#fabric sourcing woes

[wellpresseddaisy]

Fabric samples for new nightgowns arrived but I have to be an adult and work.

The tragedy of being employed, I suppose.

Also, no matter what fabrics-store.com tells you, their handkerchief linen is not good for sleepwear. One of my nightgowns turned into Swiss cheese in two years and the other is on the way to swiss-town. I'm trying some of the Kaffe Fassett shot cotton since it should be about the right weight and isn't a baby color.

(I can get batiste but only in white, pale blue, mint, pale pink, or pale yellow. While those would be 1920s-appropriate colors for nightgowns, they're a bit sweeter than I want. My blood for lightweight cotton in an interesting color that I don't have to dye myself, I suppose.)

[inkspiredwriting]

Wedding Woes

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Planning a wedding should be a joyous occasion, but for Five Hargreeves and his fiancée Y/N, it quickly turned into a battlefield of hilarious disagreements. From the moment they decided to tie the knot, every decision seemed to spark a new debate.

“Chocolate!” Five declared, arms crossed, as they sat in the office of Sweet Sensations, the premier bakery in town.

“Red velvet!” Y/N countered, her eyes sparkling with determination.

The baker, caught between the two, held up a tentative hand. “We could do a combination cake?”

Five and Y/N turned to her, then back to each other, shaking their heads simultaneously. “Nope.”

“What’s wrong with red velvet?” Y/N argued, her brow furrowing. “It’s elegant and delicious.”

Five scoffed. “Chocolate is a classic. And I don’t trust a cake that’s named after a fabric.”

“Fine,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “What about the design?”

“Simple and clean,” Five said, envisioning a minimalistic cake.

Y/N, however, had other ideas. “I was thinking something with a little more... flair. Maybe some flowers, intricate designs—”

Before Five could retort, Klaus burst into the bakery, trailed by Diego and Luther. “Hey, lovebirds! How’s the cake tasting going?”

Five sighed. “We’re just... debating the finer points.”

Klaus waggled his eyebrows. “Why not go with a giant rainbow cake? It’s festive!”

Diego chuckled. “I vote for something with bacon on it.”

Luther just looked confused. “Do people put bacon on cakes?”

The baker looked like she might faint.

In the end, they settled on a layered cake with alternating tiers of chocolate and red velvet, topped with simple but elegant decorations. It wasn’t exactly what either had envisioned, but it was a compromise—a word that Five was rapidly learning to accept.

Next on the list was the music. Five preferred a live jazz band, while Y/N was leaning toward a playlist of their favorite songs.

“Jazz sets the mood,” Five insisted, adjusting his tie as they met with a potential band leader in their living room.

“Yeah, the mood for a 1920s speakeasy,” Y/N shot back. “We need something more modern, something we can really dance to.”

The band leader, an older gentleman with a pencil-thin mustache, interjected. “We can do a mix, if you’d like?”

Before either could respond, Viktor wandered in, carrying his violin. “Need a musician? I can play Anything you want.”

Five perked up. “Can you do jazz?”

Viktor nodded. “Of course. But I also know some contemporary pieces.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up. “What about ‘You Are the Best Thing’ by Ray LaMontagne?”

Viktor smiled. “I can do that.”

Five threw up his hands. “Fine, let’s have Viktor play. Just... not too much Ray LaMontagne.”

Klaus sauntered in, a mischievous grin on his face. “I could DJ! Imagine the fun we’d have with a mix of 80s pop and punk rock!”

Five stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

When it came to decorations, Five wanted sleek and modern, while Y/N envisioned a romantic, rustic theme.

“We need string lights and mason jars,” Y/N said, flipping through a wedding magazine.

Five groaned. “We’re not having a Pinterest wedding. How about something more sophisticated? Like geometric centerpieces.”

“Geometric?” Y/N laughed. “What are we, hosting a math conference?”

Lila, who had shown up uninvited but was enjoying the chaos, added her two cents. “I think you should go with a theme park idea. Imagine—carnival games, cotton candy, maybe even a Ferris wheel!”

Y/N laughed. “Actually, that sounds kind of fun.”

Five buried his face in his hands. “We’re not turning our wedding into a circus.”

In the end, they settled on a rustic-chic blend with some modern touches—fairy lights and mason jars for Y/N, and sleek tableware and geometric designs for Five. It was a mix that surprisingly worked, combining the best of both their visions.

Even the wedding invitations were a source of contention. Five wanted them to be minimalist and elegant, while Y/N wanted something more whimsical and colorful.

“This font is too boring,” Y/N complained, staring at the sample invite. “It doesn’t scream ‘fun.’”

Five rubbed his temples. “We’re not throwing a rave, Y/N. We’re getting married. It should be timeless.”

Klaus, had another idea. “Why not go with a pop-up invitation? Like those 3D books! People would love that.”

Five shot him a look. “We’re not making pop-up books, Klaus.”

Despite the disagreements, the wedding day arrived, and everything was miraculously coming together. Five and Y/N stood at the altar, their family and friends gathered around them. The setting was a perfect blend of their styles—rustic yet sophisticated, whimsical yet elegant.

As they exchanged vows, Five couldn’t help but smile at Y/N. Despite their differences, their love for each other had only grown stronger through the process. It was clear that, no matter the debates, they were perfect for each other.

When they shared their first kiss as husband and wife, the crowd erupted into applause, and Klaus, predictably, started a slow clap that turned into an impromptu chant of “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Five’s siblings had their mishaps—Klaus accidentally spilled champagne on Viktor’s suit, Lila got into a friendly wrestling match with Allison over the bouquet, and Luther accidentally triggered a sound system malfunction that blasted “Never Gonna Give You Up” at full volume during the toasts.

At the end of the night, as they danced under the twinkling lights, Five pulled Y/N close and whispered, “You know, despite all the chaos, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. “Not even the part where we almost had a bacon cake?”

Five chuckled. “Not even that. Well... maybe a little.”

Y/N laughed, leaning in to kiss him. “I love you, Five Hargreeves. Even if you have terrible taste in cakes.”

Five grinned, wrapping his arms around her. “And I love you, Y/N Hargreeves. Even if you have questionable taste in everything else.”

As they swayed to the music, surrounded by their chaotic but loving family, Five realized that the debates, the compromises, and the occasional disaster were all part of what made their love story uniquely theirs.

And for Five and Y/N, that was all they ever wanted.

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood is not comfortable being left alone with his thoughts, and Reader takes a long nap.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Angst, unrequited pining, anxiety attacks, spiraling thoughts, Lockwood being a simp, unreliable author... probably some more, let me know if I missed something obvious

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I know they say better late than never, but I'm not sure if disappearing for months at a time between chapters fits under that umbrella. In other words, sorry again! (Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by the fanfic writers curse ...✋)

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  Anthony stands over the silver-wrapped portrait, rapier hanging loosely from his hand as he waits on baited breath.  She’d never been wrong about a Source before, but he isn’t about to risk both of their lives by not taking appropriate precautions.

  The second he’s certain the shrieking form of Mr. Roland isn’t about to make a disastrously surprise reappearance, he lets the blade fall from his hand and rushes to the crumpled heap of fabric and flesh at the foot of their clients bed. He’d wake in a cold sweat from nightmares featuring the echoing crack of her skull connecting with the frame for a long time after this.  Trembling fingers smooth the hair away from her face, stomach in knots over the alarming pallor of her skin.  Shifting his hand to her shoulder, he rubs briskly up and down her bicep in an attempt to rouse her.  He curses under his breath when it becomes obvious it isn’t working.  Swallowing hard, he brushes the hair away from her neck and places two tentative fingers on her pulsepoint. ‘Relief’ doesn’t come close to describing the emotion that floods his body at the presence of the steady – if a little shallow – beat beneath his fingertips.

  Still alive, then.  He can work with that.

  Normally he hates this part, but he can’t be anything other than grateful they’ll have the chance to fight later when he insists she go to the hospital to have herself checked by a professional.�� If he hadn’t learned to better value his own life he’d already be on the phone with the paramedics, but he knew better than to be the one responsible for her waking up unexpectedly strapped to an infirmary bed.

  She’d been quick to disclose she had a complicated history with hospitals upon joining his agency, though she’d been reluctant to go into the details of why.  They had accepted this without question, assuring her it was her story to tell if she ever felt ready.  If anyone could understand withholding tales of woe until it was absolutely necessary to share them, it was the members of Lockwood & Co..

  After carefully performing a field assessment to ensure he isn’t going to cause any damage by jostling her unconscious form, he shrugs off his long coat and drops it unceremoniously on the ground, then eases his hands beneath her shoulder and knees.  Rolling her onto her back and lifting her into his arms, he sits with his body between her and the bed and places her gently on the floor between his legs.  When she’s nestled safely against his chest, he rests her head on his shoulder and grabs the pile of cloth from beside him to drape his jacket over her.  Now, he waits.

  His leg shakes restlessly.  His fingers tap nonsensical rhythms on his thigh.  In a moment of weakness he brushes his fingers through her hair, combing it gently away from her face.  It’s soft, and the scent of her shampoo is beyond comforting.  In another world, a happier one, would he have found himself this close to her under better circumstances?  Would they have come home from their normal jobs, to a home where they were simply roommates?  Maybe they would have started their evening in the kitchen, preparing a meal with the intention of dining together instead of fighting for their lives.  She would laugh gleefully at his best attempt not to burn anything before shooing him out of her way to try and fix whatever monstrosity he’d created – heaven knows she’d had to do so often enough in the real world.  Maybe they’d retire to the sitting room to watch a movie on the old television in the corner.  She’d doze off before the end, as always, having fought the siren song of sleep until it weighed her head down to rest on his shoulder.

  If he really tries, he can almost make himself believe they’re settled on the small uncomfortable couch, not on the cold bedroom floor of a widow.  Almost.

  The white walls of the small room seem to be creeping closer and closer, threatening to crush him.  His heart thunders in his chest, a horridly high pitched ringing building in his ears.  He breathes in through his mouth for a count of four – holds it for two – and exhales through his nose for a count of six.  He repeats this for as long as it takes for the darkness to recede from the edges of his vision.  Having regained control of his thoughts, he lets his head fall back to rest on the edge of the wooden frame.  The breathing exercise George had taught him the first time he’d found him having a panic attack in the library is effective, but not so much he can afford to stop letting his mind wander.  He decides instead to reminisce on the small selfish moments he allows himself from time to time; the ones he uses to antagonise himself in his more self-pitying moments. Sometimes it’s as simple as a stolen glance here or there, almost always in the moments where she’s too focused on research –  or lost to time in the echoes of a Visitation.  His favourite is when she falls asleep on the couch; it’s easy to admire how peaceful she looks when she isn’t arguing with him about something stupid.  More than once he’d been lulled into sleep himself by the delicately lingering scent of her perfume on the couch the following day.  Lucy had definitely caught on the last time it had happened, judging by the mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she’d arrived early carrying doughnut’s as a bribe to get George to look into something for her to find Lockwood blinking awake curled around the same throw pillow their coworker had fallen asleep on the night before.  She’d winked at him, miming zipping her lips before carrying on her way.  Obviously she’d given him a hard time about it later – she wouldn’t be much of a best friend if she didn’t – but she went easy on him given her own fondness for the woman.  They had made quick friends, after all.

  There had been just three months left on clock tick tick tick-ing down to Lucy’s departure when the solution to almost all of his problems had – quite literally – fallen into his lap.

  He’d barely stepped one foot out of the shower when he’d heard a knock at their front door.  George had managed to make it out of his basement office at a reasonable hour the evening before and Lucy slept like the dead, which left the responsibility of answering the door squarely on his shoulders.  Another knock had urged him on as he’d rushed to at least partially dry and dress himself.  

  When he’d finally jerked the door open, she’d been about to knock a third time.  He’d startled her, causing her to take a step back in an attempt to avoid rapping him on the chest with her knuckles.  Unfortunately, the top step of 35 Portland Row had never been as large as it should have been.  He can still vividly recall the look of abject horror on her face as she’d realised she was about to fall.

  Somehow he’d managed to break free from the trance he’d fallen into the second he laid eyes on her to lunge forward, catch her by the elbow, and pull her away from the edge.  He must have put more strength into it than entirely necessary, because the next thing he’d known they’d been on the ground inside the foyer.  The floor had been ice cold beneath his back, which had done almost as much to soothe the ache of the impact as the feeling of the young woman laying on top of him.  She’d stared down at him with wide eyes, doing a rather convincing impression of a deer in headlights.  He’d flushed red hot, floundered desperately for the words to say to regain control of the situation, and come up with nothing.

