#finery plush

[egoschwank]

al things considered — when i post my masterpiece #1191

first posted in facebook may 16, 2023

ellen berkenblit -- "finery plush" (2023)

"i think my paintings emerge through color. they emerge through a few different things, but significantly through the language of color and what is happening at the moment on the palette" ... ellen berkenblit

"the irresistible pictures of ellen berkenblit [...] are a potent reminder that, within the fantastical space of a painting, [...] every risk is worth taking. the artist has been working at the crossroads of expressive abstraction and oneiric figuration in new york city for forty years, parlaying her signature cast of characters (a witchy woman, always in profile, attended by a menagerie) into some of the most quietly ambitious works on the scene" ... andrea k. scott

"i don't know what i'm doing when i start a painting. i'm riffing on what's happening, and things get bulldozed over; shapes change" ... ellen berkenblit

"once upon a time you dressed so fine you threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?" ... bob dylan

"... but you did not live so happily ever after, did you?" ... al janik

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Little Dove: Part 5

I'm trying to work up properly to some smut because we all know secretly that's where this story is going. I just want to have some fun writing first haha

Part Four , Part Six

The current gossip amongst the Roman population was of a young middle class woman with whom the Emperor had become so infatuated with, so much so that he broke societal protacall to protect her, her beauty so great he insulted one of the highest ranking families in the senate.

The days that followed that particular banquet were a blur to you, only truly remembering that night, ever so clearly in your mind. After Caracalla threw Marcus to he floor and claimed you as his you were not allowed to leave his side, his hand never left your waist, feeling the soft strokes of his thumb on your hip through your sheer gown. The senators stared but in intrigue, you were indeed beautiful but why would the Emperor claim you publicly and not just make you a concubine? Your father was furious at first, watching you struggle against Marcus, thinking that his entire life's work would be erased due to a disobedient daughter. That was until he saw you with the emperor, he knew he could use this to gain favour and climb higher than he had ever dare dreamed before.

Your father's villa had become your prison these past few days, word having spread of who you were. The first time you went into the market you were joined by men and women alike, trying to grant you gifts to gain your favour. After that visit your father put a stop to your wandering, he wanted you where he could see you, to make sure you remained untouched and unspoilt for the emperor as he made his secret preparations to ship you off to the palace.

The villa's garden and pool is where you now spent your time, tending to the flowers and swirling petals in the cool sunken pool, day dreaming the days away now that you could not leave the house. It was a shock when the palace guards came for you, ushering you away from the villa and into the royal carriage once again. You tried to call out to your father and understand what was happening, only briefly did he approach you, to kiss your forehead and utter a single sentence. "Make the Emperor happy." His smile was sinister and calculated as you were pulled away, watching him fade into the distance.

After being placed into the carriage you were treat comfortably, offered fine wine and food. It did not take long for you to figure out what was happening, your father was shipping you away to the Emperor, at who's request you were unsure, your father was not a man to pass up an opportunity when he saw one, and you had become a prize opportunity for him to scale the ladder of the senate. Senators were now taking notice of the father of the girl whom the Emperor had claimed for his own, and he would take advantage of this.

The palace was quiet when you finally arrived, the opulence of the banquets you had attended were no longer present, yet it did not make it looks any less regal. You witnessed as servants carried trunks full of your belongings to what would become your new home, a room that rivaled even the size of your father's villa. It was stocked with finery and a library of tomes you could not wait to devour, you had never imagined to experience such luxury in your life.

As you settled into your new home, taking in the giant bed, silk sheets and plush duck feather pillows you were overwhelmed, this was more than you could imagine. Caracalla stood at the doorway watching you, entranced by your beauty and the wonder you displayed in the room he chose for you, happy that you seemed so enraptured with everything in it. He walked over to you with a smirk as your back was towards him, looking through all the old tomes you could now read to yourself.

A small surprised yelp escaped your mouth as you felt his hands on your hips and his lips against your neck, pulling you towards his body once again, another blush forming on your cheeks as you felt his body press against yours once more. Caracalla's words were like silk upon your neck, his lips gently tracing over your skin as he spoke. "I trust everything is to your liking Little Dove, I had the room specially made for you" His lips found their way up your neck slowly, you arched your neck involuntarily so that you could feel more of his affection.

"You honour me, My Emperor" Your voice was barely a whisper, breathless by Caracalla's actions, yet you persisted, not wanting to be rude to your new provider. You felt him chuckle against your skin, kissing your neck and smiling once more before saying a phrase you would forever commit to memory, one that almost brought you to your knees.

"Although I may be Emperor, you will be my Goddess, and I aim to revere you as such." That phrase took your breath away, the silent moan that reverberated in your chest made Caracalla chuckle once again, his hands squeezing your hips affectionately now.

Caracalla's hands nudged your waist, encouraging you to turn and face him now, wanting to speak to you and look deep into your eyes. He lifted your chin so you could face him properly once again, he found it ever so endearing that you were this shy in front of him, yet so bold Infront of the old senators, loving how you could be so feisty yet so demure at the same time, such a mystery. "Not tonight though my Dove, I want you to be settled. You are to become mine and I want you to be happy here first" His lips were soft upon your own this time, not like at the banquet, this time your heart fluttered, eager to know more of him and learn more of his body.

Caracalla bid you goodbye for now, allowing you to acquaint yourself with your new home, taking in all the opulence before you. As you saw him leave it made your heart sink, you knew he had official business to attend to but you wanted him with you, day dreaming once again about your next encounter.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

BNHA

something else to pretend by beeclaws

Bakugou apologies. Somehow, this makes things worse.

Retrograde by redrobin1989

Retrograde /ˈretrəˌɡrād/ adjective: directed or moving backwards noun: a degenerate person. verb: go back in position or time.

Seasoned pro heroes Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki are mentally transported back to their younger bodies due to a quirk. All they have to do is wait for the quirk to wear off for everything to return to normal. But sometimes the journey is worse than the destination.

DC

dick move by konan_konan

Part 1 of batfam twitter shenanigans

dim trake ☑ @timdrakeceo・52min guys what if dick grayson IS batman. that’s why he thought he was getting cancelled. it all makes sense. 784K Views | 142 Retweets | 52 Quote Tweets | 63.9K Likes

tason jodd ☑ @jsntdd・49min ↳ replying to @timdrakeceo asshole last week you said i was batman 461K Views | 88 Retweets | 16 Quote Tweets | 18.3K Likes

or: a civilian overhears a conversation between batman and nightwing. twitter does what it always does: makes things worse

the rules of playing make believe by hoebiwan

“We can’t squat in some dead guy’s mansion, Damian,” Tim says. Damian, in the midst of packing all their meager belongings into grocery sacks, ignores him.

“Why not?” Jason demands. “It’s not like he’s using it. Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

Or: Homeless!Reverse Robins squat in Wayne Manor.

Nine Worlds

with a winged heart by celebros

"Cliopher. Cliopher. Cliopher." I blink. It's Conju, standing with his hands on my shoulders, and I go to answer him and realize that I am already speaking, babbling, and Franzel is behind him, wringing his hands and looking near tears. I try to focus on what I'm saying, but it's like a stream, light and splashing past me, too quick to hold, not enough to catch, somehow, somehow – A few weeks before the start of the viceroyship ceremonies, Kip finds himself the unwitting recipient of a truth serum.

Original Work

That Frightful Nest Inside the Throat by whereveryouroam

Part 1 of That Dreadful Clockwork Beats Below

Living horses were in vogue among the high and mighty of the great families, but Peter’s new owners had sent proud motorhorses, clicking over in a blur of cogs and wheels, to draw the carriage. It was a very nice carriage - plush and cushioned. He couldn’t help but think this was sinister. Masters didn’t transport slaves in finery. At least, not slaves like him.

Peter’s spent years under the cruelty of masters who want the Monster inside him to become their weapon. He is quite sure that Lord and Lady Arken will be no different.

Percy Jackson

Through rose-colored glasses (the past is perfect) by Mo13

Part 1 of Rose-colored glasses verse

Luke/Percy were in a non-consensual 'relationship' when Percy was twelve. Percy deals with the aftermath, while constantly convincing himself that his relationship with Luke was fine (IT WAS NOT). Mostly cooperates with canon up to the end of Heroes of Olympus.

The Goblin Emperor

A Complete Education by bomberqueen17

Preparing for the Emperor's wedding, everyone has some things they need to learn about.

Emperor's Best Friend by imaginary_golux

Ino and Mireän decide their cousin Maia needs a special present for his twentieth birthday.

a burning coal of kindness by egelantier for Morgan (duckwhatduck)

When Maia is kidnapped by a faction hoping to halt the construction of Wisdom Bridge, Beshelar, gravely injured, is by his side. It might just be their undoing.

The Stairs Beneath the Heart by hermitknut

Part 1 of Keystone

The reign of Varenechibal IV is over; the reign of Edrehasivar VII has begun. The transition, however, is anything but smooth, as the Alcethmeret household navigates grief and worry as well as adapting to the new emperor.

A series of missing scenes and unseen moments centering around the Alcethmeret household over the course of the first few months of Maia's reign.

[lexsssu]

Knotting (Zhongli | Morax)

TAGS: Zhongli/F!Reader, breeding, knotting, cave sex, smut, drabble Ao3 ver.

“Pretty little mate...gonna give me gorgeous hatchlings…”

Morax releases a purr as his larger masculine form pins you down on your nest, the cold cave floor decorated with a myriad of the finest furs and silks to prevent your precious skin from being scratched or even dirtied.

