloody years for this!”

In his rush, he hadn’t noticed the small maid leaving the room across the hall, sheets bundled in her arms and eyes wide. Jaskier offered a scoff.

“Witchers, hey?” He shook his head. “Sleep with your girl and then don’t even have the decency to tell you about it.”

The maid scowled in disgust, and Jaskier’s face fell.

“Not that I’d want to know such- such vulgar details of their…” The maid bustled away with her head held high and he sighed. “Yeah, alright then. Who gives a shit anyway?”

He slipped back into his room with a huff, the door slamming shut behind him. If Geralt wouldn’t talk to him, he knew who would.

-------

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[gyromitra-esculenta]

Bloodbrone thing, part 4 I think. Not polished, tw*atter thread pretty much.

Past the sunken city and the warped village, the Hunter finds an outcropping where the expanse of the languid sea stretches past the milky horizon, and on the silvery sand lies a beached pale carcass. His claws brush against the tips of the petals of the wilted Moonflowers left by the weathered wooden fence as an offering – a remembrance – a confession of the unassuaged guilt. Under his touch, they crumble and fall to the salted dirt.

The smell of sea and rot, of blood and fishlike viscera, it floats in with the breeze and never recedes. The sound of the wailing mewls carries on the air yet no sea-borne bird traverses the sky.

The Hunter understands before he vaults over the fence that below him waits the primordial sin in all its gruesome glory, the one wrong that can never be forgiven, only forgotten, and put to rest. So he presses on to face it, and his thoughts return to the man whose face bears the visage of the Doll - keeping his vigil in the old clock-tower - for he is the one who deserves to be freed from the burden of his guilt.

When the Hunter returns to the Dream, the Doll stands with its back to him, almost pensive – its face raised towards the sky as if searching for something in the expanse of pale blue stretching overhead. Its hair bound with the embroidered black ribbon sways on the gentle wind and the Hunter wonders at the fancy that made him do so: to weave the fabric through the blond strands.

“Good hunter,” the Doll calls to him – its voice hesitant and meek as it turns to face him, “is there anything strange, anything… changed about me?”

He approaches, a deep lurching feeling of remorse in his gut stirring; the clawed gauntlets hit the cobblestones as he rips them off his hands.

“I sensed, from somewhere, a liberation from a burden, heavy fetters unchained, how passing strange…” The Hunter’s fingers brush against the cold lifeless porcelain and the Doll, its eyes closing and one hand rising to his wrist, leans its face into his touch. “My hunter, would you ever think to love me, a doll bound to a little dream a nightmare dreams?”

“Would you?” The Hunter asks back with his voice hoarse.

“But of course, I do love you, my hunter.” The Doll brings his palm to its lips. “Isn't that how you've made me to be?”

*

The hours spent under the overcast night sky turn into days – the passage of time unknowable, and unacknowledged by the sparse menagerie of characters Jesse acquaints himself with past the gates of the little workshop. The futility of his pursuit weights him down.

“And that?” He points to the one tool Jack had not explained to him.

“From this one, there is no way back,” Jack simply answers, head bowed over the book splayed on the blankets in his lap, and Jesse cannot help but ponder if there is any physical comfort for him in wrapping himself in fabrics such as those.

“It is here to etch a Nightmare’s own name onto one’s mind, to touch the beyond where they dwell, and dream their dreams, but once glimpsed, it is forever scorched into one’s being, for it is not with the eyes one sees the world for what it is.”

“Does it help?” Jesse comes closer to the contraption kept impeccably clean but worn down with age and use.

“At a steep price, Jesse. It is not to be considered lightly.”

Jack puts aside the book and untangles himself from the blankets, to trace his fingertip along the spines of the ancient tomes until he finds the one he’s searching for, more a collection of loosely put together parchments than printed pages bound proper in leather.

“One day, I should transcribe them to rid them of their history,” he adds as he places the book on the altar. “Each a name, each a contract. Choose wisely.”

Later, as he helps Jesse regain his balance, Jack smiles – and Jesse wonders at how alive his face seems in the vibrant colors he has no name for, and how his breath smells of sweet herbs and spices - and how he had failed to notice it during all his previous visits.

Only on the city streets he remembers Jack’s fingers were no longer the unyielding polished wood but soft and warm flesh, and thinks back on the strange parting words the man gave voice to.

