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tbgblr2 · 6 months ago

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The Life of the Witch (Prologue)

My name is Juliana Dumont and I’m a witch.

I don’t know why I’m writing this down – perhaps a form of therapy? I don’t know.

What the average person doesn’t know is that witches are real. We exist. We’re just very rare. I’ve never met another of my kind since my own mother died – and left me with my powers.

I was born Goodie Smith, child of Constance Smith, in the year 1735. I was 50 years old when my mother passed her gift to me, and I awakened.

I know others are out there – I can feel them. There were seven of us – now there are only five. The seven deadly sins form the basis of our existence. The witch of sloth was killed in her sleep, and the witch of envy was killed in a fight between two love rivals. None of this ‘witch trial’ and burning nonsense. That was simply putting some poor, unfortunate women to their death because the patriarchy at the time could do it with impunity.

I suppose technically I am the witch of lust. And let me tell you, every month I feel that lust with an intensity I simply cannot control.

I should also say that we are immortal in a sense. We do not age, we do not contract diseases. We can be killed by being burned alive, or having our heads separated from our bodies – that's been proven on two occasions now - but otherwise we would be able to eventually heal from even the most grievous of wounds.

This is where procreation becomes difficult. We’re all female, we desire to have children… but the act of having a child is difficult in that child would be mortal as any other, and we would suffer to watch them grow old and die as we sat ageless in front of them. Only the voluntary – or involuntary – death of the mother passes both the magic, and the memories of the mother onto her offspring. I remember my entire family line. I have birthed many babies, I have outlived many babies… and right now my ovaries are screaming that it is my time.

The lady sat back in her chair and snapped her fingers then closed the book she was writing in. In the kitchen behind her, a commotion started to take place – dishes rose from cupboards, cutlery flew from drawers, food piled onto a plate. The plate carrying a sandwich flew through the air to rest, lightly, on the desk in front of her, followed a few moments later by a steaming hot cup of coffee. She smiled. She knew she was blessed, she knew life was easy… but if she has a gift, why waste it not using it.

As she ate her meal, she picked up her phone. “Ahh… 8pm New York… seems like the perfect time” she muttered to herself. A black cat rose its head up from a sleeping position down by her feet.

“Don't be back late, I’ve a fancy for a special meal tonight.” came the voice directly into her head without the cat seemingly moving its lips.

“I won't sweetie… just a little… errand… to run.”

It’s unclear exactly where the pair were at, but it was daylight and it certainly wasn't 8pm that's for certain.

She finished the sandwich and once again clicked her fingers – the cup and plate flew off to a sink which slowly filled with soapy water as the cutlery and crockery washed itself, dried itself and put itself away. She didn't even need to watch it at this point as she strode across the room and into her bedroom.

Another click of her fingers and her clothes fell to the floor, bundled themselves up and folded themselves into a neat little pile. She stood there naked, eyes looking up and down her form. Lust was certainly a factor in her physique. She had a lithe body, but with wide, womanly hips, and a perfect hourglass figure, complemented by large, incredibly pert breasts. She had no need of mechanical support by way of a bra… she had magic on her side to keep things up.

Blowing herself a kiss in the mirror, she clicked her fingers again and her hair bundled itself up into a bun, leaving two strands to hang down either side of her hair. A pair of fashionable glasses appeared on her nose – purely cosmetic of course, and her lips tinged rosy and red.

Finally another click of her fingers and a red, flowing dress swooshed out of her closet, wrapped itself around her and hugged every inch of her body. She couldn't help but grin as the side slit, cut so scandalously high than it had any right to be, refused to move to reveal what she was wearing for underwear even when she stretched her leg out in front of her. Of course, she knew she wasn't wearing any, but always good to keep the men folk guessing.

Finally, with a last glance over her shoulder as she spun in place admiring herself in the mirror, she clicked her fingers once more and with an audible pop, she disappeared.

She appeared in an alleyway, just around the corner from a nightclub which she knew was a hit among the student population of the local university. She saw perfectly even in the low light of the evening, groups of men wandering up to the doorman, being let in. Her eyes not focusing on any particular one, but the heat radiating from between her legs becoming almost unbearable. She had to move, had to act.

This was an upscale neighbourhood, her high-class appearance and expensive appearing clothes would blend in well with the locals. Stepping out she strode toward the doorman, watching his eyes – even behind his dark shades – watch her approach with rapt attention.

“Could you let me in please handsome!” she smiled a wicked smile to the doorman, who pulled open the door for her.

“Here all by yourself?” he asked.

“Hopefully not for long” she cackled.

Following the crowds to the bar area, she swished her hand and two people standing side by side suddenly decided to leave, giving her perfect chance to slip into the front of the crowd and smile at the girl behind the bar.

“Anything you want?” she asked.

“Right now I can think of a few things, but start me off with something alcoholic and fruity.”

“OK coming right up” she nodded as she set to work.

The witch felt a presence slotting into the space she left next to her, so she turned to the side to be greeted by the muscled chest of some sort of jock. Looking up past her eye level, she was relieved to see that the person accompanying that chest wasn’t half bad on the eyes either. Just need to make sure he wasn’t a complete asshole now…

“Let me get that” he bellowed, making sure the girl serving the drink heard. She gave him a thumbs up. “And a whiskey, on the rocks!” A nod from the lady behind the bar.

“Why thank you” purred our witch, her voice sultry. “Were you hoping for anything else?”

“No ma’am… just waiting for my friends to arrive and spied a nice slot at the bar. Then spied a nice bar-mate. I’m Jack.”

“Charmed… you can call me Jill.” She saw no point in giving him her real name and thought the play on words for the nursery rhyme would fit well – she wouldn't ever see him again after this night, but she thought she should have one she could easily remember just in case things got a little hot and heavy.

Of course a little touch of magic, a little bit of flirtation, and he was hers for the next hour. His friends arrived, and seeing him in non-stop discussion with the lady at the bar decided to leave him to it.

3-4 drinks later and they were both merry to the point of touching flirtatiously. He brushed back one of the loose strands of hair framing her face, tucking it behind her ear as she leaned forward and kissed him. Her hand hovered over his drink and rubbed her fingers together as she cast a spell to bolster him.

He picked it up and gulped a mouthful, suddenly feeling his cock spring hard against his trousers.

“Is that for me?” the witch sounded coy but it was all she was focused on. Her knee drifted lazily back and forth over the bump in his trousers. For poor Jack he was bewildered, never having this level of reaction before.

“Lets put it to good use.” with that she stepped back from the bar, holding him by the hand as she lead him towards a hotel next door. He followed obediently, entranced by her magic as she walked into the lobby, past the doorman with a wave, up to the lift and pressed a button for a floor. She leaned back seductively as she arched her shoulders back, her breasts straining against the fabric of her dress as the lift continued to climb.

“Like what you see?” she was playing now, he was under her control, no matter what the poor man honestly thought, he was her property, until she chose to let him go.

With a ding the lift doors opened and the two of them wandered forward down the hallway. She looked left and right looking for a room. Finally settling on a number, she swayed her hand in front of the lock and pushed the door, the warm light of a readied room waiting for their approach.

She wasted no time, pulling him forcefully into the room. She turned around and kneeled in front of him, pulling down his trousers and underwear as she lowered herself. His cock sprung out from its containment and she grinned.

“Is all that for little old me? My, my, I have been a good girl!”

Jack looked down and gasped – his manhood was twice as girthy as he remembered, and a good 3 inches longer. It was massive. He didn't know what was happening, but her hands wrapped around the shaft and teasing the precum out from the tip settled things – he would go with it and worry about it later.

He tugged off his top and leaned forward, running his hands down inside the fabric of her dress. She moaned… and as a result, his cock jumped, it would have slapped her in the face if she hadn't had hold of it.

“I’ve had desert, I want the main course!” she growled, standing up. She pulled forward on the dress, an act that normally would have resulted in it being torn to shreds, but it appeared to peel away from her and settle in a heap on the floor. She was naked and ready to play. As she paced back towards the bed – pulling Jack by his cock to make him follow, the dress folded itself behind their backs.

She spun him around and pushed him onto the bed as she climbed up onto him, letting out a squealing groan as she settled onto his cock, her wetness between her legs apparent.

Jack managed as gasping “condom…” as she slid down the shaft.

“Not tonight sweetie. I want to feel this monster for what it is. Don't you worry your pretty little head, I’m on the pill.” she lied.

He couldn't care less at this point, his head lolled back as she bottomed out on his cock, her own grunt of pain suggesting she had made him perhaps a mite too large. Oh well, it’s good to feel it happen.

She bounced up and down, her hands rubbing up and down his chest. He found her rhythm and bucked his hips as she bounced, resulting in every thrust of his ass prodding her deeply, her wincing, moaning grunts, and short stabs of pain making her lose herself more and more in the moment.