Secluded in a cave deep within one of the many mountains in Liyue, the former geo archon had you all to himself. He made sure to stock up on all the necessities, unwilling to make you feel even an ounce of discomfort once he’d whisked you away to your shared nest that he painstakingly decorated for you.

Though retired from his previous godly duties, there is no way he will allow his most precious gem, the jewel in his palm, his one and only beloved to be wronged. He is a god of war, a god of contracts, but also a god of commerce.

To not allow his own mate to experience the comforts that came with his titles and wealth is disrespect towards himself and most importantly you.

That is why piles of mora, gems, antiques, and other priceless treasures littered the expansive cavern, glittering like the amber that grew upon the stone walls and lit up the area in different shades of gold and even cor lapis.

However, the finery presented to your eyes are the last thing on your mind as your husband plows into you from behind like a man possessed with only the need to fuck your cunt open until even your womb takes the shape of his cock.

You could only do your best to keep your lower half upright, feeling each harsh smack of Zhongli’s pelvis against your plush derriere whenever he bottoms out, the tip of his girthy length knocking at the entrance to your baby-making chamber. Every ridge, every prominent vein upon his half-transformed cock scraped at your moist spongy walls, coaxing only the most pathetic and yet adorable moans and whimpers from you especially when he repeatedly hit that special spot inside of you.

At least, Morax thought that they were the loveliest sounds he’d heard during his millennia of existence.

However, the choked moan you emit once the fat knot at the base of his imposing member slipped inside your tight walls is his absolute favorite. Despite how much smaller you were normally and even more so once he’d transformed into his more primal form, the fact that you’re able to take ALL of him from tip to base including his knot…

“Perfect mate...you’re gonna be so round, soft, and warm with our brood once my seed takes…”

[powdermelonkeg]

Personal headcanons for Gale's tower layout:

5F: An astronomical observatory with an orrery in it. The stardome is enchanted to reflect whatever sky and weather Gale wishes; if he wants to see the stars in Kythorn, that's what it shows him. If he wants rainy weather to read to, guess what. The stars reflect whatever position the orrery's been set to. There's a walkable ledge around the exterior of the roof for Tara's pigeon-hunting.

4F: A portal room, surrounded by three guest bedrooms and a bathroom. The bedrooms are themed: one smells like a sea breeze and faces the harbor, colored with sunset shades with gold accents, one smells like rose potpourri and fresh grass, mostly pastel purple with brass, one smells faintly spiced, deep maroon and bronze. Morena prefers the rose one. Each one comes equipped with a vanity that has three (magic) mirrors, a wardrobe that removes wrinkles and stains of anything hung in it and repairs minor stitches, a set of candles that never burn down their wicks, and curtains that, when drawn, enact a silent barrier around the room. The floors are polished hardwood with plush, patterned carpets. The bathroom is self-cleaning, has running water on command, whatever temp you want it, warms towels for you, and has a magic mirror (magic mirrors in my headcanon show hairstyles and things you WANT to try before you actually try them out).

3F: Gale's floor. His bedroom, a walk-in closet, a room for Tara, and a personal bathroom. Gale's bedroom has silence-spelled drapes, glowing crystal sconces he can dim with a wave, a desk, a large canopy bed (the one he summons during his last night in Act II), a small bookshelf for whatever he's currently reading that doubles as his nightstand, and a plush window seat. The walk-in closet is neatly sorted, with everything from travel robes to finery to wear to the annual Blackstaff Ball, and has the same enchantments in it as the guest room wardrobes, with the added effect of making anything put in it inexplicably smell like a library. His bathroom is just like the guest ones, but larger. The bathtub inside, when activated, always assumes he wants his bath piping hot and lavender-scented. Tara's room is smaller, but fully designed for her little cat body. Scratching posts, cat-sized perches and comfy cat towers, and a little bookcase and window seat of her own. She keeps her space VERY neat, in contrast to Gale's "organized chaos" sort of living.

2F: This is the floor we see in Gale's Act II illusion. The packed library, the messy desk, the private study, the balcony... He sorts his books by topic, then by date rather than author. Tara is appalled by it. The balcony has a minor enchantment to keep weather, pigeons, and seagulls off of it. Tara is upset at the lack of birds; it's SUCH a cozy napping spot, and you're going to take away her free breakfast, too? Gale's compromise was the 5th floor's walkable ledge, which is a prime pigeon-hunting perch.

1F: The entry floor. It's got a sitting room to entertain guests with, and a large, well-kitted kitchen. The dishwashing basin does the washing for Gale. On the wall in the sitting room, there are two notable paintings: one is of young, 10-year-old Gale in a cape, standing proudly with both his parents and holding his first-ever proper wizard staff. He's TRYING to have Tara on his shoulders, he insisted, but she's just too big, so he's wound up leaning forward where she awkwardly perches on his back. He has a snaggle tooth. The other painting is of a much older Gale, dressed finely and standing with his mother, smiling. It was made before he got the beard, so he looks a decent bit younger than he is. Tara is wrapped around Morena's shoulders like one of those feather boas, but she's headbutting Gale's shoulder affectionately.

B1: Gale's wine cellar and well-stocked pantry. He collects all kinds of wines from all over Faerûn, usually getting them from merchants that pass through Waterdeep, but he's not opposed to cracking open an expensive vintage with the right company. There's a locked cabinet labeled "in case of Elminster" that contains some cheeses and wine to offer the older wizard, that way Elminster doesn't raid Gale's pantry when he's not looking. If you don't feed Elminster, he WILL feed himself at your expense.

B2: Gale's spell workshop, scroll storage, alchemy lab, and vault. Gale's not especially well-versed in alchemy (I think Wyll's got dibs on that, personally), but he DOES mix himself up some Arcane Cultivation elixirs from time to time. And if a potion recipe intrigues him enough, he likes to have a place on hand to try things out. The vault is well-guarded with spells, but, sadly, pretty empty; it just has his savings there now, where once it held all sorts of enchanted items he'd picked up through his studies and younger adventuring days.

An additional note: Tara has perches all throughout the house, on every floor, basically anywhere Gale spends a lot of time doing things. The cushions that are hers are magically heated and smell like tea and mint.

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

Elysium

General Marcus Acacius x f!Reader

fluff; worrying about death and war

A/N: Hello my darling angels! Yes this a change of pace, but Pedrito was always my first love, and the trailer made me stupid. I’m thinking about making this part of a greater series. Lemme know what yall were thinking!! Hugs and Kisses 💕 - Mo

I will be in soon. Do not feel a need to wait.

That had been many hours ago, whispered through plush chapped lips against your temple. The fire of the horizon has long since dipped behind the hills, the sky now awash in that rich velvet speckled with diamonds. The incense, gifted by your mother on your wedding day, had long burnt out, the final wisps of jasmine kissing the unwrinkled cotton of your marriage bed. The hour is far too late. He should have retired hours ago. He is due to leave at first light. That first light which will not wait for him.

You did not even bother with sandals or your shawl. No one would see you. The servants would be in their quarters, resting. As he should be doing. As you should be doing. But instead, you follow the dull thudding sound of metal against wood and canvas and cotton, emanating from the training room across the atrium from your bedroom. The breeze caresses your bare cheek and shoulders, a chill coursing through you alongside the cold of the marble under your feet.

There… glowing in the light of low flames and wonder of his raw power, your husband. The Great General: Marcus Acacius. Crack after crack, he slaughters the immobile assailants that wear the faces of his enemies. Both past and future. The sweat of his brow, and the sheen on his darkened skin tell you all your need to know. He’s been at this for hours. The entire time you were ordered to be asleep in your bed, he has been waking up that monster he sends to slumber upon coming through those doors.

“I thought I told you to sleep carissima.”

His bare chest heaved, regarding your soft form lingering in the doorway. Without the finery. Without the pins and pearls adorning your hair and the gold dripping off your body, you looked… as if this is how you should always be. Gentle. Vulnerable. Secure in knowing your husband would come home every night. With a jerk of his head summoning you inward, you follow him inside, arms tight around you. Your eyes trail the sure and solid way he puts his weapons up. “The orders said you’d be leaving at first light… your horses are ready and Gaius has prepared your things. Why do you not sleep?”

He hums as he splashes the cool fragrant water over his face and neck. “Correct carissima… orders which are for me. Not for the lady of the house.”

“And I suppose you are stronger without sleep? Enemies mistake a yawn for the roar of a lion?”

Marcus tosses the linen in his hands to a corner, stalking towards you. With gentle but firmly calloused hand he takes your chin to gaze at you, “The Gods did not warn me that my wife would be so insolent.”

“Perhaps they remembered how easily bored you become.”

A small smile graced his full lips, caressing your cheek. “Come.”

You allow him to take your hand to lead you back to your quarters, the jasmine still lingering in the air. Though you blow out the lamps, and take your side of the bed, Marcus still does not lay his head. Even in the pale blue moonlight you see his broad muscles rippling, resting his arms on his knees. You pull yourself to him, wrapping your arms around his thick middle. “Do you fear?”

“Not for myself. Not of death.”

“Because in death you will find Elysium?”

He turns, finally laying down beside you, and pulling you to his chest in the sheets, “Elysium is in your eyes. There is no death to fear.”

“Then what keeps you unsettled?”

His hands caress your shoulders, seemingly reveling in the smoothness that so contrasts his life. You marvel at him. His dark eyes and even darker lashes. The sliver that adorns his temples and jaw. The statuesque nature of his nose. He is handsome. He always was, from the first day you met him at your wedding feast. But now, your heart carries a different weight than it did on that day.