  Of course, that was the moment Lucy had chosen to wake and stumble languidly down the stairs.  They’d been alerted to her presence by the creek of ancient floorboards at the base of the stairs, two sets of eyes suddenly drawn to the agent staring confounded at the bizarre sight of a stranger straddling her boss in their foyer.  The aforementioned stranger had begun to panic in earnest at that point, stammering apologies to him and his co-worker alike as she’d scrambled off of him.  Lucy and Anthony had stared at each other in confusion as she’d profusely apologised to the Listener.  Trying to piece together what specifically she had been apologising for in the first place was a struggle, since every sentence was left unfinished in the urgency of the next rushing to be heard.  Finally, it had dawned on them; she was under the impression they were living together under vastly different circumstances.  Luce had laughed, Lockwood had laughed, and their guest had looked like she was going to be sick in their entrance hall.

  It had taken two full cups of tea and countless assurances for the perpetual state of mortification to wear off enough for her to explain why she’d sought them out to begin with.  After seeing their agency in the papers she’d become convinced it had to be some form of ‘destiny’ that the three of them meet.  The automatically exasperated look he’d shot Lucy had not gone over the head of their guest; she’d lost patience with him as quickly the day they’d met as she had every day since.  As she’d shouted her reasoning at him across the Thinking Cloth, he’d been forced to admit she had a point – and not just to diffuse the tension.  He hadn’t thought it particularly unusual that he and Lucy – the only two reported cases of agents over the age of twenty not having lost their Talent – had been gifted with different abilities, but to meet a third and have her be gifted with the Touch?  Two may well have been a coincidence, but three… Three is a pattern.

  It had at least been enough to drive him to involve George.  He’d left to call the researcher in place of replying, leaving her staring in incredulous fury at his empty seat.  Thankfully, Lucy had intervened before she could find anything sharp to throw at his back.  When he’d returned to inform them he’d made the call, the softness behind the surprise in her eyes had been the final nail in his coffin; he’d been smitten ever since.

  George had arrived in record time, which made the thud of the front door being forced open more alarming than it should have been.  He’d dropped a comically large stack of books on the dining table, forgone introductions, and launched immediately into his cursory theories.  She’d won his approval almost as easily as she’d won Anthony’s.  She’d listened intently, asked the right questions at the right times, slid the plate of biscuits they’d served in his absence his way, and launched into a detailed explanation of her own research as soon as he’d finished.  It had been well after midnight when Anthony had managed to get a word in edgewise to insist they call it an evening.  She’d slept in Lucy’s room that night – and every night since.  In the days that followed, the newly formed team of four had spent every waking hour bent over one book or another.  By the time they’d finally been forced to leave the house to complete a job, it had seemed beyond question for their guest (new roommate?) to join them.  That first job together had cleared any lingering tendrils of doubt from his mind; not one word had been said out loud, but every step had been in perfect harmony.  

  Before any of them knew it, months had passed in a comfortable rhythm.  Their evenings were spent on cases, whilst their days were spent reading every piece of literature on Talent and the Problem they could get their hands on.  In spite of their best efforts, the mystery of why the three of them retained their talent remained unsolved.  No matter how they looked at it, it was apparent there was still a piece of the puzzle missing.  One cold and sleepless morning they’d rubbed the sleep from their eyes, gathered around the kitchen table, and agreed to set the matter aside to focus on more pressing issues.

  As the date of his Listener’s departure loomed on the horizon, he’d gathered every ounce of courage and charisma he possessed to try and seem cool whilst half-begging their new friend to join his agency.  She’d accepted his offer with minimal ribbing, and if he hadn’t known it was just his own hopes influencing his perception of reality, he might have thought she’d blushed when he’d asked her to move in permanently.

  In the final days of Lucy’s employment, something they could have never expected had happened.  Instead of waking to the sound of the phone ringing, Anthony had been woken by Lucy thundering down the stairs to answer it.  That in itself was unusual, given her habit of sleeping deeper than a hibernating bear.  But it had been something else – some weird gut feeling he still couldn’t explain – that brought him to immediate and alert consciousness.  The sound of the phone clattering to the ground had thrown him from his bed, sending him barrelling down the stairs as he hastily pulled a shirt over his head.

  He’d frozen when he found Luce on her knees on the ground, hands pressed to her mouth and tear-filled eyes wide with shock.  Another set of footsteps echoed down the stairs above him, the final member of the household rushing past him seconds later.  She’d brushed Lucy’s hair away from her face and quietly asked her what was wrong.  When she received no reply she’d dropped to the ground, wrapped the other girl in her arms, and picked the phone off the ground to get to the bottom of it all.  Having felt rather useless, Lockwood had set to work doing the only thing he could think of; making tea.

  When he’d returned, three steaming cups precariously balanced in his hands, he found them still clinging to each other in a heavy silence.  Though he could see the phone had been returned to its cradle, he hadn’t had the courage to push for answers.  Instead he’d settled down onto the floor with them, placed their cups on the old wood in front of them, and reached out to rest a comforting hand on Lucy’s knee.  She’d looked up at him then, slowly, and he was confused to find a glimmer of hope in her bloodshot eyes.  Her choked explanation had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  “Norrie’s awake.”

  The early hours of that fateful morning had passed in a flurry of planning, packing, and crying in a manner achingly similar to the day she’d confessed she’d never wanted to be an agent to begin with.  They’d decided to end her employment effective immediately, to use the inevitable media coverage of the literal miracle unfolding in front of them to announce her departure without too many follow-up questions.

  By late afternoon – after George had awoken and made a mad dash to the house – they’d stood together in the doorway sharing bittersweet tear-filled farewells.

  She’d called to let them know she’d arrived in one piece, but from that point on all communication was one sided and in the form of postcards from various towns all over Europe.  Money had changed hands when the household received their New Years card since, tucked neatly inside, was a polaroid photo of the two sharing a New Years kiss in a large iron circle in front of the Eiffel Tower.  George had put money on them not figuring it out until at least January, while Anthony had bet on Valentine’s Day.  The smug smirk on the face of their companion when she’d pulled their money from their hands was as infuriating as it was adorable.

  And so they’d carried on, attempted to settle into their new state of ‘normal’ as an agency with only two field operatives, and did everything within their power to avoid speaking of the listener-shaped hole in their hearts.

  Then, a year after she’d left, Lucy Carlyle had knocked on his front door holding a damned employment application.  As if she didn’t know she’d always have a home in Portland Row, always have a place in his agency.  He’d stared at it like it was written in latin before tearing it in half and pulling the woman into a bone-crushing hug.  Though, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly relieved to find out she wasn’t in need of accommodations this time around; he’d grown comfortable with the casual intimacy of sharing his home with only the little spitfire upstairs.  Lucy had been pink all the way to the tips of her ears as she told him she’d be living with Norrie in a flat just a few blocks away, a state he found himself all too sympathetic of.

  The sound of voices had finally drawn his remaining live-in employee down from her attic.  He’d almost gone deaf at the shriek she’d let out at the sight of her old roommate.  When they’d run to embrace each other and laugh, he’d decided she needed time to catch up than he did.  He’d made her promise to fill him in on all the juicy details over drinks some time in the near future before making his way to the library to give them some privacy.  As the sound of laughter echoed through the house that night, it seemed to banish the final remnants of grief and loneliness from every last shadowy corner of Portland Row.

  A nauseating question creeps to the forefront of his mind; will he ever hear her laugh like that again?   He tries to conjure the sound again, but now all he can hear is the rush of air leaving her lungs and the echoing thud of her head hitting the bed frame.

  Desperate for some kind of distraction, he glances out the window.  The sky is filled with blushing shades of lilac and pink, making promises of a clear day it’s not likely to keep.  The early morning sun shines ethereal rays through the sheer white curtains, turning the miniscule specks of debris still hanging in the air to angel dust.  If the sun has already risen, she’s been unconscious for an alarming amount of time.  Doubt strikes through his thoughts.  Did he make the right choice?  Did his fear of her being angry with him dissuade him from thinking objectively?  If he’d subconsciously prioritised her bloody opinion of him over her health and safety he’d never forgive himself.

  Unable to vanquish the dark thoughts now spiralling farther and farther out of control, Lockwood tries to tether himself back to the present by focusing on the gentle puffs of her warm breath feathering across his chest.  Significantly less pleasant – though no less persistent – is the aggressive tingling of his extremely numb right leg.  He winces, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he shifts his position to encourage blood flow to eliminate the painful TV static in the limb.

  He almost drowns in the tidal wave of relief that washes over him when she lets out a frustrated groan in response to the light jostling.  Gently cradling her cheek to prevent her head from falling from his shoulder, he pushes himself back and further upright.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, lightly tapping her cheek with his palm in an attempt to rouse her.  She only whines louder in reply, twisting in his lap to burrow her face into his neck.  He can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks as the warmth of her body presses against his front.  The fluttering of her eyelashes against his pulsepoint reminds him of a butterfly’s kiss.  He isn’t entirely sure how to react.  Quite a large part of him wants to wrap his arms around her, cradle her against him and hold her until he can silence every sadistic whisper in his mind telling him he’s going to lose her, too.  

  He doesn’t end up having to worry about what to do for long.  She gasps, shooting upright and scrambling across the floor to create some distance between them.  It’s a very convincing impression of a cornered animal, which leaves his heart aching.  If it serves any positive purpose at all, at least the cold reminder of her feelings toward him banish any doubts of the legitimacy of this reality from his mind.  Then she winces, face contorting with agony as she clutches at her skull, and self-pity is suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. 

  “Easy now,” he keeps his voice low in consideration of what’s sure to be one hell of a headache, “you’ve hit your head and had quite the respectable nap about it.  I’d be surprised if you weren’t at least a little out of it.  Does anything else hurt?”  She lifts her head to look at him, but there’s an absent look in her eyes that makes a pit of anxiety begin to form in his stomach.  When she drops her gaze back to the floor – hand still cradling her skull – he caves.  Pushing himself to his knees, he crawls towards her and brushes his fingers against her thigh.  With a shiver, she looks back at him.  Confusion and pain are painted clear as day across her features.  He doesn’t need a mirror to know his own expression is growing to resemble hers more by the moment.  

  “Sorry, I – uhm, I don’t…” she trails off, glancing at his hand on her leg.  He pulls back like he’s been burned, waiting on bated breath for her to finish.  “I – …do I know you?”  

  His heart sputters to a stop in his chest.  Nothing could have prepared him for that.  His jaw hangs open almost comically as he stares at her with complete devastation.  Mentally, he’s already running through every potential outcome of this situation. How much memory is she actually missing?  Maybe it’s only the ones involving him.  That would be a cruel twist of fate, but his life thus far has been nothing but a series of those, so why stop now?

  All of his strength leaves him at once.  It becomes a struggle just to stay upright.  He can’t afford to fall apart, not when she needs him to be calm, not when she’s – trying not to smile?

  She cracks, stifling a giggle behind her hand before it can bubble into something more.  His brain hasn’t caught up yet, still staring at her slack-jawed and very visibly confused.  Her attempts to stifle her merriment fail entirely, her laughter devolving into something closer to a cackle.  

  “I’m fucking with you, Lockwood,” she wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you should have seen your face!”  Wincing again, she presses a palm to her throbbing skull before looking up at him and dissolving into laughter once more.

  For likely the first time in living memory, Anthony Lockwood is legitimately speechless.

  “I-”  he starts, and then stops.  Feeling like a bloody fish, all he can do is open and close his mouth, which does nothing to calm the hysterics of his companion.  After a few prolonged moments of this, she starts to actually worry she might have broken him.

  “Lockwood…?” she asks, reaching tentatively for his shoulder.  “Look, I didn’t mean to – to traumatise you or anything, I was just pissed you left me alone –” He reaches forward and catches her forearm before she can register the movement.  She yelps in surprise, the noise abruptly stifled as he pulls her into his chest and wraps his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough.  Taking a deep and steadying breath, he drops his head to rest on top of hers.  Slowly, she returns his embrace with trembling arms, tucking her chin into her chest and nestling into him.

  “I’m sorry I was late.  It won’t happen again,” Lockwood’s voice is ragged when he breaks the silence, emphasising his point by tightening his arms.  She nods, feeling lost for words.  

  They stay there, curled together, until the birds start singing their morning chorus.

