#bleu’s prompts

[candycryptids]

I’m sad as hell but I made one of my old DnD OC’s in final fantasy properly because he’s been in 1 (one) screenshot before I really dug my teeth into Customizing and Modding my blorbeans to look like my blorbeans which is great, cos he’s my baby boy baby… he does the gardening…. He’s retired…. He has anxieties….

Anyways here’s Sebastian (Sasha) Orlev he’s from a Curse of Strahd campaign and became my baby boy baby (and also a wereraven, but don’t worry about that, also disregard the carbuncle n minion I’m hanging onto my happiness by my fingernails rn and that’s an emotional support carb in a onesie okay,)

He’s also Keathan’s retainer and Ishi’s [unofficial Gardener].

[kyngsnake]

3. Ask them to describe their love interest. For both Wes x Avery and Avery x Sweetjane.

oooh very good selection of prompt

Wes "Some folks find him a little weird at first. Not, like, you know, bad weird. More like quiet weird; aloof cowboy quietly sittin' across from you at the bar nursin' his whiskey weird. Tall, handsome guy who ya just know has stories to tell. Not always as much of a talker as I am, but he's always got a charming smile and a good sense of humor. Not everybody realizes he's as funny as he is. Been my best friend since we were 8 years old, still my best friend even when he's my husband."

Sweetjane "She's the mysterious, beautiful woman that anybody who meets her just has to know. Has that magnetism about her, you know? You can't forget her once you've met her. Clever as they come, better storyteller'n I am and I always thought I was pretty entertainin' around campfires. Sometimes you look at someone and you just know they'll get into trouble with you, but the good kind of trouble. Nowhere in the wasteland I would go without her."

[ghastigiggles]

<- man who wanted to participate in featherary but caught the goddamn flu and has a surgery coming up 🥹

[casey-nova-12]

I know this is very late, but I did 13/31 of @stormyth-art ‘s prompts!

(Mostly with Bleu but whatever…😅)

All 13 sketches are below:

[echo-bleu]

My art for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2024 by @tolkienrsb.

The wonderful @eilinelsghost took this prompt and made it into an amazing fic about Finrod's reembodiment in Aman, which you will find here! It was so great to work together, go read her fic!

fic by @eilinelsghost; artwork by @echo-bleu

Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Finarfin & Finrod Characters: Finarfin, Finrod Word Count: 5.5k

"I was healed, they told me. As ready as a soul could be." Bitterness laced through Finrod's words and he drew the robe close about him once more. "In what way is this readiness? Is there no longer healing in Námo’s halls?" Immediately after his reembodiment, Finrod shuts himself within his chambers and allows none but his mother to come near. When Eärwen is called away, Finarfin must navigate his grief at this new separation and both father and son wrangle together with the toll the First Age has left upon them.

[rwac96]

Prompt

Whiteknight, Secretly dating Au

When team rwby and JNPR visits jaune's town, childhood home and family store,

When they're finally alone:

"Where the heck is Jaune?!" Papa Arc shouts, seeing the clerk counter unmanned.

"He went with Weiss," Bleu Arc squeaked to her father, holding her teddy bear tightly. "She unbuttoned her shirt, and Jaune left the counter."

The Arc Patriarch raised his brows for a moment, then furrows them. It was one thing for his only son to steal the family heirloom, fake his way into Beacon, his choice of friends, and his relationship with the middle Schnee of all people. But what he heard from his youngest daughter, who possibly saw them sneaking off, felt like the straw that broke the camel's back.

---

Nora felt a shudder going down her back, making Ren notice. "Oh, crap," the hammer-wielder said in dread.

"Gods, Nora," Ren pinched the bridge of his nose, "What did you do?"

"Not me," the orangette shook her head, "Jaune's in trouble."

"Sounds like their relationship's gonna bite 'em," Blake comments.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 3.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

shera's voice sounds like blue diamond in this clip. a soft, dreamy whisper.

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence

story playlist

Shera didn’t waste much time getting back to her chambers. She was overwhelmed, confused and overall exhausted— and the day wasn’t even over yet. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she padded the stone to her rooms, hoping to the Gods, the old and the new, that someone wouldn’t stop and speak to her. 

“A bath, please,” Shera asked the chambermaids hastily once she reached her solar. “Scorching, as hot as possible. And… my oils, from my chest— if you please…”

They brought in the large copper tub and filled it with hot water, all the way near the top until Shera could see the wisps of steam billowing from it. The maids poured in vials of oil that she brought with her from Winterfell— lavender oil, rosemary oil and sweet honeysuckle oil. The concoction swirled into a lovely light purple color. 

“Will you need help undressing, miss?” one of the maids asked. 

“N-no,” she murmured. “Thank you— you may go. Return just before sunset.” 

Then she was alone. She could finally breathe. Wasting no time undressing, she shed her veil and choker and outer layers until she met the hard exterior of her corset. Fuck. Mayhaps she should’ve asked for help. Unwilling to call them back in, she grabbed a cheese knife from the small dining table near the balcony, slitting through the bindings of the corset like a lovely aged bleu. 

Moongeist nosed the latch to the balcony, prompting Shera to open it and let in the breeze from the sea. Nude at last, she all but jumped into the bath, which to her delight, was still scorching. She watched as the wolf sat on the terrace, nose poking out through the stone barrier. He took in the scent of the sea, the salty spray and lingering aroma of toiling waves— and of course, barked at a few seagulls. 

Her bones relaxed as she unpinned her hair, tossing the pins astray into the room— to either be stepped on later, or never found again. Shera let out an audible sigh, feeling her skin soften from the oils. This was the pinnacle of her days— she was very fond of baths and made her own bath oils. She loved the warmth, the enveloping heat of the water soothing her worry. It was like the most comfortable of blankets and she loved to get clean, to be clean. It was a ritual and a must for her to have a bath at least every other day. 

Her love for baths started because of Helaena, she supposed. When Shera arrived in King’s Landing all those years ago for the first time, she was a grimy and dirty child, wild to the bone, and detested baths. The maids didn’t know what to do with her, until they bathed Helaena and Shera together. They weren’t far apart in age at the time, Helaena being the polar opposite of Shera— but somehow she reeled her into normalcy. The princess would bring her wooden toys into the bath, much to the chagrin of her mother, and play with Shera, blow bubbles and tell stories. It was odd to everyone around them, as the two seemingly switched personalities when they bathed together. Helaena, usually a quiet child, would tell grandiose stories, while Shera would sit quietly, giving her complete and rapt attention to the princess. 

The girls bathed together until they were both eight and ten years of age respectively, but even then, they would be in the room with one another while they did— reading books out loud, gossiping, or just sitting in silence, enjoying one another’s presence. 

Shera’s undoubted companion in the Keep was Aemond, but she had a very close and special friendship with Helaena— a friendship that the both of them very much missed, subconsciously. It wasn’t as huge of a blow to Shera as losing Aemond, as the Lady of Winterfell and the Princess frequently wrote one another throughout the ten years apart. It was one of the only reasons Shera wasn’t completely mad. But, even so, letters can only do so much, can’t they? 

As much as she loathed this marriage and the ramifications of it… she would still be closer to her family, her real family, upon Dragonstone than in Winterfell. She laid in the bath until the water went cool, her mind wandering back to the encounter in the Godswood. Why would Daemon speak to her and with such a… driven attitude? What did he want? 

Her thoughts continued to flow, a finger tracing patterns in the mingling oils that lived atop the water. Did Helaena still like baths? If she so asked, would they be able to bathe together like old times? 

No– that would require… forgoing her veil and choker. Even if it was Helaena– she doesn’t know if she could truly bare herself to her– to anyone.

—

The hours stretched on until dinner, Shera pacing back and forth, working herself up to a point where Moongeist tugged on her sleeve with his teeth as an indication to calm down.