“You needn’t have worried.”

*

Gabriel keeps his distance and revels in the thrill of the knowledge of the lies Jack tells with a light voice and no hesitation in his words, all the small and grand untruths his lips and tongue give sound to—all tricks of the game to throw off the hunt off its tracks.

The longer he observes, the deeper and sweeter the deception runs, in how Jack smiles, and how he casts his eyes to the ground, in how he does not shy from Akande’s touch but never gives in to it, and Gabriel ponders whose snare does he try to evade.

Dark and vicious is the thing that takes hold of him each time he sees their teacher show affection he now sees for what it is, unwelcome and tolerated with gritted teeth, because none of the others will know what slumbers below the surface of the lies.

When Akande’s hand lingers on his back, Jack turns his head slightly and his eyes meet Gabriel’s gaze with a smile he does not mean, a haunting ghastly grimace plastered on his face, and Gabriel feels his heart stop for the beast has grown wise to the hunter’s own tricks.

It is only after the curse creeps up Akande’s leg that Jack fades from the workshop, his presence less and less until he is gone as if he had never set foot on the grounds, and the framed pictures on the mantelpiece create the dissonance of absence.

Gabriel tracks his chosen prey throughout the city—slow and meticulous in his advance—up the creaking stairs of the old clock-tower into the makeshift lair of the beast, and Jack stands his ground with his back to the astral clock. Waiting for him.

He is thankful Jack does not tell him so because to hear it from his lips would make it a cruel lie—crueler even when Jack had let himself be known so well to him, enough that no other will know him as Gabriel does behind the falsehoods he masks his scent with.

Instead, they meet in a ravenous kiss that steals away all the words and fight—biting, scratching, and shredding their skins—on the thin bedding laid out on the dusty floor.

“I knew you’d come,” Jack tells Gabriel with fingers lazily threading through his hair.

Gabriel keeps the embroidered ribbon in his pocket as the trophy of a hunt well done. When one day he misplaces it, he doesn’t take it for the ill omen it is.

[solarine]

Character Perfumes!

I have been battling severe depression and creative doldrums lately, but I AM GOING TO FORCE MYSELF TO WRITE A THING TONIGHT. It’s a little silly, but I’m going to make all my characters into BPAL-like perfumes. I did this for a few of them a long time ago, but now I have a better idea about many of them, and a better sense of what certain things smell like. I also have a LOT more characters than I did last time, not all played in-game, but all with their own stories and personalities. So, here we go!

Solarine Fairlight - Holy resins scenting the air of an ancient temple, and a golden shaft of sunlight falling upon the face of a contemplative Priestess, the rest of her shrouded in shadow. Frankincense, myrrh, and holy balsam, golden amber, sweet vanilla cream and honey musk with a touch of white peach, wisps of blackened cacao, and ebony wood.

Aeloren “Lori” Lasthanel - A mischievous, pixie-like warrior woman whose big, loud mouth is only eclipsed by the size of her heart of gold. Soft hay and vanilla-tinged sandalwood with soft white musk, a clatter of oiled steel, the gentle creaking of worn leather, a spicy little drop of cinnamon whiskey, and a foaming tankard of ale. 

Firalaine Lasthanel - A Paladin as mischievous, loudmouthed, and good-hearted as his older sister, and by far the more feminine of the Lasthanel siblings. Golden, honeyed amber over soft white musk, a clatter of oiled steel, the gentle creaking of worn leather, and a spicy carnation acting as the “umbrella” in a coconut rum cocktail. 

Vianthas Nightrunner - Cold and aloof in his ivory tower, far above Dalaran, the Mage pores over arcane tomes. The scent of dusty teak and oak bookshelves, leather bindings, and ancient, brittle paper. An ozonic, nostril-chilling anise-and-mint sparkle of arcane magic, and a cup of jasmine green tea growing cold on a nearby desk. 

Lhys Nightrunner - Housed in plush luxury at home, she nevertheless leaves it behind and eagerly gets her hands dirty as she learns to wield the nature magics that could one day repair the ruin of the Dead Scar. Plush, incensed silks, a sip of pinot noir, and deep red roses grounded by earthy patchouli, smoky vetiver, and the resinous leaves and woods of ancient oaks and pine trees. 