Without warning, she latched her knees into his torso and spun, so she was on the bottom and he was on the top. Her legs crossing behind him to keep him in tight to her. He moaned. She knew he was close, he was twitching inside of her.

“Thats it, cum in me. I want to feel you flood me. Give me your cum.”

Jack suddenly held his breath as his vision clouded and his eyes rolled back, lost in the carnal act of procreation. He let out 3 large spurts of cum, his own perineum quivering as he felt it contract and release over and over.

The witch was left in orgasmic bliss as she felt the semen flood her. She could do nothing but hold on tight and shiver as her body took over. She could actually feel it shoot up past her cervix and into her womb, onto the journey to meet the egg she had released just that morning. She focused on the collection of sperm cells and gave them a boost, willing them on to their target with a tiny bit of magical assistance.

The couple were left a panting mess as she unhooked her leg from behind him and rolled over, eyeing his still engorged cock. Leaning forward she took it in her mouth and sucked, announcing through parted lips “Who knew we tasted this good together.”

She moved her head up his body and kissed him on the lips as she hovered her hand over the pole between his legs and it shrunk back to its original size. She looked down. Still impressive… but she was glad that she could make it more.

Touching his eyes, she felt him sleep, as he slumped back onto the bed. She got up and clicked her fingers, her dress jumping up and forming back around her, dregs of Jack’s semen dribbling down her leg.

She scooped it up and put it in her mouth. “We do taste good.”

She probed his mind, finding out where he lived. Easily picking him up in his still sleeping state, both of them disappeared from the room and suddenly appeared in his bedroom. Tucking him into bed, still naked, his clothes folded up in front of her eyes and dropped onto the floor. She touched his forehead and took away all memories of what happened, instead implanting thoughts that he had too much to drink and went home to sleep it off. With a gentle kiss on the forehead and a whisper of “thanks” she disappeared again.

She appeared a moment later with a grin as she saw her familiar Seline, or more specifically, her ass, wrapped in an apron – that being the only clothes she was wearing. She had the ability to transform between a human and a cat at will, and had become the witch’s confidant, lover, advisor and closest friend over the years. Her natural form was a cat, but she had been granted the ability to transform into a human mainly for the witch’s benefit – she was a surprisingly capable cook considering her origins, and a careful and attentive lover.

“That smells beautiful. What is it?” the witch called out.

“No… you first. You’ve been fucking. I can smell him on you. Cats have a good sense of smell remember. Give me the gossip” came the reply.

“OK, you’ve got me there. I just had a roll in the hay with some gorgeous man who filled me up. Give it a few hours and there may be some insemination action.”

“Shit… you’re finally going through with it. Your own heat finally beat mine.” As a cat, she had all the natural urges that a cat would have, including going into heat every few weeks during the peak times of the year. The witch found her fun to be around when she was clawing the walls trying to relieve that bit of stress, that's for certain.

“I don't know if I'll actually keep the kid, or send her for adoption… don’t think I'm ready for the ultimate journey just yet. Suppose I have 9 months to decide.”

The witch moved forward and wrapped her arms around the belly of Seline, breathing in the smells from the cooking. “So… I asked a question… what is it?”

“Mmmm…” Seline moaned. “If it happens, you won't be able to do that with a big belly in the way. It’s fish by the way. I mean I’m a cat, what did you expect when I said I had a special meal planned.”

The witch laughed, but her mouth was watering at the smells of the food. “I don't think ‘If it happens’ is a good suggestion, but ‘when.’ I used magic to reinforce the sperm, it's basically a guarantee they reach their destination.”

Seline spun around, breaking the witch’s grip around her midsection. “Shit, please don't tell me you did what you just told me you did.” The witch looked confused. “You know the rules. All natural when it comes to babies. Magic can’t interfere. Creating life is sacred.”

“No… not a baby yet… just sperm and an egg, all separate.” She thought back through her ancestral memories, and not one single one of her memories had another witch trying what she had done. “Fuck… what will happen?��

Seline shook her head. “No idea, but there's nothing you can do about it now, let's eat and think about it later.”

#fpreg #pregnancy

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avocado-writing · 1 year ago

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Kinktober 14

14. Uniform, Suspension Bondage, Abduction/Kidnapping

It’s 2008 and your boys are about to go and try to halt the apocalypse by helping raise a baby. To you it all seems a bit convoluted, but you long since learned to stop asking questions about your lovers’ little projects.

Doesn’t mean you can’t have a bit of fun, though.

You tell your boys to come over to your house for dinner tonight. Dinner very rarely means just dinner (even though the promise of food is an easy lure for Aziraphale) so you’re not surprised when they say yes and hear the key go in the lock that night.

“Nightingale? Where are you?” Crowley calls, and you grin to yourself.

“In the dining room, love.”

Your lovers walk through and pause when they catch sight of the scene.

You’ve set up the dining table with two places. Candlelit. Got the fancy plates out. The good wine, the nice silverware.

And you’re wearing a maid’s uniform.

And it is a uniform, not just an ‘outfit’, from the amount you bloody paid for it. It hugs your every curve and leaves very little to the imagination with its frills and silk. The neckline is cut deep and shows far too much of your chest to be decent. You have a little collar tied with a bow around your neck to give the illusion of your being a present they’ll get to unwrap later.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, eyes hungry for more than just the duck pâté you’ve laid out.

“Hello, sirs. Please sit down. I’ve got the whole evening planned.”

Your lovers exchange a look, and then do as they’re bid. You make a show of taking their serviettes and placing them carefully across their laps, making sure to grab a decent handful of thigh as you go.

And so you play the scene.

You ate earlier, assuming you’d probably need the energy at some point later tonight. That means that you can take your time with it, too. Serve them slowly, course by course. Crowley doesn’t really eat but he’s so swept up with it that he finds himself clearing his plate every time there’s something placed in front of him. You pour their wine whenever they get to the bottom of their glass, simpering and giggling bashfully. At one point you make a show of knocking a spoon to the floor and reaching over to pick it up - revealing that not only are you not wearing underwear, but there’s a pretty little jewelled plug in your hole too.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale chokes, and you hear Crowley grip his wineglass so hard it shatters. When you turn around to check he’s miracled up the mess and is pretending nothing has happened.

Dessert is Eton Mess. It’s one of Aziraphale’s favourites. Well, that’s easy. All desserts are his favourite. But when they’ve finished their bowls and you turn to grab another bottle of merlot from your wine rack, you hear the sound of crockery being swept to the floor, and a hand closes around your wrist. With a gleeful giggle you’re pinned onto the bare dining table.

Your lovers stare down at you.

“Someone’s feeling particularly teasing tonight,” Aziraphale manages, his free hand reaching to undo his bowtie. You smile faux-bashfully.

“Just thought that it might be a while before I saw the two of you again. Wanted to make it special.”

“Oh,” Crowley laughs, huskily, fingers reaching under the skirts to stroke your plug and make you gasp, “I think you did that just perfectly.”

Turns out the real dessert was you.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler @darktealrat @mxxny-lupin @willbedecided @detectiveapparatiagreen @shadowluna25 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @xquinn-bartonx @blue-bell22 @foolishprincipalitee @fandomawesomeness @eweweweewewe @latersgaters-steven @llamaproblem @night-affiliate @randompost18 @hunterispunk @jessica-laufeysdottir @uxcaran @bunnymallowo @jae-michael @jelly-terror @larkiesparkie

#fic: the light the dark and the spaces inbetween #avo's kt 23 #aziraphale x reader x crowley #crowley x reader x aziraphale

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jomiddlemarch · 6 months ago

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call understanding thy kinswoman

“Here,” Mary said, pushing a steaming mug in front of Rilla after hurrying through the ordinary polite exchanges required of a greeting, even among family. “Drink this first. You look green around the gills and I don’t fancy explaining to Jem why his baby sister ended up in a puddle on our sitting room floor.”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Rilla said, turning her face away from the table. Feeling the nausea rise in her throat, hardly daring to take a deep breath. “I can’t drink your coffee, it’s too strong—”

“It’s ginger tea, silly. And if you faint here, I’ll still tell your brother we were in the sitting room, not at the kitchen table. He’s been at me to get a girl to help and I don’t want one—”

“You’d lie about something like this,” Rilla asked. She reached forward and picked up the mug, inhaled the spicy scent of the ginger tea. She gestured with a little nod of her head at the scene, Mary across from her at the well-scrubbed table, all the pots and pans gleaming copper in the dull, cloudy light of a dull, cloudy afternoon that hadn’t made its mind up yet to rain.

“Of course. If the lie was what was needed. What James— what Jem needed,” Mary said. Rilla recalled Mary called Jem by his Christian name, the only one he’d allow to do so, though he’d given their mother a quelling near-glare when she’d remarked on it. Mary gave Rilla a familiar look, one that sized her up in a moment, though it was fonder than it used to be, an alteration Rilla attributed to Mary’s affection for Jem. “It’s Ken you want to talk about. Go on then.”

