#but the carrot is on fire and hates itself

[paniniani]

cooking with fire: katsuki bakugo x reader

synopsis: bakugo can’t deal with your subpar cooking abilities and decides to “help”

warnings: language (obviously), spice, teasing, tiny knife injury

"you really hate celery that fuckin much??" bakugo yelled, a look of horror on his face as he stomped into the kitchen. he just wanted to make a cup of tea in peace, but when he saw you mutilating these poor vegetables, he had to step in.

rolling your eyes, you spit out a response: "can you be a little more annoying? since everyone's been getting sick, i'm making soup. im doing a nice thing. do you know what a nice thing is? it's when people-"

"SHUT UP." he interrupted, scowling at you as he braced his elbows on the kitchen counter, leaning over to inspect your poor cutting job. you certainly didn't mind the view as you continued chopping, eyes raking over his muscular forear-

"SHIT" you cried, as the knife nicked your pointer finger, leaving a tiny yet slightly painful scratch. great. first you're terrible at cooking, then you cut your finger because you're thirsting over the class' biggest asshole. for a brief moment, a flicker of concern crossed his face, quickly replaced by his trademark smug smirk.

"need a bandaid or somethin? didn't take you as someone to be so.. easily distracted." turning your attention away from your finger, you raised your chin to meet his gaze, sparking with pride and... something you couldn't quite pin down.

"what's your problem anyway? can't you just leave me alone?" you replied, trying not to flush at the eye contact.

"i'll leave you alone when you stop fucking butchering these vegetables!" as his eyebrows drew together, you saw the same unfamiliar expression flash across his face before he closed his eyes and sighed with annoyance. picking up the knife again, you began chopping. you were focusing so hard on the celery that you didn't notice his strangely quiet steps, moving closer and closer until his large hand settled over yours on the knife, standing behind you to watch your movements.

your breath hitched at the uncharacteristically gentle contact, causing your mind to race as you suddenly felt hot, burning hot, all over your body.

"somethin the matter? what happened to all that shit you were talkin? soup's not gonna make itself." you could practically hear the smirk in his face as you stood stone-still, his thumb having the nerve to draw tiny, delicate circles over your own. reaching his other arm around you, he grabbed a new piece of celery and began to chop, still keeping your hand underneath his.

his skilled hands made quick work of the vegetables, finishing the task in just a few seconds. you would never forgive your brain for the nasty thoughts you were having of what else he could do with those han-

"aw come on, don't go all shy on me now..." he quietly spoke into your ear, flustering you further if it were possible. this wasn't fair. you didn't know what the fuck had come over him, but two could play at this game, no matter how incredibly turned on you were.

"you gonna help me with some more or just stand there? still gotta chop up these carrots.." you looked back at him with heavy lids, letting your head tilt to the side, almost grazing his shoulder. internally, you giggled as it was his turn to flush deep red. his face was painted with that same odd expression, finally realizing that it was-

"don't give a fuck about these damn carrots" he murmured, staring down at you. he was whipped, and he knew it. grabbing the knife and your hand again, he grabbed a few carrots, leaning his strong chest against your back.

"gotta see better" he spat out, but you knew he was about to give in. in a moment of desperation, you arched your back, pressing your ass against him. looking up at him again through lust-covered eyes, you choked out a few words:

"need.. your help.. bakugo."

screwing his eyes shut, he knew he was done for- shit. he was hard as a fucking rock. you could definitely tell too. grinding against you, he bit back a groan. you felt so fucking good.. fuck, he needed you so bad. suddenly, you felt strong hands grabbing your waist and spinning you around to face him.

shit. this was much easier when you weren't having to look at him. crimson eyes staring at your lips, you gulped and looked up at him with wide pleading eyes. knowing this would push him over the edge, you leaned in, your lips magnetic towards his own. at the last instant, you moved, pressing gentle kisses across his jawline, watching his throat struggle to keep his pretty sounds in. kissing and gently sucking down his neck, he finally gave in. opening his mouth, he managed a few mumbled words between quiet groans.

"itskatsuki.please."

his voice cracked with desire, begging, pleading you to continue. kneeling down, you trailed kisses across his rapidly rising and falling chest, watching his abs twitch as you continued downward to his v-line. slipping a finger in his waistband, causing a whine, you knew you had him. why not make this a little more fun? you looked up at him with a sweet smile, speaking in a low, sultry tone.

"okay. katsuki..." you drew his name out with a long groan, watching him look at you pleadingly. "we still gotta chop the carrots".

[7s3ven]

TF 141 + THEIR FAV CHRISTMAS ACTIVITY W/ YOU.

( master list )

John Price - gift wrapping

Price has perfected the art of wrapping Christmas presents and although he loves you with all his heart… he can’t say the same about you. It’s easy to tell who wrapped whose gift based on whether the paper is neat or scrunched up.

You’ve never had the talent for gift wrapping, choosing to fold the paper in random directions instead. As long as it covers the gift itself, it’s good enough.

You know Price hates your wrapping technique so it’s no surprise that you find him downstairs on Christmas Eve, frantically rewrapping your gifts.

“John, honey, couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?” You rub your eyes as you stop at the top of the stairs. You see Price freeze before he slowly turns his head to face you.

“John? Never heard of him. I’m… Santa Claus?”

You send him a deadpan look. “John, get your ass back in bed now. I need something to hug.” You retreat back to your shared bed, waiting for your husband.

It takes him two minutes to rush back into the room, peel off his shirt, and climb back under the covers.

Peaceful silence engulfs the room until Price parts his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want to take that gift wrapping class?” He utters. You lightly slap his shoulder in response.

Simon Riley - decorating the tree and car

Simon has always preferred a more quiet atmosphere where he can tend to his thoughts. He knows how much you adore Christmas so he tries his best to enjoy the holiday without feeling overwhelmed. You quickly realized that Simon hated stepping out of his comfort zone, hence why you suggested Christmas activities that catered towards his silent personality.

This included decorating the tree. Simon was at peace for once as the fire crackled in the background while he effortlessly lifted you up, allowing you to place a few ornaments at the top of the tree.

He liked minimalistic designs, not a huge fan of chaos like Jonny was. That’s why your tree only had ornaments that represented a particular moment. There was a red jewelled sphere that Simon had bought for you two years ago and a small framed picture of the two of you cuddled up on a couch (taken by Kyle).

Strangely enough, Simon yearned to decorate something else after the tree was complete. Thus, he moved onto the car.

John (Johnny) Mctavish - building an army of snow men

Between decorating every surface of your shared house and having an endless supply of nutmeg, Johnny’s favourite activity is building snowmen. Or rather, snow creatures. He is the epitome of ‘do you wanna build a snowman?’. In fact, you’re sure he’s blasted that song enough during a cold winter day that it’ll be on his Spotify wrapped.

Sometimes Johnny creates cute snow sculptures, like the adorable bear you were sitting beside that almost felt like a pet. Other times, he’s building questionable ones. You watch as Johnny wraps a scarf around his newly made (and rather lopsided) snowman.

“Johnny, love, what is that?” You call out as you absentmindedly pick up a handful of snow.

Johnny grins as he sticks a carrot in the middle of its face, proudly showing you his newest snowman. “It looks like Simon, don’t you think?”

If you squint enough and tilt your head at a specific angle, the snowman doesn’t look as goofy. “Sure, whatever floats your boat.” You offer Johnny a reassuring smile to hide the fact that the snowman does not resemble Simon Riley in any way.

Kyle Garrick - baking

One thing Kyle loves more than eating your Christmas cookies is helping you make them. He has a soft spot for seeing you in an apron and focused on mixing the dough.

“Kyle, can you find the cookie cutters for me?” You ask, blinking up at him innocently. He sends you a charming grin, immediately opening every drawer he can get his hands on.

It takes him half an hour to actually find the cookie cutters and by then, you’re done with the dough.

“Took you long enough.” You laugh at him, pinching his muscled bicep. Kyle finds joy in using the cookie cutters to create different shapes; trees, snowflakes, reindeer. But his absolute favourite part is decorating.

He has a knack for adding too many sprinkles, leaving little to no cookie left. Nevertheless, when you plate the treats, you make sure to put his creations in the middle.

“They look cute, love.” You say as you softly kiss his nose. He knows you’re lying but he doesn’t really care, not when your hands are running through his hair and you’re peppering his face with smooches.

[redtsundere-writes]

Part 4: Eyes On Me

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst.

Word Count: 2571 words.

Beginning. | ← Previous | Next →

Sukuna hates humans. It's a fact of life. The sky is blue, roses are red and Sukuna hates the disgusting creatures that humans are. He has so many reasons to hate them that he doesn't even know where to begin. Humans are annoying, weak, clumsy, but most of all, stupid. They make decisions without thinking through the consequences. They prefer to spend their money on momentary pleasures and end up bankrupt by not prioritizing their survival. They worry about unimportant things such as social status, religion, and traditions. Sukuna hates humans, but boy, are they entertaining.

Sukuna tends to study his servants very carefully. Even though they only clean, cook and obey his orders to a tee, it was fun to watch them interact with each other. He finds it fascinating how the servants gossip in whispers, how the gardeners concentrate to prune the bushes well despite their hands shaking, or how the cooks taste the food several times so that it's up to their majesty's standards. It was like watching dozens of filthy lab rats in the middle of a social experiment. Although... There was someone special he loved to watch, no matter what they were doing.