The maids who’d been assigned to her flittered around her like a flock of ptarmigan hens, pleading with her to let them dress her. She shied away from their touch, only allowing them to dress her in a new corset and skirts. 

She stayed in her veil, accentuating it with a few strings of pearls so mayhaps she wouldn’t look so haunting– a hope that always went unfounded, people found her so very terrifying either way.

Shera preferred to wear dark, muted colors and always had on some item of fur upon her; tonight’s being a gorgeous black and white mink stole, which Cregan had gifted her for her seventeenth name day four years ago. It was accompanied with one of her newly tailored dresses, one she sewed herself just a few moons ago and making some last minute alterations on the journey to King’s Landing. It was black lace, falling down to her feet and dragging behind her like a ghostly shadow. Coupled with a laced black veil, she looked in the mirror. 

The maid behind her glanced at her warily. “Are… are you in mourning, Lady Stark?” she asked timidly. 

“... no?” Shera blinked, taking in her appearance from her reflection. Ah. So, this is why people consist with the ‘Banshee’ title. Shrugging her shoulders, she wrapped the stole around her snugly

Letting Moongeist guide her to the dining hall, to which he followed the smell of roasting meats, she mentally prepared herself. Princess Rhaenyra was to attend, and with Rhaenyra was her brood of children and her rogue husband and the extended clutch of hatchlings– Baela and Rhaena amongst them. She felt sickly at the fact that she would be seeing the twins again, the former of whom was who disfigured her.

Walking into the chamber, the music was in full swing and everyone was already seated. Had she really been so late? All eyes turned to her and Shera scanned them with a bowed head, the tips of her fingers shaking as she locked gazes with Baela. A reminder of the pain that she’d caused, how she wielded the knife that cut Shera’s throat and blinded her in one eye. 

The wolf to Shera’s side let out the tiniest of whines, pushing Shera towards the table, and her seat between Helaena and Alicent– thank the Gods for small mercies. Although, she was directly across from Aemond, who hadn’t even blinked since she entered the room. 

“Oh, it's so good to have you here again, my dear,” Alicent hummed, taking one of Shera’s hands into her own. The queen was so warm, where Shera was cold. “It is just like old times, hm?”

“Beautiful pup, Shera,” Helaena whispered to her, a hand outstretched to Moongeist. “You see so well through him.” she cooed, a smile plastering upon her lips as the wolf licked her open palm.

“Yes… old times,” Shera responded softly, adjusting her veil. She looked to Helaena, who returned with a knowing gaze. “Hel?” she murmured, lower than usual. 

“Yes, dovey?” 

“… I’ve missed you dearly.” Shera whispered, offering her hand to the princess— to which they interlocked fingers. The two separately were considered touch-averse, with Shera shying away from touch and Helaena cringing at it. But the two had a deeper understanding of one another, it seemed. They always had, their bond only outshined by Shera and Aemond’s. 

But now, it’d be different, wouldn’t it? Aemond was a hot and cold mess to Shera— but Helaena welcomed her like no time had passed. It made her chest ache in a nostalgic way, tears threatening to spill. The good thing about her veil is that no one could see her cry. The whole day had been terribly overwhelming, taut with too many people wanting something from her, needing her to be someone she didn’t wish to be— is this how Helaena felt when she was married to Aegon? 

Tears did fall and Shera let them drip down her face, sinking and sliding from the mink stole to her legs. Helaena tugged on her hand. “Don’t cry, dragonfly,” she hummed. “Dance with me?” 

Shera blinked the tears away, even though they were replaced by new ones right away. “I… would love to. I will not be the most coordinated, though— will you guide me?” 

“Always.” the princess replied, pulling Shera from her chair and guiding her with a gentle hand to the space in the hall set aside for dancing. The music was lively and jaunty, with a lovely tune strummed from a fiddle, accompanied with a wooden flute. Helaena placed a hand on Shera’s waist, then kept their other hands interlocked. “Put your hand on my shoulder. I will lead— you can pretend I’m a gallant knight.” 

Shera snorted a giggle. “I do not want to dance with a gallant knight,” she mused as they began to sway. Helaena kept her upright and indeed took the lead, allowing Shera to stay close and follow her movements. “I want to dance with the butterfly princess.” 

“Ah, the butterfly princess!” Helaena cooed. “I suppose that can be arranged. What will that make you? Oh— my little wolf spider.” she giggled in return. 

It was the first time the entire day, mayhaps the entire fortnight, that Shera felt… happy. She felt weightless dancing with Helaena and felt like crying again— damn the emotions. “Please don’t leave me, Hela,” she murmured, almost silently through garbled tears. “I’ve been so alone.” 

Helaena led the dance off to the further corner of the room where they would have more privacy to speak, still swaying. “I wouldn’t leave you, Shera. The wolf spider’s been so alone— so alone in the cold,” she hushed. “Now you’ve come back to play with the dragonflies and the butterflies— but we must watch out for the birds, the black tailed magpies, and oh, the hawks and gulls, my sweet.”

“May I steal Lady Stark for a dance, sister?” Aemond suddenly cut in, so silent in his approach that Shera hadn’t even heard him at all.

“I don’t know,” Helaena looked to Shera. “Say the word, and I shall release a clutch of spiders into his bedchamber.” she whispered lowly, as if telling a secret. 

Shera cracked a smile. “It’s alright, Hela. If he is untoward, Moongeist shall bite him.” 

Helaena embraced her once more before giving her brother a mock threatening glance. Aemond swiftly replaced her, putting his hands on Shera’s waist. It felt… different. Different from how Helaena had them, and how Daemon had touched her earlier in the Godswood. It wasn’t friendly, nor slimy— it made her want to turn tail and run away, but it also made her chest warm, heart thumping like a rabbit’s. 

“My lady.” he greeted, putting one hand on her lower back to help her posture. “I do hope you won’t sic your dog upon me– yet.”

“My prince,” Shera responded, looking up at him. “Mayhaps I won’t, we shall see.”

“Does it haunt you? That they’re all here in one room?” he leaned down to whisper, swaying back and forth to the music, albeit a bit rigidly. He wasn’t nearly as good of a dancer as Helaena.

“I am always haunted,” she echoed, blinking slowly. She wondered if he could really see her face under her veil. He was looking so intensely at her and she was unsure if he was putting her together or picking her apart in his mind. “Are you?” 

“It’s an agitation, like a brood of mosquitoes.” Aemond answered gruffly, looking away from her now. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, she noted. His lone pupil wavered, looking everywhere but at her.

“Do you have nightmares about it?” she asked, fingers prickling under one of the buckles of his doublet absentmindedly. “I haven’t outgrown them. Not even after this long.” 

He scoffed. “Nightmares? I’m not a child.” 

Liar. Liar. Liar.

The servers interrupted as they began to serve the first course— Aemond helped guide Shera back to her seat. 

“Thank you for the dance.” she murmured as he pushed in her seat. 

“Hm.” 

The dinner continued, Shera staying quiet while she prodded at her food. She preferred to eat alone and only ate enough, slipping it under her veil to not seem rude. Cregan was having a jolly time down the table, talking the ear off of Jacaerys. Baela and Rhaena were whispering to one another, as were Rhaenyra and Daemon. Shera’s skin crawled as she stole looks at the four of them– the twins hadn’t said a word to her, nor did it seem they would, merely whispering like mice. Aegon had excused himself after the first course was served and did not return. Aemond remained staring at Shera the entire time.

Blinking, Shera stared back at him finally, raising her head to lock gazes with him. The subtle shift of her veil indicated she had cocked her brow, as if to say ‘Why are you staring?’

The motion wasn’t lost on Aemond, as they fell back into their own silent communications that they were so well versed in as children. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, responding in kind, ‘You know why.’