“How did you know?” Rilla said. She sipped at the tea, willing it to do something. Ginger was said to help. She’d learned though, that many things people said would help a difficult situation weren’t the least bit helpful and that people, with the possible exception of Una and Rosemary Meredith, had an endless supply of suggestions. Mary most often held her tongue around the Blythe family, but she wouldn’t hold back if you asked her opinion.

“You’d have gone to your mother if you were fussed about morning sickness or having the baby,” Mary said. “It would’ve been a gift, to give her something like that to occupy her. If you wanted some coddling. You’re here instead and it’s certainly not for my shortbread. Nan’s away and Jerry’s crippled because of his back, nothing else. She wouldn’t be much help and you don’t want her pity.”

“Mother’s useless,” Rilla said. Admitted. “And Nan’s a priss and always has been—”

“Finally,” Mary muttered under her breath.

“But it really is that Jerry’s wounds are all just physical. Sometimes I wish, I think, maybe if Ken had lost an arm or needed a cane, it would be better. Easier,” Rilla said.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’d be like he is now only with one arm of his jacket pinned up or walking around like an old man before he’s turned thirty. There aren’t any bargains to be made about this, Rilla. Nor wishes.”

“He came home and he said, he asked me, ‘Are you Rilla-my-Rilla?’ and I said yes,” Rilla said, looking down into the crockery mug. It was sturdy and practical, like her sister-in-law, and her own mother would have blanched to serve a cup of tea in it, let alone her sister. There were no tea leaves to read, so she looked back up and found Mary watching her, a little half-smile on her lips.

“Are you bothered by your answer or his question?”

Rilla laughed in spite of herself.

“Dad says you’re wasted as a doctor’s wife, that you ought to be a barrister.”

Mary smiled and though there was no flush in her cheeks, her expression warmed, her fair hair suddenly seemed richer in tone, more like the narrow gold band on her fourth finger.

“Your father’s twice as fanciful as your mother is and I’ve heard her go on to Bruce Meredith about fairies and mayflowers more than I could ever believe,,” she said. “Being a doctor’s wife suits me fine. Jem will be home in a few hours, though, and I’ve his supper to see to, so if you do want to talk, you might be getting on with it.”

“He’s not himself. Ken. He’s not who he was when he went away. When he asked me to wait. He’s not mine, even if I’m his,” Rilla said, all in a rush. She felt queasy again, unsure why, neither explanation a comfort.

“Couldn’t be, could he? Especially since he came home and others didn’t. Walter,” Mary said. “I think he’d hate it, Walter, how he’s a saint now and Ken and the rest of them, they’ve got to be men all the time and tell us it’s all in the past, it was worth it. Cheerful, determined. I’ve never wondered Shirley won’t come back to the Glen, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Rilla said.

“There you go. That’s what you needed to get to,” Mary said. It was rare to be praised by her and Rilla was surprised how much she liked it. How much it was a balm. “Can he sleep?”

“Sometimes. Not well. He has dreams, he won’t talk about them,” Rilla said.

“I won’t say anything,” Mary replied. “To anyone. Certainly not your brother. He can’t sleep either. He cries sometimes, without ever waking up. You won’t say anything about that.”

“Oh,” Rilla said. “I didn’t know—”

“He doesn’t want anyone troubled. I’m the only one who won’t let him get away with that. Which is partly why he married me,” Mary said.

“I don’t know why Ken married me,” Rilla said softly.

Mary chuckled, but it had none of the wry mockery of her usual laughter.

“You poor pet. I forget, sometimes, how young you are.”

“I’m only six years younger than you, Mary, not a generation,” Rilla snapped.

“When I was six, my ma hung herself and my pa slit his wrists,” Mary said. “You were always precious. I wasn’t, not to anybody, not ‘til Jem anyway. Ken married you because you were the dream he had that kept him alive in that absolute hell in France. Because you wrote to him and you raised that baby and because you’re the happiness he always thought he wanted. You’re easy on the eyes too, but I’ll grant him that it’s easier to fall in love with a pretty girl than a plain one.”

“You can’t marry a dream,” Rilla said.

“No, you can’t. Nor live with one. They came home, however they did, and for a while, anyway, I suppose it’s up to us to figure out how to be more than that. It’s harder for you, because of your families and how you had that crush on him and he had that memory of you in a party dress in the moonlight to go by. Jem didn’t have any dreams of me to get in the way,” Mary said.

“Is this how you talk to Jem?”

“I’ll thank you to keep your nosy questions to yourself,” Mary retorted.

“I only meant, is this how you help him through?”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to find out how to talk to Ken and I haven’t any advice about that man. Well, I’ve a little. I think he’s got to feel guilty as sin to have come home with just a few scars and everyone expects him to write some masterpiece and he won’t want to let anyone down. I bet it’s hard to have any ideas after the trenches and it’s hard to write when your hands tremble.”

“How did you know?”

“Jem’s do, sometimes. I’ve learned to look for it. Get Ken a typewriter, that’s my advice. Tell him about the baby before you tell your mother. Promise him you won’t call it Walter. Say you want some ordinary name that no one in your family’s gotten all tied up with sentiment and honor. John. Margaret. Maybe Alice, like Alice in Wonderland.”

“My grandfather’s name was John,” Rilla said. Grandfather Blythe, who’d died before she was born.

“Everyone’s grandfather was named John,” Mary said.

“I suppose that’s nearly true,” Rilla said and smiled.

“Nearly true’s good enough more than you’d think,” Mary said. “You should come round for dinner here sometimes. We can let them go sit on the porch while we gossip about Faith Drew while we make some tea to go with the cake you bring. I heard she bobbed her hair and she smokes and Bertie don’t care. ‘Scuse me, she calls him Will, like we all don’t remember him being a holy terror and his ma hollering his name Bertie Shakespeare for him to come home.”

“You’ll serve my cake?” Rilla said. It was the biggest surprise, as Nan had already passed along the gossip about Faith’s hair and her modern ways. Fast, Susan said, frowning and Rilla, who had never thought it possible, had found herself nodding along.

“Susan won’t give me her recipe for plum cake and it’s one of Jem’s favorites. He’ll have two slices, enormous ones, if we’re there for Sunday dinner and she puts it out,” Mary said. “He’s greedy for sweets now, though he hates to admit it.”

“Jem’s greedy?” Rilla said.

“Oh yes. He’s all sorts of vices. I’m sure Ken has his as well. You’d do well to find out which ones,” Mary said.

“To help him overcome them?”

“To love him for them,” Mary said.

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sabraeal · 2 months ago

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a heart felled by you, held by you; Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2024, Day 1: Quadrille

It’s not that Suzu didn’t know Lata’s name or whatever; it’s impossible to forget when it’s stamped right across the office he refuses to use three months out of the academic year— why should I let the university know where to find me? he’d huff, stoking the forge. If they’re going to interrupt my work to harangue me about class numbers and securing grant funding, I have no interest in making it easy for them— and scrawled on every lower right corner of his notes. It’s what every colleague calls across the university atrium before he hurries to out pace the persistence hunter that is professional collaboration; and what Ryuu had tried to stutter through for a whole week when he confused formality for maturity.

But between the towering aisles of his yet-to-be-catalogued accessions, and the number of times Shirayuki— and sometimes even Suzu himself— have been left to make his excuses to professors and professionals far above their pay grade, the idea that’s he’s a noble— a capital ‘F,’ weasel-thing-rampant Forzeno— well, it doesn’t seem quite real.

Not until now, when the doors on this stately manor swing open, and—

“I thought you lived in a shithole,” Suzu blurts out, momentarily blinded by polished marble and gold filigree. He’s no expert on architecture and has only a dubious grasp on history, but even he can tell this place is old. Storied, his mental Kazaha supplies, buzzing through his thoughts like flies over an ungrammatical carcass. “Or at least, that’s what Shidan said when—”

“I said apartment.” Shidan glares at him, like it’s Suzu’s fault he spent ten highly memorable minutes complaining about the stack of specimens that almost toppled onto him that one time he tried to brave Lata’s front parlor.

“It’s a townhouse.” Lata’s all noblesse oblige now that they’re ensconced in his family’s home, acting generous and tolerant, like they’re a good friend’s dogs that he knows are going to piddle on the carpet and he’s determined to be gracious about it. The kind of patience that’s pushed out between a man’s teeth instead of welling up from some internal font of goodness or whatever. “Private land ownership is the only way to receive permission for a forge of that size. And yes, I do.”

“But why not hang out here?” Suzu peeks into one of the fancy urns lining the walkway— disappointingly empty— before letting it rock back onto its pedestal. “It’s big and fancy and there’s a bunch of people whose job is to wait on you hand and foot. I’d never leave.”