The annoying bell rang, letting the servants know it was time to wake up. You got dressed, washed your face and served yourself breakfast, preparing for another hectic workday. You almost did the same thing every single day. In the morning, you set the table for the king to eat breakfast and then wash the dishes. In the afternoon, you cleaned the common rooms such as the king's hall, the bathrooms and the dining room. At night, you sometimes had to guard the hallways in case an enemy dared to attack in the dark. You made sure everything was in its place and sparkling. You constantly polished the gold and silver wares until you could see your reflection, you washed the white sheets by hand until your knuckles hurt, and you didn't eat until you finished harvesting the carrots that were ready. Being a servant was tedious work, but rewarding at the end of the day. 

You had finished all the chores for the day and decided to help the cooks prepare dinner because you had nothing better to do. Your muscles were exhausted from having spent all morning cleaning the porcelain sculptures, the large frames of the paintings in the great hall, and the king's jewelry so they could sparkle in all their glory. You had been assigned the task of peeling potatoes, so there you were. Sitting at a table with a small knife, peeling potatoes while listening to the chaos going on in the kitchen. Uraume was busy preparing a special passion fruit tea for the king. The special coming from the water that was inked with human blood. Sometimes you wondered if Uraume had always agreed to cook with humans or was it something they got used to because of Sukuna's orders, but since they never talked much about themselves, you never asked.

“Fuck!” A cook yelled when the frying pan caught fire.

Your eyes widened at the flashy flare. Uraume put the tea set aside to attend to the emergency. With some ice from their magic hands, they put out the fire in a jiffy, but left the kitchen a mess. They began to berate the cook with smacks in the head and curses for his ineptitude. The cook just apologized over and over again, but that wasn't enough for the head chef.

“You!” Uraume called. You put your task aside to attend to their orders. “Take the tea to our king and tell him I will be with him when I settle this situation.” You nodded and took the tray carefully to go in search of him.

After Sukuna gave you permission, you entered the library with the golden tray in your hands. The library was the coziest room in the entire castle. Its high walls were covered with huge bookcases filled with books, maps, and ancient scrolls. There were long desks of works and hundreds of candleholders everywhere to enjoy reading during the evenings. He was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the game table, a small wooden table covered with a carpet with a chessboard on top. The king was surprised to see you there despite having specified Uraume's presence.

“I didn't ask you to come,” Sukuna said chidingly as you served him tea at a small table next to him.

“Uraume had to attend to an emergency in the kitchen. They'll be here once everything is under control,” you replied as you set down the fragile cup of blood tea, adorned with small pieces of eyeball floating on the red surface to give it texture.

Your gaze traveled to the chessboard, it had been a long time since you had seen one.  This was no ordinary board. You could see that each piece was handmade and had luxurious detail. The pieces were made of white quartz, the eyes of the horses were rubies and the crowns of the kings were made of jade. It was the most beautiful board game you ever saw. You knew from the other servants that the king was a good player and only played with Uraume or some brave guest.

“Do you know how to play?” Sukuna asked out of curiosity.

Being a servant, you surely had not received the same education as he did. Well, almost no one was on his level when it came to education. Sukuna was a master mathematician, a skilled debater and could threaten his enemies in 5 different languages. You hadn't been as lucky. You're good at cleaning, cooking and obeying orders, but what else can you do?

“Yes,” you answered with a smile.

That answer surprised him quite a bit. Although chess was a game that was rapidly gaining popularity among the middle class, it was not a game for women. It was a game that required intellect, always thinking two moves ahead and knowing how to read your opponent. You didn't look like a girl who could do all that.

“Sit down,” Sukuna ordered you.

“I warn you that it may be a short game. It's been a long time since I've played,” you warned him as you sat down.

Sukuna watched you with great attention. Your eyes scanned the board as if it was the first time you had ever seen one, your hands rested gently on your thighs and you smiled nervously. You may have known the rules of the game, but you didn't know how to play. The king took your word for it.

“Ladies first,” he asked you to start.

“My pleasure,” you said as your dominant hand moved over the pieces to decide what your first move would be.

Your father taught you how to play. He always wanted a son to inherit the family business, but your mother only kept giving birth to women, so he had to resign himself to you. Your mother taught you how to be a lady so you could get married as soon as possible and your father taught you about the business so that your future husband wouldn't take advantage of the family money. You used to sit in front of the wooden board and talk for hours after dinner. Your father may not have been the wisest or the most astute man, but he had left you a very important lesson: Always look people in the eye to know their true intentions.

This was one of the few times you came face to face with Sukuna. Because of his title as king and the great difference in height, you were always beneath him, physically and psychologically speaking. You were a simple human, while he was a king with the power to get rid of whomever he wanted with a simple finger movement. Although his presence made you feel vulnerable, you didn't resent him. You had a relatively comfortable life serving him, but sometimes there was a need for you to show him that you were more than a servant. You wanted him to see you. This was a good opportunity to do so.

Sukuna's eyes were not on you, they were on the board. His gaze denoted boredom. He was waiting patiently for you to make the first move. If you waited a little longer, maybe he would yawn. He overestimated you, you had to use that feeling against him. You moved a pawn to the C4 square, a common move among beginners.

“Finally…” He said in a monotone voice before quickly moving the knight to the F6 square.

Each of you took turns to move the pieces quietly as time went by. You took your time with each move, while the king only needed to look at the board from time to time to know what to do next. You could take all the time in the world, but he would still eat all your pieces. Even though it didn't seem to be an interesting game, you could at least keep up with him. Sukuna's queen advanced towards yours, standing face to face. One false move and your king was in trouble.

“Check,” you said as the queen retreated two squares diagonally, leaving her free to begin the attack on the king.

At that announcement, Sukuna woke up from the trance he was in to focus on what he was doing. He smiled satisfied as he noticed the change in your body. Your hands had relaxed, your back was straight, and your eyes were glued to his. You knew exactly what you were doing. You didn't need to tell him verbally that you would destroy him at his own game, your eyes told him clearly. It was as if you were dissecting his soul bit by bit until you left him completely naked.

Your hands were interleaved with each turn. You moved quickly as you realized that Sukuna had already noticed your active presence on the board. Sukuna returned the queen to his side. An interesting move. It was wise to know when to back away, but you noticed one thing in his eyes. He had no plan, he just acted based on his understanding of the game. He moved like in real life, using only his killer instincts.

“Check,” you announced again by moving a knight up.

“Not so fast,” Sukuna told you before taking the horse that was threatening his king using a queen. You smiled as you saw that his majesty had fallen into the trap. By moving his pieces like that, Sukuna had fully exposed his king.

“Checkmate,” you announced the end of the game as soon as you moved the white queen close to the black king. And only then, the poor maid defeated the almighty king.

“Well, well…” Sukuna sighed in awe as he looked at the board with extreme curiosity. He couldn't be mad at you. He had let his guard down. You were playing even before the game started.

There was someone special he loved to watch, no matter what you were doing. Sukuna would always hyper fixate on you whenever he noticed your presence around him. You could be cleaning, chatting with your companions or eating some dried fruit in the garden, and he would still only notice you as if nothing else in the world existed. You were the most interesting human he had ever seen. Sukuna tried to look for a logical reason for his obsession with you, but he couldn't do it. You looked like a simple being with clear goals, but he was sure you were hiding something behind your perfect facade.

Someone knocked at the door. Sukuna sighed, he wanted to be alone with you longer, but now was not the time. Uraume entered the room and was surprised to see you sitting with his majesty. Something strange had been going on between the two of you for months. They had even debated the idea of asking the king directly about you, but hadn't worked up the courage to do so.

“There was an inconvenience in the kitchen. Sorry to keep you waiting, your majesty,” Uraume bowed in apology.

“Lucky for you, you sent a good replacement,” Sukuna said before smiling at you in satisfaction.

Uraume instantly understood just by glancing at the board. You had beaten the king, something even they could not easily accomplish. They could tell that he was looking at you like no one else. It wasn't a look of disgust or boredom, it was a curious look. Like that of a child looking at a group of kids playing in the playground, wondering if he could come over to play with them.

“If you'll excuse me, I have to go,” you said as you got up to give the seat to Uraume. “Good game. It was a pleasure to play against you, my king,” you bowed.

“Good game,” Sukuna whispered so you could leave the room.

Sukuna and Uraume started a new game as soon as you returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes. They quickly noticed that something was occupying her majesty's mind. Their white pieces were eating his black pieces easily and his moves were slow compared to previous games. Uraume could tell that the game against you had changed the way he played.

“What do you see in her?” Uraume asked him after a move.

“Am I too obvious?” Sukuna asked them before getting up from his seat to start prowling around the library to clear his mind. “What do you think of her?” He asked her as he stopped in front of the window to admire the land. The large green lawn stretched all the way to the intimidating entrance of his wonderful castle.

“She is a dedicated servant and a perfectionist. She does all the chores in a timely manner. She is as good a servant as any other. The real question is: What do you think of her?” Uraume asked as they watched him from their seat.

“She has potential.”

“Potential? Potential for what?” Uraume arched their brow at the confusing statement.

“She has the same potential as a pawn turning into a queen,” Sukuna replied confidently.

Sukuna Ryomen was known among the kingdoms for being an unorthodox king. Not only because he took kingdoms left and right as if it were nothing, but because he has a strange way of ruling his people. He did not care about social classes, behavioral labels or unwritten codes of human coexistence. Everyone was inferior to him regardless of gender, race, or religion. He was the god of this new world and everyone had to obey him, just like that.

The fact that he wanted to have a queen went far beyond just following the established patterns of classical monarchy. Sukuna must have a reason why he wants to have a queen other than just because, but there was a more important question on the table.

“Your majesty, you can get any woman you want. You can get a beautiful princess, with more training and presence, why would you settle for a servant?” Uraume asked in confusion. Sukuna smiled. It was a good question.