Zarayna Sunwhisper - Hidden away from the outside world in her mist-shrouded manor, the albino makes for a ghostly figure as she peers out the windows, lonely but yet unwilling to risk a return to the outside world. Pale, mist-shrouded moonflower and night-blooming cereus, a veil of vanilla-tinged lace and linen, smoky, singed violets, and the eerie crimson gleam of dragon’s blood resin. 

Hynyssea Blackmoon - Brought into existence by Zarayna, she has no memory of the life led by the previous mind inhabiting her body. A fragment of Zarayna’s soul combined with the base personality half-preserved by previously comatose and memory-erased neurons, but her predilection for Shadow magics seems natural to the body itself. A lush, exotic blend of red roses and black jasmine, nutmeg, cardamom-infused coffee, cocoa liqueur, pipe tobacco, black amber, and aged patchouli.  

Aurelis Duskflame - The wild Huntress sunbathed nude atop the rocks rimming a woodland pond, civilization only distant echoes on the gentle breeze that shivered the leaves of the trees above. Coffee freckles on smooth, rich caramel, teak and ebony wood, aged patchouli, soft brown leather, fuzzy brown musk, and dry bone, and the scent of an ancient forest of pine, oak, birch, and wildflowers wafting upon a warm breeze. 

Saleirin - He claimed to be a pirate, but the only thing more obnoxious than his obvious tall-tale-telling was his carrot-orange hair. They thought he was a he, anyway, but it was hard to be entirely certain if he was a handsome woman or a pretty man. He might have been genuinely charming, if he wasn’t mouthy-drunk. Bright saffron and mandarin orange, cassia, and red musk, deceptively smooth tonka, red leather, flashes of precious metals, and a charmingly obnoxious shot of bay rum. 

Kaiar Ashwind - A broken man, down on his luck, with only fragments of memories of a haunted past that had begun to etch itself into lines on his handsome, tired face. Smoky whiskey and dark beer, cold black coffee dregs, sweet tobacco, clove, grey amber, worn black leather, the memory of polished gold, and blood musk.

Halindis Riftstrider - Once a talented caster, now a talented Demon Hunter. He consumed a succubus, among other things. None of them were ugly demons, because why sacrifice form for function when you can have both? A lilac fougere over black amber, burgundy musk, and red velvet cake.

Islaen - The mysterious, gentle spiritualist and scholar never stayed in one place for too long. His sinister robes and shy mannerisms kept most outsiders from approaching him, though he didn’t mind answering their questions when they gathered enough courage to ask them. Curls of purple incense smoke, a cup of lavender green tea, and soft wisteria flowers blooming under a night sky of indigo musk. 

Andrisia Blazewind - A fiery redheaded Mage, her ongoing battle with depression and alcoholism has taken a toll on her once-promising research and development into magical crystalline technology and weaponry. Fiery clove and cinnamon, saffron, creamy vanilla, and red wine over a base of fireplace ash and charred mahogany. 

Veshai - This Draenei has long wanted to teach the Azerothian natives of the magical healing properties of their elemental waters, but often finds herself sitting in solitude at the edges of the Stormwind canals. Cool, pure water, a splash of salty sea spray, hyacinth blossoms, ambergris, and crystalline blue musk. 

Kiréa - Her engineering accomplishments--including acting as the Warp-Engineer for various Draenic ships--and razor-sharp accuracy with projectile weapons are often lost in translation, due to her thick accent and imperfect grasp of the colloquialisms and dialectical nuances of spoken Common. Gunpowder and magically-charged ozone, oil-spotted leather, blueberry musk, and a comically out of place whiff of Fizzy Faire Drink (cola). 

Yaaru - Rendered psychologically unstable by the disaster that killed most of her fellow Auchenai, this odd Draenei relies on her lover, Kiréa, to provide stability in this strange, alien world. A puff of white snow, luminous white musk, smooth coconut and vanilla, and a wide-eyed shock of blueberry-tinged mint. 

Elechia Sin’alar - Beautiful, statuesque, and stoic, this man strives to be a picture-perfect and just-hearted Champion of the Argent Crusade. Soothing myrrh and clove streaked with rich amber and copal, white-hot steel, and the righteous fury of spicy dragon’s blood and smoldering ashes. 