Alicent stood up, “I would like to propose a toast– to the return of our beloved Shera, as well as the visit of her brother and warden of the North, Cregan Stark. I cannot imagine it was an easy journey, but we are so blessed that you’ve made it, especially to finalize something that has… been in the making for a few years,” she held up her cup of wine, to which everyone else held up theirs, including Aemond. “Princess Rhaenyra, Cregan and I have been in much talk of betrothals and the like. I would like to announce, formally, the betrothal of Shera Stark,” she paused, taking a breath, “And Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Shera’s breath caught in her throat, her nails sinking into the soft of her palm. She focused solely on Alicent, even if she could feel the searing brand of Aemond’s stare on her. She refused to look, she couldn’t— 

But her sole eye betrayed her, her head turning ever so slightly to gauge Aemond’s reaction. He looked like a statue, his lone pupil narrowed to a slit, like a dragon’s. His hands were placed together dutifully, but the veins near his knuckles were bulging with strain, the fervor of what could only be described as fury coursed through him. The look in his violet iris scared the hells out of Shera. ‘Twas only a moment they locked gazes, but she felt, she saw the barely contained rage, the burning of the city and beyond from Vhagar’s back— 

And then it was gone, as if the candle of ferocity had been snuffed out. He sat up straight, giving Shera one last eyebrow raise before turning his attention solely to his mother. It terrified her how quickly he was able to turn it off, to bury deep as if it never existed at all. 

Perhaps she had imagined it. Surely she did– he didn’t have such a volatile temper as a child, if she could remember correctly.

Clearing her throat, she raised her glass higher as Alicent finished the announcement, gesturing in Jacaerys’ direction, who did the same in return to her. She wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of living upon Dragonstone, nor did she feel she was fit to be the wife of Rhaenyra’s heir. But, ‘twas the way of things. 

She thought Jace, as he had insisted she call him, was well and fine. He was a bit taller than she with a boyish charm and curled brown locks. Their few meetings as adults, where he had so gallantly rode all the way up to Winterfell upon his dragon, he always kissed her hand and smiled at her. It was easy to forget that he was a part of her and Aemond’s maiming when she turned her mind off and became the little puppet Lady that she was supposed to be— but then she would wake up crying in the middle of the night, begging for them not to kill her—

“I would like to propose a toast,” Aemond’s voice cut through Shera’s thoughts like a sharpened blade, the horrid screeching of his swiftly kicked out chair causing her to cringe. “A toast— to our lovely banshee, and her strong husband-to-be. I do hope that Jacaerys is keen on sleeping on the floor whilst a dog warms his wife’s furs– and let us pray for Shera’s health once they ruminate over Dragonstone. Do you still get sea sick, my lady? I cannot imagine a wolf gaining sea legs any time soon.” 

“It’s none of your business, uncle–,” Jace countered, pushing back from his chair to stand.

“Aemond, don’t,” Alicent hissed quietly, gripping her goblet with an iron fist. 

“I’m merely expressing my joy for their coming union, mother. Seems the issue is a bit touchy, hm, Jacaerys?” Aemond’s mouth twitched into a toothy smile, but it was nothing of joy. It was like the open maw of a dragon, daring anyone to walk near, lest they be snapped into smithereens. 

Jacaerys walked a bit closer to Aemond, his hackles equally raised in a challenge. Shera’s observation of the two was quickly surmised; Jace was soft where Aemond was razor-edged. A fight between them would be of little challenge. The underlying rage in Aemond was apparent once more, simmering and bubbling in the pot, threatening to boil over and scald everyone within his reach. His words didn’t sound like he was about to fly off the handle– he was in complete control of every carefully placed barb, every pause in his speech was intentional for added dramatics, to piss off Jace– and Shera, it seemed.

“Do you really expect your nuptials to be fruitful, nephew? Have you ever seen her without her veil? I must say,” Aemond nodded his head toward Shera’s direction as he got closer to Jace, whispering in his ear as if not to let anyone else in on their conversation– Shera heard, though. “I’m quite curious myself– do you think that our dear cousin’s blade,” his lone eye looked to Baela, who was arm-in-arm with Rhaena, Daemon looming behind them like the Dragonmont itself, “Was sharp enough, for a clean cut? Mayhaps it’s a mangled mess under there. Best to keep the covering on for your wedding night, hm?”

“I dare you to say that again,” Jacaerys growled, his hand itching as he flexed and unflexed his fist. “You can say what you’d like about me, but you shall hold your tongue before my betrothed.” 

“Jace,” Shera murmured lowly, feeling for Moongeist as she got up from her own chair, shaking. The wolf pressed to her leg, guiding her to where Jacaerys was at arm's length. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, whilst trying to quell the quiver of her bones, while keeping her eye upon Aemond. “‘Twas merely a jest– in poor taste… but a jest.” she had her head lowered diminutively, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Sure, the ‘jest’, as it was, hurt immensely to her already fragile psyche– but she had to keep a level head, especially here. 

Still holding his own goblet, Aemond’s nostrils flared as he watched Shera caress Jace, as if they were truly close. The tip of his brow twitched as he hardened his jaw, lowering his cup and proverbial feathers, remembering himself, remembering where he was. “A jest— of course. Though, I never was the jester of our group, was I? Once upon a time, it’d been you, Jacaerys.” the second son exhaled, eye still trained on Shera. But he approached Jace, hand outstretched. “Congratulations.” he said, his voice clipped. Once again, the rage had been shoved deep down and quelled for the time being.

Jace tentatively took his hand, nodding slowly. “Thank you, uncle,” he squeezed Aemond’s hand before pulling back. “You’re better with a blade than a joke, that is for certain.”

“Mayhaps we shall spar sometime, then?” Aemond suggested. Everyone in the room knew it was a chance for him to kick Jace into the dirt like he desperately wished to do presently. 

“Yes– on the morrow, uncle,” Jacaerys nodded. “Lord Stark should join us, yes? Let’s make a proper gauntlet out of it, then.”

Shera’s hand, in turn, retreated from Jace’s shoulder as she rested a hand on Moongeist’s head. Turning to Alicent, who looked on the edge of an anxious breakdown. “Thank you for the dinner, your grace. I am… feeling quite faint, so I fear I must retire,” Shera whispered, curtsying as best she could. Turning to Rhaenyra and Daemon, she bowed her head. “Princess, prince.” 

Rhaenyra gave a wry smile. “Feel better soon, dear.” 

Daemon said nothing, just nodding his head as his finger traced the rim of his cup. 

“Allow me to escort you, sister,” Cregan was at her side in an instant. 

“It’s not nec—,” 

“I insist.” 

It wasn’t a lie— Shera did feel quite faint from the events and excitement. Letting Moongeist guide her, she escaped the dining hall mostly unscathed, despite feeling a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. 

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

“O-okay,” she responded monotonously, as if she wasn’t even in control of her own body, her own words. 

Cregan held her in his steady grip, guiding her out of the hall. He was quiet until they entered Maegor’s holdfast. “Dragons are quite tempestuous, aren’t they?” he began.

“… yes.” 

“Your childhood companion— the prince— he certainly had a lot of great things to say about you, didn’t he?” 

“… Cregan.” 

“Listen to me, Shera,” he said as they entered her chambers. “They’re not your friends— not anymore. They’re strangers to you.” 

“But—,” 

“They don’t know you anymore, they only knew who you used to be.” 

And you’re a shell of who you used to be. But that was left unsaid. 

“You shan’t waste your tears any longer on them, on him,” he continued. “And do not give me that look, don’t think I don’t hear you crying at night.” 

“Mayhaps I cry at night because you shoved me into something I am unfit for!” Shera shouted, her voice cracking, followed by a hiss of pain. Something I do not wish for. Jacaerys helped make me this way, Cregan. Don’t you care? Does it matter more than your fucking oath?

Cregan wanted to bite back, but instead furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? Shall I fetch a maester?” 