“She has something much better than that,” he answered before continuing the game as if nothing happened. Uraume looked down to see that Sukuna had checkmated them.

Next →

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Masterlist.

[moonmaiden1996]

The Hogfather’s Gift

This is a story inspired by one of my favorite things I love to watch at Christmas time, The Hogfather, by Terry Pratchett.

Astarion is finding it a little difficult to take your traditions seriously. Maybe a little gift from the man in question would change his mind.

Snow blanketed the forest surrounding the small cabin you and Astarion had chosen as your winter retreat, the frosted trees glittering like a thousand tiny stars under the moonlight. The cabin was a cozy little haven tucked into a clearing, and—much to Astarion’s chagrin—it was just a stone’s throw from Waterdeep. Gale had decided to settle there for the season, his tower becoming a makeshift headquarters for the rest of your unruly band of renegades.

Despite the warmth of the crackling fire and the fragrant scent of mulled wine filling the room, the evening had taken a predictably irreverent turn. The cabin, under your determined effort, had been transformed into a true yuletide grotto. Strings of holly and ivy adorned the mantle, their waxy leaves catching the firelight, while bright red ribbons and baubles hung from the rafters.

Astarion lounged on the velvet settee he had “liberated” from Gale’s study, his glass of wine tilted lazily in one hand, crimson eyes glinting with their usual mischief. “You can’t seriously believe in this… Hogfather nonsense,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement.

You had been carefully arranging a hand-carved figurine of the Hogfather on the mantle when he spoke. The little wooden boars pulling the sleigh gleamed in the firelight, lovingly polished as part of the tradition.

“Think about it,” Astarion continued, swirling his wine. “A jolly, porcine deity sneaking into homes to reward mortals for their good behavior? Darling, if it was any other time of the year if a strange figure wandered in here unannounced, you’d have your blade at their throat before they could utter a single ‘Ho ho ho.’ Face it: this so-called deity is a creep. Or at best… a pervert.”

You turned sharply, clutching the figurine as if it could defend itself. “It’s not nonsense,” you insisted, your voice firm despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “It’s tradition. The Hogfather watches over those who honor him—especially those who still believe. Don’t be flippant, Astarion.”

He smirked, fangs glinting. “Oh, of course. Because nothing says ‘divine benevolence’ like a giant pig handing out trinkets. I suppose you’re leaving out milk and carrots for him, too?”

“Milk and porridge,” you corrected with a huff, returning to your task. “And the carrots are for the boars pulling his sleigh.”

Astarion laughed, the sound soft but biting, like frost crunching underfoot. “You’re adorable when you’re being naive,” he teased, leaning back with a contented sigh.

Despite his teasing, Astarion helped you. He couldn’t seem to resist. He complained about the garlands of holly and ivy as he hung them, bemoaning their impracticality and calling them “archaic woodland clutter.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong brandy-infused porridge, muttering about the waste of perfectly good alcohol, but helped set it out by the hearth anyway. And when you asked him to hang the stockings, he sighed dramatically, muttering, “I’d rather be removing stockings than hanging them,” but did as you asked.

By the time the preparations were finished, the cabin glowed with a warmth even Astarion couldn’t deny. The air was rich with the scents of spice and pine, and the firelight danced on the polished decorations. It was… comforting. Almost nostalgic, though Astarion couldn’t quite place why, his family would never honor such as pagan belief.

You lit a single candle and set it on the windowsill, the flame flickering softly as snow continued to fall outside. “An invitation,” you explained. “For the Hogfather to visit.”

“Are we quite finished now?” Astarion asked, stifling a fake yawn. “I’d hate for the great and powerful Hogfather to find you awake past your bedtime and skip over us entirely.”

You shot him a glare but ignored his jibes, retreating to bed with a contented smile.

xxxxxx

The next morning, you woke to an unfamiliar sound: the soft shuffle of bare feet on wooden floors.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sat up to find Astarion pacing near the hearth, his usually graceful movements replaced by something tense and hesitant. He was turning something over in his hands—a ring with an elegant design, the gold catching the morning light.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep as you slipped out of bed.

He glanced at you, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something… quieter. “I… found it,” he said slowly. “In my stocking.”

Your heart quickened. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m not.” He held the ring up for you to see, the delicate craftsmanship undeniable. “And it came with this.”

He handed you a piece of parchment, the script on it flowing and ornate:

For taking such good care of my devoted believer, I thought you deserved a gift of your own. Wear it well. - The Hogfather

Your breath caught. “It’s real,” you whispered, the vindication almost too much to process.

Astarion, however, remained skeptical. “It’s likely some sort of trick,” he muttered, turning the ring over in his hands. “Probably enchanted. I wouldn’t—”

Before he could finish, the ring slipped from his fingers, seemingly of its own accord, and slid onto his hand. There was a blinding flash of light, and Astarion staggered, gripping the mantle for support. When the light faded, his eyes widened in shock.

“I… I’m breathing,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the steady, unfamiliar thrum of a heartbeat. “By the gods…”

You reached for him, your own hands trembling as you touched his face. His skin was warm now, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. His crimson eyes had softened into a mossy blue, human and vibrant. His fangs still peaked out but the harshness was softened by his golden skin.

“It’s real,” you repeated, tears brimming in your eyes.

Astarion stared at you, his expression unreadable as his hand covered yours. Then, for the first time in what felt like centuries, he smiled—soft and unguarded.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “there’s more to this Hogfather business than I thought.”

That morning, the two of you celebrated the Hogfather’s generosity. Though Astarion claimed to still find the whole concept absurd, you noticed he hung the offering of thanks upon the hearth with much less complaint.

As the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t help but think that miracles—no matter how improbable—were always worth believing in.

Sooooooo what you think? Hopefully this is the first of many winter stories!

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Somnus donum deorum

{got inspired by this post. and then also by this one, because how could you not? (happy belated birthday, @bad-system, or something). enjoy!}

* * *

It might have been the song of the blackbird right outside on the window sill that woke him up. Usually, she would come with the first rays of sunlight, sitting there, her face lifted up to the sky as if she was bathing in the morning's warmth. Hans liked to watch her for a while, a few steps away so he wouldn't scare her. Admire the way the orange light made her feathers glow like coal harbouring the remnants of a fire, listen to her song that, at least to him, spoke of joy and ease and freedom.

She was a little early today. The sun hadn't quite risen high enough to paint the sky in anything but a dark, royal blue. The white lilac bush over at the training ground was still spreading its sweet, beguiling scent as strongly as it only did at night, to lure in all kinds of insects. And rightfully so. Hans might as well have been a butterfly himself because the way that smell alone mesmerised him and drew him outside every day was bordering on witchcraft.

He quickly made the sign of the cross at the thought, then he washed it away with a firm shake of the head, before lifting his legs out of the bed. The darkness didn't bother him. He had gone to bed early, had rested well, and now the world outside was smelling fantastically, the air was warm enough despite the time of day, his blackbird was singing, and not a single soul would be around! No better way to start into a new morning.

Hans only put on his boots when he stood outside on the bal­cony that reached around the southern side of the Devil's Den. He always did this, as not to wake up Henry who liked to sleep a little longer than him, if their plans for the day allowed it. Al­though Hans doubted that anything could rip Henry from his dreams, really. There were only two ways in which the black­smith's night would unfold. Either he slept soundly and peace­fully, often with a soft smile on his face that Hans admittedly liked to stare at a little longer than necessary. Or he was trou­bled by nightmares. In both scenarios it was almost impossible to get him to wake up early. Hans had tried both, and he hated both equally. Ripping Henry out of a nightmare meant seeing him in pain, meant holding and rocking and caressing him like a child until the illusion faded and reality came creeping back on him. Ripping Henry out of a good night's rest, on the other hand, was always attached to an unexpected catastrophe – be­ing surprised by a sinister thunderstorm when they were ma­king camp outside, or by a sudden attack of their enemies.

Today there were no enemies and no thunderstorms, and, from what Hans could tell in the fuzziness of the darkness, no nightmares either. He still took his usual precautions when sneaking out, as he always did. Better safe than sorry.

The lowest floor of the Devil's Den was unusually cold, with the fires having burned down a while ago and the sun not ha­ving climbed high enough yet to warm the rooms up. There was the faintest flicker of a light in the common room, perhaps from the embers in the fireplace still glowing, or the sun was rising earlier than Hans had expected. He paid it no more thought and made his way into the kitchen instead. The coo­king pot was still half-filled with last night's stew, and it smelled delicious of cabbage, carrots, bacon and white wine, but Hans wasn't in the mood for a cold soup and didn't want to waste time heating it up either. Just some spiced bread and hard cheese then, and a bowl of blueberries and butter on porridge. Quite the feast!

Hans was happy with himself when he brought his little trea­sure over to the common room. Only to get stopped dead in his tracks immediately. He had been wrong, he could see that now. The light didn't come from the fireplace, and the sun hasn't been showing itself either. Instead, the source was a single candle burning on one of the tables, half-covered by a green-clad man brooding in front of it.

A dozing green-clad man, that was. Samuel's neck was bent, his chin resting on his chest, and Hans wondered how long he could uphold this position before he just crashed down comple­tely, right into the candle flame.

He hesitated for a short moment. The urge to turn on his heel and take his food outside was strong, but Henry's words from the other day were still echoing through his mind like a priest's reproachful sermon. You could at least try getting along with him! He is my brother, you know, the only family I really have. Ugh, fine then.