“The commute,” Obi offers, sticking his own head down some fancy pot too. “Or maybe the wallpaper bothers him.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Lata mutters, steering Obi away from the crockery with a scowl. “This is family land, owned by countless generations of Forzeno since time immemorial—”

“672.” Kazaha strides down the runner with his hands clasped behind his back, like he’s the king of the castle— or like it might convince the man who is that he’s not about to have any sticky fingers. “That’s when Motouji Forzeno ordered a fitting home to be built for him within a day’s ride of the capital, which at that point was still based in Wirant, not in Wistal. That only happened once the Wisteria family inherited the throne from a series of strategic marriages over the previous three generations—”

“And in any case, not mine.” He clears his throat, shoulders pulling straight beneath the heavy wool over his tunic, looking more lordly per inch than he ever has at the university. “At least, not in name.”

For as long as Suzu’s known him, Shidan’s never been a confrontational kind of guy; Lata might duck and dodge and, if cornered, bite and rend any interference from the university’s board, but Shidan chooses the path of least resistance. Or more accurately, the path of least surveillance— he might sit and stay and sign the papers the higher up sent his way, but as soon as they had their back turned cajoling some of the more recalcitrant academics in their department, he’d slip right off the leash, doing what needed doing before the deans were any the wiser. That’s how they’d gotten into this whole orimmallys project anyhow, and that all worked out in the end. Mostly.

So when Shidan hums, all considering— the way he does when he’s about to quibble over wording on a paper, but so nicely Suzu won’t even know he’s gotten the run-around until he’s halfway to the dorms— it’s a sign. A portent, even.

“Your father gave you lease over the entire place, didn’t he?” He’s got his gloves caught in his hand, running fingers along some fancy wainscoting. There’s some gold leaf on it, gilding a few fussy fleur-de-lis, and his fingers run slow enough that there’s got to be some grit. Dust, even. “That’s what Garrack said, at least.”

Lata’s brow sours like samples left too long on the bench. “And of course, Head Pharmacist Gazelt would be the expert on my family’s internal affairs.”

“No,” Ryuu murmurs ponderously, so soft they all hush up to hear him. “But she’d be less invested in avoiding them.”

Big blue eyes blink up at his lordship, and if they were any less guileless— or maybe, if Ryuu was any less fifteen— there’d be some sort of dust up. Some flavor of raised voices and shaking fists, and maybe someone would end up with a cold ass on the big field of snow Lata calls the front lawn. But instead he just sucks in a breath, whistling like a hole in a window when the wind’s got its back up, and says, “I thought I was being quite generous offering you all a place to ready yourselves before the gala, but now I’m quite wondering just why I extended the invitation.”

“Because you’d rather be annoyed with us than risk being left alone with one of those lords?” Suzu barely realizes he’s spoken until five sets of eyes swing his way, goggling like he’s hauled off and said something out of band. Again. “Or ladies?”

A laugh’s dour cousin scrapes out from Lata’s chest as they climb what Suzu assumes is the grand stair, if only because it’s larger than the last three. “Yes,” he agrees, more weary than waggish. “Something like that.”

“Hey.” Obi hangs back, lingering on the landing with one thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Is that you?”

There’s a portrait beside him, larger than he is— or Suzu, or Shidan, or any man he’s seen living; so big that it must have taken a whole crew of footmen to install, if only to keep one of them from being crushed under a lordly boot. He’s got to squint to see above the knee, daubs of oils glistening in the gaslight, making it hard to pick out more than the curve of thick, dark hair, or the stern, squarish set the to jaw, or—

“I gotta say,” Obi hums, arms folding over his coat. “Quail hunter isn’t what comes to mind when I look at you.”

“I’m not.” Lata paces a step back toward them, then two, glowering up at the most detailed bird carcass Suzu’s ever seen outside the ruts of a country road. “That would be my father, in his youth. He had a great love of…working his will on the world, one way or another.”

“Ah…” Kazaha sighs, searching for something properly ingratiating to say. “There’s a certain, hm, strong family resemblance.”

Suzu seizes the opportunity to inform the professor, “He means that you both look grumpy.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Right,” he agrees blithely. “It’s what you meant. Like I said.”

Lata snorts, starting back down the hall. “If you think I am ill-tempered, wait until you meet my sire. Why, I’m practically a ray of sunshine next to that old—”

“Oh, are we gonna?” Obi whips around, determined to be underfoot as he asks, “Will I finally get to meet my Knight Grandpa? Sir Grandpa��?”

“I would thank you not to call him that. And no.” Lata’s mouth thins to a line as tight as his shoulders. “Besides, if we are to take Knight Grandpa at its most literal, it would not be my father, but instead the man who was my master as a squire.”

“Is he gonna be here? Can I meet him?” It’s not physically possible for Obi to wend himself around Lata’s legs, but by the way he bats his eyes up at him, he’s spiritually there. “I promise I’ll be a good little knight. I’ll even bow and scrape and write poetry about women lying in ponds—”

“No.” After a begrudging pause, Lata adds, “He’s dead, actually.”

Obi pops up, shoulders suddenly soldier-straight beside him. “Oh, well. That’s a pretty good excuse. Did he die from some battle wound or…?”

“The drink,” Lata confirms. “He wasn’t, honestly, a very good master. But he was a friend of my father’s. That seemed to matter more back then.”

A laugh saws out of Obi, rough enough Suzu’s surprised it doesn’t take a bit of throat with it. “Seems to matter just as much now.”

The professor doesn’t do anything so obvious as look at Obi, oh no— he just simply clasps his hands behind his back, favoring the hall in front of him with an approving nod. “Doesn’t it just.”

“You frown the same way.” Both men peer over their shoulders, but Obi makes confusion seem casual, whereas Lata just scowls. Ryuu, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice. “You and your father, I mean.”

“Yes.” Lata surveys the hallway over his shoulder before turning back around. “It runs in the family.”

A beat passes before Suzu dares to venture, “Hey, weren’t the girls supposed to get ready here too?”

“Yes.” The professor isn’t known to smile, and he certainly doesn’t now, giving them all a disapproving glare. “They arrived on time.”

“What if” —Shidan’s clever little botanist practically froths over the vanity like a flask left too long on the hob, spilling linen and lace where she leans— “I told him I had something in my eye.”

This is hardly the first volley of hypotheticals Garrack’s fielded from that quarter; oh no, the girls had all been down to chemises when the preliminary speculation began— what if…I said I needed some air?— and now what had already been a serviceable set of natural curves has become a feat of human engineering, bolstered by a bulwark of baleen and batiste. There’d been endless layers added on; bust improvers and corsets and girdles, all requiring additional helpful hands, and it lends a weary edge to Izuru’s, “Oh, it’s a him, now is it?”

Shidan’s long-time assistant hasn’t bothered to batten down her hatches— at least, not as much as the botanist girl’s— with only enough corsetry to turn her posture from academic to appropriate. Another assurance that she’s coming along nicely, just the way Garrack always thought she would so long as Shidan’s quiet perfectionism didn’t infest her work ethic the way his little pet project did the university’s water supply.

“What next?” It has to have been ages since there was a woman in this place— heavens know Lata isn’t bringing any inamorata around here to parade around in front of his mother’s mirror— but the painted wood Izuru slumps over is pristine. Or, well, as much as whale bone lets a body slouch. “Identifying details? A name?”

“He’s hypothetical,” the botanist snaps, which almost guarantees that he isn’t. Too bad she hasn’t caked on the powder yet; even with the lights dimmed as they are, it’s impossible to miss the flush that creeps up her shoulders, pouring onto that pretty face. “He doesn’t exist. Yet.”

There’s quite a bit Izuru seems to have to say about that; her shoulder straighten, her mouth cants, and—

“Is that supposed to be romantic?” Shirayuki frowns into the mirror, hands swallowed up by the untameable beast that is Izuru’s hair. “Having something in your eye?”

“Well, not usually,” the botanist admits, undaunted by the sharp elbow of reality bursting her dreamy little bubble. “But an eyelash…that’s all right. Delicate even! Demure. And when he bends down, BAM.”

Shirayuki blinks. “You hit him?”

“Kiss him!” The girl slumps into a chair— despite all her scaffolding, she makes a better show of it than Izuru— heaving the most world-weary sigh. “I would kiss him, Shirayuki.”

It’s years since she’s been that diligent apprentice, quietly working under Ryuu’s precise direction, but Shirayuki still flushes as red as her hair at the barest mention of grown adults touching in any way but a professional handshake. Garrack would have thought Zen would handle that— three years is a quite a lot of time, and considering what some of her cohort got up to on these cold Lilias nights, she’d have expected the bar for blushing to be a few sexual acts higher. Under the clothes, at least.

“W-wouldn’t that be an awkward angle?” Shirayuki busies herself with Izuru’s hair, letting it twist around her hands as she pins it in place. “You m-might crash heads! And noses.”