Lydal Omarus - Cultured and poised at first glance, he is a vicious and skilled martial artist, having learned and honed his own personal fighting style over many decades. He will rarely start a fight without good reason, preferring to act with overt violence only when retreat or diplomacy are impossible. White leather and oudh, white tobacco, smooth black musk, sugared black tea, and a fading bruise of plum with a droplet of bloody red musk. 

Avarinde Mournglory - Bloodmage-turned-librarian-turned-Bloodmage, the power that once nearly destroyed her crackles once again at her fingertips. She pours into it all the destructive fury left behind by a decade of mis-shelved and missing books, loudly-chattering students, and the irritating new invention they call ‘bubble gum’. Earl Grey tea, vanilla musk, dry cedar, benzoin, powerful lime and scorched clove, and a tiny vial of anise-dark venous blood. 

Aristolochia Fal’anare - Cute, classy, and calculating. Born into nobility, she takes the family business very seriously, and isn’t opposed to a bit of stealthy corporate espionage when the situation calls for it. Cheery, playful honeymint tea with sugar and cream, gingerbread cookies, and a whisper of form-fitting black leather. 

Laurian Fireflower - Being permanently stuck in Elven form doesn’t seem to bother this former Bronze drake, who has developed a taste for the finer things in life. Hot, dusty desert sand and red amber, a gentle breeze of saffron, long strands of cool, creamy vanilla, a glass of white wine, and rich, warm, honeyed spice cake. 

Shaurindris Ravensfeather - An ancient denizen of Val’sharah, once a Priestess of Elune and now a Druid of Cenarius. This Kaldorei is more mellow and lazily-curious than many of her Kalimdor-inhabiting kin, but shares deeply in the desire to protect the forests in which their people dwell. Carnation-pink skin, watery hyacinths, and night-blooming jasmine dot the earthy patchouli and green grasses of the fern-covered forest floor, while magnificent fir, pine, ash, elm, and oak trees tower overhead. 

[lunarilibration]

🔥🍼🔮

(Warning: Gore + Blood from Princess Mononoke gifs on 3rd one)

🔥 What’s their favorite candle scent?

- I feel like I’ve written this down before but since that was ages ago... Let me think of the current Althea. I do believe current Althea or the new Althea I want to remake her as would like the scent of apples. It reminds her of simpler times at home when she was innocent and there was nothing to worry about. It reminds her of her mother.

After being with the Lunari, she definitely has learned to love the sweet and spicy scent of Moonflowers. Quite certain that the Lunari has applied that to their candles too, making the temple of that scent along with the scent of tomes and scriptures alike. This basically makes Althea feel safe as it reminds her of home. In fact, during her travels, she’d most likely bring candles and potpourri of such things.

🍼 Do they want to start a family? If they already have one, describe it.

- She does have a family. She has her little brother and they are living with the Lunari at the moment. Until she knows that Eden will be safe and sound, she wouldn’t be too keen on leaving him anywhere else just yet.

Then again, she also would like to have a family of her own. Whether it’s with a man or a woman with adopted children. She likes her family big. She’s used to having a big family with several relatives back in the Solari.

So if anyone is interested in her and she feels safe enough to actually reciprocate the feelings, she’d happily want a family with that person... so long as they don’t really go against her beliefs.

🔮 Do they have any magical powers or abilities? If it’s a realistic world, what religion do they follow?

- As of right now, no--WELL... Technically? She has her Darkin tainted right arm that when triggered, it’ll cause her to feel anger. Then as it grows stronger, it’ll make her lose her senses and continue feeling more and more of that anger and hatred and then lose control of it all.

Along with those, the darkin taint allows her to gain strength beyond human. Think of the taint in Princess Mononoke. Where a simple slice of a weapon or a swipe of her hand--so long as there’s the intent--decapitation, amputation and etc. will happen.

[anansi-the-storyteller]

Day.. something. I haven’t gotten to write in 2 months.

[anansi-the-storyteller]

Day 5. I’m just so fucking tired.

[anansi-the-storyteller]

Day 3. I’ve been exhausted the past week, have some history. It.. really doesn’t feel like any of these were all that long ago, honestly. There are so many names but these are some that’ve stood out to me the most right now. I plan on adding more later.