Hans walked up to the table and made sure to put the plate and bowl down as loudly as he could. Sam's head snapped up, and for a brief moment he looked around himself like a chased deer, unsure where the arrow shot came from. Then his eyes found Hans. They looked especially bright today, coated with a glazed shimmer, especially narrow and the rings below them were especially huge and dark. “I'm awake,” he mumbled. He wanted to seem strong and alert. He was anything but. “I'm awake.”

“I can see that.” Hans stepped over the bench to let himself sink down at the table on the opposite side. “But you shouldn't be. The sun hasn't even come up yet. You should be in bed.”

Sam's eyes got a little narrower still, if that was even possi­ble. “So should you.”

“You know I like to wake up early. Get some fresh air into my lungs before this place starts filling up with nothing but male sweat.” He scrunched his nose thinking about it. The stench was especially bad when Hans came back from a trip to the forest or a visit to the baths. At least it got more bearable the longer the evening progressed. The more drunk he got. “You, however. I don't think I remember ever seeing you sleep in your room up there.”

“Is that a thing for you? Do you enjoy watching other people sleep?”

“It's not like I was asking for it. But well, you happen to share a room with Brabant, and every time I go up there to pay him a visit, your bed is empty.”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “And there is the first problem already. Can you really expect me to sleep in one room with that blabbering French man?”

“He's too loud for you? Hm, I can see that.” It was a pity, Hans thought. No one here seemed to get along with Brabant all that well, and they were truly missing out on a lot of fun! And on a skilled tongue that could be put to some other good use than just talking. Hans took a spoonful of porridge and ber­ries. “You know, I never had a problem with him. So if that's all it is, I can just arrange for us to swap rooms. I sleep with Brabant, you move in with Henry.”

“And separate the two of you?”

Hans grinned cynically, blueberry mush between his teeth. “The things you'd do for a friend.”

“You two would be insufferable if I were to keep you from spending every waking and not-waking moment together.”

“Look.” Henry's words from Nebakov and Trosky and on the road from Rattay came back to him, every I care about you, and every More than you can understand. Oh, you big oaf, if only you understood! He swallowed the porridge down in one single gulp that it hurt in his throat. “As much as it pains me to admit it, but I'm not the only one Henry cares about. Actually, I know for a fact that he cares about you, too. A lot. So I doubt he would have a problem with it.”

“He may not, but you would. How do you think you could survive without your personal page helping you into your socks and braies in the morning?”

The frustration he had felt over Henry before, quickly turned to anger. “Well, I wouldn't have offered it, if it were a problem for me. And believe it or not, but I manage on my own just fine, thank you very much. I can prove it to you, if you want. I'll go up and ask Henry right now.”

Samuel took a deep breath and placed his head in his hands. Candle light reflected on the sapphire ring on his middle finger, made it shimmer like a lake in summer. “Let him sleep.”

“Alright, but I'll ask him as soon as he gets down here for breakfast.”

“We do not have the time for such unnecessary details like who sleeps with whom in which room.”

Hans raised the wooden spoon like Hanush used to raise his finger when he was scolding him. “Sleep isn't an unnecessary detail!”

“Please, let it be, Hans.”

Hans fell silent for a short while, his brow furrowed. He shoved another bite of porridge into his mouth, then took a bite of the bread. Samuel was stubborn about this whole topic, a little too stubborn for Hans's taste. He grabbed a single blue­berry from the top of the bowl and turned it between his fin­gers. In the right lighting it almost looked just like Sam's sap­phire. Hans's eyes widened as he understood. “It's not about Brabant, is it? You were just looking for an excuse!”

Sam's face was still hidden behind his hands, but Hans no­ticed how his fingers seemed to press into his skin a little bit firmer. “It is true that I cannot stand him.”

“Fair enough, but this here has nothing to do with him. It's you. You cannot sleep. Or you don't want to.”

“Sleep is a waste of time.”

“A waste of time?” Hans gesticulated so wildly with the spoon, that it turned into a trebuchet, catapulting porridge onto the bench next to him. He would have to wipe it away later, Hans thought, knowing very well that he'd have forgotten about it in another moment or two. Nice surprise for the next person coming down here to eat. “Getting some rest is a waste of time? Clearing your mind,” he leaned forward, knocking against Sam's temple with the knuckles of the fingers still hol­ding the blueberry, “every once in a while is a waste of time?”

“Take your hand off me!”

“Taking your beauty sleep so you don't look like forty with merely twenty, also a waste of time? Soon enough, no woman in the whole land will fancy you anymore because they only see their own grandfather in you, trust me!”

Sam let out a contemptuous hiss through his teeth. “I could not care less about that.”

“And no man.”

He took his hands down, giving him a venomous look, the corners of his full lips drooping so far that he looked like a very tired carp. “Could not care less about that either.”

“What about dreams? With all the shit we have to go through, isn't it such a pleasure to just vanish into the sweet realm of dreams at night?”

“The realm of dreams can kish mir in tuches.”

Hans nodded slowly. “Nightmares. They trouble Henry, too.” No blood relation in any way, never even meeting in twenty years, and yet it surprised him time and time again how similar they were to each other.

Sam sighed in exasperation, his rings clinked on the table as he placed his flat hands down on it with emphasis. It was clear that the topic of nightmares was one he already regretted ever hinting on. “I can use the time otherwise. For studying for ex­ample, or thinking about our next steps, or gathering supplies which we clearly need.”

“Or you could do all of that during the day.”

“At night, at least no one is annoying me with senseless questioning.”

“Hm.” Hans ripped off a piece of bread and dropped it into the porridge, watching it float there for a while. “This is mad. Nightmares or not, but I've never seen a man so vehemently refusing something as vital as sleep!”

“It's not like I am refusing it, it's more that …” He stopped himself before the words could leave his mouth, but it was too late. He seemed to understand that, too, from the surprised look Hans gave him, because his priorly angry expression turned into one of surrender. “Yes. It is sleep that is refusing me.”

“You … You have trouble falling asleep?”

“Well, I just don't. I cannot. I lie awake, turn from one side to the other, and nothing happens. My thoughts are racing. And I do not know how to quiet them down.”

“Are you worried?”

“Of course I am!” Sam seemed to have talked himself in a fury now, the words came running out of him like water from a well. Unusual, Hans thought, but good. Needed. “We have made ourselves some very powerful enemies. And that khazer von Bergow is still hiding out there in Maleshov. My people are in Kolín, in exile, without me. I used to be the one to look out for them, and now it is all up to my zeyde.”

“You feel responsible?”

“How should I not?”

“You …” Hans stirred the porridge absentmindedly, making it swallow the bread whole. No related blood either, never mee­ting in twenty years, the only thing connecting them being one single man they both held dearly, and yet his words, the pain in his voice were all too familiar. “You feel guilty about what hap­pened in Kuttenberg.”

“It is more than just a feeling.” Sam went quiet for a while and Hans didn't dare to interrupt him. Outside the Devil's Den, the blackbird had long finished her morning song. Others had picked up the tune for her, sparrows and finches and doves. “Liechtenstein came to us for a reason.” His voice was so low and raw now, broken from sadness and self-loathing. “I was already involved with a revolt against Sigismund before I ever met him. I was convinced it was the right thing to do. But now where has it led us? So many of us have died. Our quarter is burned down, our shul. I was the one to burn it down.”

“To protect your people.”

“After having brought this brokh upon them in the first place.”

Hans wanted to reach out his hand and comfort him. Place it upon Sam's, or give him a reassuring pat on the arm at least. In­stead he pushed the wooden bowl with the porridge and berries over to him with a broad smile. “If people are so eager to hurt you once you only give them the tiniest reason for it, then they have wanted to do it the whole time. It was not about your involvement with Liechtenstein, and not even about the revolt you planned. It was … a way more deep-seated hatred, sadly. They had never accepted you. They merely tolerated you for the time it took them to find an excuse so they could let their hatred loose. It was never in your hands.”

Another deep breath, a cautious bite on one single berry. The sap­phire did not only reflect the light of the candle now but the one of a newly risen sun, too. It looked brighter in a way, less like a deep lake and more like the midday sky. “And how should knowing this help me sleep?”

Hans put a piece of cheese into his mouth, thought it through. No way a man could truly live without sleep forever! Only today when he had entered this room he had found Sa­muel sleeping, albeit only lightly. But still, it was possible. So there had to be a way to give him this much-needed rest by force. “You don't only have this problem ever since … well, what happened in the Jewish quarter, right?”

“No. I couldn't sleep well before that either.”

“So what did you do back then? Clearly you must have had something to help you! You cannot have survived without sleep for all this time.”

“I had this concoction that would help me fall asleep.”

“Great!” Hans felt his mood brighten up immediately toge­ther with the sun at his back. “Why don't you use it anymore?”

“I had to leave it behind when we fled.”

“Worry not, dear friend!” Hans threw the spoon into the porridge, and lifted himself off the bench, then he reached out and touched Sam by the arm, only to pull his hand back imme­diately as if he had burned himself, after one look into Sam's face. A little too much vigour, perhaps. “I will go there right now and look for it.”

“That won't be of any use. Even if it survived the raid, I only had a few of these potions left. And I did not make them my­self, so I would not know how to brew new ones.”

“Who made them then?”

“A friend of mine. The cartographer Blasius de Petragna. But if he was smart enough, and I know he is, he left the city after the attack on our people.”

“We need to find something else then.” Hans looked over to the window while his mind started wandering again. On the white lilac bush, a very special cuckoo had taken a seat, clearly overshadowing all the other minstrels with his monotonous song. Voices could be heard above them, followed closely by footsteps. The cuckoo's minnesang seemed to have found its audience. “Henry knows his way around potions. And so does Katherine, I believe.”