“Fine.” The botanist flops on her chair, thoroughly put upon. “What about dropping my handkerchief? I let it flutter, just like this”— there’s no fabric in her hands, but she sticks out an elegant arm, turning away as her fingers go limp— “and when he bends to retrieve it, I—”

Garrack snorts. Not a soft one either; for as unintended as it is, it draws quite the audience. The pretty botanist included, one of her well-shaped eyebrows raised.

It’s a struggle to keep the laugh in her chest from bubbling out, making this whole situation worse. Or injure this girl’s more tender emotions, at least.“Listen, you really think a lord would stoop? For a botanist?”

“He will if he wants to be kissed!” she huffs, arms crossed. Quite a bit of lace froths out over them, like a puffed-out pigeon’s chest. “Which he will, since I’m going to be the best looking girl at this gala!”

There’s one of these girls in every cohort— a little too pretty for their own good, always thinking about which assistants they might be able to catch alone in the fourth floor stock room. Clever, of course— you don’t end up in Lilias if you’re a slouch in that department— but just a bit silly. Whimsical. Destined to be disappointed when they find out royals don’t marry researchers.

At least most royals with most researchers. It probably doesn’t help that the statistical outlier is in the room right now, sending her a long suffering look. “Yuzuri…”

“That’s no slight on the rest of you, Shirayuki,” the botanist— this Yuzuri— assures her, “I’ve just been planning for this my whole life. Or at least since I found out Wirant throws one of the Solstice things.”

“We’re supposed to be here for professional purposes,” Izuru reminds her, having worked for Shidan too long to believe in mixing work with pleasure.

“Oh, boo, Izuru!” Yuzuri straightens, bustling over to the mirror to fuss with the glossy fall of her hair, pinning up parts of it with her fingers and frowning at the results. “Don’t be dull.”

“It’s not dull,” Shirayuki protests, placing the last pin in hopes that this time, Izuru’s hair might not simply bend the mess of them to breaking. “It’s what Shidan’s asking us to do. I’m not saying you can’t dance too, but if you’re going to be mingling with the nobles, maybe you should try to talk to some of them about what we’re doing with the Phostyrias. Just a couple of them giving permission for us to plant the bulbs would really be—”

“Oh, fine, fine.” She waves one hand— painstakingly manicured, done up in a pearly sort of polish that wouldn’t last five minutes once she was back in the greenhouse— but undeterred. “I can chat them up a little bit too. For the project.”

Tonight might be the darkest night of the year, celebrated in the coldest, most ass-end part of the whole country, but when Shirayuki smiles, Garrack might well be back in her office at Wistal, enjoying the mild summer breeze winding through her window. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“You better,” Yuzuri huffs, twisting her hair in her hands. “Don’t think I don’t notice that it’s the girl with a guy who’s down to kiss her anytime, any place that’s asking the rest of us to consider this a work party.”

“I…” Shirayuki sputters, and hoh, there’s that blush again, with a vengeance. “Obi wouldn’t…I mean…that’s not…”

Well, well. Looks like she’s been a little behind on current events of the frigid north. And maybe not so wrong about royals and researchers after all.

“What if I asked him off into a side corridor? Or an alcove? Maybe a balcony,” Shidan’s botanist continues, saving Shirayuki a few more stumbles. “Those always have the right ambiance. And then I ask him to check the clasp on my necklace, and—”

“At that point you might as well ask him to kiss you,” Izuru is quick to point out, stepping up to help her hold a swag of hair in place. “You’re not really being subtle.”

Yuzuri groans, pins clattering against painted wood. “But where’s the romance in that? There’s got to be some uncertainty, some risk—”

“You do know,” Garrack hums, crossing her ankles on the convenient hassock in front of her. “Shidan and I are here specifically to help keep down the kissing, don’t you?”

The girl sighs, eyes rolling in her reflection. “But you’re not really going to do anything, are you, Master Gazelt? You know how silly this whole rule is. Aren’t you just going to look the other way?”

Her mouth twitches. It would be funny to see that old goat get twisted up over some twenty-year-olds playing mother-may-I with their tonsils. “Maybe,” she allows, “if I thought it was funny enough.”

It hardly seems fair to say Suzu is disheveled when he hardly ever seems, well, sheveled, for lack of a better word. But with his shirt still merely half-buttoned and flyaway wisps of blond escaping their tie with every scrape of his hands over his scalp, Shidan has little else to call him.

“Is the mazurka step-step-clap-turn, or is that the redowa?” His half-coat flaps out around him as he marks out the movements— poorly, but at least recognizable, even if Shidan would be at pains to reproduce them. “Or maybe it’s the waltz? Help me, Obi,” — he seizes the knight as he slips through the door, rumpling the black wool of his coat— “I can’t remember!”

“I’ll run you through the steps before we get out there,” he promises, detaching Suzu from his lapel with more gentleness than Shidan would, under the circumstances. Suzu is a valuable member of his team, a long-time collaborator who will perform any number of demeaning tasks to see a project through, so long as he can avoid a single shred of responsibility and complain about his sorry lot the whole time, but well— even Shidan has his limits. “It’ll all come back to you once you got the band to back you up. These things always make more sense with the music.”

Suzu stares at him, utterly blank, and Obi huffs out a laugh. “Theoretical versus practical knowledge, right?”

“Oh.” Suzu endeavors to smooth back his strays, but they only pop back up in his palm’s wake. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Easy, then.”

“Right.” Obi pats his shoulder with a purposeful sort of confidence, as if he could pass it through flesh and fabric with the ease that footrot does through hoofs. “Easy.”

That is until Ryuu glances up from his book, brow furrowed in the faintest vee, and says, “If that’s the case, then how are you and Shirayuki so bad at it?”

Obi whips around, wide-eyed with betrayal. “H-hey!” he squawks. “We’ve gotten better!”

Ryuu doesn’t reply— not verbally, at least— but the look he turns to Obi is eloquent enough to speak for itself. And what it says is: not appreciably.

“Why are you even concerned about all that?” Kazaha’s costume is so crisp carpenters could use it to cut corners, cape and coat and pants and stymieing haircut all in perfect place. “It’s not as if anyone is going to ask you to dance.”

“Why not? I’m dressed all nice.” Suzu blinks down at himself, taking in the uncuffed sleeves and half-buttoned shirt and the coat canted askew on his shoulders, and adds, “Well, I will be.”

Kazaha may cluck his tongue, may shake his head hopelessly, but even still, he reaches out, straightening Suzu’s cuffs before buttoning them tight. “Because you’re a man, idiot. Girls might inquire if you’d like to take a stroll down Pavilion Street when we’re at the university, but in a ballroom, men do the asking.”

Shidan can’t say Suzu’s ever been popular with the female population, especially among the more established academics who are already well aware of his reputation as a rather acerbic eccentric, more apt to be cozened under tables or smudged with sweat and grit from Lata’s forge than doing the more respectable pastime of benchwork. But there’s always a flush of fluttering young freshmen flouncing outside the lab each year, eager to catch a glimpse of— or even speak a word or two with— the herbology department’s most striking scholar. That is, of course, until they actually talk to him.

“Really?” Spoken like a man who has had invitations hurled at his retreating back for five years running. By Kazaha’s strangled sigh, it’s clear he’s thinking the same. “I’m very pretty, though.”

“That may help with young ladies wanting to dance with you,” Kazaha informs him, pulling his lapel into a shape somewhat approaching acceptable. “But it will be expected that you approach them.”

“Oh.” It’s startling to see that sharp face turn thoughtful. “So I don’t have to do this dancing thing at all.”

“You do.” Shidan’s order scrapes out at the same time Kazaha’s does, creating an odd sort of echo before he presses on, “We’re the guests of honor at this gala. The department is expecting us to socialize with potential donors.”

“Well sure, but that doesn’t mean I gotta—”

“You will,” Shidan promises him wearily. “And you’ll have to at least pretend to like it, if you want to continue our work in the lab.”

“And not in some tiny closet,” Obi adds, brightly. “Where you’ll have to knock elbows with Kazaha just to get a beaker on the burner.”

“Well, yeah.” Suzu slumps, waving off Kazaha’s continued ministrations. It’s too late, however— he already looks respectable. Not enough to pass for a peer, but someone well on his way to professor. “But what if I just hung out along the wall instead. Then I could talk to people, and—”

“It’s rude for young men to be idling when there are eligible young ladies waiting for a partner.” Obi’s words nearly sparkle for all their polish, but he ruins the effect with one of his slant-wise grins. “Don’t worry, I told you I’d show you how to cut a rug. It’s better than getting stuck in a conversation with one of those stuffy old—”

There is a gravitas to the way the doors open in this place, a stately creak that does not imply age so much at maturity; this manor was built long before the sovereigns of Wisteria sunk their roots into Clarines’ throne, and it would last long after they were nothing more than musty portraits in halls long forgot. For as much as Lata might chafe under the weight of that history, might complain about the burden of expectation placed upon a son— the son— of Forzeno, he looks every inch the part as he steps over the threshold, trousers tailored and coast pressed within an inch of their lives, more institution than man.