  He figures she’s too shaken up to push him away.

  She figures he’s been too worried to care about his personal space.

  Neither is willing to be the first to let go.  

  “Hey, Lockwood?” her voice is soft as she pulls her head back to look up at him.

  “Yes, darling?” he replies, carefully sculpting his trademark smile back into place.

  “Let’s go home.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @shakespearseclipse @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @hellojameshowyadoin @sarahhelpimsinking @soapshipper @myownpainintheass @furblrwurblr @sleep-i-ness

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[eveningserenityyy]

In sickness and In Health | One Shot

Rating: General.

Pairing: Luke Skywalker x reader

Word Count: 3215k

Summary: Luke thinks the day shall be seemingly peaceful and perfectly content…until he finds you struck with an illness he must help care for.

A/N: I started writing this when I was sick, and whilst i'm better now, I do hope this helps comfort two of my friends who are! <3

Luke woke up early this seemingly delightful morning, eyes both kissed and scorched by the golden rays of the morning sun as it dawned upon his sleepy figure; easing him into a state of consciousness.

His first instinct, just as the day before and just as likely fated to be the same tomorrow, is to turn his attention to you in order for you to be the first thing he sees and may admire when he awakens. That alone is the key to a great day in his opinion, getting to wake up next to you and watch as your chest rises and falls with light breaths, and the way your lips are slightly parted with your messy hair framing your pretty face. 

His day cannot start until he can be assured you are next to him, safe and happy in his loving gaze.

You seem so peaceful and content, therefore he did not have the heart to wake you up so selfishly. He leaned over, careful for his movements to be anything but heavy as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek; the heat of your flesh warm and inviting against his soft lips.

Naturally, he finds himself to be smiling as he rises from the bed, getting himself dressed and ready to attend to his students. 

He hates to leave you just to wake up on your own whenever that time may be, yet alas, he would have to go regardless of his desires. You would be just fine, and close by if anything were to happen.

He whispered a sweet “I love you.” before leaving you to your rest, hoping you don’t wake up too lonely whilst he's gone. 

Soon after, the fog of dreams lifted on your end, and reality was born before your eyes as they fluttered open just to squeeze shut again in mere seconds. It wasn’t simply the sunlight of which was a source of woe, but too the dizzying pressure in your head that had struck you immediately.

Something was deeply wrong, wrong enough to be noticed despite the dreadful sleepiness that swarmed you like a warm weighted blanket fresh from the dryer. 

You sniffled, noticing how both stuffy and runny your nose felt- there too was a soreness in your throat, gathering the unrelenting need to clear it over and over as fluids coated it on the inside.

“No…not today!” You could not help but whine in such a moment as this, dreading the very idea of being sick so suddenly and without warning. 

Okay, that's not entirely true- for over the past two days, you’d noticed your throat felt rather dry, but being sick never crossed your mind. Instead, you simply drowned your throat in water and called it a day. You thought perhaps you had spoken too much, or hadn’t drank enough water, for germs were never a suspect.

Immediately, your body and mind craved comfort and care for this curse of illness casted upon you. You wanted to be cuddled, soothed, and brought copious amounts of soup until you could start feeling better at last, to be cared for as a parent does for a child. 

You wanted Luke most of all, reaching out for the empty space next to you where he no longer was; The only remnants of his presence was that of his imprint left in the mattress, the imprint of which had been lovingly filled when you had first gone to rest the night before. 

You extended your arm, reaching for his pillow as you brought it close to you like a teddy bear. You nuzzled your face into it, gathering his scent, for the pillow smelt of him; eucalyptus, and the light mist of fresh springwater, paired with a flowery scent that you could not put your finger on but was comforting nevertheless. You did in fact worry that your germs would swarm the fabric, but you could always wash it later- you needed the comfort when in such a state as this, and you dearly hoped he would not mind (Which, in all probability, he wouldn’t).

A sharp pain then built in your throat, mimicking the sharp stabbing of a dozen knives as it caused you to cough about a dozen times. You couldn’t stop as hard as you tried, a tingling feeling in the back of your throat that demanded your coughs of suffrage as compensation. Your throat was beyond irritated, close to nausea after such a fit.

You just about wanted to cry, too tired to deal with this. It wasn’t fair, and so suddenly were you mourning the days when your illness was beyond comprehension, when you could lay back without the mucus wishing to be drained.

Furthermore, from a distance did Luke sense something to be wrong indeed, the very fabric of the force singing to him in silent desperation. He attempted to focus on it, yet the younglings had so many questions for him at this time in their lesson, therefore he waited until the break in between sessions to go and check on just what was the matter.

Once the break commenced, he was quick to return to you, wasting no time as he entered the home you had shared and built together. 

As he entered the bedroom, his heart dropped as he saw you curled up under the blankets, your poor figure shivering and holding his pillow to your body as you struggled to keep the coughs at bay.

You appeared so weak and delicate, suffering under the effects of a sneaky illness. He couldn’t stand to see you this way, immediately tending to your side as he crouched next to you, pressing a hand to your forehead before placing his lips there instead, feeling the warmth you radiated so violently.

“Luke?” You mumbled out, voice sounding so rough and weakened. You had barely noticed him enter the room, a telltale sign of your state.

“I’m here, star, im here…” He tried his best to give you a reassuring smile, despite how much it pained him to see you like this. “Sick, huh?”

You nodded with a frown, sniffling to drain your nose as your eyes wet themselves with the buildup of tears. “I don’t…don’t feel good-”

He had the strongest urge to care for you, to do everything in his power to make you feel a little less terrible than you did now. How could he leave you like this? His heart sank at seeing your state of being, and he simply wished to do all he could for you.

He made a choice in regards to the day he had originally planned, one he was perfectly content with.  “I’ll be right back, alright? Try and rest. Close your eyes for me, it’ll help.”

You complied, eyes falling heavy as you heard his footsteps disappear into the distance. You wondered what he was doing, although your brain was much too fried to think about anything too deeply. 

After a few minutes, he came right back, once again crouched by your side with a cold cloth to be placed on your forehead. You hummed in response, for it felt so nice on your skin. It was the best sensation you had felt all morning, compared to the waging war of your immune system.

You then remembered something, gazing up at him with tired eyes as it occurred to you. “Mmm’ Luke…don’t-” Cough, “-You have-” Cough. “-Class today?”

He smiled warmly, shaking his head as if to reassure you as quickly as possible. “I cancelled, don’t worry. Who else will take care of you but me?”

You were glad, although did not let it show as to not be selfish over his time you had stolen from the padawans. “You didn’t have to do that…”

“Star,” The loving nickname lingered over his tongue, drawing it out as if to question you with a hint of amusement in his tone. “You’re hugging my pillow for comfort- I think you need me.”

You blushed, or at least you think you did if your face isn’t already pink tinted. You and Luke were equally needy when it came to each other, sure, yet that intensified when you were sick- you’d have him glued to your side if you could.

He brought a hand to your forehead, brushing your hair out of your face with the tips of his fingers. “Can I make you some soup, see if that helps you?”

You nodded, weakly so. “Please…I would like that, if you don't mind.”

“The regular, I assume?” He asked for clarification, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He knew you liked to be cared for whilst also not wanting to be a burden, but to him, you could never be such a thing. Caring for you made him happy, for he could help soothe the one he loved most.

“Mhm.” You hummed in response, thus watching as he got up to make his way over to the kitchen, your eyes struggling to stay open as you found yourself succumbing to the dark fog that was a deserved nap.

It's truly a surprise that you could fall asleep at all when in such a condition, therefore you would take whatever chance you got for some rest.

Luke smiled to himself, knowing you were napping peacefully, and for that he was glad. It was the one moment in which you could have any true peace, not having to experience the effects that's plagued you so terribly. 

He loved you so much, and hated seeing you sick more than he naturally should. He loved seeing you smile, or strut about the room with such grace, making his heart burn for you with the sound of your laughter…but seeing you so weak and fragile, so pale and miserable at that, brought him great pain.

He gathered the ingredients at the kitchen counter, setting up the pot and cutting up some vegetables for your soup with a rapid ease.

He thought himself to be a decent cook, with recipes he already knew, at least. He had his aunt to thank for that, having taught him how to cook select recipes when he was growing up. 

This soup was always one of his favourites, and now one of yours, of which Beru had taught him how to make. It was a simple recipe, lots of spices- there was only one thing he had adjusted for your liking, and that was grating the carrots in as opposed to chopping them. It was a texture thing for you, mushy carrots not having much of an appeal.

The process of making it wasn’t too long, some time passing before he could bring it to you. He too took some time to allow it to cool down, too giving you more time to rest in the process. As he did this, he kept glancing back into the room you laid within, tinges of worry tainting his mind.

He quietly spoke your name as he nudged you awake, already having placed your soup on the bedside table for you. He made sure to be gentle with his nudges, not wishing to disrupt you poorly.

“Mm?” You hummed, voice raspy as your eyes fluttered open. “Oh…Hi.”

You were so sweet as you looked up at him, feeling awful yet still so happy to see him as you always were. It made his heart flutter with the dancing of butterflies.

He smiled, pressing his curved lips to your forehead again to read your temperature. “Still hot, I see. You should take the blanket off, i don’t want you to overheat or-”

“I’m always hot.” You tried to joke, yet it didn’t much land, for your tone was quite monotone and depressed sounding due to the physical state. “-But yes…”

You caused a slight chuckle to slip past him, and for that you were glad as he thus asked you to kindly sit up in order to eat the soup he had made for you.

You nodded, carefully and rather slowly pulling yourself up to sit with you back leaning against the headboard of your shared bed. 

“Good girl,” That smile was still on his face as he praised your efforts, causing you to blush. He didn’t mean it in any way that you may have been thinking, for it was a rather innocent praise.

He took the mug of soup from the nightstand, holding it carefully as he took the spoon, gathering some broth on it as he brought it to your lips. You had no complaints in regards to him helping you like this, so you parted your lips in return and allowed for him to ease the spoon into your mouth.

As you swallowed, it felt comfortingly warm against your throat and dry mouth, the spices dancing on your tongue as the flavours hit you like a harmonious song. 

“Thank you…” You spoke after a few more spoonfuls of soup, swallowing the liquid coating in your throat as you did so.

Luke is always so good to you, allowing for you to feel so loved and cared for. You couldn’t feel more appreciative of the man who sat before you. 

You reached a hand to him, cupping his cheek as you caressed the pink flesh with your thumb. Your touch was so gentle to him, perfectly delicate and warm due to the heat you radiated. 

“Can we cuddle, please?” You pleaded, giving him the cutest pout and puppy eyes. 

How could he say no when you asked so nicely, and needed him so much today? He was quite sure that his heart must be melting in his chest.

“Of course. It's hardly a question, you know. ” He smiled so warmly once again with a joy that felt like medicine, placing the mug on the bedside table as you scooched over for him, giving him room to lay with your back to his chest.

You worried that facing him would put him at risk of gathering your germs, therefore spooning was the safest position…yet part of you hated that very fact. Your love language is physical affection; you wanted to kiss him, to place your lips all over his rosy cheeks and soft lips, and you wanted just the same from him in return. 

He had his leg draped over your own, his face nuzzled into your hair and neck as his hand found its place upon your chest, feeling your heartbeat thump against him in a calming manner. It was peaceful to know your blood was pumping healthily through your veins, even in a state that may have left you feeling as if death was on its way. 

Though, he could indeed sense something was bothering you, a sudden riff like the waves on a calm ocean becoming disturbed. Something was on your mind.

“Star, is something wrong?”

You would feel rather silly having to explain that you’re pouting because you can’t kiss him until you get better, so you brushed it off instead. “Mmm no, just keep holding me, okay?”

He wasn’t buying it, but just nodded, pressing a kiss to your hair as he felt the disturbance once again. He was beginning to catch on, smiling to himself for the fact that you were always so needy for him, craving his affection; he adored it, truth be told. He felt so wanted and loved because of it, but make no mistake, he still wished to comfort the anguish of which he was not so very fond of in comparison.

You felt him pull away from you before slowly and gently nudging you around to face him, leaving you half laying on your back. He placed a hand on your chin, thumb running over your bottom lip as he began to question you. “Starflower, be honest with me; are you upset because you think I can't kiss you?”

You blushed, forgetting how quickly he catches onto things. “Well…but you…you know can’t- i’ll get you sick and i don’t wanna be the reason you get sick…”

“You didn’t answer my question.” His tone was both reassuring to protect you from embarrassment, while also teasing at once.