Up in one of the higher floors, wood collided with wood. “Give me my damn crossbow, Žižka,” the Devil snarled like a wolf, “I'm gonna shoot that fucking bird!”

“No, you will fucking not!”

Sam let out a snorting laugh. “Ay. Sounds like I'm not the only one scorned by a good sleep today.”

“You know what?” Hans twirled back around to him with a wicked grin that made Sam raise his eyebrows in confusion. “Let's ask all of them! This pack must be good for something, right? I am certain one of them will know a remedy for your suffering!”

* * *

The moment Henry entered the common room this morning, he could tell that something was off. If it were anyone else, it might have been the fact that the rest of the pack seemed to be gathered for some kind of private meeting, positioned in a cir­cle that resembled a misshapen raisin more than a perfectly rounded melon. Or how the two of them were sitting next to each other with an empty plate and an empty bowl in front of them, Hans grinning like a madman, Sam looking as if there was no place he'd more hate to be right now. But it was no one else. It was Hans and Sam, and so the first thing that told him something wasn't right here was the sheer fact that they were sitting peacefully next to each other at all.

“So, sadly,” Hans continued his speech from before that Henry seemed to have missed the first part of, “we do not have that concoction that Sam used to take here right now.”

Henry took his place somewhere at the butt of the raisin, be­tween Godwin and Katherine. The questioning look he gave the priest was answered by a clueless shrug.

“And since his cartographer friend, Blasius de Patronka …”

“Petragna,” Sam interrupted drily.

“Yes, or that. Well, this guy got it for him. So, we don't know what he put inside, only that it was the strongest and fas­test way to knock a man out. However, I am sure that one of you knows another solution. We're all clever fellas here, eh?”

Henry leaned closer to Katherine. “Who wants to knock whom out?”

“Sam has trouble sleeping,” Katherine whispered back. “Hans wants to help him fix that.”

“That is,” Henry furrowed his brow while he was looking for a fitting word, “surprisingly kind of him.”

“Well,” Kubyenka burst out, “I can tell you what my sleep concoction is!” He raised his right hand and the mug he held in it, that was clearly filled with nothing but plain ale. “Some good, strong booze!”

“I can agree with that.” Next to Henry, Godwin took a sip from his own mug. “The right nightcap can do wonders.”

Sam seemed to be crumbling in on himself even more, like a pie taken out of the oven too late. “Rather not. Alcohol tends to have … some unwanted effects on me.”

From the other side of their raisin, Adder babbled something in Polish.

“Adder say he never go to bed without nice fuck,” Janosh translated.

“But we only have one woman here.” The Devil gave Kathe­rine a disgusting, lustful look. “And I doubt Katherine wants to be handed around like a common whore.”

“You assume correctly,” Katherine replied piqued, before she regarded Sam with a more friendly smile. “No offense to you, Sam.”

“Ah oui oui,” Brabant stepped forward now, raising one hand in an expansive gesture, “mais peut-être we can find a woman that truly is ah … du métier? A ah … a prostitute?”

Little brother or not, Henry could feel anger boil in his sto­mach, and he clenched his hands into fists. “Hold up now. I will not go out and find wenches for my brother, and neither should any of you! If Sam feels like he is in need of something of that sort, he can find it on his own.”

Sam agreed with a silent, thankful nod.

“Besides,” Katherine added with an irritated sigh, “I don't understand how we went from a medically brewed concoction to alcohol and sex so quickly!”

Next to her, Žižka shrugged his shoulders. “That's what hap­pens when you surround yourself with men who all prefer other body parts over their brains for thinking.”

“Sadly.”

“Ha, I have an idea!” Hans got so excited that he jumped off the bench for a brief moment, bringing his left hand down on Sam's back. Sam flinched from the sudden touch, his eyes widening a bit, but he stayed silent. “Once, I was on a long walk through nature, as one does, when suddenly I stumbled across this field. It was filled with poppies all over! And be­cause it was such a sunny and warm day, I lay down there and made myself a bed in the middle of those flowers. I never fell asleep that quickly!”

“Hm.” Katherine folded her arms in front of her chest as she thought about it. “It's true, poppies can help against restless­ness. And so can valerian and lavender.”

“Not quite so medical,” Godwin now proposed, “but I knew a woman once, blessed be her soul, who loved to fall asleep to me playing the lute.”

Žižka raised his scarred eyebrow. “You can play the lute?”

“I have a lot of secret talents.” He gave Žižka a crooked smile, that only the two of them seemed to understand. “In any case, it was always either that or me talking softly to her for the whole evening. It lulled her in just fine.”

“For me, the opposite always proved to be more effective,” Žižka countered. “The best sleep I have is after some proper physical exhaustion. Some good, tiring combat training.”

Adder uttered something in Polish, that Henry didn't under­stand much of, other than that he seemed to agree, at least to the physical exhaustion part.

“I'm afraid that if we let the boy train with you in this state,” Godwin's gaze wandered from Sam's tired face to Žižka, res­ting on the rolled up sleeves and Žižka's half-bare arms a little too long, “you'd just crush his skull in.”

“Not that bad of an idea now, is it?” The Devil showed his teeth in a growling laugh. “Give him a good whack on the nog­gin, at least that will take him out.”

Katherine covered her face with her hands in a matter of to­tal disappointment. She seemed to be losing not only her pa­tience but also sanity here. “Can we please take this seriously for just one moment, please?”

“Janosh could cook!” Janosh now blurt out on the other side of the raisin. “Good meal, chopped liver in sauce of the red wine, roasted turnip, and Janosh favourite of course, big fat sausage.”

Sam scrunched up his nose as if he had just stepped into an outhouse that hadn't been cleaned in years. “Forgive me, fraynd, but I would rather refuse that offer. Besides, from what I know from my mame, it is supposed to be small meals that will help you find rest. Like hassa for example, lettuce.”

Janosh's mustache danced as his expression twisted into one of confusion. “Want Janosh cook lettuce for you?”

Henry decided that he had heard enough. While the others still threw around their wild suggestions, he stepped forward quietly, walking up to Hans and bowing down so he could whisper into his ear without the others listening. “I will leave, and I might be gone for the rest of the day. But I need you here. You have to keep those idiots from dragging Sam into anything dangerous, yes?”

“Wait, where will you be going?”

He gave Hans a smile, and it felt way too soft, and Hans's eyes were way too close and they sparkled way too brightly, and Henry did the only sensible thing and brought down a firm hand on Hans's shoulder, like a pal would do. “Trying to find the one thing that might actually help him.”

* * *

Henry tried the Jewish quarter first, but of course half the houses there were plundered or burned down, and every Jew who had found time and strength had joined them when they had fled the city. In front of a shed that consisted of nothing but a front wall, he found an old man sitting on a barrel, his long, thin, naked legs stretched out, soaking in the sunlight. He looked like someone who had been sitting on this same barrel for the last three decades, and who wouldn't even dream about going anywhere else in the time he had left.

“Morning!” Henry greeted him with a wave of his hand. “I am looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I am not buying anything,” the old man croaked with a voice like screeching metal.

“Oh, I do not want to sell you anything, I just need to find someone.”

“You cannot fine me!” He pressed his pale eyes together like a stubborn child. “I do not have any money!”

“No, I am looking for someone!” Henry tried his hardest to pronounce every word as clearly as possible. “A man. He used to live here.”

“Oh, I have lived here for a long time, son. Eighty-five years this coming winter.”

“A man, I am looking for a man.” If he spoke any slower and louder he might as well try his luck at becoming a church bell. “He is a cartographer.”

“A carter? You need someone to drag your cart for you?”

“No, a cartographer. Someone … someone who draws maps.”

The old man bit his thin bottom lip with a grin and fluttered his lashes. “Oh, that's a nice offer, but I think you are a little too old for me.”

After the Jewish quarter, Henry's path led him over to the mar­ket street. The merchants there weren't of much help either, with most of them coming from areas outside the city, and the ones who seemed to know their way around Kuttenberg, had no interest in helping him out if he didn't buy something in return.

And then there were the ones who did know Blasius de Pe­tragna, but weren't all too eager to talk about him. In fact, most of them didn't have much else to spare for Petragna than a curse and a spit to the ground. “Still owes me big, that smug prick!” someone scolded, and another asked Henry to “Give the man a nice arse kicking and perhaps a kick in the balls, too” if he happened to find him.

So he tried his luck with the beggars on the side of the road, but he could have just as well asked the pigeons about it. “I am looking for a man,” he told one young woman. “He draws …”

She twisted her chapped lips disparagingly. “Do I look like I know me some painter? The shitter I live in don't even have paint on the walls!”

“No, he's no painter. He draws maps.”

“Maps? What'd I need a map for? Wanna find me way home, I just follow the stench.”

Then he saw a man sitting on the edge of the fountain at the Oat Market who actually looked promising, in his fine, em­broidered clothes, but that hope, too, evaporated as quickly as the smoke of a boomstick. “Excuse me, Sir. I am looking for a man called Blasius de Petragna.”

The man smoothed his long, black hair back in a complacent gesture. “Gesundheit.”

“Blasius de Petragna,” Henry tried again. “Ever heard of him?”

“Ich treibe mich nicht mit Gesindel herum.”

“Blasius de Petragna.”

The young gentleman got rather peeved now for some rea­son. “Du willst, dass ich dir einen blase?” His voice took on the high pitch of a wild boar in rut. “Belästige wen anders damit!”

“Bla-Suus De Pe-Trac-Neh.”

“Sag mal, was ist dein scheiß Problem?”

Henry took a deep breath, then he shook his head, finally gi­ving up. “Ah, never mind.”