“I am unsettled… for I feel as though there is a greater game being played… and I am but a pawn. A pawn in this game I did not agree to play.”

“Are we in danger Marcus?”

“No. Not yet. But after this order, I will begin preparations.”

You traced idle patterns along the scars of his chest, “For what husband?”

He grabbed your hand, kissing the tips of your fingers in reverence, “Do not worry about it now carissima. Just know that I will return, and there will be no more fighting for me. No more orders. We will go beyond the cities. Borders of the empire. Where it will be quiet. And nothing will touch our gardens.”

“Will you not become bored of the quiet?”

“I have other interests beyond killing.”

“Such as?”

“Pestering my young wife mostly. I also enjoyed gardening as a child.”

You attempt to push him away from you, greatly annoyed at his attempt at a joke. But he merely chuckled and pulled you even closer. “It is a shame you could not be a soldier carrisima. That fire is going to waste.”

“The Gods have made it your punishment to bear it. And they have it mine to suffer you.”

He chuckles even more even as you scowl, “You come back home Marcus Acacius.”

Marcus looks at you, that look he’s been giving you more recently, that makes your stomach flip and heart beat faster. “Always. Nothing can keep me from you.”

You sigh. Signing to Marcus that that was a suitable answer. For now. You were rarely satisfied. Particularly when it came to him and potential danger. If he could, he would live in this moment forever. You in his arms. No one near to pester. No one to pull him from you. Neither of you planned to enter this marriage. But in these months… he dared think that maybe you were beginning to mirror his own hopes. “Sleep little dove. I will wake you before I leave.”

You nodded, pushing your face into his chest. And for a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt hot tears pooling on his skin.

He would come back. He had to.

[eternalsa2z]

DM In Your DMs

You were introduced by your friend Nally. After plenty of teasing and toying and asking if you were sure you were ready to meet this model. Not just excited. Like busting out of your seat and bra ready.

You insisted that you were and the Instagram reveal didn't disappoint. She goes by the name 'Doll Mistress' and she is H - O - T HOT HOT HOT. She looked like a queen in her full glory, her gaze admiring her many worshipers as she gives them a brief glance at her perfection.

She def had a bit of a 'rich bitch' or 'ice queen' vibe, which normally doesn't match your sweet girly vibes. Even if her look still made you melt into a puddle. But that doesn't mean she can't rock a bit of a girl next door look. You know, if that girl was an heiress at the next mansion over in the gated community.

Still you couldn't help but be obsessed by this look. Her pony was clearly a fake extension and her faux fur boots were a bit much. But then again that fit her vibes, doesn't it? As if she was saying:

"I'm pretty. I'm plastic. I don't care who knows. Worship me"

Gawd what you wouldn't give to worship in front of Doll Mistress. You'd die if she slipped into your DMs. Or at least you died and went to heaven. Because one day, late in your timezone and early in hers, she sent you a message.

"Hello Kiki. I heard you were a pretty cute bimbo doll who's been having some stupid bullies say mean things. Why don't you let Doll Mistress take care of them...then we can go on a date"

You of course, through your bimbo babbling in sheer fangirling, manage to explain that while you love the support, you are a committed bimbo. Her next DM makes it clear that she's simply chuckling at your cuteness.

"Oh I know. I'm not looking for a relationship. Just a doll to play with"

True to her word, the homophobes and patriarchy pushers slowly disappear from your site. You also notice a corresponding uptick in extra girly, submissive bimbos talking up how pretty you are. It's great because you need the pep talk ahead of your first date...er, totally platonic meeting.

You spend forever picking out your outfit. You need to look perfect. Make a good impression for Mistress. You end up looking cute - but she shows up looking stunning, showing up to your date dressed in feminine finery. Making baby boy blue look as good as girly pink.

She has a beautiful floral adornment right around her throat. Perhaps it's a metaphor for her tight grasp on femininity. Or perhaps a future indication of how soon her ice queen grip will extend to a beautiful bimbo flower like yourself. You squeeze your legs together during the whole meal, imagining the second scenario.

She has you in her clutches from that day on. You're obsessed with her beautiful face and hair. Envious of her fashionable clothes. Above all else, in awe of her attitude and how she rocks her look to the fullest.

The next time you meet in person, your Doll Mistress casually drags a fur coat behind her, like the expensive treasured item is nothing to her.

God what you wouldn't give to be that coat…dragged around behind her…following in her footsteps. She's so incredible. You can't even say anything intelligent, just "OMG!" over and over again as she arrives. Her plush lips curl into a smile, a rare sighting worth more than her entire wardrobe.

"I'm glad you like my look, Kiki. You could be seeing a lot more of it. Come with me. Be my doll."

It's three months later. You and your wife have moved in with Doll Mistress. She spoils and pampers your wife, slowly turning her into a little plastic trophy, a mini-version of herself. You, on the other hand, are her pretty little doll. The one she brings everywhere, even stowing you away in a custom dollbox in her luggage when she travels on vacation. It's worth it to spend time with her and relax at the Bimbo Resort.

"Kiki? Mistress is out of her glass of BMBO. Won't you be a doll and scurry over to the cabana to get me a refill?"

"Yes Mistress! Of course Mistress! Anything you want!" you squeal excitedly, eager to be helpful.

"Good girl. If you return fast enough, I'll let you lotion up my back again" she purrs.

Quickly you bound away as fast as your high heels, wiggling butt, and jiggling bimbo titties will let you. Mistress has been so generous in turning you into her little bimbo pet. Serving her drinks is the least you can do for her!

Plus…the enticing thought of being allowed to touch her perfect plastic body…that's all the payment a doll like you needs. Just a bimbo doll serving her Doll Mistress.

[zorosdimples]

cw: mentions of alcohol and brief body talk. something something soft diluc… just a rambling sketch of his character.

diluc cuts an imposing figure.

he blots out the sun when he rises to his full height, crimson mane fiery enough to light up the sky. but it isn’t just his stature that’s noteworthy or intimidating—it’s the attention that his presence commands, the authority laced in his deep voice, the firm set of his jaw. despite his blazing irises and hair, his personality exudes as much warmth as a cryo slime.

the townsfolk often call him a recluse. he’s usually holed up in his study, working through contracts and records and estimations, pausing (not often enough) to survey the vines. sometimes he tends to his tavern, pouring wine and mixing drinks. those days are tedious and hard on his back—small talk is exhausting.

his after-dark heroics keep him fit, arms muscular and legs sturdy. but he isn’t lean or trim like he was as an adolescent; rich wine and hearty meals keep his stomach and chest—broad and strong—from slimming down. not that the nobleman has ever cared much about his appearance. people will always find something to gossip about.

anymore, all diluc cares about is how you enjoy curling up with him at the end of a tiring day. after he slips out of his finery, you untie his hair, massaging his scalp until he gifts you a heady groan. and when you rest with him, your cheek is warm against his plush pecs, your bare arm thrown across his soft middle.

you play with the scarlet down that covers his freckled flesh, contented sighs tumbling from your lips as your lover strokes your shoulder with unfettered tenderness. there’s a gleam in his eye, a flickering candle behind a glass of claret wine. it speaks of love, of comfort, of contentment, of hope.

[lirotation]

Ever since a discussion about the mortality of my human Tav with my fellow Tavs on Tumblr, the idea has become an intrusive thought🤣. I couldn't shake it from my mind, so I decided to confront it. I chose to explore the worst-case scenario.

Astarion X F!Tav, warning, character death.

Oh my gosh, I couldn't think about anything else! But now I feel better =) The lyrics are from the song "Let Me Down Slowly" by Alec Benjamin, which seems to be popping up everywhere for me recently! It was meant to be.

_____________________

The rain poured down in relentless sheets, obscuring the old gothic manor in a heavy gray veil. Inside, the candles flickered softly as Astarion combed his fingers gently through Amaara's hair. Her skin was pale and cold under his touch, she had passed in her sleep, her life of many decades finally at its end.

Astarion dressed her in finery befitting his princess, never taking his eyes from her still face. He lifted her fragile body, holding her close to his silent heart, and carried her through the corridors of their home, the echo of his steps filling the emptiness left behind.

Down into the secret crypt below he took her. The chamber was illuminated by candles that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. He lay her gently in an ornate double coffin, positioning her with care one last time. His vision blurred as tears threatened to spill out at the thought of an eternity without her laughter to drive away the dark.

So soon...too soon...

A dry, wrecked sob clawed up his throat as he stretched his lean body beside hers inside the casket. He turned to face her, drinking in every beloved feature - the graceful arch of her brow, the gentle slope of her nose. With infinite tenderness, he ran the back of his hand against the line of her jaw, tracing its elegant curve.

He threaded his long, pale fingers into her thinned silver hair, soft strands pooling like mercury in his palm. He cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing the tender skin behind her ear just the way she always loved. Each gesture was etched with reverence and sorrow, communicating wordlessly all the affection and devotion that overflowed from his shattered heart.

In the muted candlelight, she could have been merely sleeping, poised on the cusp of awakening. But her skin was growing colder under his touch with each moment, the last of her warmth fleeing to merge with the eternal night. Soon all that would remain of his beating heart would be a decomposing shell. The anguished realization tore through him anew, and he released a thin, keening cry like a creature skewered through the soul.

At last, Astarion forced his quivering fingers to release her. With agonizing restraint, he gently smoothed back a few errant strands of her pale hair, arranging them flawlessly across the plush satin pillow.

He shifted slowly onto his back beside her. Reaching up with a leaden arm, he grasped the ornately carved lid of the casket. As he gradually pulled the heavy cover down, shadow crept over their forms. Her alabaster features were swallowed up inch by inch in the hungry darkness.

With a muffled thud that reverberated through his entire spirit, the cover closed completely. The chamber became at once a bridal suite and a tomb, its occupants trapped by cruel fate.

Astarion shuddered in the darkness. The familiar confines of a coffin, once a hellish prison, now served as his refuge from the fresh anguish threatening to consume him.

When Cazador had buried him years ago, the crushing isolation and helplessness nearly shattered Astarion’s sanity. But here, cocooned with his lost beloved, the cold casket took on the bittersweet air of a marriage bed on their final night together. He welcomed the isolation, sought solace in it. Here he could muffle the bleeding, gaping wound in his soul with the old, healed over scars of past trauma. By wrapping himself in familiar pain, its sharp sting would numb the fresh, unendurable agony of Amaara’s absence.

In this chamber of death, Astarion found his only chance for even transient peace. Here he could hold the cruelties of time and fate at bay, if only for a few decades of dreamless slumber next to his beloved. Here he could forget, could almost pretend the sweet burden in his arms still drew breath... before mere memory of her touch faded like everything else into the hungry dark.

[stellabk]

FVRY OF THE FIRE

Part IV

Author’s note - Hi! So, I thought I posted part 4 last night after work, and I looked and it was gone. Not just form tumblr, but also my google docs so I had a heart attack. I cried since I had to rewrite it, but this one turned out better than the original in my opinion, so I hope you like it!

Summary - No amount of delaying could push the wedding off any longer. Deianira is forced to marry the tyrant that her father has sent her and her sister to bring down, yet she seems to grow a small soft spot for him.

Warning(s) - blood, violence, a bit of sexual abuse, public displays of affection; of you see any grammar mistakes or missed warnings please let me know!

Deianira’s eyes fluttered open as the sun shone through the curtains that billowed above the balcony. She smiled at the feeling of the sun warming her cheeks and the chill the gentle breeze brought. It would have been a day she would’ve loved to enjoy if it weren’t for the harsh realization that she was to be married today. Her smile faded as it weighed her down, making her groan as she threw her feet from off the side of the plush bed.

“Good morning, your grace. Today is the day!” Aelia entered with a tray of fresh fruits and bread that still steamed from its warmth. Aelia handed her an apple from the tray, smiling at the way her mistress scrunched her nose in distaste at her statement. “I know it’s not ideal, but I’m selfishly glad that you are stuck with me, ma’am.”

”There is no other woman who I enjoy being trapped in a grand palace with.”

Deia had spent all morning with Aelia and a few other maidservants, first getting scrubbed and polished in the bathhouse like a priceless artifact, emerging smelling of apple blossoms and pomegranate. They lined her eyes with kohl, rouged her cheeks a delicate cherry color, glossed her nails, and adorned her with jewels and finery from the top of her head to her toes. She looked like a proper empress now with all of the embellishments, not able to take her eyes off the new mirror that had been brought in while she bathed. The sight of herself made her forget just how miserable she felt only moments ago.

“They will be expecting you at the temple, empress. Come,” Aelia motioned for the future empress to follow as they delicately bounced through the halls, smiling and laughing.

In front of the temple, Deia’s sinking feeling returned as she stood on the other side of the doors, knowing just what awaited her on the other side.

“Lia, dear, how many people would you say are inside?”

”The whole court of important politicians and close friends of the emperors, I’m sure, but do not fret. Just look to your future husband and all shall turn out right.”

’If that doesn’t work, your sister is sure to be close to Caracalla; look at her and she shall erase all tension you feel,” another servant chimed in.

Deia faced the door once more, shimmying her feet further back into her sandals, and took one last deep breath before the door opened before her. The people stood and stared at her in awe, looking as if a true goddess had stepped in their midst. Deia forced her heavy lead feet forward, pushing herself to where Emperor Geta stood waiting for her. He had a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed exhausted. She shook the thought from her head, instead opting for focusing on the floor. She couldn’t look at her sister or she would cry, knowing that there was no escape for either of them.

She grew closer and closer to the end of the aisle, her steps growing heavier with every pace she made. She stopped in front of the two stairs that kept her from Geta, a hand with a ring on every finger outstretching into her line of vision. She looked up to see her future husband smiling at her, and she took the hand, breaking the invisible barrier that kept her from standing at his side.

The officiant stood in front of the both of them, rambling on about the Gods in a monotonous, bland tone that made Deia want to yawn. She glanced at Geta through her peripheral, noticing he no longer smiled and looked like he had been drinking. He smelled as if he’d been drinking too. She turned back to the officiant, bored out of her mind. He continued to drone on, the future empress tuning him out and looking at the grand statue of the God Mars looking down on them, helmet just showing his eyes and spear in his hand. She looked at him wondering why his eyes seemed to be so full of life unlike the other statues she had seen around the palace. A cough broke her concentration on the statue, snapping her attention back to the officiant.

“You may kiss your bride, emperor.”

The two of them faced each other, Geta’s superficial smile returning to his face, as he reached a shaky hand toward her cheek. He leaned in, placing a kiss on her lips ever so gently. He pulled away, releasing a sigh. The crowd cheered for the newlywed couple.

A banquet was held with the same people who were at the ceremony to celebrate the new union and empress, food and the best reserves of wine were laid out on a grand table. Deia walked around without her groom, examining the decoration and getting stopped by a few people to voice their congratulations. She looked toward the center of the table, a rhinoceros head with its meats delicately and morbidly served as if it were a common dish. She shuddered at the sight, swallowing the bile that raised in her throat at the sight. She took deep breaths as she made to exit the banquet hall and look over the railing down at the city below. It was beautiful this time of night, the stars sparkled in the sky as the chatter of men and women of the market packed up their valuables to go back to their homes.

”Lovely, isn’t it?”

Deia startled and turned around quickly, bracing herself on the railing to prevent her fall. Geta chuckled at the reaction as he grew closer and looked out over the city beside her. “I love coming up here when the city looks like this. You can hear every conversation below from here.”

”It is quite nice,” Deia looked at him, her back still resting against the edge of the railing. “Have you come to push me over and tell the court that your young bride has met her untimely demise?”

Geta laughed once again. “I actually came to make sure you were alright. It must have been something quite bad for a bride to leave her own wedding celebration.”

”It was,” she looked at her feet, Geta looking at her now with a twinge of anger that someone could have potentially ruined the party for his empress. “There was a rhinoceros’s head just lying on the table. I thought surely I would become ill.”

Geta let out the loudest, most genuine laugh as his head fell into the palm of his hand, Deia’s tension flying away as she allowed herself to laugh with him. Geta relaxed in the silence, watching as the moonlight made his bride's hair resemble cooling embers. He felt at peace as if all the voices screaming in his head had silences to stand in awe of her as well. His peace was broken as the door opened, a voice growing closer. He didn’t think, it was stupid to pull her in, yet he did. He pushed the sleeve of her shoulder down and sank his teeth in, the other hand flying to her mouth before she could yelp.

”Oh, brother. I didn't mean to interrupt time with your bride… at least defile her in your own chambers instead of the corridors, dog.”

Geta pulled his mouth from Deia’s shoulder, turning to his brother. “I wished for everyone to know she was mine, that is all.”

”Well, they requested you back in the banquet hall. They wish to make a toast soon.”

Caracalla shook his head with a smirk as he returned to the celebration. Geta turned back to his bride, a swift, sturdy hit landed to his gut. He slumped to his knees in slow motion, seeing that Deianira had kicked him, which made him smirk through a grimace.

”If you wanted me to come to my knees, wife, all you had to do was ask.”

She grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head so he could look at her face. “A mark for a mark. To think I almost enjoyed a sliver of time with you. Know this, it shall be the last for as long as I breathe. Goodnight, husband.”

She dropped the hold she had on his hair, storming off toward her room and leaving him alone in the darkened hall. He collected himself off the floor, hearing Caracalla beginning a toast in the hall as he stood against the cold stone wall to listen in, still holding his stomach where it ached. Caracalla quipped that Geta was supposed to make the toast to his bride, but had most likely disappeared to consummate the marriage. The crowd of mostly men had laughed heartily, but Geta felt a pain in his chest. He knew why he had bitten her, but he doubted she would stop to hear him out. Still, he had to try to explain himself. He ran down the hallway that his bride had run down, trying to catch up.

Deia slammed the door to her bedchambers, letting all of her anger explode in a loud scream that echoed through the room and shook nearby objects. She took off rings and threw them on tables, taking one of her sandals off and chucking it at the door. The shoe sailed through the air, and Geta entered, ducking just in time to narrowly evade the hurling sandal.

“Have you come to sink your teeth in again, your highness, or was one lashing not enough for you?”

Geta glanced at the sandal that had slipped through the crack in the door he had just come through, then back at Deianira. “I hope you plan to get that later on.”

Deia growled, taking off the other sandal, ready to throw the second one. Geta held his hands up in surrender. “I came to see if you would hear me out.”

”I will hear nothing from you after your vulgar display. Get out or I swear my aim will ring true with this sandal.”

“You have to be the most stubborn woman of akk I have ever met, have you ever been told that?”

Deia shrugged, still holding the sandal above her head. “Once or twice before. Now leave me to my peace.”

”I don’t think you know the definition of peace. You seem to be of the bloodline of Mars.”

”I knew peace until you and your tyrant brother forced me here. Just because you knew no fatherly love does not mean you had to rip me and my sister from ours!” She got in his face, spittle flying to his cheek. The blow had been delivered, an arrow right through Geta’s chest. He felt as if it were a real attack and that he would crumble in a bloody heap on the floor.

”I shall grant you the peace you want. Goodnight, empress.”

As he left, closing the door behind him, the second sandal was launched, colliding with the door as it closed. The thud shaking Geta to his core.

Geta entered his own bed chambers, his servant behind him.

”Are you sure, emperor? This seems to be quite extreme.”

”Quite sure. If the court were to find out, they would treat her cruelly. We must ensure she stays in good graces. If you tell a soul, you shall be thrown in the Coliseum before first light, understood?”

The man watched the emperor as he sat on the bed with the small knife in his hand, holding the handle out to the servant. The servant nodded, taking the blade, and cut a small incision on the emperor’s thigh. Geta hissed, but bit it back as the crimson flowed and made a small pool on the white bed linens. He nodded, satisfied by the result, as the servant began to cleanse his leg. Though satisfied, Geta only stared into the red stain with a grim expression, his thoughts only echoing one thing: she will be safe now.

[leiawritesstories]

The First Concert

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 16: Opening of the Royal Theater (canon) @rowaelinscourt

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: none!

posted late bc college lol. enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning of the opening of the Royal Theater of Terrasen dawned bright and sunny, clear skies and a crisp chill in the autumn air. The queen had been restless, and as the sun crested the mountains in the east, she stood on her balcony, silk robe wrapped loosely around her frame, and watched the dawn paint the sky in hues of rose. 

You’re awake early. Her mate’s sleepy rumble drifted across her mind. 

Couldn’t stay asleep. 

Footsteps padded across the tiled floor, and it was only a moment before warm, thickly muscled arms banded around Aelin’s waist. It will be a good day.

She leaned back into his embrace. How can you be so sure?

Because our people love you, and they love what you have done for them. Rowan kissed the top of her head. Besides, if you get bored of shaking hands, I know you had a private box built. 

Naughty buzzard. With a half-smirk, she turned to face him, drinking in the sight of his calmness, so rare in the years they had spent together. “I just want it to go well,” she said, quietly. 

Unconsciously, his fingers traced the wings inked across her back. “It will,” he promised. 

“Good.” She pressed her lips to his, lingering in the kiss for a long, sweet moment. “When did you get all the optimism?” 

“When the world ran out of crazy-ass demons trying to kill us all.” Rowan’s tone was completely deadpan. 

Aelin laughed, bright and clear as the Orynth sky. I love you, Ro.

I love you too, Fireheart.

~

Aelin had insisted on coordinating finery for the evening, reveling in Rowan’s suppressed groan when she brought out the linen shirt and emerald silk jacket with silver embroidery that she’d had made for him. He grumbled, but he put on the fine clothes, and she stunned him speechless with her emerald silk dress, its cuffs and hem detailed with the same silver thread, the back a plunging V that dipped nearly to her hips, revealing her tattoos in all their glory. The kingsflame crown sat atop her head, its weight light but solid, grounding the queen in the solemnity of her position. 

“Beautiful,” Rowan murmured, touching his lips to the back of her neck. 

She sucked in a gasp, sparks climbing her spine at the subtle teasing. “Later, my love.” 

He smirked and linked his hand with hers, thumb tracing the obnoxiously large emerald on her wedding band. “As my queen commands.” Together, they ascended the cobblestone steps that led to the entrance of the Royal Theater, exchanging smiles and greetings with the crowd of Orynth’s residents that had gathered for the opening concert. 

At the top of the steps, a forest-green carpet had been rolled out, a matching ribbon looped across the handles of the soaring mahogany double doors of the entrance. Aelin’s court waited there, beaming proudly at the queen who had brought the theater back to its home, and she felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes at the sheer joy on her family’s faces. 

Even Lorcan was…not scowling, though she supposed that had more to do with Elide than the theater. 

Aelin and Rowan stopped beside their court, and with a twist of her hand, flames curled around the prongs of her crown, adorning the symbol of Terrasen, and a twin circlet of fire wove around her mate’s brow. Aelin of the Wildfire, the crowd murmured, a soft rumble of support for their queen. She smiled. “My beloved people!” She kept hold of Rowan’s hand, drawing her strength from him lest she be overcome with emotion. “Welcome back to the Royal Theater of Terrasen!” She pinched her first two fingers together, and a fine ribbon of flame sliced neatly through the ribbon on the doors. Rowan spun out a cool northern wind, and it wrapped around the door handles and tugged them open to the people. 

And they walked into the theater, footsteps falling on plush carpet and polished hardwood, eyes wide at the marble sculptures and gilded frescoes worked into and across the walls and vaulted ceilings. Tales of their beautiful nation—from Brannon to Gavin and Elena all the way down to Rhoe and Evalin, to Orlon, to Aelin. She had protested at first when the artists showed her the sketches, saying she did not need to be pictured all over the walls, but Rowan was…very convincing. 

Overhead, a bell sounded, calling the people into the theater itself, and they slowly filed in, filling the emerald velvet seats that lined the floor and the galleries and the balconies curving around the massive stage. The thick stage curtains were drawn back for the arched tiers of chairs that filled the stage floor, and as the members of the symphony walked onstage, applause rippled up in waves from the crowd. From the royal box, which Rowan had specifically situated in the third tier of balcony boxes on stage left, Aelin was beaming as she applauded. 

The conductor appeared to joyous applause, and he bowed to the audience and to the queen before he stepped onto his podium, tuned the orchestra, and, with a flourish of his baton, launched into the opening chords of the Stygian Suite. Aelin’s hand flew to her mouth, and the tears that had been hovering behind her composure all evening broke free, dripping soundlessly down her face. 

Rowan’s hand splayed on her thigh, warm and firm and reassuring. Are you alright?

It’s…it’s been twenty years since this music was played. In her glassy eyes, he saw a reflection of the child she had been when she snuck into the opera house in Rifthold to hear the symphony, and a reflection of the young woman who had brought the music to life on the keys of a forgotten pianoforte on a spring afternoon. Did you know?

Perhaps. She flicked him a glance, and he chuckled softly. Yes. I asked the conductor if he could prepare this piece for the opening. For you.

The music swelled to a crescendo, the notes bursting into a waterfall of descending arpeggios that crested and swept through the theater like water over the audience. As the final triumphant chords echoed around the vaulted ceiling, Aelin brought her hands together and rose to her feet, leading the standing ovation with tears still tracked down her cheeks. 

She waited for a long while before she left the box, heading down the stairs to greet the orchestra along with the rest of the audience. Most of them had already gone home, and Aelin spoke gratefully to the conductor, wiping the tears from her face. He shook her hands eagerly and introduced her to the symphony members, who were a mix of awestruck and overwhelmed at the appearance and support of the queen. 

“And we have a few particularly special members,” the conductor continued. “You see, Your Majesty, these five were part of the last ensemble to perform this piece—the orchestra that vanished. Five of them made it through the war and chose to come to Terrasen.” 

Aelin’s throat thickened. “I cannot possibly express how much that means,” she choked out. “Thank you. Thank you, so very much.” 

One of the symphony members, a woman with dark hair shot through with silver, set down her violin and took the queen’s hands. “And we can’t thank you enough, my queen, for welcoming us home to Terrasen. For giving us a new home.” 

Aelin could only nod wordlessly, and she was silent all the way back to the palace, overcome with emotion from the performance and the people who had created it. Tucked into bed behind her, sensing the swirling of her mind, Rowan linked his fingers with hers. 

For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.

~~~

TAGS:

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[shiftythrifting]

Tri annual antique show I attended and shifty things were seen!

Didn’t like the way this child looked at me

Somewhat odd/cute rat keychain plus a yelling rat plush

Seashells glued to shit finery

Flat cat!

The coolest foot stool ever! It was like a whole biome in there!

This woman’s face just didn’t sit right

[sketches4mysw33theart]

Secret Fantasy

Title:  Secret Fantasy  Synopsis: Your brother, Willy Wonka, sends you on a mission to discover as much as you can about Mr Felix Fickelgruber and his shop. However, when you meet the man himself, you discover much more than you bargained for.   Word Count: 1.8k  Warnings: None 

Yes, I am still alive, but is the fandom? 🫠 

Finally made a part two!

“Okay, Y/N,” your brother’s words echoed in your psyche. “Once you’re in Fickelgruber’s shop, play like a wealthy customer, like you’re there to buy his entire shop, yes? He’ll notice you soon enough, then you can ask him about his chocolates, his upcoming plans, all of it. Anything you see, anything he says, try and remember. Chocolates, flavours, shapes, packaging, all of it! It’s risky, I know, but you can do it, I know you can. Okay?” 

But, bathed in the soft, green light of the infamous chocolate shop, surrounded by plush velvets and lush silks, it was easy to lose your grip on sanity. You stood, stunned, in the centre of this corner of paradise like a boat lost out at sea, bobbing listlessly against waves it has no strength to fight.  

Overwhelmed by endless coloured boxes and paper-wrapped concoctions, you weren’t sure where to look. So, your attention bounced over each shelf and colour and texture as quickly as pinballs spinning in the dazed universe of their machine. You were used to chocolate, naturally, and you had confidence that nothing could compare to the tiny miracles that your brother could produce. However, seeing a real shop, so many types of confectionaries deliberately put together and dressed up to entice passers-by to dip into their pockets – it was an entirely new realm for you.  

Of course, it did not take too long for you to get noticed. Dressed up in the new finery your brother had dipped into his quickly growing stash of chocolate-selling money to kindly purchase for you, which itched your wrists at the cuffs and made a satisfying swish noise whenever you turned, it was admittedly hard not to notice you. You looked as though you had strolled into new money and built a throne of sovereigns from the petty cash. 

“May I help you?” You were reading, with your mouth open in awe, the flavours in Fickelgruber's Fancies (one of his most expensive boxes of chocolates) when the refined voice sang over your shoulder, and you turned to it as though scolded.  

You were caught in the headlights of a face you had only heard mythological tales about, the face of one of your brother’s arch nemeses. The face of, you shamefully thought as soon you laid eyes on him, an extremely handsome man. Frozen under his liquefying stare, you floundered, your boat taking on water as you stuttered, trying to find your footing in this strange, golden world.  

Somehow, you thought focusing on the handsome man responsible for your drowning (and much more besides) would carry you safely back to steady ground. He was wiry, tall, and immaculately presented, from the perfectly waxed shape of his hair to the shined-clean sparkle of his shoe tips. His accent was as plummy as the colour of his matching tie and handkerchief, but he had a nice, if a little strained, smile on his face. Rather more than nice, you thought.  

As you stared at him, watching the corners of his lips rise in a coy, roguish smile, sense boomeranged back into your brain in the guise of your brother. Play like a wealthy customer, like you’re there to buy his entire shop. 

“Er, yes, actually, I think you can, Mr Fickelgruber.” Finally, your voice came back to you, and with it the confidence and bald-faced mania your brother had instilled in you long ago; the tools needed to get your job done. What you didn’t notice, however, was your instant use of his name and the gratified expression that illuminated his face as soon as you addressed him by it.  

“These fancies,” you pointed somewhat redundantly to the lush green box, hoping it would disguise the quiver in your voice as you recovered, “there are no cherry flavours. That simply won’t do.” 

To your surprise, he smiled again. “Oh, you’re absolutely right. It is a travesty, isn’t it? I was saying the same thing to my wretched assistant only yesterday. May I suggest you try these instead?”    

He reached easily over your head, pulling from a higher shelf a sleek black box emblazoned with an egotistical gold F and stylishly held together with a single black ribbon stretched across the right-hand side. You were rather too distracted to focus on what he reached for, however, as you were overwhelmed with a strong wave of wild ferns (freedom, open countryside stretching out ahead under the harsh shards of moonlight), a rich, earthy scent emanating from his suit and the body it covered the same way his shop exuded opulence and his wry smile radiated superiority.  

Then, he was holding the box almost to your nose, as though he suspected you of neglecting your glasses; this only confirmed that you were not as confident as your attitude would project. Slow responsiveness, trembling hands, quivering mouth. His impression of you must have been that of a helpless infant. 

“These,” he began speaking when you gently lifted the box from his hand to inspect the contents listed on the side, “are my pride and joy. Fickelgruber’s Fudges.” His chest puffed as he shared with you the name of the delights currently cupped in your hands, but finally, your attention was diverted from your new companion. He was still talking, filling up the electric space between you with fleeting words about the concoction and how, although it wasn’t strictly chocolate, it was ‘the best taste sensation you could achieve on God’s green Earth’, but you could barely hear him as you scanned the ingredients and thought of your brother’s face.  

Your brother, you knew, was a dab hand at all kinds of confectionary, but he was never satisfied with his fudge recipe. Although you were supportive, neither, secretly, were you. There was always something missing. Not enough sugar, too much, the flavours don’t gel well, unappetising to look at - always something. It took one glance at the near-empty shelf above you to know that this was not the case with the man in front of you.  

His flavours were certainly unique, although as you read them, they seemed so simple. No yeti sweat, for example. There was cherry, as expected, but also salted caramel, mint, raspberry, maple, and a mysteriously named Fickelgruber’s Fantasy, an unnamed flavour with a top-secret recipe.  

Of course, you asked immediately, “What’s the flavour?” but he just laughed loudly, throwing his head back so you could see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple along his taut neck. Despite the face of your brother still hovering at the forefront of your mind, at the sound of Mr Fickelgruber’s unbridled laugh, your lips twitched into a giggling smile. 

“Well, if I told you that,” he said once he had recovered, a grin spread across his handsome face and hands clasped behind his back as he leaned closer to you, “I’d have to kill you.”  

He brought his hands between you to grasp the box you were still holding, slipping off the ribbon with ease and lifting off the lid. “I believe I can spare a few of these to tantalise your tastebuds, however. Here,” he held up a perfect cube of mouth-watering fudge, covered with a delicate strip of chocolate and dotted with what looked like either marshmallow or biscuit. “Try my fantasies for yourself.”  

He quirked up an eyebrow as he held the fudge out to you between his forefinger and thumb, only an extension of his one-sided smirk. You looked up from the piece of confectionary to his face for a mere second before opening your mouth and allowing him to place it onto your awaiting tongue.  

It was like a slice of heaven, melting in your mouth as soft and supple as the rich cocoa butter your brother had traded a silk scarf for in India and allowed you to dip your finger in as he made his chocolate after days of denying you the privilege. Fickelgruber’s Fudge had that same kind of forbidden luxury in its flavour, rich and decadent. That addition of biscuit – it was definitely biscuit, you recognised as soon as it touched your taste buds – only emphasized the beauty of the bite, giving the chewy texture a gritty crunch.   

If Fickelgruber was smiling with pride before, he was beaming with it now, watching your eyes light up as the taste of his well-kept recipe coated your throat. “Good, no? And there’s your beloved cherry, of course.” 

As soon as you’d swallowed the secret Fantasy, he was holding up a square of fudge dotted with sweet cherries. Without question, you opened your mouth once more, accidentally catching the very tips of his fingers between your lips as your mouth closed eagerly around the sweet. You were too overwhelmed to apologise as he withdrew them without a care, too overwhelmed even to speak. The cherry was, dare you say it, even more delicious than his prided secret recipe, as sweet and real as cherry pie.  

You swallowed the sweet blissfully and looked down at the open box still in your hand as though it were a treasure chest. Your Pandora’s box. You weren’t sure if you wanted to eat them all at once or simply leave the box on a table, lid off and sweets displayed, for visitors to coo over as they pass, but never to touch. Funnily enough, as he spoke once more, it came to your attention that you were having a vaguely similar tug-of-war about the man who had been feeding them to you. Keep him to yourself, or hand his secrets over to your brother? Hmm... 

“You know,” there was what you could only describe as a smouldering look in his eyes as he stared at you with his undivided attention, “I have plenty more fantasies that you could try if you’re looking for a certain flavour.” He gestured around him with his hands, but your stare never left his. “My whole shop is at your feet.” After a brief pause, he added, “As am I.”  

Only for a moment did you hesitate, looking over your shoulder past the thick green curtains and gold rails, out into the plain beige and white of the Galleries Gourmet, the people gazing through the spotless windows in wonder as they hurried past, and even further out into the street, where your brother was using your distraction of his rival to share his chocolate with the world as he waited for you to emerge safely. 

Feeling like a traitor to your brother, a fraud, a betrayer of the very blood that was pounding in your veins, you turned your back to the outside world and followed the dark, swaying shadow of the handsome man who turned to look at you, eyes twinkling, eyebrow raised, smile fixed, only the once before leading you deeper into the crowds of the shop floor.  

Oh, you were in trouble.  

Check out part two!

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt 6(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

Stuck in by the rain, you, Simon, and Sam receive important news over dinner...

Part 5, Part 7, Masterlist

Image from GIF by tana-the-dreamchaser

Simon followed you up the stairs like a shadow, his steps even but quiet. If not for his hand seeking yours you would have thought him a ghost. He seems to seek you like a moth to starlight and you find yourself relaxing with his close presence. You reach the door at the top of the stairs and push it open to be met with the smell of a simmering spice. You perk up instantly and call out for Sam. His curls pop out of the kitchen and seeing your entwined hands he smiles.

“Are you making what I think you are making?” You ask hopefully, eyes softened towards your friend. You step into the living area and release your hand from Simon’s. He abides by it but lingers close to you, choosing to take in his surroundings. 

The vibes of the apartment are, well, eclectic. Amongst the thriving house plants, SImon can see little bits of you and Sam. The worn love seat a dappled plum color, a plush leather couch, and, he looks at the floor and chuckles, a fox in a sweater welcome mat. You move to the kitchen after asking Simon to make himself comfortable. He nods and moves to the loveseat, taking your backpack off and setting it to the side before taking a seat. He observes further as you step into the kitchen to talk to Sam. 

On the coffee table, there is a vase of sunflowers, the TV stand is an old steamer trunk, and lining the far walls across from the door are books. Upon four shelves is a library’s worth of books and Simon stands and approaches them. Upon further expectation he cracks a smile, the inner panel of the bookshelves are painted the same as the ceiling of the bookstore. A rough hand comes up and he traces the spines of some of the leather-bound books. There are books of all kinds roughly categorized by genre. Littered amongst the shelves are other things, among them, Simon finds things like a cow teapot, a Union Jack mug holding pens, leather-bound notebooks, a dragon beanie baby, and something else that pauses his searching. 

On a desk in the middle of the two sets of shelves is a collection of mechanical parts. The smell of gun oil and steel pulls memories from service and he leans down, turning on the desk lamp to examine it closer. In the middle of the desk is a typewriter. The carriage is set aside from the body of the typewriter and the smell of oil gets stronger. He looks around the table and finds a myriad of cases, some big and others small, mostly belonging to what he assumes to be typewriters. 

You pop your head out of the kitchen to call for SImon but you find him engrossed in his examination. You smile, unsurprised at his curiosity, most visitors are drawn in by the book before stumbling upon your workstation. You step out of the kitchen and call to him. He looks up and turns to you in question. 

“Dinner is ready.” 

You say it with a growing grin as Sam had made enchiladas in a Tex-Mex style you missed. Simon looks back to the disassembled typewriter once more before he approaches you and follows you into the kitchen. If the living area was eclectic the kitchen was more so. Along the walls of the modest space hung pictures of every kind. Along the side wall, under a window was an old dresser or antique buffet that held a beaten-up record player. Along the wall were art prints, old diagrams, and book posters. On the buffet, next to the kitchen table was a collection of tabletop books, big glossy things meant as eye candy. He huffs a laugh at the selection: fox photo collections, Jules Verne releases, and typewriters. 

He turns his attention to Sam who is already sitting at the table, three places set for you guys to eat. Even the cutlery and plates are a mix of wild colors and subtle finery. You move to the stove where a baking dish holds something excellent smelling. Grabbing some oven mitts (fox chefs of course) you take the dish and set it on some ceramic pot holders on the table. 

“I hope you like enchiladas.” You say it with a pleased expression before shooting Sam a nostalgic smile. You motion for Simon to sit and he does before you take the seat next to him. 

You all begin to eat without much fuss, conversation passing in softer words between you and Sam while Simon chimes in every once in a while. However, after about 15 minutes in, Sam pauses as if remembering something. 

You see a look pass over his face before he reaches behind him and picks up a letter off of the counter behind him. He offers it to you and you recognize the handwriting.

“Sofia was here earlier, she looked urgent and dropped this off mentioning for you to read it. Something about a collaboration of some kind for a release over here. She wouldn’t give me more details than that before she was rushing off to her next appointment.”

“Huh,” You work on prying the envelope open gently, “she would normally call.”

Sam shrugs but watches with curiosity as you pull out a typed document. The paper at first touch is heavy, almost a thin cardstock, and the smell of ink and paper is crisp. There is even a wax seal holding the paper close and you want to roll your eyes. The sneaking familiarity seeps into your bones as you swipe a finger under the seal breaking it and unfolding the paper. When you read the heading your stomach clenches. It was from your old company. Something in your demeanor must have changed as you lean back in your chair feeling suddenly winded. Sharp eyes turn to you and Simon and Sam both stop eating.

“What is it? Sam asks with concern, leaning forward in his chair. Simon next to you frowns as your eyes skim the letter, your shoulders getting tenser and tenser. At the end of the letter, you bite your lip before slowly closing the letter and handing it across the table to Sam without a word. He about tears it open and reads it himself. 

“This is bullshit.” These are the first words out of his mouth and he tosses the letter onto the table. You don't reply, instead pushing your almost empty plate aside and putting your head in your hands with a sigh. Simon’s hand finds your knee under the table instantly and you eye him through your hands. There is exhaustion in your eyes, one that is familiar to him. You move to lay your head down with a sigh, leaning towards Simon naturally for comfort. 

“What is it, Dove?” He asks, voice low.

“Read for yourself.” Is all you offer and he does so, reaching a long arm for the letter before reading. 

The letter begins with a ‘greetings’ in a faceless text. Following are niceties and a “wish you are well’. One that you wanted to scoff at, given your last encounter with your previous publisher. He continues over the unnecessary and gets to the meat of the letter. 

… due to the raving success of your last book under our services, we have decided to do a release tour and event of James’s new book under your direction. We have already reached out to Sofia for contact with you.  Given both books' American popularity, we expect such a collaboration to benefit not only you but also White Owl Publishing. We expect James’s arrival in London this Sunday. If you have any questions please reach us at…

Simon frowns and looks at you.

“When the hell did James start writing?” Sam asks you but you just groan and pull yourself up, a hand reaching under the table to squeeze Simon’s in silent thanks. Something serious settles over you,

“I don’t know. Maybe when he started sleeping with the CEO’s daughter.” 

You bite it, voice sharp as a knife. The woman was an accomplished author under her fathers' direction and specialized in YA and new adult romance novels. You used to hold a lot of respect for her when you first joined the company but she soon, after learning of your specialization in children's literature, became downright dismissive. That dismission partnered with a giggly fascination with James, turned you away from her and towards the more quiet of the other authors and editors. However, given her status as the CEO's daughter, there was no escaping her influence, thankfully Sofia was always with you, and due to your focus on children, you didn't have to interact with her much. Other than events like the Publisher’s Gala, and well you know how the last one turned out. 

After the gala, you had learned from one loyal person, a fellow children's author named Sarah that the affair had been going strong for months. She hadn’t known until a drunk Sabrina had bragged on his arm at an after-party that faithful night. She called the moment she discovered your plans to leave and wanted you to know. 

Back in the moment, you debate your options. Given the publication’s no doubt about you after the Gala, you couldn’t risk saying no to this. Why they wanted to associate with a ‘failure and second rate nobody’ you didn't know. You look to Sam, his family's business was now connected with one of the largest publishers in America, and you weren't going to risk their skins because of disgust and fear. A silent resolution lit up your face, Sam, seeing this, grins. 

“You're going to go with this.” It's not a question out of his mouth. A shaky smile hits your face at that. Simon just looks to you, something about your determination makes him want to smile. His hand turns to entangle with yours under the table and you look at him, taking this as his support. 

“Johnny will want to knock some heads” His voice surprises you and laughter bubbles out of your chest. It quiets down to giggles a moment later and you pull your plate back to you. He wasn't wrong. A few tea times after meeting the man you had told the Scot the story of why you ended up in London. His brows furrowed and looking at you he cursed.

“Cheat? On a prize like you lass? Need me to do him in?”

You mention this to Simon in a giggle. He smiles.

“Good man, Johnny is.” 

He runs his thumb over your knuckles and you breathe out as your heart skips a beat, tension draining from your form as you take another bite before nodding in agreement. Simon gives you a small smile before he turns back to his food with a hum, but his hand remains in yours through the rest of dinner. 

--- 

After dinner, you stand up to collect the dishes. Sam gives you a look before shooting up to race you to the sink. You beat him by a foot before splashing him with cool water. He chuckles at you, eyes brightening at your mirthful expression. You hear the sound of a chair and Simon stands. Sam looks at you with a grin and a raised brow before he pulls himself into a stretch. 

He looks at Simon and then back to himself.

“I may have a shirt and some sweats if you’d like to change Simon.” 

The taller man moves around the table and pauses, looks down at his jeans, and gives a nod. With the confirmation, Sam winks at you and leaves the kitchen for his room. You shake your head fondly before going to wash the dishes, but a hand stops you. Simon is next to you then, the proximity quickening your heart once again.

“I’ll do ‘em,” 

is a statement and he nudges you aside gently with his large frame. You realize then just how big he is. While you were by no means tiny, Simon was tall. Sam was easily 6’ but you had to tilt your head to look up at Simon. He started dutifully washing plates without any more comments so you studied the side profile of his face. With a strong jawline cut with a few scars, your eyes focus on his eyes, focused and quiet as he works. The action, so domestic, calms something in you. While you loved being with Sam, you missed being with a partner sometimes, the attraction and the comfort. You loved Sam like a brother and that came with the typical roommate squabbles sometimes, you laugh mentally. You missed James some though despite everything. Having another person to hold was a human element absent in your life. 

But, your heart murmured, there is Simon.

You sigh inwardly, your heart skipping a beat as you envision his smiles. They lit up his face in a way that took the weight of his service, the exhaustion, off his shoulders for even a brief moment. He had seemingly been open, but respectful about some sort of feelings towards you, and you cherished his careful support. 

Your hand on his arm pauses Simon, and his eyes flicker down to yours in question. Without much thought your hand traces what is exposed of his forearm, fingers swirling around the inked skin, you linger a moment. Then, with a steady exhalation from Simon, your hands follow up his arm and over the sleeve, feeling the strength of his bicep Simon stills. His other hand reaches for the hand towel and setting the plate down he pulls back from the sink and turns his attention fully to you. 

You look engrossed in your study of him, like a jeweler over a diamond or precious stone. You lift for a moment seeing the towel and step back, allowing the man to dry his hands before he takes the next step to follow you. Your eyes widen in realization when your back hits the side counter and Simon steps comfortably, naturally even, into your space. 

Your breath catches in your throat when he raises a hand to your face, it ghosts over your cheek before, heart pounding, you lean into his palm. It is rough, worn from years of work, but it's warm, and something deep in you preens at the touch. Honey eyes find yours, widening a moment as you lean in, before lowering in reverence. Here you were, he thought, 

“Sweet thing.” 

It comes out in a whisper and your heart clenches. You close your eyes, raising a hand against his, cherishing the feel of the touch. His heart stutters then when you reopen your eyes and give him a sweet smile. Your hand runs down his arm and the other wraps around his abdomen and you close the space between the both of you with an embrace. His arms drop in surprise, but as your head comes to rest against his chest, they soon engulf you in the scent of leather and smoke. 

With your ear against his sturdy chest, you can hear his heart pick up, you smile to yourself then, happy the effect is mutual. Simon inhales the scent of old books and baked goods and hums, the sound reverberating through you. He chuckles before setting his head on yours just enjoying the feeling of you in his arms. You mutter something and he questions you with another hum. You repeat it a bit louder.

“Want dessert?” The question incites a chuckle from him and his arms loose to look down at you. Something swirls in his eyes, warm like syrup, and his lips quirked up in a smile. 

“Sure, Honey.” The two syllables of endearment are languid and you bask in them like a noon sun. His eyes flicker down to your lips a moment and your breath catches, but the sound of footsteps alerts you to Sam. You know him well enough, he doesn't want to interrupt so you smile at Simon and run your hands up his arms before stepping out of his grasp. Sam enters a second later with a bundle of clothes. His eyes are lit up and after glancing at you he grins at Simon.

“Here you are, Mate.” He gives a mock British accent and hands the bundle to Simon. You then pat the taller man's arm.

“Guest room is down the hall, Sam will show you. There's a bathroom too. I hope you eat cheesecake?” 

You ask him and he just nods before Sam motions to him to follow. Simon gives you one last glance then heads after Sam. Once both men are out of the kitchen you grasp at your pounding heart as your stomach flutters. You felt giddy, a childish wonder in your heart at the affection. Simon was so warm and you felt safe in his arms. You hum to yourself as you pass to the fridge, opening it and examining the inside. 

Beside produce and leftovers sat your quarry, made a day or so ago. There sat a glorious strawberry shortcake cheesecake, made by you. Albeit there was a slice missing courtesy of Sam but the cake was an absolute unit. You pull the covered dish out carefully as Sam pads into the kitchen alone. He leans against the counter as you work and regards you. 

You hum more as you work, relaxing further in his presence, reaching to grab three plates. You then cut modest slices for each of you before sticking the rest of the cake back in the fridge.

“You’re thinking too loud Sammy.”

You then turn to him, a knowing look on your face. What surprises you is the serious look on his, Sam’s arms are crossed as he leans. You set the plates on the table before approaching your friend.

“What’s wrong?” 

Green eyes turn to you, dark as English ivy, and they flicker down to you.

“I think James means trouble.”

It is all he offers. You sigh, taking a seat at the table. You think a moment. You wondered why your manager, Sofia wouldn't have called you, but this seemed like such a sudden onset by your old publisher. Given her sudden rush to leave you wondered where this put Sam’s family. Hearing your story the small publisher was happy to take both you and Sofia under their wing. White Owl Publishing was small, but they had cherished new classics under them. Your eyes flick up to meet Sam’s.

“We can’t risk your family’s reputation. Not after everything they've done for me and Sofia.”

Sam’s jaw clenches and you are taken aback a moment when his muscles tense. Sam had always been the most level-headed person you know. 

“I don’t give a shit after what he’s done to you.” It is firm, Sam stands taller at the statement. You think back to the firm grip on your neck. Showing up at Sam’s door with tears streaming down your face, the choked sobs. It was the first but not the last time the man had laid hands on you. Weeks before the gala was marked with a possession like no other by James. In hindsight making up for his affair but you didn’t and still don’t understand why Sam triggered it. 

“I should have knocked his teeth in the first time he touched you.” 

Sam’s voice is even but you can sense the rage simmering. You get up and go to him seeking to comfort him but you jump when you see the form of Simon at the entrance of the kitchen. Your surprise has Sam turning as well, the simmer broken.

“He grabbed you, Dove?”  Simon’s voice is ice. If you thought Sam was simmering rage, Simon has the look of a soldier. His eyes are dark and his lips are up in a snarl, but he is collected, with a refined rage, trained to kill. You gulp. You nod slowly. 

“In the past month or so before the gala, when I found out he was cheating. James got possessive.” You say it calmly but there is a bubble of anxiety, black and vile, in your stomach. You try to shake it off, but the shadow of the experience hangs over you. Simon, fresh from the shower steps into the kitchen, hands open in an offering. Sam watches as you glance at Simon before stepping into the man’s embrace, something in his chest settling with firm contentment. 

Simon on the other hand wraps you in one arm and uses his hand to smooth down your hair. He rocks you slowly and you melt in his arms. You calm in his arms, staying a quiet moment before running a hand over his shoulder and reluctantly pulling back. You look up to Simon with a shy smile,

“The cake will get warm.”

He lets you go slowly and follows you and Sam to the table. He takes the same seat and is met with a heavenly smell. The smell of vanilla and strawberry draws his eyes to the masterpiece in front of him. Sam offers him a smile before taking a large bite out of the cake that makes you giggle. You look at Simon before taking your own, albeit more modest bite. Simon follows and is met with heaven. Strawberry bursts on his tongue as the combination of heavy cheesecake and fluffy shortcake mix into a powerful combination.

“Fucking hell Love.” Is all he offers and you laugh, not expecting such a reaction from the stoic man. Your laughter is music to his ears,

“Glad you like it, Simon.” 

He could get used to the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. 

End Chapter 6

Taglist!

@ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost, @nexthyperfix

[ottpopfic]

Leo’s Way Station sibling's wedding present is a key card to a nice hotel downtown and a card on file to order in

“Why do we need a hotel?” Leo immediately complains “it's not like we want to go anywhere, why wouldn't we just stay here?”

“Because I don't want to see you two post-wedding” Georgina gags “You two are already fucking gross”

Leo crosses his arms “We are not that gross”

“You're super gross!” Leo’s littlest sister cries “I catch you two making out like once a week!”

“Please leave,” Lit basically begs to Jason as they watch his younger siblings bicker, its edging into slap fight territory “Magical sound dampening can only do so much and the two of you are already impossible”

Jason takes the key card

Nothing crazy happens the night of the wedding because the party goes until the early hours of the morning. It's a blast, food and dancing and drinking, and after the kids get tucked in Lit and Calypso bring out some edibles. Jason’s feet hurt by the time he gets to scoop his husband up in a bridal carry to fly off from the roof garden to the hotel, and so does his face from smiling so hard for so long

So when they land on the balcony of their suite all they have the energy to do is strip out of their wedding finery and collapse together in the bed to promptly pass the fuck out.

When Jason wakes up around noon is another story

Jason is usually the first to wake up, a combination of his natural internal clock and his long time in the Legion. It's not a bad thing, being one of the first people awake, it lets him settle into the new day at his own pace especially now that he doesn't have any rigid military shit to deal with. He still has routines he needs to follow to keep his head on straight, not all of them things he would like to share with the other Way Station residents. And also he always knows where Leo is when he wakes up first, soft and safe where he left him the night before

Even before they were together when they first started sharing a room, the relief of waking up and Leo just being there was enough to set Jason’s world right. Just seeing that he was alive and breathing was enough then, nerves raw from losing him so many times. Jason might have been a bit of a creep back then, or at least he felt like it, lying there staring as Leo slept. Or, when his anxiety was really bad, tiptoeing over to use his powers to pull the tiniest bit of Leo’s sleeping exhale towards himself so he could smell his breath

It's not like that now, Jason can look all he wants now he has permission. He can touch him now too, or smell him without any secret tricks, because Leo is his

When Jason wakes up the day after their wedding it's to his husband's face. Leo’s cheek is smushed into the plush white hotel pillow next to him, a bit of leftover eyeliner is smudged on his lid. His curls are sticking weirdly from not washing out the product the night before.

He's drooling.

He's the most beautiful man in the world

Jason stairs unashamed. Because he's allowed, because he loves him, because he married him

He's Jason fucking Valdez now, and it feels good, but it pales in comparison to waking up to Leo and getting to call him his husbrand

[zackprincebooks]

🧶WIP Wednesday 🚂

Iiiiiit's WIP Wednesday! Nobody has tagged me yet, so let's kick everything off with Chapter 2 of The Mistress of Rosehorn Hall!

I FORGOT TODAY WAS THURSDAY. UHHHH ENJOY A SNIPPET FROM CHAPTER 2 OF THE MISTRESS OF ROSEHORN HALL

The first-class carriage is gorgeously appointed. The brass implements are polished to a high sheen, the carpeting is plush, and the upholstered seats are so soft and comfortable, Sarah feels she could fall asleep the moment she sinks right into them. Bert and Josephine ease her luggage up onto the rack and strap it in with leather straps. Her outdated traveling trunk looks out of place surrounded by such finery. Indeed, as people pass by on the way to their own seats, they glimpse Sarah in her simple traveling attire and their lips turn down. Sarah averts her gaze and instead busies herself with her knitting. Josephine returns with pastries for them wrapped in paper and tied with twine. “There we are; I didn't want to purchase something too filling as Cook will have a feast prepared for us tonight in honor of your arrival.” She hands Sarah a butter biscuit with chives and a pastry made with fresh summer cherries before sitting down next to Bert. “Your knitting is lovely! Do you do other fiber work?” “Ah, just a little embroidery. I like keeping my hands busy.” Sarah holds up her knitting needles so Josephine can see the lacy shawl she’s making. Josephine oohs and aahs over it, and Bert nods politely. “Maybe I can finish it before we get to Briar Garden.” She can’t stop the laugh from escaping and immediately claps a hand over her mouth to silence it.

Chapter 1 is coming soon to my Ream page! All chapters of The Mistress of Rosehorn Hall will be available to the public. Don't forget that Ream Raids is on the 18th, and Godhunt will be available to read for free until the 25th.

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