You sighed, pushing a cough down your throat as you did so. “Yes…I am- don’t laugh at me.”

He shook his head, blushing just as you were. “I'm not laughing, I promise.”

You tried to hide your face in the pillows, escaping his gaze as his grasp drifted to run through your hair soothingly. “I’m not afraid to kiss you just because of a few germs. You only have to ask me.”

“It would be selfish to get you sick, Luke.”

“And it would be selfish for me to deny you when you want me…Star, there is nothing I would hesitate to give you.”

You peered up at him again with the brightest blush, shy to give in. “Don’t blame me when you get sick then.”

His heart thumped in his chest, eyes switching between your lips and your sleepy eyes. “The padawans deserve a break for how hard they have been working, and we get to spend time together. I don’t sense a problem with this.” 

He had his right arm resting on the other side of your head as he looked down on you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. A few quiet moments passed like this, finding comfort in close proximity before you thus spoke quietly, pushing a smile from your lips. “Kiss me, please…”

“Hm? What was that, sweetheart?” He lightly teased, wishing to lighten the mood further, thinking a tad bit of silliness may ease your mind. 

“Luke…” You whined, pouting. Although, there was a part of you that would have giggled if not for being sick.

He let out a chuckle, lowering his lips onto your own as they connected, latching onto one another as if they had moulded to fit together as a perfect puzzle piece over the years. The kiss was soft, and left your lips feeling warm and tingly as his kisses always did. Even the curves of your smiles blended together smoothly, considered almost addicting.

You could feel the tug of his smile against your own throughout the entirety of the moment, so blissful even when in the company of countless germs. It was a lovely contrast, truly. That was what you loved most, the fact he could make the dark times seem like a paradise.

Reluctantly did he pull away, yet not far enough for his hot breath still danced against your skin. “See? That wasn’t so bad, star…”

You shook your head, raising your arms up to wrap around his neck. “Just wait until you get sick, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, coughing along the way and yet not phasing him in the least as the germs were likely spread over him. “You’re ridiculous, Skywalker.”

“I’m only in love.”

With another cough, you spoke. “When did you get so cheesy?”

This would be one cue to say something along the lines of “when i fell in love with you”, but fortunately for you, he instead replaces such a phrase with another interlocking of lips instead. Suddenly, being sick wasn’t so bad as it once appeared…

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Topsy Turvy Days in Scarabia

What are the chances that the Adeuce combi somehow both ended up picking the same alternate dorm to be in 🤣

Azul voice) You two are downgrades from Jade and Floyd.

The Sorcerer of the Sands, and his Spirit of Mindfulness.

Azul Ashengrotto…

… leaves the Mostro Lounge in Trey’s capable (enough) hands and packs his own bags for the sands! To Azul, this dorm exchange program is just another extended business trip, and he intends to capitalize on every possible moment of it! The seeds he sows today will become fruitful sources of connections, supplies, and revenue for the future. Look at that, he’s already thinking with all the forethought and mindfulness of a Scarabia student!

He’s wise enough to prep in advance for what he knows will be a difficult climate to adjust to. Part of Azul’s luggage contains transition lens glasses (to deal with the sun!), a variety of moisturizers, and a massive water bottle to keep himself hydrated and to slow the loss of moisture in his very delicate merman skin! But no matter how dry or overheated he may get, Azul absolutely refuses to assume his merform or to unceremoniously submerge himself in water in very public places (the fountain, the desert oasis). He’ll stay here in the shade, thank you very much!!

As soon as Azul pulls up to his new dorm, he starts greeting and cozying up to people, bowing, shaking hands, and handing out his business cards like they’re candy. (A good first impression is very important to establish amicable relationships!!) “Please do feel free to get in contact should you ever be in need of assistance,” he insists, sliding his card and a smile over. “I would be more than happy to hear your woes.”

It isn’t long before Azul learns that life in Scarabia is runs at its own pace. Under Kalim’s reign, the students are just kind of allowed to do whatever they want (and though they are intelligent, the lax leadership has not encouraged them to meet their full potentials). Azul seizes the opportunity to take charge of those poor, unfortunate souls, leading study sessions and guiding them through mentally enriching activities (cooking, crushing other at board games, etc). Once the Scarabia students are in his debt, he can call on them for favors 🙃

He’s nosy, so he’ll snoop around Scarabia looking for anything of interest. (If anyone catches him, Azul will explain it away as “just being curious” about the architecture of the dorm. There’s all sorts of things to ogle and make note of, from the unique flora and rich fabrics that adorn the lounge to the ornate lanterns strung overhead and the rare spices lining the kitchen cabinets. The list of things he wants to acquire for the Mostro Lounge grows ever longer…

Azul happens upon Scarabia’s storage room and marvels at all the jewels and other treasures contained within it—but though he admires that enormous wealth, he refrains from taking any of it for himself. That amount of money is something he wants to be able to earn for himself, not shamelessly steal. Goals reaffirmed, Azul sets his sights to a future lined with gold.

He doesn’t intentionally concern himself with babysitting Ace or Deuce, but their paths inevitably cross. Azul has to be the one to tell them off or to get them out of trouble, because if the duo fucks up hard then it makes him, by association as an outsider, look bad. In other words… those meddling kids are getting in his way again!!

Azul not-so-subtly hints that he would like for everyone to put in a good word about him to Kalim and Jamil upon their return. Imagine the benefits Azul could reap if he connected with Kalim’s father, or he could befriend someone as skilled as Jamil!! (Somewhere in Ignihyde, Jamil sneezes.) He sells the idea to Scarabia as “I wish to deepen the bonds between your dorm and Octavinelle!” … and enough of them buy it for him to be satisfied with all the efforts he out into this con investment.

“Fufu. Truly, the cultural differences of the land and the sea are nowhere near as vast as they are between Scarabia and Octavinelle. That is, perhaps, what lends each of us our unique strengths and assets. I have become all the richer for all the knowledge and the connections I have made here. May we forge an ever stronger union between the world above and the world below the depths, so that we may create a whole new world together.”

Ace Trappola…

… is tugged by the ear and forced to sit down for a “chat” with Riddle before he’s let loose in Scarabia. He’s in for a looong lecture about “proper etiquette” and “respecting the legacy of the Sorcerer of the Sands”. Ace just rolls his eyes and goes, “Why do only I have to sit through this and not Deuce?! This is discrimination against ME specifically!!” (There’s a fiery back-and-forth between them, concluding with Ace reassuring his dorm leader Riddle doesn’t need to “worry his own damn head off” about his behavior “cuz I can handle myself just fine!” He’s got to keep one jump ahead of the lawmen—)

… Anyway, Ace then proceeds to live a very hedonistic lifestyle at Scarabia like a stereotypical frat bro or something 🤣 The luxury’s here, so he might as well indulge and enjoy it while he can!! You’ll often find him reclined in a sea of silk cushions, soaking up the sunshine and snacking on whatever is left lying around on their tables.

The opulence kind of goes to his head at a certain point; Ace starts snapping pics of all the cool stuff Scarabia has and posting it on Magicam to flex on his haters followers. Here’s Ace running his hands through piles of gold while he’s literally swimming in it. and here’s Ace sticking his tongue out at the camera while lying on a complicated tapestry. (There are consistent likes from Cater, but also DM requests from Riddle coming in, which Ace promptly ignores.)

With his quick wit and bright personality, he makes quick friends in Scarabia. Ace likes doing character impressions for his new buddies, which are always sure to earn him applause and laughter. His most popular impression at the moment is Jamil (whom Ace knows rather intimately thanks to their many encounters during VDC/SDC training camp and in Basketball Club). “Wow, that’s exactly what Jamil-senpai sounds like!!” the Scarabia students cry out in awe.

Ace parties hard at the banquets (which, in the absence of Jamil, Azul has organized)!! Without all the stuffy rules and regulations of Heartslabyul to keep him down, nothing’s stopping Ace from dancing the night away and eating ‘til he passes out from a food coma! He’s here for a good time, not a long time!

He plays some games with his new dorm members, but doesn’t exactly always do so fairly. While the opponent’s distracted, Ace will get ahead by making an extra move or using sleight of hand to remove an important piece from play. )That’s how he ends up winning so many games of mancala!) When Deuce calls him out on this, Ace just shrugs and tells him, “I’m not cheating! I’m using deliberation, idiot. That makes me an ideal Scarabia student!”

Ace isn’t above pocketing some of the loot from the storage room. He doesn’t try to take as much of it as he can unlike a certain hyena would, but just a few large rubies he thinks he could resell for a good price. (Kalim-senpai won’t mind, right? He’s got tons of these, he’s probably hand me a whole sack of ‘em if I asked! Ace reasons with himself. Besides, I don’t have enough spending money for myself this week! I should just do this now while Jamil-senpai’s not around.)

When you think that’s the worst of the antics he gets up to… think again! Late in the evenings, once everyone else has gone to sleep, Ace sneaks out and steals the magic carpet for a starry joyride! He soars, tumbles, and freewheels through and endless diamond sky, in a whole new world way up in the clouds. It is here where he feels the most free—free from the rules, from the expectations, free from the inhibitions, free from everything.

“Man, Scarabia’s awesome!! I can basically do and say whatever I want, there’s no Riddle ryocho breathing down my neck… This is definitely right up my alley!! … I say that, but Heartslabyul’s got a heck of a lot going for it too. I guess in the end there’s no place like ‘home’, huh? N-Not that I miss Heartslabyul or anything, like I’d miss that place and its teapot tyrant!!”

Deuce Spade…

… is all fired up for Scarabia!! He’s been doing a ton of self-reflection lately, and he knows that an area of weakness for him is stopping to think before he acts. What better way to work on that then immersing himself in a dorm teeming with mindful students? Maybe some of their smarts will rub off on him!!

Deuce appreciates that Scarabia’s uniform allows for liberal movement. He’s also pretty fond of the flames on his new hotpants; he thinks they’re super cool, and they remind him of how used to dress as a delinquent. “It’d look even more cool if we added skulls! Can I add some patches to my uniform?” he asks, earning stares from Ace (”Dude, how edgy are you?!” and Azul (”I would refrain from tailoring your borrowed uniform, Deuce-san. That is a privilege reserved for dorm leaders.”).

Without their Heartslabyul senpai to keep an eye on them, Deuce vows to keep his fellow first year under control! (That’s what an honor student would do!) Unfortunately for Deuce, that more often than not leads to bickering, and then him getting roped into Ace’s shenanigans rather than stopping them… like the time Deuce stepped on the magic carpet while trying to yoink it out of Ace’s hands, spooking it and sending it shooting out of the window with both of the boys clinging onto it!! (“You’re just as guilty as I am now, so don’t tell a soul or we’ll both be busted!!” Ace hisses at him. “You’re the one that hijacked Asim-senpai’s stuff though!!” Deuce shoots back. “Go and apologize to him right now!!” The magic carpet wonders if all Heartslabyul kids are like this.)

The menagerie of animals kept at Scarabia (mostly on account of Kalim) is huge. Deuce becomes particularly enthralled by the exotic birds, though he can’t keep any of their names straight so he just calls them different kinds of variants of chicken. (”They can’t ALL be chickens, Loosey Deucey!” Ace sighs, bonking him on the head.)

He defers to Azul’s authority, since he’s a dorm leader and their upperclassman! Sure, Azul kind of has a shady record, but Deuce decides to place his trust in him regardless. He believes that if he’s making an honest effort to change, then so can Azul–and everyone deserves a second chance, right? The merman finds Deuce’s naivete childish yet oddly charming, for it is his willingness to forgive that reminds him so much of Kalim in the aftermath of Jamil’s… incident. He’s not wrong, Azul muses. People are capable of change. Even a diamond can be found in the rough.

Deuce takes the time to keep up with his training for Track and Field Club even in a whole new dorm! You’ll find him sprinting around the perimeter of Scarabia, occasionally trekking all the way out to the desert oasis on particularly rigorous workouts. (It’s a challenge since the sands interfere with his speed!) Once his routine is done, he’ll dunk his whole head in a fountain or in the oasis waters to refresh himself!!

There are times when he makes his way to the oasis when he’s frustrated or needs some alone time. It’s the next closest thing to the ocean, and the only body of water big enough for him to shout to. He’ll vent about his inadequacies and the difficulties of catching up to those who are naturally talented–but once he has laid out all of his feelings, Deuce feels much better, and ready to tackle the next day at full throttle!