He would have loved to believe that it was his still ongoing search for information that guided him to the Emperor Charles tavern afterwards, but he knew all too well that it was nothing but his growing frustration and with it the strong need for a cold mug of beer.

It was only afternoon, the sun hadn't set yet, and so the ta­vern was almost entirely empty. A young couple had taken their seats outside, their hands occasionally reaching out for each other in touches light as feathers while they talked and laughed and shared a bottle of sweet summer wine. Inside, only two ta­bles were taken, one closer to the entrance door, where three men were gathered, miners judging by their clothes and the sweat and dirt stains on them. One of them seemed a little too drunk for this time of day, and he recited fairy tales to the others with the wildest gestures as if he was secretly a trained mummer. The occupied other table was the one in the far back end of the common room, where one single man sat in complete silence, a stark contrast to the three miners, both in his behaviour and in his expensive, colourful clothes. His right hand, covered in a thick leather glove despite the heat, was wrapped around his beer, but his head was lowered forward as if he was sleeping, his dark curls hiding his face both from the daylight and from any curious looks.

Henry ordered a beer, and chose a table closer to the slee­ping man to not be bothered by the miner's play. He needed to think. Poppies and valerian and lavender, Katherine had said, and it was true, all three could have a soporific effect, he had read about it in some book, the Liber de cultura hortum per­haps, or Hildegard von Bingen's Physica. But how could he brew them together to get a potion that would knock someone out like this other one had? He had experience with all sorts of alchemy, but a sleeping concoction? That one was new. And it needed to be strong. As awkward as Sam had seemed to feel this morning when Hans had told the whole Devil's pack about his struggles, his inability to find sleep had been no secret to them, and much less to Henry, who had kept an especially close eye on Sam. To be gifted a brother at the age of twenty was rare, and above that, such a little fucker who had schemed and threatened and begged his way into Henry's heart? He would make sure to protect him from any harm with all his might. Only why Sam had surrounded himself with such strange indi­viduals who were completely unknown to one part of society and hated by the other? Not that it surprised Henry, really, but it complicated matters drastically.

“Fancy a game of dice, boy?”

Henry jumped at the sudden sound to his left. He hadn't no­ticed that the lonesome nobleman had waken from his slumber, or perhaps he hadn't been sleeping at all, had just sat and wai­ted and watched. His amber coloured eyes showed no sign of tiredness, were rather glistening with curiosity and wit. His deep blue coat was hanging loosely from one of his shoulders, though not by accident it seemed, because this way it revealed the sword he had placed next to him, leaning against the bench. A magnificent weapon, from what Henry could tell, the blade covered in a leather scabbard that bore some coat of arms he couldn't quite place.

“So? Do you play or not?”

A foreign accent, and his looks weren't Czech either, Henry realised. Hungarian maybe?

“Sprichst du kein Tschechisch? An fortasse Latine?”'

“No, I understand you.” Henry shook his head, dragging himself out of his stare. “I understand you rather well.”

“Beautiful.” The stranger smiled, and his eyes glistened even more mischievously. “A round of farkle then?”

“I'm afraid I don't have the time. I am actually looking for someone.”

“Oh?” He raised a full brow, opened his mouth in mocking surprise. “That sounds urgent.”

“It is.” Henry took a deep breath. “Quite.”

“What about you play with me and I help you with that search?”

Henry couldn't tell what it was. The sparkle in the stranger's eyes, the smug grin under his nicely combed mustache. Or simply the fact that he had met enough cunning arseholes in his life to know when someone was toying with him. “I haven't had too much success with the search so far,” Henry just said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It's a kind offer, Sir, but I doubt you'll be able to achieve more.”

“Oh, but I have a lot of well-informed contacts, you see? And much knowledge myself.” His right hand briefly touched the money bag on his belt, then it rested on the handle of his sword. If Henry could only recognise the crest. “What about I'll play you for coin. And you play me for information.”

“Doesn't sound much like a fair game to me.”

“I suppose that depends on how badly you need to find this person. How much that person is worth to you.”

Blasius de Pretagna? Henry thought bitterly. After today's search, not even a tinker's curse. Samuel on the other hand? There was little he wouldn't do for that fool. “Fine. I'll bet twenty groschen.”

“Only twenty? So your search for them can not be nearly as urgent as I thought it was.”

“Well, how much do you think I should bet?” Henry could feel himself growing impatient with this guy. There was some­thing about him that intrigued him, too, but if there was one thing he despised more than anything else it was to be used, and in this case to even have his love for his brother used against him. “Two hundred?”

“That sounds more reasonable.”

“Are you mad? You're a real crook, aren't you?”

“I play fair and square, believe me. And your money will go to good use.” His words before had been calculated, precisely placed to get Henry where he wanted him to be, but this last sentence showed a desperation that he clearly hadn't wanted to reveal. He needed the money dearly.

“You want to spend it on more gambling?”

“To some degree, yes, I will not deny it. But not entirely.” There was more to it but he was back to his previous compo­sure now, and Henry knew he would keep every other secret firmly to himself.

“How would I even know if it's worth it?” he asked instead. “What if I win and you don't know the man I'm looking for?”

“Tell me his name then.”

He had to laugh about the bluntness of the guy. “As if you were honest with me.”

“Try me.”

“Blasius de Petragna.”

The stranger fell silent for a while, his expression motionless as if he had been turned to marble all of a sudden. “Well, it ap­pears I do happen to know him.”

“Of course you do!” Henry shook his head. At least the stranger's audacity managed to somewhat entertain him. “How fortunate I am!”

“If only you knew how fortunate exactly.”

And then they played. They fucking did. Henry couldn't tell later what it had been that had convinced him to agree to such a dubious offer, and maybe it had only been his frustration about all his other plans having gone to shit. But the man claimed that he was able to help him, and maybe he really was, and in any case there was no opportunity to get to know a person better than when one was either gambling or drinking with them, and so Henry was doing both.

The stranger played in a different manner than any other opponent Henry had ever faced. In fact, it didn't seem like he was playing at all but rather counting and calculating all the time, as if the dots on the dice were not merely numbers but some hidden mathematical equations he had to solve. He also didn't seem to build his success on luck at all, and it was pro­bably for the best. Yes, he was able to turn even the worst throw into a decent score, but then the amount of busts the stranger rolled was almost comical.

Another five hundred, but he ignored the three of a kind, ig­nored the second one, and continued. He banked a five, then a another one. Three twos. Continue. His movements were fast, the sound of the dice rolling barely ever stopped. It became a song to Henry's ears, and the faint movement of his lips, the restlessness of his eyes as they darted across the numbers, the nimbleness of his lean fingers, it became a dance, and Henry felt himself entranced by it all, so much so that the shouting of the miners behind him was nothing more than the distant rum­bling of thunder.

The stranger smiled, scored. “One thousand two hundred,” he declared proudly, and Henry hadn't even noticed how quick­ly his score had been rising up. “You see, it is such luck that I found you.”

It was the first time during their play that the stranger said anything that wasn't a number, and Henry would make sure to not miss this chance. “You really need the money, eh?”

“I lost a lot recently. Due to … unexpected circumstances.” His amber eyes were fixed on Henry's hands as he threw the dice, but it seemed they were looking at something else entire­ly, something so far away Henry couldn't follow them. “I tried to get it back through the art of dice play.”

“The art?”

“Mathematics isn't so different from art, you see. It's all pat­terns, theories of what goes well with what, invisible lines con­necting everything to a bright picture.”

Henry rolled three ones, scored them, continued with the re­maining three dice. “And still, you've lost. A lot.”

“Yes, I have lost. Desperation turns every man into a fool. And I suppose I was way too demanding in my pursuit.”

Another two ones. Henry took them, handed the cup back over to his opponent. “Well, fortune doesn't always favour the bold.”

The man laughed. It was bright and loud and awkward. “In my experience, fortune only favours the biggest bastards. But that may only be my cynicism speaking for me, please don't take these words to heart, friend.”

After that, it only took him another round to win. A few more calculations to shatter all of the lead Henry had built up. “A good game.” The man picked up the coins Henry handed him and stored them in his money bag. “You truly have luck on your side.”

“That's the bastard in me, I suppose.”

The man smiled. “Well, I told you the money would be put to good use, and it will. I acquired some debts, yes, but they do not bother me. I will not be staying in Kuttenberg for long now.” He pulled the leather cord tight, straightened his coat, then he stood up. “So the only thing left to do before I leave is to get some supplies that I am in dire need of. Ink, to be exact, and parchment.” He winked. As if he had just told a joke that Henry should well understand, but Henry understood shit. “I might be needed in Kolín soon. I heard that there are many un­derground passages there to map out.”

He made for the door without a farewell. There was no need to. He knew damn well that it wasn't truly farewell yet, and he walked slowly to give Henry all the time he needed to think. It took him embarrassingly long to put the hints together. If only you knew how fortunate exactly. “Blasius de Petragna!”

The man turned around, a proud, satisfied grin on his lips.

It vanished like a dream with Henry's next words. Those at least he hadn't been able to calculate, and that was a fact that made Henry smile proudly. “You don't know me, but you know my brother. And he needs your help.”

* * *

These naronim had put him to bed like a child, had drowned him in flowers and herbs and oils, and now they were all stan­ding around him, serious, watching. Except for the priest, who was sitting on a stool, in the corner of the room, clumsily play­ing a lute. Hans had offered him his brother's bed, and Samuel had tried not to think too much about why he felt entitled to de­cide over Henry's belongings. Hans had also claimed that the fresh air would do him good. It was almost impossible to enjoy that fresh air, however, with the bouquets of poppies and valerian they had placed on the ground next to the bed, and the bundles that they had covered Samuel's body with as if they were a blanket. The Hungarian had found some candles that emitted a very unusual and rather unpleasant scent, and Kathe­rine had drained a sponge in some kind of mixture that she had made from lavender and sycamore, and that Samuel was now supposed to press to his bare chest. The Pole didn't stop tal­king. Apparently that, too, was supposed to lull him in, but his voice was way too loud and cheerful for it to cause any other reaction in Samuel but annoyance.