“N-no…” she whimpered, her voice broken and full of gravel. She pressed a hand to her throat, swallowing a cough. “… tea.” 

“Of course,” Cregan murmured, guiding his sister to sit on the loveseat near the fire. “I’ll get a maid… and… and the tea.” 

Shera nodded, watching him leave. She didn’t care for the pain, even if it felt like someone was dragging a brush of thorns inside of her throat— she felt like she was falling apart at the seams mentally, akin to her old mended dresses, the threads wilting and falling away. 

She felt lost. Lost in the fact that… she wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere. They thought her not cut out for Northern life from her delicate sensibilities— and she wasn’t cut out for King’s Landing for the same reason, except it wasn’t the physical environment, but the barbed tongues, the venomed words, the games of the mind. 

She didn’t belong. 

Would it even matter if she wasn’t part of the equation? Rhaenyra would get her alliance with the North somehow, Cregan would fulfill his oath, Jacaerys would have a number of other betrothal options. 

It mattered not that she was here. 

Didn’t it?

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

Her jaw clenched all night as she nursed her tea to soothe her throat– but every other part of her was purely on fire. The one person in the entirety of this Gods forsaken world who knew what she felt, what she went through– the one other person who was there, who was on her side, who she… she lost everything for– was keen to jest at her disfigurement. 

She stood up from her chair, hours after Cregan had left her, throwing the porcelain at the wall. The teacup smashed into bits and pieces and she sunk her teeth into her own lip until she tasted copper. The kettle was next, hocked upon the mantle of the fireplace as it too, split apart. 

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

Her damaged vocal cords mustered her wails they best they could, forlorn and haunting and low– 

Where was home? She wanted to go home, home– but she didn’t belong anywhere. Where was her home? 

The banshee yowled like a creature with a broken leg, echoing against the walls, ever enclosing.

[angelnix]

coriolanus snow who...

random snow hcs 'cause midterms are driving me absolutely insane. enjoy !

btw yall, i have asks !! so put anything there, prompts, whatever !!

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who loves calling his partner girly nicknames like doll, pretty, etc; however, he does NOT tolerate nicknames for himself. (except coryo, of course.) hon, love, darling, maybe. but everything else is off the plate. (which is funny 'cause he loves calling you nicknames. contradicting.)

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who definitely smells like aftershave, dizzying cologne (after his poor era i guess), and roses. i feel like he'd be picky with scents, bleu de chanel maybe?

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who absolutely gets jealous. small interactions are enough to set him off. and he isnt afraid to say it. he sees you chatting with sejanus and immediately goes for the kill, scooping you away from him & leaving sej confused as hell

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who loves spending time with you, and would probably prefer to be in the same room as you 24/7. man has separation anxiety (*cough*, lucy gray)

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who can be lowkey toxic at times. this isn't mentioned in a lot of fics i've read but i have a strong feeling he'd be the type to genuinely believe in gender stereotypes. housewife & breadwinner type shi

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who likes it when you go shopping for him. though he knows what he likes, he knows that you know what looks best for him. most of his garments & accessories are picked out by you, except for his watch.

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus is very particular about watches. he thinks that a good & classy watch is the way into looking professional. he probably wears a silver watch, dark black background. (smth like this). he'd probably spend thousands— if not millions on a watch.

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who could be controlling at times. i feel like he'd be very possessive; he likes knowing that he's the only person you'd obey.

𝜗𝜚 ‧ coriolanus who secretly likes being taken care of. even he doesn't realize it at first, but after one tiring day, coryo was sick and he'd passed out on the couch. waking up, he realized you'd bathed him, put a damp towel on his forehead and taken care of him, which warmed his heart. though, he prefers being independent, but being cared for is still something he likes.

[sour-heart-treats]

walnut going a *little* too far in her pursuit for roguefort (sarcasm in the little, if it wasnt obvious)

Though exhaustion racked her body, Walnut would keep her little legs carrying her higher and higher. Up flight after flight of stairs, the junior detective would chase the phantom thief however far she needed to. Though her legs burned and her hair was a mess with sweat and rushing wind, she'd continue pushing her body to its absolute limits. It's only at the top of the building, slamming the door open with so much force that her wrist hurt, that she'd be face to face with the thief that had caused her so much turmoil.

Taking slow steps towards the phantom that towered over her, Walnut was met with not the egotistical smirk that she was typically shown... but rather, the criminal looked down at her with... concern. No, it was pity. Something she did not need. With a small growl, the little one would hold out her magnifying glass as if it were a meaningful weapon.

"It's over, Phantom Bleu!" She'd shout out between pants, trying to catch her breath as Roguefort would do little more than stare at her. It made Wal feel weak... or was that the lack of sleep and skipped snack times? "Give up! Just- give it up already! Whatever you stole this time!! Give it back!"

Even if there was nowhere to run, nowhere to escape, Roguefort would simply back away. Nothing sudden, simply turning away and walking towards the edge of the rooftop. It's impossible to tell what in the world they were thinking, but Walnut was not having any of it. She'd run up and grab their cape, pulling on it with all the strength of an angry puppy while she was dragged to the end of the roof. "Are you even- are you listening to me!? Hey!! I've caught you!!" The lack of meaningful attention was more than frustrating. Absolutely infuriating.

Gazing across the city skyline, Rogue would hold the shoulder of their cape to make sure it wasn't dragged off by the junior trying to pull it off of them. "When was the last time you cared for yourself?" They asked lightly, as if the one they were inquiring about wasn't trying to tear off their disguise. They would only receive a huff from the investigator, prompting a guilty hum. "It seems that commissioner has kept less track of you than I thought. With such sunken eyes... a gemstone without its sheen... it looks sad, doesn't it?"

"Stop saying weird things and let me catch you!!" Walnut would snip, though would be only met with the phantom setting a hand on her hat. It didn't matter that Almond wasn't 'keeping track' of her, she didn't need it! She didn't need to be treated like something so small! She'd try to keep her headgear from being taken off, clamoring to keep a hold of it, but her strength certainly wasn't helped by how much her limbs felt like melted jelly... maybe all that running did a number on her- more than the skipped lunches and the notebooks full of tracking clues.

Roguefort would sigh, letting Walnut keep the hat in her hands as they simply set a hand on the top of the little one's head and murmured some spell beneath the moonlight. All the struggling would slow, eyes drooping as the little investigator would slump over, using Rogue's cape now as a blanket to lay on. "...and I had not even stolen yet on this night." They'd mumble, looking down at the slumbering young one with a soft gaze. "I suppose if your other relatives are too busy to care for you in your most obsessive state... perhaps a break from my antics is in order."

[bleuneptune]

it’s oc-tobeeeeeer!! i’m following bweird’s prompt list and we’ll see how far i get. day 1 is fav oc(s) and to no one’s surprise, my current fave is bleu (he/him). my mc sona/most beloved oc. starting out as a joke when i fell out of a water stream and died, he has now been through multiple imagined seasons of the life serious and been put into Numerous aus for fun

bonus one of the first iterations of bleu + @canarydarity ‘s worm bc bleu wouldn’t be what he is today without the endless hours of screaming about our little guys

[samanthahirr]

Moodboard March is still going strong over at @mi6-cafe! Here's my Week 4 contribution. (I'm totally going to finish my Week 3 moodboard at some point...)

Fills the prompt: "the spectre of defeat"

Lyrics from "Love in the Way" by Nicki Minaj and Yung Bleu

[typosandtea]

3 and 16 of the winter asks for Tango and Murphy!!!

[Prompts]

Thanks for the ask Bleu!! ^_^ @romaniwasteland this was a lot of fun to think about! Murphy and Tango are not having a good time in winter </3

3: How does your OC feel about cold weather?