He becomes absolutely fascinated by the idea of astrology and divinations (areas which students of Scarabia often excel in). Deuce asks for them to tell his fortune or to see into the future using the stars!! … His stares of anticipation are so intense that the Scarabia students feel awkward while they go through the process–but once Deuce has his reading, whether it’s good or bad, he gets even more motivated to do his best. Affirming a good prediction or turning over a bad one–that power’s up to him and him alone to wield!

“The more I see of Scarabia, the more I realize how much there’s still left for me to learn. I didn’t know there was food so spicy it makes you feel like your tongue fell off, or that stars could be so bright up close. I thought I was a chick before, but I was wrong! I’m still barely hatched from my egg! So… I’ll use the time I have left here to learn everything I can. I’ll go back to Heartslabyul a better man than I was yesterday!”

[mercless]

the powder witch contemplates: ' y'ever wonder what it's like to die ? or maybe you know already , since you're so old and got whole libraries in your head . there's gotta've been stories of people like him , right ? died and came back ? they ever say what it's like ? ' a pause , quieter . ' must've not been so nice . if it had been , he'd talk more about it , right ? ' ' do demons like you even die ? sure go down , but — ' a wave of her hand , features pulling into grimace as she begins to regret having raised the topic to begin with . ' ... you know what i mean . ' @windchaser

Weary eyes watching that wavering horizon don't bother turning to the powder witch and her steed walking beside them. Her habit of musing any and everything on her mind was still taking the hellspawn some getting used to. But the deal that hung above them like a glinting blade on a sliver of thread - to be a guide and source of information to these fine folk looking to stop the inevitable - was one hell of a motivator to become quickly accustomed to this prolonged company. It isn't until Rell's words settle around them both, and the possibility they don't even grace her with a response arises, that Talon heaves a breath past their teeth. A tongue close behind the air brushes over the rows, attempting to dislodge that feather stuck in the back to little avail as their otherwise soundless march continues.

"'Libraries'… Bit of an exaggeration. I don't go lookin' for every poor souls story." An encyclopedia of tall tales, misquoted passages, and drunken ramblings felt more fitting a description for their collected knowledge. In their unbias, reliable opinion. "He's not the first gunslinger to ever return to the land of the living. Although, he's far from a revival like her intervention was..." A cough catches in their throat, but it's not long before their dry droll continues over the related tale. She could ask another time, if curiosity lingered.

"Death's been unreliable for a while now, but it wasn't ever the same for everyone either. I've seen it often enough to know what generally takes place." They decide to not state the obvious how, a small attempt to preserve the witch's current mood. Why would they care about such a thing… "When the souls left it's body, there's no more fear. No more joy or curiosity, no hunger for more. No more mortal woes."

"… Then there are those who don't go so quietly. Ghosts, cursed souls, those who've had their fate tampered with…"

A glance at the undead gunslinger bringing up the rear of their merry band is made over Talon's shoulder, giving away that the discussion was about him. It wouldn't be a surprise to Yone, though; when the young witch ever approached the demon, he was always in earshot. A hand ghosting a holster or sheath. "Our companion isn't one for many words, whether they be for recounting wonderous events, or hellish memories." A cant of their head lifts the wide brim of their hat enough for the two of them to meet the other's eye, if either of them wishes. The sun had fallen enough to not blind Talon, hiding behind the plated hindquarters of the metal beast keeping pace with them. There were plentiful reason for her to be on this doomed quest. They would like it to be revenge, but a nagging feeling of it not lasting as the sole reason dampens any potential fun. Something weak in their chest bemoans her to not give time to the thoughts of the beyond. But then, with everything so decayed around them, whatever else was there for a troubled mind to dwell on? "He has a reason for not movin' on. Maybe even he don't know it exactly. Could even change to something else he finds an' takes ahold of. Nothings gonna be gained if the truth is wrung out of him."

Blunt fingers scratch at the red scarf laid across their chest, trying to displace the sprouting growth tangling in the fabric's folds. Scraping the barrel on their knowledge of the beyond, and their half-baked hunches on the gunslinger, left only her last, uncomfortable question. A flash of teeth at the word 'down' was accidental, but the irony found in it pulled at blackened gums. Silently they wonder when they would see those caverns of endless torment and fire again, but it was something they could never share with a soul like hers. It's enough of an awakening from their ramblings to recall what their nature is. What they are. "Demons like me, don't go around kicking buckets." Talon's hunched posture straightens then, head turning over their shoulder as they speak clearly for everyone in the small posse.

"I'm sure you're both eager to find out what does happen, though."

[thetetra]

Alright so I was reminded of a story which I call "Librarians bite"

I tried college on for size 4 or 5 times before it really stuck and I went all the way towards a major (I accidentally got a double major, on accident, but that's another story).

My last go at it I was pretty good at it and I was very enthusiastic about the library and how it was a no judgement zone. You can show up a complete moron and the help desk will help you IF you go in early enough. I always told people "Its okay Librarians don't bite!"

So due to my many attempts at college my required courses were all screwed up. So my last term I had to take "how to write a research paper" after I had that shit on lockdown. So I decided to have fun with it and research "A medieval technology that hasn't changed even to this day". Which was harder than I thought.

Horse tack! how to harness a horse has to be something they mastered in... oh in the 1800s they figured out a better way. Okay well how about .... oh umm no. Finally I gave up and decided to write about soap because it went ALL THE WAY!!! till the 50s and 60s then got replaced by detergent. Sure there's technology that hasn't been replaced at all but none that was distinctly medieval and not upgraded since then. So fuck it soap it is.

I get to the library and I find plenty of books on the first instances of soap (Romans wrote down that the Gauls had this red hair product that looked like blood... due to all the blood in it) the original uses (man this shit really softens up fibers for weaving!) and then I started looking for books that talked about the switch to detergents. Nope, 1960 is too recent. BUT there are industry magazines that talk about detergents between 1950 and 1960.

So off to the microfiche collection!

I looked the appropriate section up, pulled the editions I wanted and... its perfume. Lovely article about how pheromones are too delicate and break down so we can't actually put human pheromones in perfumes (uhh wat?). So I go and look it up again. Same section same problem. I googled the Dewey decimal system and made sure I had it right... according to my best reckoning I did.

Okay off to the help desk. I show up with the microfiche in hand and immediately have to explain "no no I can operate the machine that's not the problem" and start explaining my issue. The help desk clerk does all the double checking I just did and eventually decides "yeah you didn't fuck this up" (paraphrased).

So I get to talk to the help desk librarian and... it just so happened that she was the keeper of the microfilm and microfiche collections. We confirmed that I had 2 weeks till my paper was due, that I had looked for other sources and found them and then we finally went al looked at the microfiche.. we again confirm that I have the right Dewey decimal system spot. And then the change happened. She was skeptical, ahe was stern, but she was helpful and respectful.

Then she (a 5'2" 100lbs woman) grabbed my (6' 300 lbs man) arm and dragged me along like I was a kite in a storm. a tiny scared kite in a big scary storm.

I am a large guy. I have always been larger than my peers. I have learned that I have to take steps to not appear scary. I am respectful of boundaries and rules, I don't raise my voice or show any extreme of emotion. So when I got dragged into the back room STAFF ONLY rooms of the library I was uncomfortable. I was then dragged into offices, disrupted phone calls and breaking up meetings. these calm Clark Kenteon librarians became an ironic barbarian horde who were going to ransack the world till their archives were restored to good order. Minime Logos Minime Pax ( pardon my poor Latin).

Once they were assembled, me still held firmly by the wrist, my librarian told the tribe of my tale of academic woe. Looks of anger and shock made homes on everyone's faces. I can still remember my librarian being so angry that she bit the air with every word. like she was devouring the fabric of existence itself in an attempt to sate her hunger.

Then a very precise and orderly pecking order of people spoke up. First a librarian who was in charge of usage statistics spoke on how the information I was requesting had not been looked at in more than 20 years. Next a librarian who was in charge of what was on the floor and what was in storage spoke up and expressed how the perfume trade magazines were supposed to be in storage and the chemical industry available because we had an active chemistry department.

Thusly in short order the storage location was put on the conference call phone and queried about what was in the box that was supposed to hold the perfume trade magazine microfiche. 5 minutes of rummaging on the phone and we had confirmation, my chemical trade magazines talking about detergent were directly swapped.

a courier was immediately dispatched to bring me my requested study materials and I was finally unhanded, guided to a study room and sat down while they brought me print outs of everything I asked for... printing fee waived.

So now I tell people that you should go to the library and to have plenty of time before your paper to find and checkout needed study materials... but I no longer say that librarians don't bite.

[uyuartik]

othello ch.5| anakin skywalker x reader

tags: othello au mini series, no major character death (just want to make that clear), borderline dark fic, anakin's shifty nature, finally some revelations about things, betrayals, probably the most unedited chapter in the series...

summary: Things finally unravel.

also crossposted on ao3!

word count: 2271

prologue | ch.1 | ch.2 | ch.3 | ch.4 | ch.5 | finale

chapter 5

His heart settled on one thing in the morning, when he saw your room, every drawer and wardrobe open, contents on the floor forming a cloud made out of fabrics, and you, curled up on the bed, totally inconsolable despite Emilia’s best efforts. The redness of your eyes indicated two things clearly, how you lacked sleep and how you spent the night crying instead. Emilia seemed to share your woes too, her face was sunken and wet and weary- yet nowhere compared to yours. He all saw this through the ajar door, the hallway empty of the anxious maids, deflected by the echoing your sobs. Your face was pressed to the pillows, yet Emilia was sitting, so she was the only one who noticed his presence, and that split-second eye contact was enough to convey her aversion. But like yesterday, there was something off- the disapproval that came from how he was unfit to be with you, that he would treat you poorer than you deserved eventually (even though she had every reason to believe that was the case), or the partiality he faced was not the source of her emotions. It was personal, as if she was more tentative now, fearing the damage could be lodged to her too. It was fear, hidden under these bluffs, scattering anger as a cover.

What bluffs did she have for you, then?

As much as his mind was still divided, the urge to believe in you weighed heavier, as always. And whatever the case, he couldn’t stand seeing you upset. His heart rotted whenever he witnessed even the slightest downturn of the corner of your lips, let alone tear yourself up like this. But the roots of evil Iago had planted dug deeper into his spirit, and he couldn’t interact with you without resolving this matter once and for all. Also, the thought of separating you from your only “friend”, was downright cruel. He was not perfect, but he would never be that wicked.  

Thus, he kept on walking, throwing himself out of the house with only a purpose on his mind.

===

The method did not come easily to him as the purpose did- and he found himself scouring every neighborhood, every pub, every commander’s room to find a clue, to find someone who could spill the answers, yet he was not that lucky, and now he had no idea how he spent the entire day, achieving nothing but strains in his muscles.

When his feet led him back to his home, late in the night, all that changed.

He was ready to hear the whispers of the staff, quietly but surely talking about the day they left on the way to their respite, but that was not the source of the hushed argument that reached his ears. His eyes were quick to locate the source- Emilia and Iago tucked away in a corner, having a heated discourse that clearly was too urgent be had that they couldn’t wait to be in their own house. Normally, he would not eavesdrop on this- he had a beautiful life that didn’t involve this kind of transgression.

But, having Iago slither into his very soul, and the inclinations he had about her this morning, Anakin listened.

And he heard enough.

“-you need to give it back. Whatever feud you have with Othello- I don’t mind it. But she doesn’t deserve this.“

“He deserves it for letting me rot while he makes a captain out of that scoundrel Cassio, so she toodeserves it. I won’t let him have even the luxury of her, he will know total desperation, just the way he made me desperate! First, I took his right-hand man away, disgraced him with his own foolish shenanigans and with his own lust for that local whore, I shall end him, and in the process, she will be tarnished too, another black spot in his life.”

“Do you even listen? The way you’re handling this- we’re going to lose it all! If they learn I gave that handkerchief to you, it will all come down. This has gone too far, I never agreed to things ending up like this.”

 “Come down?” He snickered. ”I am about to win it all! If you have so much concerns now, you may better pray that she doesn’t have enough life left in her to find out the truth, fiance.”

God, he could strangle both of them on the spot without as much as twitching.