He opened his eyes again, let them wander from one to the other. The way they all stood there, hands folded in front of their laps, staring down on him as if they were expecting some kind of miracle to take hold of his body. “You make me feel like a dead man. Are you all here for shemira?”

“We just want to know whether it works,” Katherine said.

“Or whether all our efforts have been for nothing,”, Kub­yenka added.

“They better weren't.” Dry Devil leaned back against the window sill with a frown. “We spent the whole day on this, when we should have taken care of way more pressing matters. So if it was indeed for nothing, I might still give you that beat on the head, boy. And that noble sonny here will get a good one on the arse for dragging us into it.”

The Pole laughed and uttered something of which Samuel could understand very little but the word pieprzenie.

The door was opened. The last rays of a deep red sunset flooded the room, making the figure in the door frame appear like nothing but a shadowy silhouette. “What are you all doing here?” Henry's voice.

Žižka turned around to him with a hint of relief on his face. “Keeping the Devil from living out his violent fantasies.”

“Good work. And now get out of here. Leave me alone with my brother. All of you.”

Henry waited until even his noble friend and the priest with his lute had walked past him, before he closed the door with a deep sigh. Then he walked over to Samuel and stood in front of the bed for a while, staring at all the flowers and candles. “What a frightening sight.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He tried to sit up, and Henry helped him by collecting all of the stinking clutter off his body, to then hurl it out the window. “Thank you for saving me.”

“That's what brothers are there for.” He came back over to the bed, just when Samuel wanted to get up, and kept him from leaving by sitting down on the edge next to him. “No no no. You'll stay here. Get some rest.”

“Bruder …”

Henry took a bag from his shoulder, and it clattered like a rider in full plate armour. He handed it over to Samuel with no­thing more than a satisfied nod.

The bag was filled to the brim with clay phials, a good two or three dozen of them. Samuel didn't have to open them to know what was inside. The smell was unmistakable, and it brought back memories. Late night conversations slowly co­ming to an end, Jakob and Isaak finishing their last beer while he took another sip from the lullaby potion. Sitting at his wri­ting desk when the first beams of sunlight fell into the yard be­hind the window, drawing up letters or writing down poems, Hannah's poems, until the potion took effect. Sometimes he had miscalculated the time it needed. Fell asleep at his mame's dining table, sinking into her arms and being cradled by her like a child. She never minded.

“You went back to Kuttenberg for me.”

“Yes, and it proved a little more complicated than I would have expected. But fortunately I happen to be quite the lucky bastard. So I eventually found the one person who could help me with this.”

Samuel felt his eyes widen in surprise. “That fucker is alive?”

“He is. And he will be joining your people in Kolín soon.”

He couldn't hold back the smile when he thought about the Ragusan and the long scholastic discussions they had shared and the dissolute evenings over one beer too many that had of­ten followed. “Oh Adonai, Henry, you cannot believe how happy that makes me to hear.”

“I can.” Henry took one single phial from the bag, then he placed the rest on the ground next to the bed. “And me, too. Because it means that I know where he is and will be able to get the two hundred groschen back that I lost to him. And even more than that, trust me, because those herbs cost me another fortune.”

“You are …” Samuel shook his head in disbelief. “You shouldn't have …”

“But I have.” He grabbed Samuel's hand to press the phial into his palm, and then he kept it embraced for a little while longer, running his thumb across Samuel's skin in soothing cir­cles. The touch of a brother, Samuel thought. Mishpokhe. His eyes started to burn. The air was still heavy with the disgusting stench of all the oils, herbs and candles. “And you better take this potion now, so we can both go to sleep.” Henry closed his eyes as he let out an exhausted laugh. “I only spent a day on this but it feels like the longest day of my life. And now I'm fucking knackered.”

[scrybe-of-death]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

i agree with every word

[libraryofbabel-postlocator]

find this:

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

It's over 3200 characters so it's split up but the first half is on page 194 of volume 24 on shelf 5 of wall 4 of hexagon (below cut) (second part is also below the cut)

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

the second part is on page 227 of volume 17 on shelf 4 of wall 2 of hexagon 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

[sapchats]

Wait omg thats so cute stop it 💗😭 what other buildings do u have in that server? i need some inspo if u dont mind sharing ＼(^-^)／

THANK U heres everything i have so far ft me yapping about it all by god do i yap my ass off im so sorry if all u wanted was pictures im incapable of not talking about literally anything. my bad. :3

barn area for my animals + a cute little interior that's technically extra storage space but i dont really use it

MY HOUSE ! the stone + glass thing to the left is my automatic composter setup built off my personal wheat farm (i like to enclose all my crop farms with stone walls bc i think it gives it ~character~ and also it looks pretty) this is a pretty far away picture of my house tho so have another one i took a while ago:

this area has the barn to the left which u already saw and then the storage house in the middle and then my villager breeding area on the right + what's eventually going to be a bee farm in front of it (idrk if i like the placement of it and the build itself just feels very in the way so i'll probably scatter single beehives throughout the entire town space BUT IDK YET!)

storage house ! pumpkin patch to the left and wheat field to the right (it's for when i want to breed the villagers) the inside still isn't entire organized bc well im honestly really bad about putting things in the "correct" chests but im working on it and one day it'll be finished trust

villager breeding house U cant see him rn but there's actually an iron golem that somehow spawned on the upper floor?? ive named him jeff. he goes and stands in the window sometimes but he was being really shy today :/ the random block on the right of the screen is literally there bc an enderman placed it there for some reason and i havent broken it yet

nether portal ! ive only gone through once to check out the spawn but el spent the time to make a path to the world spawn portal (which is where literally everyone else settled lmfao - i originally just set out exploring but i found this area and thought it was cute enough to live in) but anyway i do eventually want to replace the dirt circle, which took freaking forever to lay out btw never build circles in this game ever, with stone + cobble and maybe add some detail to the actual portal it's very up in the air rn. and i do eventually want to put some builds in the actual nether (also way off to the right u can see 2 torches, theyre framing the entrance to my mine where i get all of my cobblestone/deepslate and it leads to my strip mine, im eventually going to add a little mining outpost there and expand it i just havent gotten around to it)

lava farm / mass smelting area + a small crop farm i think it's just carrots and potatoes back there. i actually hate how i did the roof (i play on 90 fov so ifl maybe the angle i was at for this screenshot is fucking with my view of it ?) but things got weird bc i had to scramble to place it and also was replacing the original wood roof with diorite bc who knew lava makes wood catch on fire :/ but it's cute enough i think and it's also really practical i ran out of coal pretty early on this was the 2nd thing i built!

small tiny little enchanting house (got inspiration from some photo on pinterest that i cant find rn rip) bc when i finally decided to start enchanting my stuff i realized i didnt really have enough space for it in my house like i usually do unless i added a basement and i really did not want to do that and i like this better anyway!!! level 30 enchantments + a space to store my lapis + it's just so cute :) downside is theres always like mob sounds bc there's a cave entrance somewhere in this area that i literally just covered up with dirt so

and this is the trading hall + sugarcane farm for paper! followed a youtube tutorial for this one bc ive never really dealt with trading and wanted to make sure i didnt build something really wrong or whatever i had to change the block palette a little to fit the rest of my builds (im a huge fan of spruce and stone if u couldnt tell) but i think it's cute! im still really bad at dealing with villagers tho ive accidentally suffocated a few trying to get them in their spots and theres been some that have been attacked by zombies bc i leave them trapped in boats outside while i go to do other things.......nothing is my fault ever remember this

some extra things bc im nothing if i dont overexplain literally anything i do:

im using complementary shaders unbound bc i think theyre pretty

resource packs autumn biomes + fall pack for the fall theme (this is how im getting the red leaves and the leaf piles on the ground, i'll prob change it once it's christmas-time)

some extra resource packs: flowering crops, fast better grass, and a font change one!

tons of cats spawn and ive tamed + bred a few of them i have i think 6 and am working on naming them all (if i dont have 2 cats called jett and operator in every minecraft world i play on i'll Die.) and i eventually want to venture back to a forest i found and grab a wolf or 2 as well :)

the giant spruce trees in the background of some of the photos were planted by me bc i use spruce in pretty much every single thing i build bc well i like it

EVENTUALLY i do want to let the villagers run free to make the area more lively (i have a slab blocking the door so they cant get out lmfao) but not everything is done rn so theyre staying in their house for now. although i did think about building each one a small little house and giving them jobs and letting them live there thats like. a lot of work. so idk if im gonna do that

build progression if u care: house + wheat farm -> mining area (that i still havent finished oops) -> lava farm -> barn (started out just as fenced pens but i decided i hated that and built an actual space for them) -> storage hall bc i was running out of space -> sugarcane farm -> i found a village over the mountain behind my house and decided i might as well start breeding back home so i built them their own little house next to mine (this is when the 2nd wheat farm got built) -> decided the empty space in between the barn + storage hall was getting to me and built the pumpkin patch -> iron farm WHICH I DIDNT SHOW it's actually a good distance behind the storage hall -> built the trading hall bc why not -> laid out the area for the nether portal -> enchantment table to get some basic enchants on my tools bc the villagers were frustrating me and sitting there rerolling trades was annoying -> actually built the nether portal -> started to work on some detailing, added in some trees in the main area + added coarse dirt, fence, lanterns to the paths -> built bee farm area (might change tho)

and (sorry) ALSO theres a lot of empty space and everything but im working on making paths and adding details around to make it feel like a really connected area instead of just a bunch of builds! i was waiting until i had most of the builds i wanted in place/planned but im kind of stuck on what else to add to really tie the space together especially at the back towards the enchanting house yk but im not too worried about it rn im just having fun :D

anyway thank u for coming to this month's yap about my current interests with jo i hope u enjoyed if u read this far yippee yay wahoo ily

[randombrainworm]

Worm reads Discworld, part 1/41

The Watch sub-series: Guards! Guards!