Murphy thought she knew what cold and winter were, they have those things in australia too you know.. she is so very very wrong!! When she and Nathan first moved to america they moved in the spring and spent summer waiting for, well the summer weather to start! Compared to outback aus where she and Nathan are from Boston's summer temps are like outback winter.. She didn't wear shorts and barely took off her jacket all summer and was very disappointed when it started to get colder again. It gets to mid autumn and its already the coldest shes ever been, shes a rather small and too thin woman which doesn't help keeping warm. by the start of the first winter she is petitioning and being as annoying as she can to their project lead to add some heating or at least some padding to the prototype armours shes testing, bloody hell that metal gets icy once they step outside for tests. Spends the entirety of the first winter shivering and standing next to whatever heater is available when she isn't on duty. Unfortunately for Murphy, their squad is sent to anchorage shortly after the deployment of the first generation t45s to teach others how to use it without accidentally killing yourself or your team, as well as to maintain the suits they get sent with, At least she got her way and they've finally relented and added some warmth to them, it just took them being deployed to fucking ALASKA to get the budget for it. Anchorage is not a good time for anyone involved and the frozenness is only part of it. Bombs drop and all the vault 111 residents (all vets) get mutated for use as supersoliders with very mixed results, Murphy handles the cold a little better now but still doesn't like it at all, the heat of boston summer is about the only time you'll see her without a thick jacket on, and quite a few people are surprised she has tattoos after knowing her for many months haha. TLDR: Realizes that the outback doesn't get cold at all compared to Boston and was not prepared in the slightest.

Tango doesn't have a body anymore so the temperature outside the armour doesn't really bother them very much, the suits environmental system is made to support a full adult so has no trouble keeping a brain at the correct temperature despite needing to run the controls quite a bit hotter than they would normally go (37c/~99f). Its certainly helps that Tango has so much custom hardware and like four fusion cores rather than relying on one to power everything. But do you know what comes with cold that really really sucks when you're made of hundreds of kilos of metal? SNOW. fuck snow. Traversing boston nuclear winter levels of snow is impossible for them basically, they have to walk through it rather than over it cause they weigh so much. Even when its not preventing them from going anywhere even a little bit of snow also makes everything into a filthy slurry and one of Tangos biggest pet peeves is being dirty. In the past and back west a bit in the mountains they have definitely been stuck in settlements for the winter cause of how much snow is around and had to begrudgingly settle in for a few months. Really does not like relying on others but is savvy enough about resources and skills to make themselves useful enough for a small settlement to warily accept a cranky suit of power armour as a temporary and unexpected resident, tech and science are always useful after all. TLDR: cold is fine but fuck snow.

16: What is your OC’s warm beverage of choice?

Murphy loooooves a good cuppa coffee, or at least she did back in aus, is briefly disappointed by diner style coffee.. wheres the frothy milk? what do you mean most eateries don't have baristas to make coffee? Cafe coffee is a treat now she guesses. Though she does change her tune about diner coffee pretty quick once a. she realizes how cheap it is in comparison to cafe and, b. someone points out that you get way more caffeine per cup. Grows to love it though even though she initially drank it out of warmth and for the caffeine hit haha

Tango doesn't really need to drink as such anymore since they are a brain in a jar at their core.. but one of the other robobrains who made them into tango was quite fond of his alcohol. Darren devised a system for the three of them (Tango, Darren and Bobby) to still be able to 'enjoy' the effects of alcohol has on the brain. SO aside from necessary water intake, Tango enjoys whiskey, or more accurately the effects of whiskey. Thats not really a warm beverage but they literally cant intake milk drinks, I mean they could try but it would end poorly for them, they are not equipped to deal with that.

[foodsies4me]

Snippet not Saturday or Sunday!

I wasn't tagged for a change, but I decided it would be fun to do a tiny snippet anyway. Also, for those who were unsure if sending in prompts was still okay, you can still send them don't worry! I'm a bit slow in getting to all of them because I'm a slow writer, but they're still very much welcome. :D

Anyway, here is a snippet from the second chapter of Crow's Very Bad No Good Day that nobody asked for except @lawsofchaos1 and who is therefore entirely to blame for this.

The ceiling lets out another giggle and then a terrifyingly familiar voice pipes up "Awwww, but I was sneaking, Alec."

The whiny complaint is followed by the sudden apparition of one terror supreme, ruffled black hair and deceptively innocent smile included, who somehow unsticks from the ceiling - and cool, okay sure shadowhunters are apparently part spider because why the fuck not. It's not as if they weren't already nightmare-inducing enough.

Max lands next to him, eyes bright and happy as they immediately zero in on him. "You're the warlock from last week!" He cheers, "From Mags' glitter!"

Tagging @echo-bleu just because I can for a change. That said, anyone that sees this and wants to share a snippet (whether writing, drawing or something else) please feel free to do so!

[imeternallylove]

Moulin Rouge Sous le Ciel Bleu - S.Strange

Red Mill under the Blue Sky: the roaring '20s era

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Genre: angst and fluff, mostly bittersweet 💔✌️

Warning: forbidden love, sexual content

Word: approx 4k

main mastetlist | request | prompts

theme song (im very rec to listen while reading this)

A brilliant red mill stood out among the other buildings in the Jardin de Paris, at the foot of the hill in the Montmartre neighborhood, commanding attention with its vibrant color and unusual façade. Large metal letters spelled out the word Moulin Rouge over the entryway to the colorful venue. The Red Mill, because it was exactly what the building looked like. It certainly drew attention to itself, and Monsieur Strange had no doubt that this was the proprietors' goal. Moulin Rouge had grown infamous in Paris, and he had no doubt that it was also infamous throughout the rest of France.

The building's bright scarlet façade contrasted with the pristine blue of the sky above it, making it stand out even more on clear days like today. Stephen would not have imagined, looking at the red mill, that this was the edifice known as The Bastion of Pleasures in the city of love. It wasn't visually appealing, but it was a novelty, and the mill at the entryway was one of the reasons for the establishment's notoriety. That, and the female cabaret performers.

Stephen Vincent Strange, heir of an eastern trade enterprise and an expert in oriental goods, was known as "young Monsieur Strange." He had been sent to France by his father a year before starting university to acquire the French language, and now, years later, he was studying for a degree in Orientalism at the famed Sorbonne. He'd become a go-to man for Parisian socialites, advising them on real Chinese and silk textiles, among other things, all sourced from his family's import business.

But, underneath the elegant and wealthy heir, he had become enthralled by the revolution, a movement that began in the middle of the last century, a stride towards freedoms and liberties that he had never known in his own home of New York.

That's how he ended himself in the Moulin Rouge cabaret. Stephen adored it. The excitement of doing something that would be considered inappropriate in his own nation was exhilarating. He wished he was an artist or a poet some days. Of course, he was brilliant at both due to his considerable schooling, so it wasn't that he couldn't do either. Nonetheless, he wished that he could live off his riches and do whatever he pleased, composing poetry, creating watercolours on rice paper, and attending the cabaret.

Most crucially, in those crazy daydreams, he could freely love you.

You'd met when he came to consult with you about some costumes you were working on for a Moulin Rouge performance. The surroundings were supposed to be inspired by the Orient, interesting, exotic, and beautiful all at the same time, and you required assistance with the designs. Young Monsieur Strange had paid you a visit in your sewing chamber as an orientalist. He was impressed by the attention to detail you had placed into the costumes and was eager to help you in perfecting the ideas.

He was back in your workrooms a few weeks later, checking the finished product as well as the music hall stage set. Because your lodgings were close to the Moulin Rouge, he stopped by to see you and your fellow seamstresses on his way back. He had admired your outfits and had recommended you to the proprietors.

That's how you met and then kept meeting, each one ending with you smiling a little brighter, his smile getting cheekier and cheekier.