Knowing only that it was his plot, without all the details that heralded him into this position- he would still be content and his conscious would be at peace forever, even washed in their blood. He knew that reason said that he should lock them up first, make them confess, for everyone and for you to learn but a part of him knew, hoped that you’d believe him if he just said what he’s heard- you’d still believe him- and even if you didn’t, it’d because he deserved it, and he would gladly surrender to the fact.

But, he didn’t do any of those. With his nails digging into his palms enough to draw blood, he saw the couple resuming the fight, and he made his way to you, to warn you about Emilia. Every word she had uttered to you was poison, and you needed the antidote, fast. He first had to be sure that you knew that.

When he met your sleeping body, he felt the air returning to his lungs again.

Safe.

Curled atop your wedding sheets.

Of course, he couldn’t help but remember that night. Nothing but the pitch black sea across the horizon, the faint sounds of the crew and their little illicit party they were having down the deck (well, it was only useful that there was noise to drown out yours, and who was Anakin to deny them happiness while he found the lifelong source of it), your relatively small dowry chest tucked into the corner of his cabin… Your white nightgown and the linen sheets were probably sitting in it for ages, all planned out years ago, yet the unplanned part was just as magical, like how deft you were to open his buttons (he had to comment on your talent- knowing it was not talent but eagerness, the joke perhaps not suited for the occasion but you two made it work) and how ticklish you were when he touched your waist for the first time. You had ended up in pretty much the exact position, only with the addition of his body hugging you from behind, the sweat gleaming on your skin, breathless and smiling with all your teeth.

How much and how little had changed since then?

“Ani?”

Shit, before bringing himself to hinder you from the only peace you’ve known lately, you had woken up. Your voice was creaking, and your eyes were barely open, stinging due to all those tears, and you moved slowly, raising only half of your body from the bed.

He strode against the room in three large steps, kneeling beside you. Still, you were so disoriented that your body refused to straighten, to dangle your legs from the edge of the bed. The only reaction you had was your low sound of surprise that caught against the rawness of your throat and mattered little in terms of pitch.

“Ani- My lord… I can’t find it anywhere.”

“I will make this go away, and beg for your forgiveness til the end of times.” He looked at your puffy eyes, even if yours escaped his gaze. His hands landed beside your thighs, not touching, for he saved that for later, for the time you needed it more than his explanation. He had frightened you enough. “Just stay here, and don’t let anybody in.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I will explain it later, angel.”

Your heart fluttered at the adoration he used. It almost created a whiplash effect, another earthquake to shatter your world, but alsoa wave of relief washed over your mind, clearing doubts from it. You were still in the dark, proven by this exact position, his restriction of himself to touch you, the promise of his plea, but it was enough for you to feel lighter, unburdened after days of emotional heavy lifting.

Unfortunately, time was of the essence when there were traitors on the loose, so he stood up, murder in his eyes. You still reached for him. “Please, don’t leave.”

“I’ll be back once I make this right.”

“No, wait.”

You were finally on your feet by the time all hell broke loose.

 His eyes flitted to the door, spotting the bitch you called a friend, watching dread fill her eyes. She dropped the tray she was carrying, and the disturbing noise echoed through the hallway. You opened your mouth-

“Don’t speak to her!” Anakin shouted, and walked towards her, his body towering over hers in a blink. He grabbed her arm, and while it was nothing good, the fury in his face suggested he was holding himself back from doing worse. “You thief! Living under our roof, eating our food, stealing from her and pretending to care for her like it wasn’t your doing!” He dragged her downstairs, to the garden where he had seen them minutes ago, unphased by screams that came from both of you. Even a servant shrieked a little when she saw the scene, quickly covering her mouth with her hand and stepping back in order to stay away from the route he was storming through.

The only reason he stopped, halfway through the gates, in the middle of the garden­ – the wet grass reminded you that your feet were bare a little too late- was that he spotted the actual mastermind, the man who turned his weeks into a living hell for his own treacherous reasons. He strode towards him with a newfound ferocity, yanking his hand back from her with disgust. She fell, as a victim of momentum.

“You!”

It was taken. Just as he said. And it was Emilia who took it.

And it was only half of the news. The remaining part was everyone’s guess, albeit it was more of a belief at first, a fact, undetailed and consequence-free. You came to terms with that after your shift.

You don’t know why you acted the way you are, planting yourself between Iago and Anakin, but that’s where you found yourself. Perhaps it was the sight of Anakin reaching for his sword, while Iago was a little too late to act on his own weapon. Because you knew when your husband appealed to violence, it ended swiftly and permanently. That was not the fate he deserved.

As the bringer of this plot, as the maker of your agony, he deserved every tormenting second of his confession, and trial, the humiliation for his atrocious wishes, the shame of carrying this fate til death paid him a visit.

And his punishment started now. With his own words, spilled in utter defeat.

Anakin, as his hand rested on the handle of his blade, and you, your airy touch on his wrist, ready to retreat at any moment, posed enough threat for him to speak.

“Drop your sword.” Anakin commanded, and he unbuckled the belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clitter. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I might’ve not ended you, but I will rejoice with the knowledge that I gave you hell for a couple of weeks.”

So. It was true.

“What about the hell you’re giving yourself and everyone around you for the rest of your life?”

Emilia’s sob echoed.

“I. Have. No. Regrets.”

He truly was the devil, standing in front of you, smirking.

You didn’t know how it happened, but your fingers acted on the dagger Anakin kept at his waist, and you hurtled it towards Iago with a scream-

It didn’t meet his body, for your arm was captured in the air by Anakin.

What were you doing?

This was the first and only time you’ve understood the urge to kill, to be the justice itself, acting out your own laws and punishments, and it didn’t feel wrong at all. You could’ve defended that this was the right way, putting shame on all your moral and societal values. He deserved the pain, the wound and the beating, and you deserved to implement them, hurt him for the hurt he’s caused, perhaps a remedy to your blinding need for vengeance.So, you just squeezed your palm around it tighter while surrendering to Anakin, keeping your muscles tight enough to parallel his, letting him wrap his other hand around your waist, tucking your shoulder under his chin. His warm breath synchronized with yours, anchoring you to the world. The weight of your fury was being shared, and you felt it become more bearable yet burn brighter at the same time.

“And I will laugh forever with the fact that I. broke. her.” Iago spat, eyes boring into yours shamelessly.

“No, the only fact is how far you are to have true love.” Anakin glared. Stepping sideways, the two of you allowed his eyes to spot the now empty spot where Emilia once fell. You saw the fury being reignited in his face, but the mixture of basic emotions that brew inside invisible, the disappointment and jaelousy… What she has done was nothing unhonorable, whether it be running away from her evil fiance, or surrendering herself to the nearest authority.

She had to live with herself after all, and that was her punishment.

[loveydoveylex]

A little drabble I wrote full of fluff and comfort when I was sad. Super short because my laptop's keyboard broke and so I wrote this with a virtual on-screen keyboard. 0/10 experience. Anyways, enjoy! ❤

Soft shuffling was heard through the quiet depths of the Clearleaf Forest as one particular limbless critter searched the woods for the presence of his lover - whom he knew well enough to assume that he was more than likely spending his free time on such a sunny day relaxing against a tree, like the nature lover he was at heart.

The aforementioned limbless critter - of course known as Lex - slowly and carefully wandered across the tall, wild, overgrown greenery, keeping his eyes peeled to the ground below him. Every step he took was thoughtfully calculated, making absolutely sure not to accidentally cross paths with a lost bug or a blooming flower hiding between the blades of grass - whether fauna or flora, he didn’t want to cause any harm, after all.

Just as he had hoped, his intuition hadn’t failed him, as he began to pick up on the sound of an apple being crunched on nearby.

His pace quickened as he followed the sound of chewing, and sure enough, it didn’t take long for him to be spotted by the source of it; naturally (and fortunately!) being none other than the good old hoodie-wearing hero of these lands, Rayman, who wasted no time in throwing away the remaining apple core in his hands and flashing a bright smile at his partner.

“Lex!”, he beamed, though Lex only responded with a weak wave and a half-smile, before pointing at the patch of grass next to Rayman, as if silently asking for permission to sit down.

Rayman’s grin didn’t falter, and he nodded, scooting ever so slightly to the side to allow for more space, patting the spot. “You know there’s always room for you wherever I go. C’mere.”

With that, Lex found himself stepping over to Rayman’s side in silence. Placing his back against the thick, mossy oak tree behind them, he slid down to land on the grass below, which was littered with fallen leaves from above. Wordlessly, and before Rayman even got a chance to speak himself, Lex leaned in to rest his head on Rayman’s shoulder - at least, the closest thing he had to a shoulder - as he let out a breathy sigh. Rayman could practically feel all of the tension in Lex’s body leave as he comfortably propped his head down on his lover.

“…Rough day?”, Rayman spoke, his hand moving up to play with Lex’s coarse hair, occasionally letting his fingers run through the strands. The familiar feeling of his gloves’ worn out fabric helped put Lex at ease as he simply let out a hum in affirmation. Rayman nodded in response, continuing his acts of comfort.

The two stayed like that for a while, before Rayman lowered his hand ever so slightly, letting it gently slide down the back of Lex’s head and eventually rest on his upper back, where he traced circles through his thick sweater. Lex melted into the touch, weakly smiling as he nuzzled his face up against Rayman’s. This prompted a gentle chuckle from the hero, whose motions slowly came to a stop, though he kept his hand in that same place. With this, he readjusted his position slightly, moving even closer to Lex and wrapping his free hand around him as well, enveloping him in a warm hug.

“You okay like this?”

Lex nodded, lowering his head to rest on Rayman’s chest as he snuggled in as close as physically possible, the soft fabric of his beloved’s purple hoodie grazing his cheeks. Rayman - whilst still holding Lex in his embrace - couldn’t hold back a lovestruck smile at the sight, planting a tender kiss in Lex’s hair.

Lex’s lips curled upwards at the sensation as he felt his worries and woes drift away to the sound of Rayman’s peaceful heartbeat.

“…We can stay like this for as long as you want,” Rayman tenderly cooed, doing everything in his power to make Lex feel content and calm. “You don’t have to say a word. You’re safe with me, baby. I promise.”

And so, as the sun shone through the foliage to warm the two sweethearts in a dim sunbeam, a sense of peace fluttered through the air. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

[yzeltia]

FFXIVwrite2023 20.Hamper

Characters: Krile Baldesion, G'raha Tia Expansion: Endwalker (No Spoilers) Rating: Teen Notes: I tried not to write about the lucky shorts. Moen Moen shook them out of me. I'm sorry friends.

Krile was taken aback upon entry to G'raha and Keith's apartment. Her dear friend had requested her assistance with some light housekeeping, near desperate in fact. With their daughter essentially arriving out of the aether, her assumption had been that the Miqo'te was struggling to keep up with the mess young ones tended to make. She was surprised to find this was not the source of his domestic woes.

No, G'khenna's things were nearly neatly arranged in a corner. Her desk was organized so all her school books were alphabetized, bookends with a photo of her and her family on one side with a captured moment of leave between her and Khloe on the other. At the side a small crystal magic rod, an umbrella, and a foil with a focus hung off it were latched into custom notches of the desk's top. From pencils to aetheric charts, all the little girl's things had a proper place and were put so. 

No, what ailed the other Archon was not that of his young girl, but of his adult Hyur husband. On the floor in their bedroom, G'raha sat surrounded by the carelessly discarded things of his husband while Krile looked on from the door.

"Scholar save me. How can any one person be this messy? I did not realize how careless he is with his belongings," the Miqo'te groaned, pushing Keith's dumbbells under the end of their bed where he'd taken to storing his other athletic gear.

"Love has a way of blinding us to our partners' habits, Raha. Perhaps a little light scolding is due," Krile said, lightly bending to pick up a few discarded shirts, "Though, how have you let it get this bad?"

G'raha closed his eyes and tilted his head back, ears folding as he swallowed.

"We divided up our chores. His talents lay in the kitchen so I was relegated to the other odds and ends around the apartment. Laundry was among them I suppose."

"So this is more or less a mess of your own making?"

"I've been busy with adventuring and my studies. I know I said I'd pick up around the place but at the very least he could make use of the proper receptacles when he disrobes."

Krile let out a little laugh as the Miqo'te pouted and tossed a pair of Keith's boxer briefs into a basket. Together the friends continued to sort through the clothing on the floor then through a bag of Keith's adventuring gear.

"I would think you'd have a little more joy out of this, Raha. Your things mingled among an adventurer's and rightfully one yourself now. This is probably the more insight than most would ever get to what it's like for a hero behind closed doors."