“The guests are arriving,” he intones with all the cheer of a funeral bell. “Are you through with your preparations?”

“Almost!” Obi sing-songs, helping Kazaha tug the sleeves of Suzu’s jacket straight. “There, done.”

Lata surveys them with the same sharpness as he does his specimens, assessing them as if their flaws were as easily apparent as a gem’s through a loupe. With a long-suffering sigh, one pristine glove pinches at his nose, as if it might be any help at all stemming the incoming headache.

“Passable,” he grates out, stepping aside. “Now if you would follow me, I will ensure that you all make it to the hall.”

Obi’s mouth twitches, threatening a smirk. “Can’t trust us to get there on our own, eh, sir?”

“I have been an academic for nearly as long as you have been alive.” The fit of his coat already has Lata at his full height, but he lifts his chin for good measure, just to give his glare a few more momentum before it meets Obi’s grin. “And there is not a single scholar alive that can travel from one point to another in a straight line.”

Both brows raise now, scrunching the scar right to his hairline. “Not even you?”

Lata clears his throat. “If you would all come this way please. In an orderly fashion,” he adds, when Suzu traipses after him, elbows nearly colliding with Ryuu’s nose as he comes up behind. “I would prefer to avoid any accidents before we even arrive.”

Obi slinks closer, like a cat approaching a precariously placed cup. “But not after?”

A heavy sigh flares out of Lata’s nostrils. “I would prefer you not. But ‘after’ is not part of my purview.”

For all that Obi enjoys dogging the professor’s irritable heels, he makes no move to follow him. Instead, he lingers just inside the door, watching as first Suzu, then Ryuu, then Kazaha pass. Being polite, Shidan assumes at first, but then the moment for him to fall in line comes…and passes, utterly unmarked, save for the amused glance Obi turns his way, gold flaring in the lamplight.

He’s a different man than the one that appeared with the snow, all those years ago. Even more so from the boy that simply manifested in the university’s library, slotting himself between the two royal pharmacists with an ease that had Shidan squinting even then, trying to figure out how such incongruous pieces could fit. Lilias drew all types, it’s true, but even so— he’d never seen one quite like this: a knight with a thug’s scar cut into his brow, swaggering through the stacks like they were old enemies.

Don’t be fooled, Garrack had written him once, loops spiking tight with barely restrained humor. He might look a little rough-and-tumble, but that kid cleans up well.

He sees it now— the strong line of his shoulder accentuated by the cut of his coat, the belt at his waist complementing the taper of his torsi, the loose trousers that only barely obscure the acrobat’s body beneath. There’s no way to cover the scar, not even with a judicious application of pomade, but there’s no need— not when it only makes him look roguish, like a man who might sweep a girl into an alcove and teach her the sort of things proper young ladies only learned from novels. Still dangerous, but not deadly.

Worrying, really, considering. Shidan doesn’t make a habit of listening to scuttlebutt, but, well, he does have eyes of his own. And red is hard to miss. More so than the black he always finds bent beside it. “Obi, if I might have a word?”

That brow of his pitches up, amusement apparent in every angle. “You academics really will do anything to keep from having to go where you’re told.”

Shidan blinks, confused, before shaking his head. “I only thought I might remind you, that er…” There’s no delicate way to put it, not when he’s already wearing a smirk that would set every fine young lady’s fan fluttering. “That this year there is to be no Solstice kissing. By Lata’s request.”

“So I’ve heard.” Obi’s head cocks, curious, though when he takes in the emptiness of the room, the pointedness of the request…the slant his brow takes is clearly…confused. “Is there any reason you’re telling me, specifically?”

It’s a romantic sort of night, he might say, and it’s easy to forget yourself in the moment. Or maybe, you already stand so close I couldn’t fit a paper between the two of you, all it would take to close it is a well-timed trip. Or perhaps more accurately, you’ve been together so long all you need is an excuse. Trust me when I say you should take it.

But Shidan knows better than to speak, not when silence is all the more eloquent. The mind, he finds, often finds the most pressing reasons all on its own. Especially when one's thoughts never strayed too far from them anyway...

“Hey!” Obi presses a hand to the placard of his coat. “I haven’t caused trouble for years.”

It’s a feat worthy of song that Shidan keeps from reminding him of the last time him and Shirayuki rode through these gates. And yet, there’s no graceful way to admit that he hadn’t been talking about that sort of trouble anyway.

“Months, at least,” he relents, grudgingly. With a few moments of thought, he adds, “I’ve been really good this week.”

Shidan, with the patience of a saint, restricts his reply to simply, “If you’re sure.”

Obi does him the courtesy of hesitating. “Well, none of that’s been of the kissing variety, anyway. Not like any of the ladies here are going to be looking to make time with a guy like me tonight.”

He gives him another one of those charming grins, and Shidan sighs, resigning himself to an evening of being pointedly unobservant. “So you say.”

#obiyukiweek24 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #finally i have gotten to revisit this fic I worked on last year with annie #the draft has been sitting in my WIP folder forever #and finally i've gotten to take out a chunk of it #i think there should be...one more full chapter and an epilogue #hilarious that i thought this whole project would be 9K #looks like it might well be between 15-18K overall #but maybe i'll get to sneak out another bit of it before the new year #love to get something wrapped up for once 😅

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itzynabi · 8 months ago

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an: its a three bedroom, three bathroom apartment. the two guest bedrooms are the first rooms in the apartment (on either side of the hallway) i just didnt include them bcs i didnr feel like it. the hallway leads to the kitchen and living room which is where i started from. the pictures are not mine, only the collages

kitchen

— if you thought this apartment would be anything other than princess supreme, you’re not serious

— the members and kibum helped her choose her apartment (the only criteria for the perfect apartment™ was an oven in the kitchen and guest bedrooms bcs she has maaany friends)

— but yeah the kitchen!

— the kitchen is built into the wall so there arent any windows, sunlight comes in from the living room which is, like, right next to it

— she has the most GIGANTIC island ever

— the cutest pots and pans bcs ofc

— and a cute yellow chandelier bcs she hates white lights

living room

— the living room is right across from the kitchen and has a massive window and a place like this

— that couch goes against the wall and the two chairs go on either side

— the coffee table is the love of her lifw and so is the chandelier

— pictures everywhere bcs she has soooo many that she got framed

— and her fave decoration in that room as the frame with notes from various people (photocopies ofc bcs the originals are in a safe box with all of her prized possessions)

— a nice rug and lamp bcs theyre staples

dining room

— this room is off to the side of the living room except there arent windows

— the chandelier ofc

— she’s got an 8 seater table

— and cute chairs bcs duh

— and the sideboard is technically in the living room but it has some fancy crockery

— she’s got two paintings there just to add something to the walls

— she doesn’t really eat there all that often unless she has guests over

bedroom

— princess galore its true!

— when she decided on this apartment and bought it, the members bought her that bed frame and it set the foundation for the decoration of her room

— literally everything is princess themed in here

— the dresser is against the wall across from her bed

— and the little vanity is in the corner next to the balcony

— cutest chandelier and most of the photos in her room are her most favouritest photos that she got printed out

— that rug means the world to her (thank you shinee!!)

— and a cute ballerina painting

bathroom

— pretty simple tbh

— the sink is LONG

— i didnt really know what pics to include

— and im just now realisinf i forgot about her closet🤦‍♀️

— but she has a walk-in closet everyone!!

©️ kim nabi

#ficnetfairy #itzy 6th member #itzy sixth member #itzy oc #itzy addition #itzy added member #itzy extra member #itzy member au #itzy imagines #kpop oc #kpop addition #kpop added member #kpop extra member #kpop au #kpop imagines

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thefisherqueen · 1 year ago

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There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides, what is there for a burglar—unless they got away with all this fancy crockery?” “No good,” said Shinwell Johnson with the decided voice of the expert. “No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt nor sell.”

Johnson is a confirmed former burglar. No wonder Holmes likes him so much

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes #the illustrious client #Holmes has a proper admiration for some good burglary

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toomanyrobins2 · 8 months ago

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Our Manhattan

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!

24th March, maybe the 25th

Dear Batman,

I don't believe I can be going to Heaven—I am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. Listen to what has happened.

Y/N Abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the Monthly holds every year. And she's a Sophomore! The contestants are mostly Seniors. When I saw my name posted, I couldn't quite believe it was true. Maybe I am going to be an author after all. I wish Mrs. Lippett hadn't given me such a silly name—it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it?

Also I have been chosen for the spring dramatics—As You Like It out of doors. I am going to be Celia, own cousin to Rosalind.