Stephen often assumed that falling in love with one of the dancers would be simple. Monsieur Strange, on the other hand, was not one to take the easy way out. He had been unimpressed by the dancers' charm, flirty manner, and womanly figure. He was an orientalist visiting Paris from his hometown, and he had no interest for the loud women of the cabaret, famous for their cancan. 

Instead, he had chosen the difficult path. He fell for you.

It was an impossible love. Hopeless in more ways than one; not only had he fallen head over heels for you irrevocably and explicitly, but there was no future in which he could do so. Your love was ephemeral, not because the sensations vanished, but because you couldn't freely love each other in this world, neither in France nor anywhere else. It was a forbidden love. 

Something forbidden. 

It's a hopeless love.

You knew it wouldn't last, you wouldn’t; but nothing does, so you loved him the same way he loved you.

Stephen would never marry a mere seamstress. He was a class above you, and he was certain his father had already picked a merchant's daughter for him, one from New York, just like him, just like his father wanted.

Tonight, he could spend naked in your arms, snuggled in the warm sheets of his bed, listening to his heartbeat while his long fingers combed through your hair.

"The sky was falling," you said as his heat cock finally came out, weary, clogged, and squeezed all the air out of your lungs. The palm of his hand lingered warmly on your exposed breasts, like a boy's toy.

Your hair is wet, and so is his. You look at the mess on the bedsheet, it's like a war, so criminally. Unless, of course Stephen's sharp smile, the top of his chest breaths heavily, and the bottom is buried beneath his blanket, but you pull out it to cover yourself so you can glimpse his entire body again. "And I'm falling for you, amour."

It was a quiet night. He'd snuck you into one of his smaller homes, where no servants could spy on you two. You had a glass of dry red wine and a baguette with camembert and red grapes. It was a basic dish by his standards, but it was everything the two of you could have desired for dinner tonight.

You had been kept busy by the continual repairs of Moulin Rouge costumes, as well as other work sent to you by higher and middle-class women, in the heart of balmy summer, with the sun shining down in all its splendor, warming you up and making all proper ladies sweat under their garments. You made no complaint. It was good job, and there was always additional money, which you could never have enough of.

Stephen did all the whining for you, about how you didn't have time for him, about how he felt neglected, about how you were too gorgeous to spend the days in a workroom instead of on the garden outside, enjoying in the sun and definitely keeping him company.

Finally, your work was completed, and you decided to take the day off, and now, at the end of the day spent in his arms, you were falling asleep in his arms, his gentle breathing feeling like a summer breeze in your hair, and his golden skin was warm on yours. Because of your body heat and the warm night, you couldn't sleep beneath a blanket, so you slept on a light linen sheet.

"Mon plus cher amour," he said into the air, that’s the way he called; "my dearest love." And you had responded to his call through the thin veil of sleep, turning in his arms to face him, your lips brushing against his as he spoke, the delicate touch sending thrills down Stephen's spine.

"Mon cherrie?" You'd wondered, laying a sly kiss on his pouty lips.

"I cannot imagine living without you." He engaged, his eyes staring into yours with such affection that you wondered if a mortal man could be filled with so much love. Such deep feeling was surely destined for something more holy than you; for ladies whose beauty lived on in legend, a kind of beauty caught by poems, songs, and prayers. Not you, mortal, frail, and average.

"Don't say such things." You murmured softly, your tone echoing Stephen's love in his gaze. His breath caught, and you could feel his heart rattling against your chest, its steady beat matching the pace of your own. "They make me fall in love with you even more." Your lover grinned at your comments, his long fingers reaching to gently hold your hand before bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles delicately, his lips smooth like rosebuds, flushed a deep pink as blood flowed through him, red and strong. His aquatic eyes never left yours for a second. 

Hopelessly, you loved him so badly, too.

The days passed without him, and eventually, after all work was finished, Stephen decided to take you to the premiere of the new cabaret show, the one you had spent months sewing costumes for, and now he would allow you the pleasure of seeing the fruit of your labors, and you had a feeling it would be sweet.

Tonight, he had taken you to the cabaret. The moulin rouge was full with patrons, their cacophonous banter before the show was like the beginning of a birdsong, someplace deep in the rainforest, their words, not always French, rang throughout the room like a flock of tropical songbirds, unorganized but cheerful. You sat at a table for two, he in a magnificent black suit, you in your best dress, your hair done up in a stylish style you had seen many of your clients wear. When you looked in the mirror before leaving the house, you couldn't believe the lady in the reflection was you. You wondered if he had always thought you were beautiful.

"You are lovely to look at. Never forget that, mon amour." He leaned in to whisper into your ears, the dim light shimmering golden against his skin, making the shape of his nose and the plushness of his lips even more refined, even more seductive. Your heart skipped a beat despite your will. As the dancers entered the stage, the flock fell silent, leaving only the melody of the orchestra. Stephen relaxed in his chair, entirely at ease, sipping champagne.

The show was spectacular, but no one expected less from the legendary Moulin Rouge. The dancers glided around the stage in perfect synchronicity. Even their most frantic routines were carried out with beauty and precision. others gowns were shorter than others, and others were more scandalous. You hadn't skimped on the feathers and sequins. Each costume was meticulously fitted, with every thread perfectly in place and every color carefully chosen.

"Something like this would never be tolerated where I come from." Stephen whispered in your ear. Even without looking at him, you could tell that his gaze was drawn to the dancers and his lips formed a sneer against your ears. You knew he wasn't talking about the cabaret. "I'm glad it's allowed here." When you didn't react, he whispered, and you felt a delightful chill down your spine.

"They look gorgeous." Instead, you stated that your gaze never leaves the stage. The dancers span, their skirts swirling with them, exposing more of their legs, and the audience couldn't stop gasping.

He questioned as he took another sip from his flute. "The dancers?"

"Pretty women look good in pretty clothing." When another round of cacophonous delight rippled through the audience, you responded with a nod, a smile on your lips.

"Are those your dresses?" Stephen smiled, his eyes twinkling as he examined the colorful outfits, feather plumes, and embroidery on the bodices and skirts. 

“Oui.” You sipped your drink, allowing the buzz of alcohol to enhance your enjoyment of the evening. "What's the point of staring at me?" After a while, you said, the feeling of Stephen's deep ocean eyesight staring at you becoming uncomfortable as the night progressed, your second flute of champagne now standing empty in front of you.

"I can't stop myself. You are like the moon." He smiled, turning his head to look at you from a fresh perspective. "So attracting me." He spoke, and his hand moved across the table to grip yours, his long fingers weaving through yours.

You stayed like that till the end of the show.

When the night was done and he had draped your coat over your shoulders like a gentleman, a cheeky smile graced his lips, his eyes bright with mischief.

"We went to the pleasure palace, and yet my greatest pleasure was watching you." He told you, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, savoring the crimson that warmed your cheeks, both from the champagne and from him.

Another week passed, and you were again in his chambers, laying among the lovely covers, holding a book as Stephen dressed. He was dressed in a suit identical to the one he wore to Moulin Rouge, but he had changed the jacket to something more suited for dinner. You liked his straight brows and heavy lashes as you combed his hair back away from his face. 

"How do you think I look?" He approached, tying his black bowtie in front of the mirror above his dresser.

Looking at his tiny figure over your book, you told him. "Handsome as always." You said that when he turned around and winked at him. "You will be fine, Monsieur Strange."

"Whatever you want to say, Mademoiselle." He smiled as he walked over to the bed and knelt down. His plush lips were on yours in an instant, and you melted into the kiss. 

When he turned to slide into his jacket, he looked back at you, his eyes filled with concern. You could tell he was tense by the clench of his jaw and the strain in his shoulders. 

"Enjoy yourself." You smiled at him, attempting to cheer him up. Whatever was on his thoughts was weighing heavily on him. Enough to make him wary of telling you about it. It was a rare occurrence. 

"It's just another business meeting; I'm recommending teapot purchases." He muttered, presumably to himself, and you sprang from the bed, wrapping your arms around his torso and staring into his eyes. Their maritime blue reminded you of hot coffee and chocolate in the morning. "New York ceramics have grown in popularity among those who can afford to import them." He spoke, his arms wrapping over your shoulders. Stephen buried his face in your hair, and you gave him a minute of silence. He pressed you against him, and you listened to his heartbeat, sure and steady like him. 

"Selling a lot of teapots, then, mon cherie." You told him, and he let you go with one more farewell kiss.

"Don't worry about missing me too much, mon plus cher amour." He called out as he walked out of the room, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched him go.

Sadly, you do.

The dinner was drab. The hosts were rich, as they always were, and they loved to gossip, as they always did. Normally, Stephen avoided the ladies' gossip, preferring to sit and drink whiskey with the males, but tonight he found himself in the center of it. Not because he was really interested, but because he was the topic of it. 

Many guys stood around the room conversing, and some women avoided the host's wife, who was a nasty gossip who could run her mouth like no other. Unfortunately, Stephen was on his way to meet his business partner, Monsieur Holmes from England, when he overheard the conversation.

The guests sat on luxurious sofas, with a tiny wooden mahogany coffee table in the center, containing a lovely tea set, white porcelain with delicate lotus blossoms painted in red for adornment. Last summer, it was one of the models they carried. Surprisingly, it was not a high-end set.

"I heard he went to the cabaret with his mistress last week. I'm curious who she is." The harsh voice of one of the ladies pierced his eardrums. Stephen could tell she was one of your clientele based on her attire. In your shop window, a similar dress, however green rather than the caustic salmon color this woman was wearing, was shown. He could recognize your work from anywhere right now.

"There will be no high standing." Another woman interrupted him, and he wanted to stop listening. Morbid curiosity kept him quiet, listening to those women criticize you, his blood boiling under his skin. 

"A Frenchwoman and a New Yorker. In public!" Stephen tried to stop himself from cursing after hearing the woman in salmon scream. 

"How are you doing, ladies?" Instead, he put on a happy face and walked right into the women's chat, interrupting their gossip. "I heard you ordered two tea sets, Madame." He turned to gaze at an older woman sitting between the two who were chatting about you.

“Yes. My daughter is marrying into a good family, and I want to make sure she brings only the best to her new home." She had spoken, her nose turned almost comically high as she tried to gaze at him with contempt. 

"I hope you will be pleased with the quality of our products." He had bowed lightly, a sickly-sweet smile lingering on his lips, as rage had no doubt poked through his eyes. When you glanced into his eyes, you stated you could tell he was upset. He would have spoken more, but Shrr had come to his rescue, his cheerful attitude brightening the mood of the women.

"Ah, Monsieur Strange, I was looking for you." He talked, his rich voice filled with joy as he tried to pull Stephen away. 

He pushed him to the side and handed the shorter man a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock's massive body towered over him, hiding him from the gossips' gaze. His huge hand reached out and squeezed Stephen's shoulder in reassurance.

"Young men are young men regardless of where they come from." Do not listen to old rumor." Sherlock's powerful voice slowed to a mumble, and Stephen assumed his companion was growling rather than speaking.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He mumbled, gulping the scotch down, too frustrated to taste it. He found the burn of alcohol to be a pleasant distraction.

"Better to love one woman than to hate one woman." When his pal looked down on him, his teal eyes were soft.

Stephen asked shifting the conversation from one unpleasant issue to another. "Any news from my father?" 

“None yet. I’m not sure he even knows about her.” Sherlock reassured him, a small smile playing on his lips. He sipped on his scotch.

"If he knew," Stephen said, his heart pounding wildly against his chest, making him dizzy, before Sherlock cut him off. 

"You'd have been on a ship back by now, and that merchant's daughter would have been waiting for you at the docks." He finished for him, gulping down the rest of his scotch before proceeding to refill their glasses.Stephen received an increasing number of inquiries for imported pottery as the evening continued. Tea sets, plates, and bowls were among the items requested. By the end of the meal, his notebook was full of names and catalog numbers. 

Stephen had removed his coat and unfastened his bowtie when he returned home. His white shirt had a few buttons undone, displaying his golden collarbone. He sat on his living room sofa, sipping more scotch from a crystal glass. When he arrived, you tossed the book and sat alongside him on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder. The fabric beneath you was velvet, far more expensive than you could possibly afford. You could see he had it built to order.

Stephen had remained silent other than greetings and a couple brief kisses. Despite the drink he consumed, the worry shown on his face had not subsided. From the corner of your eye, you noticed his jaw clenched and relaxed.

"Are you ready to tell me now?" You asked him, and he turned his chin towards you. His gaze was drawn to your lips first, then up into your eyes. He'd always assumed they were sapphires. Not because they were blue, but because they reminded him of the sea, deep and uncharted. They hid your heart, so they gleamed like valuable stones and reflected light like the tumultuous waters of the sea. Deep, so deep that he lost himself in them and found himself in them as well. 

"I'm worried about my father." His heavenly voice broke, heavy with uncertainty, and he mumbled.

"We knew about your father from the start,” you told him as you pressed your palm against his cheek, allowing Stephen to sink into your contact and relish in how warm he felt against you. “We knew how this was going to end before it even started."

"What if I don't want this to come to an end?" He asked whether and you were the one to lose yourself in the depths of his irises this time.

You kissed him with your other hand on his cheek. Passionately and uninhibitedly. It didn't matter if the end was coming or if it was already here. You had feelings for him. You were hopelessly in love with him. 

Stephen went violet when you touched him. He felt it seep into him when he pressed his lips to yours with bruising force, and again when you grabbed him in his bed, and again when you left purple marks over his collar bones, each one a visible stain on his body; something to remind him he was yours, something to remind you that you were his. 

Days flew by in a blur of color. You awoke in his bed, went to work, and spent the evening at Moulin Rouge. Every night was spectacular; every night was the same. You had grown fond of Moulin Rouge. Stephen could sit by you in public and flaunt your devotion for him. In Montmartre, most people were preoccupied with the concept of liberty and freedom. You shared their hopes, that the world will be a better place to live one day. Both you and he fit in. It was simple to be at the Bastion of Pleasures.

After one of the shows, when you had finally returned home to recuperate, an unexpected guest appeared. 

Sherlock had come in one evening, just as Stephen was falling asleep in your lap, your voice calming him. The British man had arrived with a letter. It was obvious that it was from Stephen's father. Because the characters were strange, you were illiterate and blissfully unaware of the contents. 

"Not good." Stephen had risen from your lap and was pacing as he read over the letter. Sherlock had taken a seat near you, his form looming over you. You weren't bothered because you were used to being in his shadow, but the expressions on both men's faces made you nervous. 

Sherlock told them. "He wants you to return by the end of the next year." His strong voice boomed through the room, and his loving brown eyes looked down at you, and then at Stephen, with such sadness that you couldn't tell who was more saddened by the news.

"I understand." Stephen paused his pacing and requested that one of his assistants bring them some cognac. "To one more year." When the vodka was poured into crystal glasses and delivered to the three of them, he toasted.

You raised your glass with a cheeky smile, toasting with him. Sherlock raised his glass reluctantly and witheredly, the amber liquid shimmering in the faint light, before taking a gulp.

You lay wrapped in Stephen's arms that night, a pleasant breeze blowing through the open window, drifting over your naked shoulders as you glanced up at your sweetheart.

"Let us leave. Just… Run away with me." Stephen mumbled, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of his room, more pensive than you had ever seen him.

"Is this? …New Americana proposal’s? Where’s my ring?" You commented, a broad smile on your face, as though pondering of the possibilities, soon, your shoulders jolted down. "Where shall we go?"