"I suppose this is reminiscent of two thirds of the Warrior of Lights' dwellings. Krile, that is indeed a good way of looking at this. I have offered my companionship for adventuring and this is just some of the labor that goes into it. I can appreciate the stain on his leathers from him tumbling into grass or a scratch upon his leathers from close combat. The smell of his shirt soaked with the scent of his trrravels and himself," the Miqo'te started, purring as he nuzzled his face into the chest of an undershirt.

"Let's not get carried away now. Here, we have plenty of loads for the wash," Krile said, rolling her eyes ever so slightly as G'raha blushed and tossed the shirt away.

Gathering a basket, she hummed then caught a glimpse of golden fabric sticking out from under their bed. 

"It seems we've missed one," the Scion called out, moving to whip a pair of bomball shorts out from the hiding place.

"Seven hells," the woman breathed out, quickly tossing the garment to the bed before covering her nose, "Those have seen far too much adventure for me to be handling.'

G'raha quickly dived to the bed, catching the discarded shorts, flushing deeply as he stuffed them back under his bed. He sat up, ears pinning back as he avoided Krile’s suspicious gaze. 

“What on Ethyris has gotten into you,” Krile finally asked.

“Nothing. Just leave those be. They’re Keith’s lucky shorts.”

“They’re foul.”

“Imbued with good luck, or so he says. You know how superstitious athletic types arrrre. He is no exception. It is purrre psychology. He believes he performs betterrr, and so he manifests it. A simple trick of the mind, though it is all confirmation bias. I am certain in time that he will see the light, after some exposure to sound slowly administered logic, that his musky shorts have no bearrring on luck and are not as appealing as he has been led to believe.”

Krile covered her mouth, “Appealing? Raha, I do not want to be privy to such debauchery.”

“I assure you, there is no debauchery to be had! It is the general physique and perhemones that-”

“No, say no more! Please Raha. No explanation will be sufficient enough for you to continue. I can hardly say I shall forget that awful stench,” Krile laughed, picking up a basket before hurying from the room.

“Krile! Please! I did not articulate myself sufficiently! Krile!” the Miqo’te called out, face as red as his hair. 

Whimpering, he slumped down to the floor, hands in his face before peaking at the shorts. He closed his eyes, bringing them up to hug for a moment, and in his own bit of superstition asked the Scholar to return his love home safely. Hearing Krile call again, he hopped up then picked up his baskets, face remaining red as he went to get on with his chores.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Lace & Attention - Idril x Meleth

Written for @jaz-the-bard...a pairing I had never written before (which usually doesn't stop me).

Please, have a bittersweet slice of wlw from me!

Lots of love!

Words: 1 030

Characters: Idril x Meleth

Warnings: Sadness, longing, jealousy, disrobing, relative nudity, sexual innuendo

Meleth frowned as she left the boy’s room; she had not sought to distress him, but her heart oft misgave her, and she found herself helplessly afraid of the lingering shadows beleaguering their once fair city.

It surely was better that he knew, she thought frantically, and yet she couldn’t shake the memory of his innocent face, marred by fearful, uncomprehending tears as he listened to her paralysing, terrifying tales of woe and warning.

“Is he asleep?”

On some nights, Meleth would have preferred to be addressed with the absent-minded politeness her Lady displayed when dealing with other servants and helpers, and she resented herself for her weakness.

The one who had been named after a love she would never fully call her own nodded demurely, avoiding Idril’s gaze in the polished mirror like a coward.

“Have you seen Lómion tonight?”

Stiffening, Meleth now shook her head.

Yes, at times, she wished to be invisible and unheeded so as to be spared the searing heat of that luminous gaze, and the reference, no matter how passing, to her Lady’s cousin always made her flinch.

“I wonder what preoccupies him so,” Idril mused aloud. “He’s seemed distracted of late.”

I care not, the handmaiden wanted to scream. Why should I waste a single precious thought on that sneaking thief?

She knew that she was being unfair to the King’s nephew—a pitiful orphan who had found refuge in Gondolin like so many others—but she couldn’t help the burning resentment and spite, rising like acid within her fair throat every time her mind but brushed the mere shadow of that untrustworthy creature.

“Do you require my aid?” she asked hastily, moving deftly to Idril’s side to help her unpin the golden coils of her hair and undo the many intricate fastenings of her lavish gown before the other could either accept or refuse her offer.

Once upon a time, Meleth remembered, she had been the only one to gaze upon the delicate lace of Lady Idril’s undergarments, and she bemoaned the loss of that privilege more often than she wanted to admit.

Of course, she had always known that their love—self-evident and tender as the clean river water in summer—had been inevitably doomed to run dry before long. Idril was the king’s daughter and heir after all; matrimony and motherhood were her hallowed duties, and not even she could outrun her fate.

Thus, Meleth had made her peace with Tuor for it made no sense to begrudge one who had been foretold by every sign—he and Idril had been fated, and all the desperate devotion in this marred world could not have altered the course of destiny.

“Do you remember this one?” Idril hummed, letting her long, slender fingers travel along the beautiful filigree of the fabric hugging her firm breasts.

“How could I forget?” Meleth whimpered. The intimate garment had been made by a true master, and, upon picking it up for her beloved, she had caressed the impossibly fragile web of silken threads with wide-eyed wonder for much longer than was appropriate or commendable for one of her station in life.

Back then, before the arrival of those accursed males who had depleted and polluted the source of her joy, Idril had chuckled that she had commissioned the underwear as a gift for Meleth.

“To be beautiful for you,” she had said, her eyes as radiant as the midday sun, cutting through the endless blue of a cloudless sky.

Meleth recalled that she had wept, confessing fervently that Idril would always be the most gorgeous to her. Every movement, every kiss, every sweat-stained embrace that had followed were burned into her memory indelibly, but she was too proud to repeat words that had lost their weight and meaning by being reduced to a faint echo of the confessions and declarations Idril now heard every day.

“You’ve always taken such great pleasure in lace,” Idril went on, blissfully unaware of the turmoil ravaging her former lover’s heart and soul. “And you take such good care of my beloved son—I wondered whether…Do you ever miss me? Us?”

At that very moment, as all the dams broke, Meleth realised that the torrent of her ardour had not been quenched by having to share Idril with those whose attentions were so much more legitimate and welcome than her own.

“Always,” she admitted tersely. “Nevertheless, I completely understand…”

You are married now, and you’ve given him a son. You are bound to them and to that miserable miscreant by blood, which is so much more powerful than wisps of lace and a steady stream of earnest, unpretentious love.

She didn’t speak those words, though, for she knew only too well how little they would change, and she wanted to spare both of them the pain and humiliation to recognise their own helplessness in the face of Powers far greater than their own.

“You cannot give back what you didn’t take from me,” she added softly, folding Idril’s rich, luxurious garments with meticulous care to distract herself from the raging storm of unadulterated pain lancing through her whole body.

“You’d rather lose me than share me?” Idril asked sharply, and Meleth sighed. How she adored Idril when her gaze grew fierce and gleaming like an unsheathed blade!

“I’d take anything you’d grant me—I am not beyond being selfish and proud. However, many are vying for your attention and goodwill nowadays, and I am woefully aware that I could never compare to the glory of their births and deeds!” Meleth spat, ultimately unable to contain the poison of envy and hurt flooding her dry mouth and drowning her from the inside.

Instead of answering, Idril rose in a cloud of fragrant warmth and slung her soft arms around the stiff frame of her friend and eternal paramour. “Don’t be silly,” she whispered, letting her full lips espouse the curve of Meleth’s flushed ear. “My husband will not join me tonight, hence why I asked whether my wayward cousin has been sighted. Either way, why don’t you join me? After all, I am wearing your underwear to entice you! Did I succeed?”

@fellowshipofthefics And another one!

As ever, devotedly yours!!!

Lots of love and well-wishes!

-> Masterlist

[hookaroo]

Laden of the Torn (2 of 25?)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: Chapter 1 Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3

* * *

The loud thud and jarring impact as Killian's body was thrown carelessly onto a hard surface roused him for approximately fifteen seconds, during which time he could only moan once and gasp for breath, senses alight with pistol shots of pain, before murky darkness overtook him once again.

* * *

The next time, it was the horrendous screech of metal against metal that cut through the fog in an agonizing racket. Cringing, Killian lifted his hand, caressing first his resentfully ringing ear, then the sticky, matted patch on the back of his skull which explained his murderous headache. Other sounds echoed in the dimly lit chamber, but they were still incomprehensible at this point. Until a vaguely familiar voice cut through in sullen monotone.  

“Aye, that's him.”

Killian was still struggling to get his bearings as he peeled an eye open and tried to ignore the resulting spike of pain between his temples. A man in chains stood a few meters away, filling the doorway of a barred wall through which Killian could see several uniformed soldiers observing. He couldn't remember where he was or who any of these people were, but his muddled brain still thought it prudent to deny everything.

“Never seen this man before in all me days,” he rasped, rubbing at blurry eyes in an attempt to clear his vision.

“Oh give it up, Hook. No worming your way out of this one. We are going down together.”

“So that's it, is it?” Killian groaned as he pushed himself up to a seated position, and the surrounding gloom seemed to judder and buck like a wave-tossed dinghy. “You hear of the poor, pathetic local with one hand and decide to cast your guilt upon him?” 

Killian again touched the knot on the back of his skull and winced. Addressing the somber guards, he continued, 

“This criminal is telling tales to save his own hide. I swear I have no involvement in the matter.”

The chained man sneered, and Killian suddenly recognized him as that damnable upstart Ahab.

“Oh no?” The scraggly whaler gave an arrogant smirk, managing to look condescending despite his own predicament. “Then I suppose you don't bear a scar where my bullet found its mark?”

Killian had no answer for him. Ahab turned his gloating in the direction of his guards. “Left upper arm, right about here.”

Seemingly in slow motion, the closest guard entered the cell and made for Killian, who could only reflect on the empty and unimportant question of how Ahab could know in such precise detail where the bullet had grazed him. Surely he had to have been too focused on not dying to notice the fate of his opponent. His second must have given a report later, perhaps gathered from the gossip of bystanders. And none of it made one bit of difference, because the guard was stripping him of his shirt and would soon see the pink line that was the source of all his woes… and was about to bring him even more trouble.

The worn shirt was yanked roughly over Killian's head, setting alight the torn flesh of his scalp. Now missing a few buttons and sporting several new rips in the fabric, it landed in a heap at his feet. The guard grabbed Killian's elbow while a comrade directed lantern light onto the area in question. Killian's skull felt as if it were about to explode.

“Farming mishap,” he mumbled half-heartedly, knowing that the excuse sounded just as implausible to his audience as it did to him.

“Aye, Captain Hook, notorious farmer,” taunted Ahab. Killian's only focus was the outcome of his current quandary. He couldn't hazard a guess at what punishment awaited convicted duelists, but anything beyond a short-term corporal penalty would be simply intolerable. His separation from Alice was more than enough punishment in itself, and he had no funds with which to pay a fine and less time to spare for imprisonment. That would only delay his search for a cure... no, hold on, he had already found an alleged cure; he only needed to test whether it had worked.

With that thought, Killian suddenly noticed the horrid taste in his mouth, as if a plague-ridden rodent corpse had been left to stew overnight in the foulest of gutters before slithering its way down into a suddenly churning gullet. He nearly gagged, irritably pulling his arm from the soldier’s grip with a scowl.

“Any chance of a drink of water, mates, or am I to assume that this is yet another stereotypical dungeon with no regard for basic human welfare?”

“Best not antagonize them,” said Ahab with a nasty wink as he was dragged away. “You and I, mate... we’re going to be spending a fair amount of time with these boys. You don't want to start off on the wrong foot.”

***

What woke Killian next was not the chill of lacking a shirt, or even the constant throb of a possibly fractured skull, but a sudden twisting in his gut, a bladeless disemboweling that had him curling in on himself before he had regained full awareness. Then everything else flooded back and the quilled complaints of his midsection lost their urgency. 

He did not remember falling asleep, and he certainly did not recall hearing his jailers bring the bucket of water which now stood just inside the door to his cell. All of which could point to his head injury being more serious then he had hoped, given his current predicament.

Groaning, Killian rose to his knees. On the floor, he noted, not the bench as expected. The dim light of the dungeon flickered, or perhaps that was merely his vision, muddled by concussion. Breathing through another worrying cramp, he gathered the will to stand.