And lastly: Harriet and Barbara and I are going to New York next Friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'Master Brucie.' He invited us. Harriet is going to stay at home with her family, but Barbara and I are going to stop at the Martha Washington Hotel. Did you ever hear of anything so exciting? I've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the Catholic Church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count.

And what do you think we're going to see? Hamlet. Think of that! We studied it for four weeks in Shakespeare class and I know it by heart.

I am so excited over all these prospects that I can scarcely sleep.

Goodbye, Bats.

This is a very entertaining world.

Yours ever,

Judy

PS. I've just looked at the calendar. It's the 28th.

Another postscript.

I saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. Wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story?

7th April

Dear Batman,

Mercy! Isn't New York big? Worcester is nothing to it. Do you mean to tell me that you actually lived in all that confusion? I don't believe that I shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. I can't begin to tell you all the amazing things I've seen; I suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself.

But aren't the streets entertaining? And the people? And the shops? I never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. It makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes.

Barbara and Harriet and I went shopping together Saturday morning. Harriet went into the very most gorgeous place I ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. A perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. I thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats—at least Harriet was. She sat down in “front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all.

I can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! There's no doubt about it, Bats; New York would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the Bowery Home so patiently built up.

And after we'd finished our shopping, we met Master Bruce at Sherry's. I suppose you've been in Sherry's? Picture that, then picture the dining room of the Bowery Home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way I felt!

I ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed.

And after luncheon we went to the theatre—it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable—I dream about it every night.

Isn't Shakespeare wonderful?

Hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; I “appreciated it before, but now, dear me!

I think, if you don't mind, that I'd rather be an actress than a writer. Wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? And then I'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. Only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so I'll surely smile at the right man. It would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if I picked out the wrong one.

We came back Saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps. I never heard of meals being served in trains before, and I inadvertently said so.

'Where on earth were you brought up?' said Harriet to me.

'In a village,' said I meekly, to Harriet.

'But didn't you ever travel?' said she to me.

'Not till I came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said I to her.

She's getting quite interested in me, because I say such funny things. I try hard not to, but they do pop out when I'm surprised—and I'm surprised most “of the time. It's a dizzying experience, to pass eighteen years in the Bowery Home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the WORLD.

But I'm getting acclimated. I don't make such awful mistakes as I did; and I don't feel uncomfortable anymore with the other girls. I used to squirm whenever people looked at me. I felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. But I'm not letting the ginghams bother me anymore. Sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof.

I forgot to tell you about our flowers. Master Bruce gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. Wasn't that sweet of him? I never used to care much for men—judging by Trustees—but I'm changing my mind.

Yours always,

Y/N

10th April

Dear Mr. Rich-Man,

Here's your cheque for fifty dollars. Thank you very much, but I do not feel that I can keep it. My allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that I need. I am sorry that I wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that I had never seen anything like it before.

However, I wasn't begging! And I would rather not accept any more charity than I have to.

Sincerely yours,

Y/N Abbott

Bruce stared down at the check. He had barely thought about it when they had been out in the city and once Y/n had sent the letter, he’d dispatched the check without a second thought.

Clark Kent, who had been present during the discussion about Y/N's shopping woes, entered the study with a knowing expression. "Having trouble with the whole 'helping' thing?" Clark quipped, a smile playing on his lips.

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to make things a bit easier for her. She didn't have to return the check."

Clark leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Bruce, you know Y/N at this point. She's independent and proud. Accepting help might not come naturally to her, especially from someone like you."

Bruce frowned, the frustration evident in his eyes. "But I want to help. She shouldn't have to feel lesser than her peers."

Clark nodded, understanding Bruce's genuine concern. "Maybe it's not about the help itself, but how it's offered. Try sending her a letter with a short note explaining why you sent the check. Make it personal. Sometimes, a few carefully chosen words can make a big difference."

Bruce considered Clark's suggestion, recognizing the wisdom in his friend's advice. "You think that might work?"

"Y/N's a writer, Bruce. Words matter to her. A thoughtful note can make the gesture feel less like charity and more like a friend looking out for another," Clark explained.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce reached for a pen and paper.

Miss Abbott, I go against my rules by penning this letter but I find myself unable to let this matter go. This check is not charity but a gift from a friend who wishes to see you excel in all matters. I wish you to be able to experience all that your peers are able to. I have never sponsored a woman before and I confess that I lack the knowledge to ensure that you are equal to your peers. I kindly request that you keep this cheque as an apology for my own failings as your patron. Mr. Smith

As Bruce sealed the letter, he handed it to Alfred, who was passing by. "Alfred, make sure this gets to Miss Abbott. And let's hope this time, she accepts it."

#toomanyrobins #batman #batman imagine #batman x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #battison #battison imagine #dcu #dcu imagine

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guiltypleasurefandomface · 6 months ago

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Silly idea that I won't actually have time to turn itno a full story but imagine they have a ghost in the band house who tries to make them leave. Hes done the usual haunting but these are starving student artists. Yeah they wish they didn't have to replace crockery so often but cold water in the shower? No different to when they run out of money in the metre, same with the electriity and phone line. Cold room? Blankets. Hot room? Windows. The ghost can't keep the door stuck for so long so they wait him out for that too.

So the ghost gets devious. Absolutely abohrrant. This is his house and he won't give it up easily. He has a terrible trick he only uses as a last resort because it's so unpleasant for him. He passes through them to learn their secrets.

And then with all his power he writes a set of notes saying "I know one of you is homosexual" and leaves it in each of their rooms.

And he imagines all chaos will break loose. When he was a boy that was automatic alienation from all of society. Nobody had friends if they were interested in other boys. So he sits. And he waits.

And instead of watching these four young men all turn on each other* and accuse each other of heinous acts and break up the friendship and they all leave so he has his house to himself again, he watches Brian, Roger and John boost up their friendship with each of the other 3, even if Freddie's a bit of a nervous wreck over being outed. Freddie obviously knows he's the gay one and he isn't twigging how more open and gender neutral the other's conversation are going.

The Ghost even has to watch Brian give the "it's okay if you need to share anyhing with us Rog, we've been friends for years" talk with Roger.

Roger isn't so subtle. "Deacy, when you talk about Ronnie..."

John: 🤔Yeah?

Roger: ... I'm just saying, no matter what, you can bring Ronnie round. You know that, don't you?

John: ... When you stop leaving your underpants to dry on the radiator, Rog, i'll bring her around.

Roger: ... okay. They're not dirty, you know. That's why they're drying.

John: Veronica is a lovely girl and doesn't need to see your underpants even if they're clean.

Roger: Oh. Veronica.

John: What?

Roger: Hm? No nothing.

Roger: Listen, you know the note?

Freddie, instantly on edge: Yes?

Roger: I think I know who it is

Freddie, resigned: You do, do you?

Roger: Yeah... so when we see Brian later, I was thinking, what if- you have all those gay art student friends, don't you?

Freddie: .... yes, darling, I do, but why-?

Roger: I think we should introduce Brian to them. So he knows more gay people. When we see him later, I could say I fancy a party, what do you think and you could say oh i just have some friends I want to introduce you to and then Brian will-

Freddie: .... why on earth- You think it's Brian!?

Roger: Well yeah, obviously.

Freddie: Why the fuck obviously?

Roger: Well it's not me, and it's not Deacy, and it's obviously not you, so it has to be Brian and really i've known him for 5 years now and the closest relationship i've seen him have is with his guitar so-

Freddie: -What... what... Roger, dear, what do you mean it's obviously not me? You haven't asked me. Why couldn't it be me?

Roger: Well look at you. You're gruff and manly and don't show an ounce of interest in other men.

Freddie, internally breaking: is that so....

Roger: And of course, there's Mary

Freddie, as if he's just remembered her: MARY. Yes. Yes. Of course. We musn't forget about Mary, darling, she's the love of my life... of a sort...

Roger: Exactly. So

Freddie: Listen as fun as it sounds to have a massive party with all of my gorgeous elligible gay friends, I don't think Brian would appreciate it.

Roger: Hmmm.... he is a bit of a wallflower, isn't he?

Freddie: Terribly. Like myself, sometimes, dear. Erm. I mean.

Roger: Low key.

Freddie: Er

Roger: Alright. I'll keep thinking

Freddie: You do that Rog.

Roger: hmmm

Freddie, to the ceiling: Listen here you transluscent old Bastard, you have done something terrible to me just because you want your house back, but guess what, fucker, it didn't work. Those boys are tying themsleves in knots over coaxing the gay one out like a scared cat and all it's shown me is if i said something, it would be okay. You hear that? It's okay. I'm going to be okay. *calms down* Listen, darling, i'm so very sorry you're dead. I'm so sorry you're so unhappy in afterlife as you must have been whilst living but your time came and went and this isn't your house anymore. You don't live in it because you are not living. We are. The landlady is at the end of her whits with the hell you've caused, and we've been her longest tennants. You need to find peace, dear, or just a better hobby. Because you've lost. So now i'm going downstairs and i'm putting an end to this.