"Wherever my father won't find us." You pressed closer to him, further into the protection of his arms, as he aware you. “Italy?” You sought out, considering locations too far away for the Strange business to pursue you to.

“Britain? Erm-”

"French Indochina?" You kissed his forehead, with an awkward smile on your lips.

"I don't care… literally. Where we go; my heart goes to loving you everywhere." He spoke softly, and you knew he loved you now more than ever. 

Stephen was ready to leave everything to be with you, where his father could not intervene, and you were ready to leave with him, you knew you would; for anything even your cabaret flora life here; for one condition… just be with him.

"Then let's go anywhere." You gave in, putting a kiss to his lips and whispering love words into his ears as he held you. He whispered them back, breathed love into you with his kisses, was firm and soothing alongside you, and despite the frost in the air, you were warm. 

His lengthy fingers knead over yours, enveloping them. You know he staked his entire future on it. You are mindful of this. "Whether it's an ice-covered world or warfare, I'll be the one that burns it." Your lips curled together, his words so sincere, and his rich tone melt with every emotion you've ever beheld. "Like frost and flame; hot and cold both evaporated."

You draw stars on his chest, another one, another one… Attentively paying attention to his heartbeat. The galactic cosmos feels incredibly near whenever you're with him, your Monsieur Strange, yours.

"Trust me?"

"Always have."

Love was occasionally hopeless, but maybe this time, just this time, there was hope.

And this is hope that you want would be go on survived.

For everlasting. 

a/t: how was it 🥹 idk why but the plot comes while i listen this so bitter, tortured but sweetener so it’s challenging me to write 1920’ era. Well… in fact, the forbidden love is my first time writing… so erm yk what i mean? just please give love to it bc Monsieur Strange is watching you 😂🥹🤭 the core of this story is foreign man who has love affair with the owner of cabaret and he bet everything on it to stay with his heart, so fucking romantic yeah? this side is so rare to see from Stephen x reader ff and that’s why, so sorry to bring him out of character again bc it’s not my first time actually HAHAHAHAHA xD well next story we will see new youtuber Stephen who open YouTube channel so bright the boredom of quarantine by corona, he’s doctor right? let’s go romantic comedy yahooooo

[whousestypewriters]

Hello, hello :)

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

-This is @urbanflorals writing account.

-This blog will mostly be about writing and my wips and stuff like that and my chaotic thoughts about my writing

So enter at your own risk....

I also haven't gotten around to creating introductions for all the characters just yet. I'll do it sometime, promise.

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

My wips:

Cartlen College Series

My original story

Characters -

Lainey Bowen

Garrett Maddox

Juniper Magana

Hayden Mckenzie

Bleu Ando

Harper Allaire

Jordi Bowen

Oliver Dawson

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hurricane Girls Series

My original story

Characters -

Xandia Northwood

Ivory Abbot

Willa Thornton

Effie Holland

West Avengale

Boston Harding

Chase Sawyer

Gray Fitzweld

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Shattered Hearts

My original story

Characters -

Hallie O'Connor

Kaiden Alvarez

Violet Reynolds

Crew Peirce

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The Silent Court

My original story - the one I'm probably working on the most

These characters won't have introductions cause I have way too many -

Aurelia Birnett - The Silent Queen, Iris Birnett - The Siren, Amithi Brandson - The Scorpion, Beatrice Graye - The Archer, Linette Bardot - Red, Blaire Anderston - The Locket, Genevieve Weston - The Viper, Naomi Keller - The Forgess, Harper Beckett - The Slave

Callum Hansley, Leahla Hansley, Julias Hansley, Caspar Hansley, Avena Crista

The cast of the Silent Court

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Edgeton Prep

My original story

Characters -

Constance Fracher

Quinn Markey

Evie Markwood

Macey Gibson

Griffin Prescott

Jaiden Pitcher

Parker Gibson

Connor Jackson

Aidan Flecture

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

This was really long but oh well. These are only some of my wips. I might post about my other stories and stuff as well.

I'll probably also write random prompts I find or want to do. My ask box is always open for people to put prompts or just questions in general :)

Thank you for reading this loves <3

[josefavomjaaga]

Fun writing/silly thoughts prompt: how do you think Soult would react to a surprise birthday party?

Or, if he was informed he had to provide a surprise birthday party?

All of a sudden, Marshal Soult looked up. His eyes stung. In the darkness of the night, by the dim lamplight, he could barely decipher the handwriting of the letter on the desk in front of him. But he would not let a trifle like that get in his way.

Something was wrong here, he thought.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

You could say a lot about the merry bunch of good-for-nothings he called his aides. But one thing they were not: silent.

He rose, abruptly enough to startle his aide-de-camp Brun de Villeret, sitting at the desk behind him and buried in paperwork like himself.

»Brun, what time is it?«

»A bit after midnight, sir.«

»Something’s going on in the anteroom. I have to to check.«

»Surely it’s nothing, Your Excellency«, said Brun »Please don’t bother. I could go myself have a look if you insist.«

Soult regarded him suspiciously. He had spoken rather quickly. Was he in on it?

Without another word he started for the door to the anteroom. Behind him, Brun jumped up to follow him – hastily enough to topple his chair.

»I beg your pardon, Your Excellency.«

Brun bent down to straighten the chair, hoping the noise had been loud enough to alert his colleagues in the anteroom.

It had.

»Happy birthday!«, a dozen voices roared in chorus, as soon as the marshal opened the door. The aides had decorated the anteroom with whatever they had found that could make this run-down Polish hut look a little more festive. Candles were burning everywhere, bathing the room in a warm glow that defied the winter cold. The aides started to clap and cheer as Soult, without a word, glanced around the antechamber – all except for Saint-Chamans, who had both hands full, holding sugar tongs and melting a sugar loaf into a large cauldron full of the horrible whisky the soldiers called »schnick«.

Soult was flabbergasted. He had been dimly aware that his birthday was coming up, but had completely forgotten about it over work. So he said the only thing appropriate for this situation.

»You don’t really think I’m going to drink that?«, pointing at Saint-Chamans and his cauldron.

»No, sir«, Saint-Chamans answered cheerfully. »That’s for us.«

»For you«, said Lameth, grinning widely, »we have this.« He cradled a bulbous bottle in his arms like a baby.

»That’s the only bottle of Beaujolais we could find within a hundred miles range«, claimed Petiet.

»But«, Brun passed behind Soult, opening the door to the hallway. »that’s not our only surprise.«

He pushed the door open. The hallway was dark. A small figure tumbled out of it, almost hidden by the huge bow of the gift she carried.

»Happy birthday, Papa Bleu!«, the three-year-old girl cried happily, running up to the marshal as fast as her short legs allowed. Soult gasped, then quickly croached to pick up his daughter, before rising again to hug the other two visitors, five-year-old son Napoléon Hector and, most importantly, their mother.

»Louise!«

He had intended to walk towards her with measured steps, and to politely give her a hug and a dignified welcome kiss on the cheek, as was proper. He really had. But somehow he found his arms wrapped around her waist and his face buried against her neck, inhaling her perfume, feeling her warmth. »But… how…«

»Shhh.« Louise pressed her finger to Soult’s lips. »We’re on a secret mission. We’ll go back to Berlin tomorrow night. The emperor will never know.«

Soult became dimly aware of his aides chuckling and jeering under their breath and tried to adopt a more dignified posture.

He would have to lecture them about mocking their commanding general. Maybe. Tomorrow.

»Messieurs, thank you.« He cleared his throat. »Thank you very much indeed. I appreciate the idea, and the sentiment, and …« His children were clinging to his legs. »And now get the hell out. You are all off-duty tonight.« That caused another cheer from the aides, probably the most joyful of them all. »Take whatever you have in that cauldron elsewhere, and do with it what you must. Oh, and I’d be very glad if this time around, the enemy outposts would not come complaining to me about your singing disturbing their nighttime peace!«