“Are you still drunk?” came the gruff taunt from Ahab when Killian had to catch himself on the bench to prevent a tumble. “I don't know whether to ask for the recommendation of your drink of choice, or laugh at your aging body’s weak tolerance.”

Killian could barely tell up from down at the moment; he had no hope of discerning the whereabouts of his fellow prisoner. Not that it mattered, since he lacked the motivation to reply.

Head pounding, Killian staggered to the water bucket and used the barred wall for balance as he slid down to his knees. His insides lurched at the sight of a green scum coating both bucket and ladle. Even if he weren't already feeling queasy, this water would be of questionable safety. But what other choice did he have? His mouth and tongue felt as if they were made from the same dust-mold he'd consumed an unknown length of time ago.

He choked down just enough algae soup to relieve his thirst, then used one handful to make a halfhearted attempt at rinsing his head wound. It didn’t appear to be actively bleeding at the moment, but he could feel stiff patches of dried blood in his hair and itchy trails of it down the back of his neck and shoulder. Whatever the overzealous soldier had struck him with, it had certainly been effective.

Ahab’s voice cut through the gloom again, from somewhere not too far away, and Killian opened a jaundiced eye to locate him as he spoke.

“It may be the poor lighting in here,” said the whaler, “but you appear to have aged a decade since last I saw you. It seems my bullet took more out of you than I realized.”

Ahab was imprisoned in the cell across the walkway from Killian’s, and he was currently lounging near his own water bucket, one hand gripping the bars as he watched his fellow prisoner. He’d been allowed to keep his wooden leg, Killian noted with some bitterness, feeling the unfamiliar chill of an exposed left arm. It was likely for the benefit of their jailers, keeping Ahab more mobile, but the false leg could be used as a weapon more easily than an empty arm brace.

Another stomach cramp did not help Killian to control his simmering anger. “How much did Gothel pay you? Is it worth the burden of knowing you’ve destroyed the life of an innocent girl?”

Ahab only grinned in that infuriatingly smug way of his, unrepentant, and Killian sighed.

“Actually, you know what, it doesn’t matter. You were just her witless pawn; a small fish. We both fell victim to her schemes. And I’ve given up holding meaningless grudges.”

With that, Killian used the cell bars to pull himself to his feet, intending to struggle into his shirt before the dagger in his skull sent him back into helpless oblivion. As he hobbled unsteadily toward the discarded garment, Ahab delivered the expected empty threats in a fierce snarl.

“I would advise you not to dismiss me so easily, Hook. I’m not some simpering, toothless old Crocodile who’s locked up for all eternity. And unlike you, I don’t back down from my prey.”

Killian sat heavily on the bench, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for darkness to take him. When that didn’t happen, he affected an expression of mocking indifference. Using his boot to slide his shirt closer, he said,

“Well, good luck doing all of that hunting while we’re both imprisoned for our little duel. I’m eager to hear what you’ve prepared to tell the magistrate, because to me, it appears as if--” Grunting, he bent to snatch up the torn cotton, and the resulting pain was almost enough to override his resolution to be civil. You don’t have a leg to stand on would have been so satisfying. “--It’s a lost cause. Mate.”

The menace drained from Ahab’s posture, and he returned to calm self-satisfaction. Killian cautiously slipped his shirt over his throbbing head as the whaler retorted,

“Ah, well, you’ll soon find out. Best hope you haven’t used up all of your favors lately. You’ll likely need some allies whom you can call on for help.”

[cryptidsncurios]

@calamitysshatteredson Continued from [ X ]

Despite what Kuja felt to be a somewhat peculiar hypothetical situation from his dearest Raven, he could not exactly pinpoint the mental source of such a proposition. For, though trapped deeply within the throes of his own (definitely not at all fabricated) woes, there seemed an… implied personal purpose hidden behind such verbiage from his companion---existing a veiled reason within this suggestion that seemed to arise from an emotional core, unknown to the mage.

Yet he would play along with this gently-offered---yet inexplicably-sourced---proposal, physically displaying a subtle, yet most-definitely unintendedly-seductive shift onto his side whilst reclined upon his plush divan---nonetheless obvious, despite his nonchalance. Showcasing the rustle of the sheer fabric folding delicately over his form in a delectable manner, he allowed a full-face position toward his conversational partner.

“Oh, how very devastating and destructive both disasters are," followed by the dramatic sort of pause present in the live shows that entertained his fancy. "And yet...” his jaw clenched, eyes purposefully hardened, “I must declare that I shall simply plant my feet and proudly offer a stance of the undefeatable---and I would not allow myself to be bothered, or to be troubled by neither such forces of cruel nature. For, as you should know by now, I have traversed so very much over my years, and weathered even the most hateful of infernos and whirlwinds---the deadliest floods and earthquakes---and thus, why should I give myself over to terror now?”

In truth, though… Kuja had, silently and...oh, the pain to say thus, shamefully, developed a dread for such metaphorical "catastrophes." Once upon a time, he had combatted such a figurative “hurricane”---and, perhaps, as his Raven had suggested, that “meteor”---and it had felled him at what he had considered his most powerful.

And oh… how such a disgustingly otherworldly power had torn him apart, and yet---upon a miraculous oversight of what he could only assume was "Death"---some strange force had released him from this Fate. Nonetheless, this event had defined his current existence, in a dreadful way. Left him, presently, horribly hesitant in his every action. Such indecision in moving forward had left him in an undecided fashion that suited his own personal road-forks: a tear between that still-innate desire for destruction---and, perhaps, something more… generous.

Blindly, he had been strong-armed to seek out one of those paths. What would properly, hopefully, wisely press him forward, to his still-uncertain future: that vague yet joyous sense of selfish autonomy, similar to what he had once sought before his destruction? Or the frightfully unfamiliar normalcy of humanity---an assumed existence of kindness and charity, of which he had never properly known?

Yet Kuja forced himself to snap from this distasteful reverie, attempting to move onward by, incredibly, shifting the subject from himself:

“And what of you?” and his tone was as even as he could attempt, due to his accursedly reflective situation. “This hurricane? This meteor? Whatever horror has befallen you? Would you survive it?”

And subconsciously… in a way he could not entirely express... Kuja would desire his survival to be so.

[batmanappreciationsociety]

It is I, the great founder of this great society of appreciation of the cat of one Courtney Orchard (or Peet, as it makes use of two last names) who on this day, the 7th of November 2023, a very rainy Tuesday decreed the founding of this very society. It is our duty to uphold the moral fabric of society by spreading the knowledge of the Cat far and wide.

Updoot (9th December 2023): I'm probably gonna only upload memes every second day from now on because while I do like doing this, its kinda exhausting to try and keep up with daily posting (thats why the blog went dark for a long-ass while) and also I have irl stuff to deal with so °-° enjoy what comes out of this

(For the people who don't like pretentious second language fake-ass old English this is a joke blog about pleasetiemyshoes cat Batman. This is all for funzies and also to make the world a better place by being the second Courtney-focusd blog after pleasetiemyshoeoffences took the first place. Now to get back to my pretentious ramblings)

As a secret society we have to uphold a selection of tenents. These are what follows (translation from pretentious: heres dem rulz):

Secrecy. None who offer up fanart or send communications trough the radio waves have to fear their identity being revealed. I make the guarantee that no one contacting me will have their identity revealed to the public if not so desired. (you can send me shit like fanart through dms/asks and if you don't want ur name attached to it I'll post it and source you as an "Anonymous Artist". This applies to everything else you could send to a blog like me. I'm staying anonymous and so can you. You could also pick a pseudonym if so desired.)

Apoliticality. This is a safehaven for lords, ladies and gentlethem tired of the woes created by folks like PZ, LO and the likes of them. This blog is meant for the appreciation of the Cat, not internet dramaturgics. If that is what you desire, seek out the blog of the owner of our object of favour. ( keep LO/PZ or other internet personality stuff out of asks or they won't appear on the damn blog)

Focus. As members of the Batman Appreciation Society we are aware that every cat, not just the Cat, is purrfect. However, here we focus one the one and only Batman. If you desire discussions, photographs or motion pictures of other felines, you can seek out many another digital publication. Sometimes, however, exceptions may be made. (The blog will mainly focus on Batman, no other cat stuff, except if its really good)

Now go forth and enjoy mine publications!

To anyone put off by my pretentiousness dw the blog won't be written like that

[nazorneku]

LEVY ( @oniriqe ) INQUIRED OF MR. FOX: ❝ don’t be a prude. you can touch me. ❞

Upon walking into own office, the dark teal coat slid down his shoulders and was neatly placed on the counter, the perceptive glance almost instantaneously detected a pack of correspondence stacked up a lil further that awaited thorough consideration. Beyond doubt tempting invitations to represent amateurish fools in court were amongst those, which were subjected to his unsympathetic scrutiny and most of the time politely declined. By unbeknownst criteria the verdict was determined and executed, the time was precious to waste on participating in dubious cases that did not guarantee beneficial outcome by his meticulous judgement. Scarcely audible sigh escaped through parted lips, as the process of sorting out the letters occupied the man, motions of the hands deliberate and precise, accustomed to performing such repetitive act over the years; occasionally a letter or another would be tossed onto his table, an indication of the interest piqued, whilst he circled around the room in contemplation. A sound outside beckoned his attention and the source of commotion manifested in the doorway ere long, prompting Mr. Fox to arch an eyebrow. Rather uncharacteristic for another to intrude with an unscheduled visit, nonetheless it would benefit to handle the circumstance that compelled Levy to seek his counsel without prior notice, lest he would camp outside his door, dramatically howling 'bout own woes.

Albeit the ostentatious urgency with which the other posed himself, it ended as a complete and absurd waste of time, suspected to be a trivial excuse he concocted on the way merely to sound credible. One of the anticipated antics, the lawyer accustomed self throughout the years of working with him; and upon abandoning the act the familiar person stepped out, who deemed it 'fun' to drop by. An idle conversation was provoked between the two, a blatant and not even disguised attempt to interrupt his work, yet he would indulge for now nevertheless, after all eventually when the moment was nigh people would do as he said. Once reviewing of the mail was completed, his vibrant eyes anew rested its regard on Levy, scrutinizing and expecting for him to divulge the actual cause for attendance, and that information was enticed by the intensity of his gaze, as words of encouraged permission escaped the other. Or rather an erroneous assumption. The thin line of lips curved into an ambiguous smile, a dangerous glint flashed behind framed lenses as in intentionally leisurely steps he approached the man leaning on his table, halting mere centimeters away.

There was no hint of hesitation towards which route he should proceed at that moment, despite his ability permitted to command words and bend wills to own intentions, the thought to execute it towards Levy did not occur to him yet. There were other ways to exact judgement. The lips still retained his signature impish smile, when his left hand ghosted over the exposed chest without even slightly touching it, sensing the heat radiating from the body even through the fabric of gloves and sliding down to that gaudy belt. The agonizing lack of actions was deliberately prolonged without breaking eyesight even for an instant, he wished to savor the exceedingly delicious reaction towards utter rejection, when the hand that hovered dangerously over the belt was lifted to adjust glasses with pretentious need, as the words were vocalized in what he could define as "lawyer tone". "This isn't covered by your litigation expenses." With another hand he effortlessly pulled out a thick folder from under the other man, on which he had an audacity to sit, and retreated to the sofa to proceed with pilled up cases. A downright conceited expression was spread across his image; despite their occasional less than transactional engagements, matters of work always took priority.

&. you (season 4) prompts

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

a grey world gilded by you

by mizdiz

And what's important to understand is that boredom doesn't work the same way for Edward Teach. Other people, when they're bored, get a little restless, a little frustrated maybe, but it's not the end of the world.

For Ed, boredom is the end of the world.

At least that's what it feels like. When Ed is bored—as in, capital B Bored—all his senses malfunction. The touch of a fine fabric is the same as the touch of splintered wood. He can no longer taste the sugar in the marmalade he slathers on his morning bread. The salty scent of the ocean air is absent. Every sound is too abrasive, even if it's something he usually enjoys, like the sound of Frenchie strumming his lute, or the crew chattering and giggling.

Also he can no longer see color, and that's the worst of all.

Words: 11655, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: Anal Sex, Rimming, Oral Sex, Bottom Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Top Stede Bonnet, Competent Stede Bonnet, Hurt/Comfort, Supposed to be PWP, but then plot sort of happened, ed has the adhd boredom woes, and it is definitely not me projecting, i've never projected in my life, Character Study

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/43245990