Ghost, ashamed of himself, flickers the lights on and off to say he's heard.

Freddie: That better be a fucking apology

Ghost flickers the light again once.

Freddie: Once for yes. Good.

Roger: Fred! You joining us for late night scrabble?

Freddie: Yes, why not? First though I thnk you should know something.

Brian: Hm?

Freddie: It's me.

Brian: What's you?

Freddie: Me. I'm the gay one. The homosexual

Roger does a massive double take.

Freddie: Yes Rog, even though i'm manly and gorgeously butch and massively hairy.

Roger: Oh. I did mean those in good ways.

Freddie: Yes, I know you did. Anyway, it's not Brian or John, it's me.

Brian: Well, you know that's okay with us Freddie.

Deacon: I didn't care either way I just want everyone to stop leaving their underpants around everywhere. Wait a minute

Freddie: Hm?

Deacon: Ronnie! That's what you were on about. It's short for Veronia, Rog!! I did tell you.

Roger: .... whoops.

Freddie, eyes twinkling: Say Rog, I was thinking, maybe we should have a party and invite all of my elligible gay art student friends around. What do you think becuase I'd love the idea.

Brian, to Rog: You want a massive party with Freddie gay art student friends? How many? This isn't exactly-

Roger: It's a long story, let's just play scrabble.

Freddie, nodding to the scrabble board: Who's going first?

The next day, the water in the shower is warm. When Freddie gets out of the shower he finds a word has been written on the mirror in the condensation.

"Sorry".

#*Not that kind of story #But I was highly tempted to write but instead they turned each other on #Ah dear #That would have a completely different story #Queen #Not a fic #But not not a fic

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karachinewsupdate2 · 5 months ago

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practically-an-x-man · 2 months ago

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For the amorous asks, 7 for Eris?

Thank you so much!!!

Annual Amorous Asks

7. What gift would they be most delighted to receive from a suitor or lover?

Eris is a little old-fashioned when it comes to courtship and romance. They don't show it often, mainly because they don't often show affection of any kind in public, but if you really want to get to their heart? Old-fashioned is the way to go.

Romantic letters - Eris would act like it's sappy and saccharine at first, maybe brush it aside... but he'd carefully save every single one and would reread them when he thinks nobody's looking.

Acts of craftsmanship - a ring, a jewelry case, some fancy porcelain crockery, any artisan good that shows time and dedication to the romance would win Eris' heart. Though if you want something that really speaks to them, you want artisanal weapons.

And of course, Eris is much more prone to acts of service than she is physical gifts. She wants to see her lover's devotion and dedication - one of her prior lovers wooed her by getting a massive tattoo across his torso as a way to show them how much pain he was willing to go through for their sake, and of course Rick shows his love with a lot of little gestures.

#my friends!!!#answered asks #ask game #my ocs #oc eris #faolonfiendrender

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honourablejester · 1 year ago

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Homebrew Magic Item: The Troublesome Teapot

A completely random sentient homebrew Magic Item inspired entirely by the belligerent sugar bowl from the Higitus Figitus scene in Sword in the Stone.

As you look around, you hear muffled cursing and the strange sound of rattling crockery. Your attention is drawn to a small wooden box, the sort used in fancy houses to store cruet sets and other tableware. The box is rattling quite violently. A piece of parchment has been glued crookedly to the ornate lid of the box. On this parchment, in scrawled, nearly illegible writing, is the following note:

“The Troublesome Teapot. Or, no. It’s not actually a teapot, it’s a sugar bowl. Just. Alliteration, you know? You give these sorts of things fancy names, don’t you? And sugar bowl or teapot, whatever else it might be, it’s troublesome. I may have, perhaps, had a slight incident with the Animate Objects spell and a surge of wild magic? That’s neither here nor there. The point is, the very foul-mouthed thing you can hear in this box is what I’m calling the Troublesome Teapot. Or the Troublesome Sugar Bowl, if you’ve absolutely got to be accurate about it. It’s … I’m sure there’s got to be someone it’ll get on with? Maybe that’s you! I mean, not at first, it doesn’t get on with anything at first, but you could be the person it warms up to? After a small, absolutely TINY bit of injury and mayhem. Miniscule. I’m sure you can handle it. Or someone can handle it. Just. Well. I didn’t want to destroy it? I mean, it’s an angry, hitty little thing that’s likely of no use to anyone, but …

Well. It just felt wrong. It’s hardly its fault my magic did what my magic always does. And look, if you do hold on to it and just … let it hit you for a bit, it will at least not hit you any more? And if you keep it with you, it sometimes does hit things that are mean to you. Although, most often, just whatever’s biggest around you. Which can be useful! Sometimes. On occasion.

Regardless. If you don’t want to chance it, please leave it alone? Don’t destroy it. There will eventually be someone who’ll be the companion it deserves. Or at least, that’s the hope I’m holding on to. There’s someone out there for everyone, right? Even horrible little sugar bowls who like to hit things. Well. That’s the hope, at least. And … thank you.”

THE TROUBLESOME TEAPOT (/SUGAR BOWL)

Wonderous Item (Construct), requires attunement

The Troublesome Teapot is a squat, rather ugly little blue ceramic sugar bowl, with four stubby legs, two stubby little handles/arms, a badly chipped lid, and a rather indestructible pewter teaspoon that it is violently attached to. You can attune to the Troublesome Teapot by successfully holding onto with both hands for 1 minute while it attempts to attack you. During this time the Teapot will make 10 attempted attacks on you (+8 to hit, dealing 1 bludgeoning damage on a hit). If you successfully endure all 10 without letting go of the Teapot, you have successfully attuned to it, and the Teapot will stay grumbling but acquiescent in its box until you summon it.

While attuned to the Troublesome Teapot, you can use a bonus action on your turn to summon it to your side. If initiative has not yet been rolled, the Teapot immediately makes a surprise attack on one target of its choice from among the creatures within 50ft of it, and will keep attacking that target if allowed to do so. If initiative has been rolled, roll initiative for the Teapot, and place it in the initiative order accordingly. You can use a bonus action to return the Teapot to its box at any time.

While the Teapot is active, it acts on its own turn and initiative. The Teapot does not obey your commands. Instead, it always moves to attack the strongest, most intimidating or otherwise most attractive target to fight in its vicinity. The Teapot is a tiny construct, with an AC of 18, 20 hit points, a Strength of 4 and a Dexterity of 18. It has a walking speed of 50ft.

On its turn, the Teapot can move up to its speed and use an action to make one melee attack on a creature with its spoon. It has a +8 to hit and deals 1d4 + your main ability modifier in bludgeoning damage. The Teapot can use a bonus action on its turn to take the Dash, Disengage or Dodge actions.

If the Teapot is reduced to 0 hit points, it becomes inert and must either be repaired using the mending cantrip or by spending an hour of downtime activity and 5gp to painstakingly glue it back together. After being repaired, the Teapot must be allowed a full long rest of 8 hours in its box before it can be summoned again.

Sentience. The Troublesome Teapot is a sentient, chaotic neutral construct with an Intelligence of 10, a Wisdom of 14 and a Charisma of 6. It speaks and understands Common, and has blindsense and hearing to a range of 50ft.

Personality. The Troublesome Teapot is incredibly belligerent, foul-mouthed, and inclined to insult anything and everything in its vicinity. If allowed freedom to act, it will invariably attack whatever creature in its vicinity looks like it would be the best in a fight, spouting insults the entire time. Once attuned, it will not attack the person it is attuned to, although it may continue to insult them. It is possible, although never yet successfully achieved, that the Troublesome Teapot may warm up to the person it is attuned to, to the point where it will accept commands or suggestions from them. Or at least settle for a warmer sort of insult.

(Optional) Waning Magic. The more often the Troublesome Teapot is damaged, the less it holds on to its magic. If the Teapot is reduced to 0 HP and repaired more than five times, it begins to get noticeably more listless and less lively. Its insults become more lackluster and less enthusiastic, and it begins to slow down in combat, reducing its movement speed to 30ft. After the eighth time it is destroyed and repaired, it can no long use bonus actions in combat. After the tenth time, it can no longer be summoned at all, and can only rattle sadly in its box. Once the Teapot has reached this stage, it has 2d20 days before it loses its magic entirely and ‘dies’/becomes nonmagical. The Teapot will be aware of and may understand what is happening to it. At the DMs discretion, it may be possible to stop and reverse this decline, perhaps by casting a spell such as Greater Restoration on the Troublesome Teapot, or by some other means, such as bringing the Teapot to a temple of a deity of craft, knowledge or arcana and asking for their intercession.

#d&d #5e #homebrew #magic items #sword in the stone #belligerent crockery

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