“Listen, if anyone ever sets fire to this city, it’s going to be me.”

OR: A drunk, a dragon and a dwarf, but somehow nothing’s quite what it seems.

Of course I’m starting with this one. Of course I am. It was an obvious choice. That bastard (affectionately) Samuel Vimes owns my heart. He’s a cynical pragmatic who’s done with the world but at the same time cares deeply about his city, he knows what it means to be poor, to scratch the bottom of the social ladder from the other side of the pavement, his job is the only meaning of his life for a long, long time until she meets a Lady who takes care of dragons for a living (and is quite obsessed with them in fact), is way taller and stronger than him and on a direct opposite of the wealthy spectrum (not that money matters to Vimes) and falls fast and hard for her (relatable. I too would ask Lady Sybil for her hand in marriage). And YET, Vimes’ character doesn’t experience a major shift, he doesn’t decide to give up on his job in Watch and focus on personal life only - no. Unlike many protagonists, Vimes proves that it’s entirely possible to hate-love your job and not abandon it while at the same time make room in your life for something more.

But I’m getting ahead of myself (forgive me, I could write essays about Vimes and Sybil and the importance of the Watch). So let's get back to the book itself:

Ankh-Morpork:

Ankh-Morpork is presented to us in a low point. It’s functioning (somehow), but things aren’t going extremely well. The Watch is a joke, a bunch of nobodies who don’t know any better summon a dragon that, for most of the book, may or may not exist, and the supposed heir to the throne is… An interesting case of a dwarf.

Carrot:

Now, having read later books, I really like Carrot, but the first book didn’t really sell him to me until the last dozen or so pages. Admittedly, he too had to try to wrangle the chaos that’s Ankh-Morpork (which makes this story a good starting point in my opinion - we can watch the city through the prism of an outsider, not that different than ourselves) but I didn’t see much of the “Where people went wrong was thinking that simple meant the same thing as stupid.” (a sentiment explored multiple times in “Men at Arms”). I suppose my main problem was that because of the book’s structure I wasn’t sure until the last moment in I should treat him like one of the main characters or an important support to Vimes’ arc.

General remarks:

The overall plot was pretty straight-forward and you could quite easily figure out where it was going, even though the strangeness of the Discworld still managed to make me raise a brow (the rats… If only they could read). The characters (always Pterry’s strength, in my humble opinion) are diverse and interesting and there’s just enough of the outer layer peeling off to get us hooked in their future development (simple watchmen who maybe are ready to risk their lives instead of pretending All’s fine, even if they do it with eyes tightly shut; the genius Patrician who always has plans B to M at ready). The magic is a tad bit confusing, but that's a given in this series and the fact that it was the first book on my reading list definitely didn't help. The Watchmen getting a swamp dragon as a pet was precious, especially the bit when Carrot bought him a rubber hippo. Not to mey it's good to see a middle-aged woman who's passionate about something and isn't a snob or a blushing mess. Sybil's friendship (?) with Nobby was especially nice, people seen by others as weirdos solidarity for the win!

Rating:

GREEN - from my experience, the first book in the series is always either a total success with later ones being unable to reach its level (this happens when the author put all their good ideas into the first book and had to scrap something together because of the tight deadline) or the first book is the weakest and the rest of the series gets increasingly better as the author gets a feel of what does and what doesn’t work. This is the second case, I believe. Guards! Guards! is a strong basis to build on, should it be other author I’d probably give it PINK, but I know what PTerry is capable of.

Until next time,

Worm

[thesillyguyy]

I HAVE THAT SAVED

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

hello please can I sleep in a studio ghibli bed it’s urgent

[poettheythem]

I love vegetables when they are cut up. Like fuck yeah I'll fuck up that salsa, hell yeah kale smoothie gimme, tiny carrots in my meat sauce I'm fucking it up

Tomato in any other form. Kill it. With fire. Burn its ashes to dust.

Kale. actually were chilling. I just need water

Carrots. BLEH. I HATE IT. HELL ITSELF IS A CARROT. THE DEVIL IS CARROT

[dulcerba]

Guys, last night I had the weirdest dream that I was All for One and was getting married to Inko Midoriya, which was terrible because:

her mom (Nana Shimura) was being a monster mother-in-law to me (fair enough)

All Might was there in a really bad civilian disguise that somehow fooled everyone

and he couldn't fight me because he thought I was going to kill everyone there

the wedding photos went really badly because they couldn't fit me in the shot (being 7'4" is a real pain)

I think at some point Mitsuki Bakugou socked me in the face (also fair)

I kept banging my head onto doorways

the real All for One is freaking out in my head because he's stuck there

I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or die because while this is amazing and I'm sure AFO feels every bit of the pain I feel, so many people are being mean to me (again, fair, but ouch)

this man has, like, a thousand quirks, and I can't control any of them

I end up crying over a glass of sweet tea

So, anyone want me to write this??

[eddiemunsonswhxre]

Can I request something with Eddie munson where his SO has a heat stroke and faints? Poor boy just freaks out.

summer heat / eddie munson

one shot

cw: genderneutral!reader, passing out, pet names, fluff

--

  “this yard work is not gonna do itself,” eddie says sassily towards you after you ask to take a break. you were already hot and sweaty with a headache but you knew eddie wouldn’t let you out of gardening again. you begged for the garden, so you had to take care of it.

  eddie fired up the weed eater and began getting the areas too close to the trailer that he couldn’t get with the mower. you got on your hands and knees and began pulling weeds from around your carrot plants as sweat quite literally dropped off of you. damn did you hate the heat. 

  your breathing was becoming more labored as you pulled more weeds and put them in your bucket. you sat back on your heels and wiped away some sweat from your face. you felt gross and would definitely need a shower after this. eddie had made his way around the trailer with the weed eater and was now gathering his spray that was meant to kill bugs. 

  you stood up so you could go grab your water bottle that was sitting on the steps but you stumbled. “eddie,” you called out, ears beginning to ring as your vision started to blur.

  “we’re not taking a break,” eddie laughed before turning to look at you. his smile fell when he saw how pale your face was and the fact that you were swaying. “babe, you okay?” he calls, sitting down the spray. your vision begins turning from blurry to black surrounding the edges. you put your hands out, but they weren’t going to help.

  your eyes rolled back into your head and you lost consciousness. eddie bolted towards you, catching your body right before you smacked against the ground. “baby?” he asked, shaking you slightly but you just laid limp in his arms. his eyes began to water in panic as he hooked his arm under your knees to hoist you up. “i’m sorry,” he mumbled to you, trying his best to support your head as he rushed you inside. he kicked the door shut behind him and ran you to the couch.

  his two fingers found your pulse, allowing him to calm down ever so slightly. his lip trembled as he made sure the fan was on high and he began grabbing frozen food from the freezer. “i’m sorry, baby. wake up, please,” he begged, placing a frozen bag of mixed vegetables on your chest. a couple tears fell from his eyes as he used ice packs and frozen fruits and vegetables to cover your chest, wrists, and thighs. he sat on his knees, stroking your hair as he called out to you.

  you finally let out a groan, your head rolling from side to side. “hey, y/n, hi hunny,” he said softly, stroking your face delicately. you hummed in response to his touch. “we’re inside now, i’m sorry, hunny,” he said, wanting you to open your eyes.

  you felt the coolness on your body bringing you back to the present. eddie’s comforting touch making you feel better. your eyes barely open, finding your boyfriends glossy eyes staring back at you. “hi, beautiful. you know where you are?” he asks.

  “home,” you mumble, closing your eyes again as you feel the pressure in your head. eddie nods, continuing to stroke your cheek. 

  “how do you feel? what can i get you?” he asks.

  you open your eyes again and give him a look. “advil, and a lot of water,” you say. eddie nods dutifully and gets you both things in a record time. he helps you hold up your head so you can drink and take the pills while nervously watching you.

  he purses his lips as slowly a bit of color starts coming back to your cheeks. “i’m sorry for making you stay outside, baby,” he apologizes, voice cracking. he felt horrible. like… worst boyfriend award level horrible. you shake your head no and go to say something. “it’s not okay, i shouldn’t have made you stay outside,” he interrupts, knowing you were gonna dismiss it.

  “no, it’s really okay,” you say with a nod.

  eddie shakes his head no as more tears fall. “no, because it’s hot as fuck outside and you told me you were overheating. i still made you keep going though and because of that you got hurt,” he blabbers.

  “eddie, stop it. if i thought it was this bad i would’ve come in anyway,” you say.

  eddie pouts. “but you could’ve gotten really hurt,” he says sheepishly. 

  you take your hand out from under some peas and take ahold of his. “no, you can’t get rid of me that easily. now, can you help me sit up?” you joke. eddie does just that, taking much more time than necessary to nurse you back to health.

[scp-113]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

- via @teaboot

Olaf (Frozen)

[teaboot]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

[thesillyguyy]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

Hey man can I get some motivation to have a shower

Shower NOW or else I did it.... 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓷...