#honey skein

[kirfluffbon]

i am so sorry

ITS 2AM HERE AND I CANT LOOK AT THIS WITHOUTT LOSIDING MY FUCKING MIND IM GOING TO THROW UP LAUGHIG

[witchpassing]

“I’m beginning to think, darling-” She taps the crop against her thigh in thought, folded leather tip level with your eyeline. “-that this may be just a little counterproductive.”

“Miss?” You shift on your knees, suddenly unsure where she’s going with this. There is a routine, an understood sequence of events, anticipation-ordeal-catharsis. Deviations are - unusual.

“I mean, look at you.” The crop strokes your cheek; a flinch, a caught breath, a lingering, flutter-eyed shudder that terminates at the base of your spine. “Can’t even pretend you don’t want it. Takes the edge off somewhat, considering that this is meant to be a punishment. Does it not?”

You do not comment - rhetorical question, response optional - but the rapt attention with which your eyes follow the crop as it settles back into its tap, tap, tap is tell enough.

A laugh. She steps away, tosses her tool upon the low table at the centre of the room; the widening gap tugs a string in your chest, but you have not been told to move. “How many was it this time, doll?” she asks, drawing the pin from her hair. It cascades along her spine, agate-black, heavy as silk. She doesn’t really need to ask, but this time there comes a delicate little hook woven into the skein of the words, and to answer is compulsion.

You swallow. The mechanisms of your throat tick like the tumbling of a lock. “Fifty, Miss.”

She makes a contemplative little hn as she steps behind the folding screen. (An exquisite image of a blood orchid roils upon the silk.) “You know, what I would do is have one of your sisters take it. Cinnabar, perhaps, or Silky.” A small pause for your hitched breath to drop into - time to picture Silky’s tears, Cinnabar’s silent, shuddering resilience - before she continues. “Unfortunate, isn’t it, that they’re in town this afternoon.”

“Perhaps we could–

“No, no,” she says, plucking the sentence from your tongue like a heron with a fish. “No deferrals. I know how important schedule is to keeping you in tune.” You nod your gratitude and wait, violin-string tense, for what comes next.

The witch emerges naked, and everything else in the room becomes immediately and totally irrelevant. She moves without haste, feet silent amid the cloudlike thickness of the rug, sparing not a moment’s regard for the wordless adoration that courses along the lines of her flesh - almost. Not quite. Despite her efforts, you catch the mote of a smile in her gaze as it passes across you. She is no great actress, your Lady, and she loves to be seen.

Then: “I suppose it can’t be helped,” she says, a little sigh of mock resignation. She stretches herself belly-down upon the chaise lounge, catlike, radiant in her shamelessness, and flicks her eyes at you.

“What are you waiting for, sweetheart?” she says. “Begin.”

The crop lies on the table between you; you’d quite forgotten, addle-brained thing that you are, that it was still there. You balk, of course, stutter and freeze, dread blooming in your chest like icewater. Direct order, you have to, but- but–

“I don’t want any fooling around, you understand?” she says. Oh, she’s really beginning to enjoy herself now. She wriggles, settling into the give of the upholstery as if she plans on taking a nap. You can hardly hear her over the tchk tchk tchk of your internals shifting up several gears at once - and yet her voice asserts itself, the very forefront of your mind, sparing you not a syllable. “Do it properly; if I don’t feel it then there’s really no point, is there? As for location, the back of the thighs or-”

“Miss please I can’t-”

“You will.”

You are on your feet, your fingers curling around the hilt of the crop, every string drawn taut. It’s true; you will.

“Don’t worry, love.” She smiles over the crook of her folded arm, and oh, she says it so kindly, as if she isn’t extracting from you a blasphemy. A sliver of honey-gold eye beneath the feather of her lashes, warm and merciless. “I’ll keep count for you.”

[katerinaaqu]

The Why never asked and the Because that never mattered

This is a fic I was planning for quite a long time but I wanted to post for the birthday of @dionysism !! Happy Birthday!

Helen was being pulled. That was what she knew because what she felt was an absolute mess inside her like a skein of red wool that was given to a cat to play with and that cat had tangled the thing beyond recognition; it could be that several threads were already severed and yet they were tangled again and again and there was no way of whether they were indeed cut off or not. Helen of Troy, former considering herself Helen of Sparta was feeling a similar way. She was being pulled by the steady hand of her husband covered with his crimson chlamys, not being able to see anything around her but the dirt beneath her feet and yet the sounds that came to her ears; cries of pain mixed with wild triumph wouldn’t let her calm. The smell of fire was also apparent and the metallic scent of blood. She had taken a glimpse of that before and yet Menelaus had chosen to cover her from this. When she was driven to his presence Menelaus was silent. His eyes; those flaming eyes she had missed so much to see from up-close were only staring at her as if he aimed to burn holes into her soul. Helen would stare at him for hours. He had prepared herself for the reunion almost the full decade that she spent at Troy, somehow she knew her husband would come for her; she knew it deep down her soul, knowing his pride, his honor… The moment she lay a foot to the holy city of Troy accompanied by her then new husband Paris, she knew that moment that Menelaus would want to see this city burn. Somehow he had succeeded. She had heard also the plan created by her previous suitor Odysseus. Menelaus and Odysseus had showed up in Troy to negotiate, after arriving at their doors with over 1000 ships. Helen knew. She didn’t need the intelligence she had to realize that if her husband had called upon Odysseus that it didn’t matter what the elders would say. Menelaus would burn the city! Odysseus would help him and do what it would be necessary for victory regardless the price! Seeing the two so mismatched men (one of tall and royal structure with blondish-red hair and honey eyes like the sunset and the other shorter yet immensely structured, hairy and curly like a ram, black of hair and eyes like the night) looking towards her she knew. She knew that these two would make the world burn. Ever since she was preparing herself for the inevitable confrontation with her previous, her true husband… But nothing truly helped when she saw those flaming eyes of his, framed by the blood that had splattered his face, staring at her; blood dripping from his bronze sword.

Helen was looking at him and he was looking at her. Those eyes that belonged to a lion staring upon a beautiful doe in the forest; was something Helen could barely handle. She stood steadfast like the queen she was. She was dressed in a very simple dress without any makeup to her beautiful face and her tresses cascaded down her sides like a waterfall of gold. She had no jewelry on her or anything else to prove her royal status but her fierce eyes; those fierce dark gray, almost black eyes with the small irises of gold that made Menelaus weak at the knees once. However now Menelaus too was staring deep in them and his eyes seemed to be unmoving. Helen had hoped to manipulate some sympathy into her husband so that she could at least save the life of her daughter, Helen, the last daughter she had left from her marriage with Paris. She hoped her husband would see her as a woman now; not as a casus belli. He hoped that at least her daughter would escape his rage. She had never seen Menelaus so enraged before. Never.

“Helen…”

That voice was a throaty growl. It wasn’t human! She looked at his face; she memorized every new wrinkle that the 10 years of warfare had placed upon him. She could truly see him for the first time after a decade. Oh, how changed and how same he looked at the same time! His mouth was tight; the lips that kissed her so passionately before, now were like a tight line, playing and twitching in fury.

“Menelaus…” she forced her throat and lips form the name

Right there and then her voice broke a spell in the air. Her husband had also not seen her in a decade, hadn’t heard her voice in a decade. Then she saw the true meaning of his name before her; The Rage of the People! It was as if the rage of the entire Sparta was gathered in his gaze! His hand clenched upon the sword he was holding and slowly raised it. Fear twitched in her eyes.

“Please…” she croaked out

Menelaus made a step. And another. And another.

“Please!”

For once second her previous courage left her; it was the instinctual fear of every creature before the face of doom. Menelaus raised his sword over his head and then she just felt her knees buckle.

“NO!”

Her scream was unhinged; raw. She threw herself at his feet, getting to grab onto his knees the last second. Menelaus stiffened. He tried to break free but she held him close.

“Please! I beg of you! Have mercy! Have mercy! Let me at least explain myself! Do not do this before I have the chance to explain to you!”

Menelaus growled and tried once more to kick himself free but he knew he couldn’t. His reaction was weak! She realized it was the first time she touched him and, by gods, it was hugging his legs that were splattered with dirt and blood from the city that sheltered her from his rage!

“What is there to explain?!” Menelaus roared, “How can you explain what you did! Ten years, Helen! Ten bloody long years!”

“Please! Have mercy! I beseech you! In the name of our daughter!”

“Don’t you DARE to mention MY daughter!” Menelaus roared, “You left her behind! Like a beast of the forest who leaves their offspring behind to heal your passion! You have no right to bring her name to your wrenched lips! Damn the moment she was born to see the shame of her own mother! You have no right to speak the name of MY Hermione! Not anymore!”

Helen wailed once more as every word he spoke was a knife to her heart sharper than the sword that was now ominously threatening to take her life.

“Don’t…please…!” she cried, “Have mercy…don’t kill me with your words like this! Don’t be so cruel to me! Don’t say this about my daughter! There was not one day in my life that I didn’t think of her! That I didn’t wish she was there to hug her and apologize to her! Please Menelaus! I beg of you…give me one last chance to explain! That’s all I ask! Please!”

“Say what you have to say!” Menelaus growled, “Get up! Get up, woman!”

He practically raised her back to her feet in a violent, bruising grip and yet Helen was intelligent enough to notice the shift in his voice. Her pleading had reached some part of his heart that he dressed in stone. She knew his touch and he knew hers. He knew she was telling the truth. She tried to collect herself and her thoughts.

“I didn’t…I didn’t wish for this to happen, Menelaus. I…the gods have played a cruel game to me…to you…to this city and the Greeks! It was Aphrodite! She promised my hand to Paris! She sparked this cursed feeling inside me! I never stopped loving you, Menelaus! Never, I swear! I swear it upon the life of my children! I have no more sacred oath than that!”

The shadow that passed over her husband’s eyes made her heart stop. It was as if her words only sparked more anger inside him; the anger he was accumulating and nourishing for over a decade of war!

“How DARE you!” he whispered dangerously, “The gods?! Aphrodite?! How DARE you use the gods to mask your sins and infidelity! How DARE you use the name of my daughter for this!”

“Menelaus…stop please!”

“I should have known!” Menelaus ignored her, “The spawn of a woman who felt her passion being sparked by a beast! I should have known better than falling for such a charm! I should have known better than hoping that such a spawn wouldn’t be happy news for me! Cursed the moment I met you! Cursed the moment I married you! Cursed the moment I lo-…”

The word choked in his throat. Her heart clenched. He hesitated to declare his love for her. He hesitated for the first time she ever knew him. That chocked word shocked her much more than his half-blasphemy to her divine father; much more than his sudden action. He grabbed her arm in a bruising grasp, turning to his soldier.

“COME HERE!” he ordered, “Take this woman outside where she will be stoned to death! She will pay for the lives she took upon her! She will pay for the lives she DESTROYED!”

“NO!” Helen now shrieked

Adrenaline gave her probably strength beyond her human capabilities for she broke free from her husband’s painful grip with one violent yank of her arm. Not this, she thought! Any form of death was welcome now that she failed to break through her husband, but not this! She couldn’t die like a common traitor.

“NO! PLEASE!” she begged, “If I am to die, let me die with dignity! Let me die by your own hand! Let me end my own life if you have to! Let me die like a queen! Not like a traitor! Please!”

She violently tore her dress apart. Her naked breasts came in sight. Menelaus’s gaze fell upon them; the way this chest hosted her beating heart; the heart he had rested his ear against so many times, feeling her breathing soothing him! Her breasts remained youthful and beautiful like the day he met her! The years hadn’t withered her divine beauty away!

“RIGHT HERE!” Helen cried, tears running down her cheeks, “Put your sword here right now! I’d rather die by the hands of the man I love than this! Please! Let me die with dignity! You owe me this! Please!”

Menelaus looked at her; the violent palpitations of her chest…and then he looked at her face; her beautiful face scarred by tears and despair; her face that remained divinely beautiful despite the years, no, the years of sadness and agony seemed to have transformed her even more beautiful than before. It was as if her sadness, her GENUINE sadness that she had felt all these years, the suffering and longing, had made her even more beautiful in his eyes. Her hair was messed up, her face pure without any paint or cosmetics; her natural scent that didn’t need any perfumes or aromatic oils to make him longing for her; her body and heart and spirit. How could such a beauty go to waste? How could he destroy this divine creature? How could he destroy the woman he loved?

“ARGH” he roared throwing his sword away, “DAMMIT!”

“My lord?” his soldier asked, “Shall we proceed?”

“No!” Menelaus yelled, “I can’t! I can’t!”

Yes, he realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill her, he couldn’t watch her getting killed, and he couldn’t order her death. He couldn’t part from her again!

“I can’t! Damned be my name and my weakness but I can’t see this through! Zeus and the immortals forgive me, I can’t destroy this woman! If I do, I am destroying myself! If I kill her I die with her!”

Helen felt her tears increasing but this time the warm tears were coming straight from her heart; this organ that was pumping her blood steadily but also this wrenched tool that betrayed her after goddess Aphrodite clouded her judgment. She saw Menelaus now; the man she loved and chosen as her husband! Taking a bald step she took his hand, the hand painted in blood and tar. Wetting it with her own salty tears she kissed it. She was placing her life in his hands. There was nothing else she could do; nothing else she wished to do. She felt him stiffen but it was not unpleasant this time. Not like before. As she was bended down, she felt the chlamys covering her head like a veil.

“Dammit!” Menelaus cursed again, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

She felt her husband pulling her away and fast. Helen didn’t know what her fate would be; what her position would be now and she didn’t expect much but she felt like she could trust Menelaus. More than just her love for him was her trust to his heart.

That had happened quite a couple of hours prior, however it felt like an eternity to Helen. They reached his tent, that much she knew, judging from the sounds of the soldiers around. Beneath her fit she could be the ends of the Achaean tents that were set up very fast just enough so they could pass the night; obviously not like the organized camp they were before thanks to the ploy by Odysseus to pretend they were leaving. Quite frankly most soldiers didn’t even have their tents ready. Just the kings and lords were having some shelter for the night (which was getting over anyways). He saw the material of the tent open and Menelaus pushed her in. Only then his chlamys left her head. Menelaus had spoken no word to her ever since that encounter. She heard him yelling orders hither-thither but not one word had reached her ears that was addressed to her; no words of anger but neither words of encouragement either. She was at least relieved that some of the orders he made were concerning her little girl, making sure she came with them. That seemed enough for her. They entered the cozy environment of the tent. Helen clenched her dress closer, covering herself the best she could. However her husband, half staggered inside, removed his helm and let it fall somewhere. He was feeling crushed and tired; too tired to even bother himself with his armor. His hair was matted, painted in blood. Helen even noticed some white strands coming out of it. How much had he suffered too? How much had the longing and waiting cost him? Menelaus, the king of Sparta, even tiredly half-tripped against his own helm, ignoring its existence on the tent’s floor. A slave rushed to pick it up.

“Leave it!” Menelaus roared, “Out! Everyone out!”

She saw them all run out, terrified by his sudden yell. She stood her ground. She watched him struggle with his armor as if it would choke him but she didn’t dare to come closer to assist him. She felt like he needed his space; what had happened that night was not easy for anyone. Helen still mourned the city; the people who didn’t judge her. She mourned herself too; for feeling happiness being with her husband again even with such a terrible price to pay. Menelaus, finally free from the leather and bronze, he let the armor fall to the floor with a clang. Helen couldn’t remember seeing him this exhausted; this burnt out before. He moved his head, hearing cracking sounds from his nape. He silently went to a bronze bowl of water and splashed plenty on his face and over his hair, in some attempt to make himself presentable. With some of the blood gone, Helen clearly saw the gray hairs in his reddish head; like snowflakes on top of dry leaves. Menelaus…her Menelaus seemed drained and prematurely old despite his face being as handsome as she remembered. She watched him dry himself with a towel, which he also abandoned on the floor. She saw the blood stains on the towel and she cursed herself for thinking “Thank gods! This isn’t his blood…he is not hurt…” The thought brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t want to know how many people’s blood he was carrying on him. Menelaus poured a glass of wine for himself and drank deeply from his golden cup. How strange, she thought, gold and jewelry; how insignificant these seemed now before the face of war and death! How much death had they brought upon this earth! The silence was choking her. She couldn’t stand it!

“Menelaus…I…”

Her whisper was cut off by one move of Menelaus’s hand; a silent order, perhaps a silent pledge. She obeyed. Menelaus once more finished his drink and then he sat upon his couch, or perhaps it was his bed now. Helen saw how, despite the fact the tent was cozy and wide; she noticed the difference of her life and his all these years; Menelaus lived in a military camp for more than 10 years while she was living in the palace. No wonder he was so older than his age now; the sorrow, the guilt, the longing in combination to the conditions he lived in, could have their toll at any man. Menelaus seemed to be taking a breath to speak; as if to collect his thoughts.

“For ten years…” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and tired, “During all these years I had dreamt of this moment, Helen…”

It was the first time he addressed her so softly after a decade. Helen felt her heart palpitating and shivering. His rage before was all forgotten to her. His voice now was making her weak at the knees; the softness of her husband she had missed so much.

“I have played it in my head so many times that I had thought I knew every word I wanted to say or reply to you…” he scoffed humorlessly in self-sarcasm, “But, by gods, now I cannot even find a single word to say! The only thing I can say now -the one thing that tormented me all these years- is… Why, Helen? Why?”

His eyes locked with hers; her almost dark and yellow ones; the eyes that looked like stormy sky plundered by lightning.

“Why did you do this to me? Why…?”

The pain! The seer agony! She could almost see the tears down his cheeks even if he heroically was holding them back.

“Menelaus…I…”

“Yes, I know” he interrupted her, “Aphrodite… By gods, Helen…I don’t know what to believe! However that is not what I am asking…”

She waited. She didn’t even need to speak again to know his intentions.

“Why did you…for ten years, Helen…you waited there for ten years… You saw me nearly slaying your precious Paris…him being saved by gods… You still chose him, Helen…even then…you chose him…”

Then she saw it. One single tear ran down his cheek. His voice broke.

“Why, Helen…” he repeated like a mantra, “Why did you push me to the edge? Why did things have to go this way?”

There were a million things she would want to say; many excuses and true reasons. She could have said how she was still under the influence of Aphrodite. She could have said that she had a family she wanted to protect; her precious children that were not at fault, the children that died so unfairly in an earthquake and the children she mourned. She could have said how grateful she was to king Priam for understanding and protecting her, to Hector who supported her, to Andromache who accepted her. She could speak on the years she spent with these people. She could speak on her daughter, her little Helen, that remained alive…on the fact that they chose a new husband for her against her will. However none of this seemed useful now. Her tears ran down her cheeks again, her throat burning and feeling tied in a knob.

“Does it matter now…?” she whispered, “Would anything I say make things better now after so long? Will this give back the lives to all the Greeks that fell or the Trojans that got slain? Will anything I say undo this disaster we did…?”

Yes, she included him. She knew he would have too. Menelaus called upon the greatest army in the world, he agreed upon a bloody war, he agreed upon a scheme to take the city at night and the slaughter of innocents. She knew he knew he was not innocent; just like she wasn’t.

“No…” Menelaus whispered, “No, it doesn’t…”

His honey eyes locked in hers. She didn’t know what to make of it. His stare was as intense as the needle that pierces through the skin when the healer closes a wound. As if being self-conscious, she clenched her dress close to her chest again. Menelaus followed the movement with his eyes. Then his arm extended.

“Come here…”

It was a soft order; a pleading. Helen moved slowly, taking his hand in hers; eliminating the distance between them. She followed his lead as she slowly knelt before him, looking up at his face. His hand softly touched her cheek. She shivered. The night was cold but his hand was so warm! His fingers traced her cheek; phantom touch against her skin. His thumb trailed her lips. Helen felt more tears running but this time it wasn’t despair. His hand slowly went down the side of her throat, slowly slipping in her dress to caress the flesh of her shoulder. She turned her head by instinct, kissing his wrist. She felt him shiver. There was a soft squeeze on her shoulder; en encouragement to make her stand again. She did. His hands then opened her dress again to reveal her chest. He looked at her for a few seconds and then she saw him come undone, like a dam collapsing, filling a lake with water fast!

“Gods!” he whispered

And his arms pulled her close. It was a desperate embrace! It was the type of hugging a dying man would do to their deity, begging for a few more seconds upon the land of the living! His face buried in her bosom and she felt his wet tears on her skin; his arms, strong and secure, fisting upon the material of her dress and her back. Her own arms by instinct flew around him; around his head and she pulled him in her even further as the king of Sparta sobbed. This time Helen’s eyes were dry. It was as if she needed to be strong for him; allowing him to be weak now, to be with her! His shoulders were shivering from sobbing but he made no sound. He half raised his head only to kiss each one of her breasts. His lips were burning! Her heard raised her pulse. The last kiss was placed right in the middle; right over her heart, hammering against her ribcage.

“Please…” he begged, “Hold me, Helen! Hold me like this…”

“Yes…” Helen whispered hugging his head again, “Always…always…”

The man she loved more than life itself looked up and softly pulled her on his knees.

“Kiss me…” he begged again, “Please…kiss me…!”

The encouragement was not needed. She cupped his cheeks with both her white soft hands and her lips landed on his. She heard him whimper. His hands desperately clasped her hair and the other around her body. He kissed her like his life depended on it; like her soul was being transferred inside him. After ten long years! Finally Tears escaped his eyes. It was as if he was dying. The lip locking lasted a few seconds before Menelaus pulled back and half-fell behind. One of his arms was still holding her but the hand that clasped on her locks so tightly before, flew behind him as if to stop his fall. It was as if his heart had stopped for a small second.

“Menelaus!” she worriedly held onto his shoulders

“I’m fine…” Menelaus panted softly, “I’m fine…”

She used the edge of her sleeve to mop the droplets of sweat off his forehead; suddenly his skin feeling cold to the touch his breath coming out harshly. She could tell something was wrong with him; worry biting her soul like a snake. He tried to stabilize his breath as he looked up at her.

“Don’t look at me like that…” he begged weakly, “Please…not you…not like that!”

Tears burnt again in Helen’s eyes. The daughter of Zeus shook her head negatively, placing a kiss on her husband’s forehead, curling against him like a dove. His arms embraced her tighter than before. Her ear caught the sound of his heart; it was irregular! Only to stabilize bit by bit. She held him tightly as if she wanted to transfer her health to him. She wouldn’t let him go again! Never!

“Hold me, Menelaus…” she now begged back, hoping transferring her need for him would help, “Please...never again! Let me stay like this with you…never let me go again!”

Her palm rested against his chest; against his heart. She thanked all gods of Olympus that the heartbeat had stabilized. She could tell by his breathing and temperature too.

“Promise me…” she urged, “You will not let me go…you will not leave me! Never again!”

It was a foolish wish, she knew, but the deteriorating of his health alarmed her. She wanted him, only him, she would never marry another man again but him. She made a promise to herself that even if it cost her, her life, she would keep this man on this earth. He deserved it! Menelaus softly sighed and held her tighter.

“I promise…” she heard him whisper

There was no more need for words between them. No more reasoning was necessary.

***

Sooo yeah I feel lke we do not have so many Helen x Menelaus fics out there and is a shame given how much of a couple they are and how they have been through so much together! And how their love was enough to forget the years they spent apart!

Menelaus trying to kill Helen but being moved by her beauty or her pleading for her life is a detail mentioned in later sources, also depending on the source he wanted to kill her himself or have her stoned to death! As usually I decided to combine sources! Hahaha! Hopefully this works!

For the scene in Menelaus's tent I was severely inspired by an amazing Greek composer named Kostas Kapnisis (Κώστας Καπνίσης) who created soundtracks for some greek movies including an amazing movie for the greek revolution and one of the heroes taking part in it, Papaflessas. In the movie of 1971, one of the pieces of the soundtrack is called Erotiko (Ερωτικό) aka "erotic" or "of love" or "of eros" and on my word is was just perfect in my head!

Just listen the soft melody! TT-TT So them!

I also wanted to show Helen's strength and intelligence but also the fact that all characters were broken in sadness at that time.

Also Menelaus collapsing, you can see my headcanon of Menelaus suffering from his heart. I had made a small analysis on it you can find it here

Now I can memorize many good blogs here that create really beautiful Menelaus and Helen art. Some of those that I know and follow are @thehelplessmortals for some more historic style and others like @smokey07 in a more anime-like style. I must say Menelaus definitely needs more love out there! Both for his friendship with Odysseus as well as for his relationship with Helen and the reconsiliation they had!

Now the design for Helen I had in mind was blonde woman due to beauty standards plus how it is generally much rarer color especially for south Europe also Dares the Phrygian elleged account also names her as such but honestly I have seen great designs of hers looking amazing in red or brown or black hair! The eyes of hers (dark gray with sparkles of yellow) was a totally random thing in my head maybe to connect her with Zeus. Just a random idea I had this morning!

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 23: Morning Coffee Cuddles

Dew knows how his pack takes their coffee in the morning. Swiss and Cumulus are no exceptions.

Thank you so much to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and to @ghuleh-recs for making us the dividers <3

For as long as he's been Up Top, Dew's always been an early riser. Most of his mates are content to sleep past noon barring any AM obligations. But he's always woken up with the sun, no matter how late or early he fell asleep the night before, if at all.

He yawns, all of his teeth on full display, as he pads into the common room. His tail flicks lazily behind him as he makes his way to the coffee pot in the adjoining kitchen. Something bright white catches his eye, and he freezes, turning towards it.

There's a puff of cloud-white curls peeking over the back of the couch, tucked in the corner, and Dew relaxes some. He pads closer, quiet and light on his feet, to peer over the back of the couch.

Cumulus is there, breathing slow and gentle, glasses crooked on her nose. She's fast asleep, a half finished plush in her hands. There's a skein of yarn set on the ottoman, and there's a half-completed stitch on the hook.

Dew can imagine it, Cumulus coming out here when she couldn't sleep, picking up her tour habits and passing out mid-stitch. He hums as softly as he can, lip quirking up in a smile, reaching for one of the blankets draped over the back of the couch (one she made on her first tour, his brain helpfully supplies) and carefully wrapping it around her shoulders.

She sleeps on, and Dew nods, satisfied. He turns back to the kitchen, the caffeine calling his name. The coffee pot gurgles to life, and Dew's eyes dart from it to Cumulus and back the entire time it brews, praying that she sleeps through it.

Thankfully, she doesn't stir, and Dew opens the cabinets as the coffee brews, rolling his eyes as he stands up on his tiptoes to grab two mugs. His packmates always leave them on the second shelf, and he's not that short, thank you very fucking much, but it's still a stretch to reach the mugs. He grabs two, pouring a healthy amount in each.

There's footsteps entering the kitchen, and Dew turns to greet Cumulus but stops in his tracks when he realizes it's not her, that she's still asleep on the couch.

"Ooh, makin' coffee, spitfire?" Swiss asks, yawning loudly and baring his fangs.

Dew wheels on him, hissing under his breath as he gestures over at the common room couch. "Cue's asleep, be fucking quiet."

Swiss, listening to him for once, shuts his mouth, glancing over to where Dew's pointing. "Shit," he whispers, watching with bated breath for Cumulus to stir. She doesn't, thankfully, and both ghouls relax some. "I didn't even see her, just smelled coffee and came out."

Dew shrugs, pushing his sleep-mussed braid over his shoulder as he turns back to the mugs. "No foul," he whispers, "Get yourself a mug if you want some."

Swiss flashes him his signature grin, moving past him to grab his favorite mug. He also grabs the brown sugar and honey, passing the sugar towards Dew as the fire ghoul doctors his own mug. Dew sets the brown sugar by the second mug, adding a spoonful and a heavy pour of creamer, stirring it and watching the color lighten.

The two of them take the three mugs out to the common room, approaching the couch quietly enough that they can hear Cumulus's steady breathing. Dew gets there first, her mug in hand, and he bends over the back of the couch to press a kiss between her opalescent horns, reaching around to carefully adjust her glasses where they're pressing against her temple. "Hey, lamb, that can't be comfortable."

She jolts a little, grunting softly as she's woken. Cumulus blinks, ice blue eyes meeting Swiss's first as she realizes what's going on. "Fuck, know I crochet when I can't sleep, but I didn't mean to actually fall asleep out here," she groans, stretching a little and wincing at the way her back twinges.

Dew chuckles, nosing at her cotton-white curls. "We come bearing gifts," he whispers, presenting her with a mug of coffee just the way she likes it.

Swiss leans in and gently takes her project from her so she can take her coffee, carefully winding up the slack in the yarn and tucking the hook into a stitch so it doesn't unwind before setting it on the ottoman. He sinks onto the couch next to her, leaning in to nose at her bare shoulder, right at the edge of her tank top strap. A spark of quintessence flows between them, soothing the crick between her shoulder blades.

She turns to Dew, giving him a dimpled smile and nuzzling against the sharp line of his cheek. "You boys are too sweet to me," she hums, accepting the mug and letting the warmth soak through the ceramic into her palms. Dew props himself up on the arm of the couch, wrapping an arm around her as she drinks.

"S'what you deserve, lamb."

[pupsmailbox]

BEAR︰CUB ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　adalbern. adalburn. arcadia. armel. armelle. arthur. artie. artis. ash. avonaco. baloo. barney. barrett. bear. bearette. bearnard. bears. bearwonder. beary beau. beelzebub. ben. benate. benny. berdine. berengar. bern. bernadette. bernard. berne. berry. bjorn. blackburn. bramble. briar. brown. browne. brownie. button. calysta. care cave. claws. corduroy. cub. eden. espen. eve. fang. fluff. fluffsse. forest. fozzie. frederick. genevieve. gerben. griz. grizz. grizzie. grizzlee. grizzly. grizzy. honey. honie. honnie. hugs. humbert. ivan. keith. koa. koala. koda. lakeisha. mapelle. maple. napoleon. oak. oberon. orsa. orson. owen. paddington. panda. pawster. plushisse. polar. potter. river. rivera. rowan. rufus. sal. shyamang. skein. slavik. sloth. snowfrid. sol. star. stitches. stuffine. sun. sunny. ted. teddie. teddy. torben. ursa. ursel. ursula. ursus. vernados. waverly. willow. winnie.

PRONOUNS ⌇　:3/>:3. bea/bear. bear/bear. bear/bearie. bee/bee. ber/berry. bla/blackberry. burr/burrow. burrow/burrow. button/button. chomp/chomp. claw/claw. creature/creature. cub/cub. fang/fang. fir/fir. fluff/fluff. fluff/fluffsie. fluff/fluffy. fur/fur. fuzz/fuzz. grizzly/grizzly. hun/honey. hy/hym. lake/lake. lurk/lurk. nap/nap. nose/nose. paw/paw. pine/pine. plush/plush. protective/protective. riv/river. romp/romp. shy/hyr. shy/shy. slee/sleep. sniff/sniff. soft/soft. startle/startle. stitch/stitch. stuff/stuffing. tail/tail. ted/teddie. toy/toy. trail/trial. wav/wave. wood/wood. yarn/yarn. 🌲 . 🍯 . 🐻 . 🤎 . 🧵 . 🧶 . 🧸 .

[nursesharkinfirmary]

ִֶָ࣪𓂃 * -` 🧸 ´- teddy bear npts 🪡 ㅤׂㅤ⭒

─ 𖦹 ˙ ̟Names

Teddy/ie, Bear/ette, Fluffsse, Honey/ie, Stitches, Pawster, Paddington, Corduroy, Fozzie, Stuffine, Skein, Maple/Mapelle, Frederick, Oak, Plushisse, Eve, Grizz/Grizzly, Ivan, Cub, Brownie, Button, Genevieve

─ 𖦹 ˙ ̟Pronouns

Paw/Paw's, Cub/Cub's, Stuff/Stuffing's, Stitch/Stitch's, Fluff/Fluffsie's, Toy/Toy's, Yarn/Yarn's, Ted/Teddie's, Bear/Bearie's, Button/Button's, 🧸/🧸's, 🪡/🪡's, 🤎/🤎's, 🍯/🍯's, 🧵/🧵's 🧶/🧶's, 🐻/🐻's

─ 𖦹 ˙ ̟Titles

The One with Embroiderd Eyes, (Prn) with the Softest Fur, The Stuffed (Pref Royal Title), The One of a Plush Form, The Teddy Bear on the Shelf, (Prn) with Stitched Paws

bonus system name : Build-A-Bear Workshop 🧸🤎

[desertdollranch]

It has become an annual tradition for me to help Antonia put together her farmer's market booth, where she sells all of the fruits, vegetables, and homemade goods that her family's community farm has produced over the past year. Every year, the harvest brings more and more goods. But this autumn, she has outgrown the farmer's market, and is now selling at a roadside stand!

Antonia is ten years old in 1978, when she is inspired by the American Indian Movement to help establish a community farm on land her family owns. It's been a huge success. It has strengthened bonds between friends and neighbors as they all care for each other and make sure that nobody goes hungry.

Whatever is left over after everyone is fed, is then sold at the roadside stand. Antonia is also supplementing with a few special handmade extras that help bring in a little more money. The money will help pay for everything needed to help Snow Mountain Farm grow bigger and better.

Antonia is so proud of what the fields and orchards have grown.

Just look at the size of some of these pumpkins!

Under the cut, Antonia will give you an up-close look at what she's selling....

Everything seen here was either made by me, harvested from the wild, or purchased. (See if you can guess which ones were handmade/bought/gathered!)

The gourd and squash harvest was abundant this year. Antonia managed to coax the garden into producing a few giant pumpkins.

Lots of other fruits thrived as well!

Pears are new this year.

Beautiful pink plums are also new.

Apples are a returning favorite. There are three varieties this year: sweet yellow apples, tart green apples, and a red striped variety that has its own unique flavor.

In the front row are apples, plums, chiles, and pears. On the shelf there are fresh flowers and packaged seeds, various fruit jams, honey, apple cider, dried ground herbs, potted herb seedlings, packaged seeds, and bottles of apple cider.

Up on the shelf there are several varieties of jam: rose petal, peach, grape, prickly pear, and strawberry. Next to them is honey that the farm's bees made from the local wildflowers. The apple cider is made from apples grown in the farm's orchard.

One particular farmer is very gifted in the art of raising flowers. Here you can buy fresh cut flowers, or seedlings for your own garden.

Fruit and vegetable seedlings or seeds are also for sale.

On the checkout counter, Antonia is selling popcorn and apple cider donuts. Directly below the donuts are cartons of eggs, which include white, brown, and speckled eggs.

Below the checkout counter is the small shelf offering some smaller items. In the plastic bags are freshly made tamales, which are like dumplings of meat, veggies, beans, or cheese mixed with a corn dough and steamed inside corn husks. To the right are two wheels of goat's milk cheese. In the middle are skeins of yarn dyed with natural sources, like prickly pear fruits and cabbage leaves. Next to those are bars of soap, in sagebrush or rose petal scent. And on the right end of the shelf are bagged pine nuts, gathered from the wild.

Below that is more produce! On the left, colored corn. In the crates there are potatoes, cherries, strawberries, tomatoes, peaches, and cauliflower.

Antonia is especially proud of the fancy colored corn she has grown. It's fun to open the ears and see what colors the kernels are!

Next to that are giant sunflowers. Above that are the pretty gourds and squashes.

On the bench are some lovely watermelons. And surrounding those are even more pumpkins and squash!

These, too, emerged in all sorts of different colors and shapes. Antonia lets the different varieties cross pollinate, so that the appearances of the resulting pumpkins are a surprise.

Thanks for stopping by! Here, take a sunflower home with you!

[kahixxi]

My fav comedy manhwa / manhua:

Nan Hao Shang Feng (Brownie)

Please Take My Brother Away (You Ling)

19 Days (Old Xian)

Interview with the Crazy Rich (Wooda)

When the Killer Falls in Love (Eresemo)

We Are Peaceful Brothers (Gims)

What Do The Teenage Boys Do (Keotbu, Cutbu)

Match Made in Heaven by Chance (Honey Skein, Damcho)

The NOmance I Need (Magnesium)

[benwvatt]

my recent kataang fics!

hi! I’ve written a few kataang stories recently and would love to share them. AO3 links included! And there are more fics under the “read more.”

my darling, how long do you want to be loved? is forever enough? is a rated-G oneshot about the two of them bonding over Katara’s pregnancy.

Katara laughs and buries her head in the crook of Aang’s neck. In bed, he’s been tracing lazy figure eights across the small of her back. “How did we get here?”

“Well, we left the Earth King’s party after thirty-seven minutes-”

Still laughing. Aang can feel her head shake against his chest, like a magnolia raining leaves in a storm. He wants to close his eyes as long as possible and memorize the ebbs and flows of her joy, the imprints it makes in the air.

“Oh, right! And we stole dumplings,” Katara adds gently, “wrapped in napkins in my purse! I’ll never get the grease stains out.” If only oil and water were similar, she could lift the marks with a swish of her hand.

“I guess you’ll just have to use regular ol’ soap and water. Like a peasant.”

“Like a fool!”

in reverence, my cup runneth over for you is a rated-T one-shot about Katara and Aang dancing in their kitchen.

They will raise children here someday. Aang wants a daughter with whom to dance in the kitchen. Together they will shift, clumsy under skeins of moonlight; he’ll toddle around, practicing steps by letting their girl stand on his feet. She will teach him the extra-extra-cool dance moves, picked up from magazines or some technology not yet invented, because grown-ups simply don’t understand.

Aang kisses Katara. Oh, she is going to be the rest of his life. The sheer notion of this runs through his mind like a horse unbridled.

“I love the kitchen,” she finally murmurs, hugging him closer. “No need to worry, not with me.”

He already knew, but a reminder never hurts.

He talks to her about the wilder dreams (not wildest, for those have already come true) and they waltz over dusty floorboards that leave speckles on the bottoms of their shoes. The kitchen will be furnished another time. Tonight is for dancing.

you’ve got me more than clumsy, but you’re my yellow lovely is a fluffy rated-G oneshot about Katara taking care of Aang while he’s sick. 

“Honey,” Aang murmurs, two full syllables this time. Voicing anything hurts at the moment 一 he’s taken ill this week 一 but he has to catch her attention. “Katara.”

She groans. “Yeah?”

“You gotta go. I - I’m gonna get you sick if you stay any longer.”

Her head shakes ‘nope’ and Aang can feel the brush of her hair against his neck. You could hear a pin drop. Even the crickets have ceased chirping tonight.

“I’m not fun to be around.”

“That’s a lie,” she whispers. “Can I kiss you?” He’s been trying not to get her sick all week, and she ought to ask before moving any closer.

“I miss you.” Aang wraps his arms around her and leans in. “I don’t think I should kiss you. Germs. Disease. Y’know, plague and death.”

“How did we get to death?”

i’d paint a river of stars for you (cross the ocean sapphire blue) is a romantic AU about Kataang getting together in the South Pole, set in a world where the war never happened and Aang routinely visits Katara and he’s super in love with her. Rated T!

Aang looks down at her hand. She’s still wearing the friendship bracelet he wove for her out of linengrass.

He wants, not for the first time, to press his hand to her face and kiss her. He wonders if her cheeks would be cold against his. Hasn’t ever been close enough to check. Aang moves his thumb an inch until it’s over hers.

He looks at her. Is this okay?

Moonbeams wash into the bedroom through the ice. She might be blushing but he can’t quite tell.

Do you want this? Do you want me? he tries to communicate with his gaze. He was never very good at this. Monks are taught to let go of desire, not harbor it deep inside.

when the ice forgives is an AU in the works. In which, post-series, Kya is discovered sleeping in an iceberg and Katara’s whole family bond over the discovery that she’s alive. Katara & Aang are also engaged in this story and they’re very sweet.

“Were you preparing something in the kitchen?” Aang asked. He’d slept in, and he was hungry.

“I… might have been.” She pursed her lips for a moment, then let the grin wash away any hint of neutrality on her face. “Okay, there’s some baozi. And I was wondering if you wanted to eat hot pot for lunch? That was, uh, the noise you heard.”

She was so comforting. Everything about it, from her culinary plans to her one morning cup of tea, stolen from him, was predictable. He loved her. He told her, and they curled into the bed. Katara laid down, absentmindedly stroking her thumb across Aang’s cheekbone, and reminded him he was a sap. An honest, lovable one, but still.

“I like you,” she whispered. The words hung in the white, almost silver, morning light. They were predictable too, and Aang couldn’t get enough of them. “I like you very much.”

He kept his gaze on her and ran his thumb over the curve of her eyebrow, down her cheek until he was tracing her bottom lip. “You’re so…” and he kissed her before saying, “special. I didn’t think I could meet somebody like you. Someone so uncommonly kind.”

[dragon-mantis]

i have been encouraged by the mutuals <3 so here is my post on my very specific embroidery floss organizational system

first things first: what is embroidery floss?

according to a quilt making site i found on google "Embroidery thread is made of a single strand and often comes on a spool while embroidery floss is made of six separated strands that are wound into a loose circle that can be divided depending on the thickness you want your stitch to be."

embroidery floss usually comes in a skein like this:

when i get new floss, the first thing i do is put it on a makeshift spool. when trying to use it in its original form, it is prone to getting really tangled and is very annoying

the "spools" i use are entirely homemade and make it a lot easier to keep everything neat

ingredients to make one: cereal box cardboard (i think its called paperboard?) and scissors (honey nut cheerio boxes are the best kind, but pretty much anything works great)

first things first you gotta cut a little rectangle like this

the size of your "spool" really depends on ehat youre keeping the floss in. ive got a platsic organizer box for mine so they are about 1 1/2 inches by 2 inches

next you want to cut a little bit off of the long sides, leaving it long at the ends

the ends make sure that the thread doesnt slide off

next, you want to cut two slits where the ends of the thread will go

you have made a spool!

im gonna put the rest in another reblog

[kirfluffbon]

ohhhhh the creature…… honey skein

[spookyycider]

35 | she/her | Katherine | mostly Billy Russo imagines |

Rabbit of Blood and Vengeance.

Set yourself to untangling my skein.

A1.

A taste of Babylon.

Sick day with Billy Russo…

Bleeding heart, heart of stone.

Lighter than Snow.

Sugar and Honey.

Death by Raisins.

Oriental Bittersweet.

Rolling thunder in the summer.

Baking with Billy.

Whiskey Eyes.

[ohabeeeeeee]

Long ago, in a strange, faraway timeline — thousands upon thousands of honey strands, as soft and delicate as spun silk, were pulled from a tough maltose dough. Much like their namesake, Honey Skein Cookie is often stretched thin, hard at work sewing uniforms and period-appropriate disguises for the busy agents of the Time Balance Department! A cantankerous kobold hailing from an ancient Age of Dragons, their exquisitely-clad exterior belies a ferocious bark and a harsh attitude. Their tidy workplace is lined tip-to-toe with strange dyes and swatches of fabric, ancient and futuristic alike - from Sugartearan sea silks to shimmering witchberry pigments - this seamstress’ painstaking attention to detail is second to none. But given they’re the TBD’s one and only outfitter, perhaps they’re in need of a break…?

:OOOO

HONEY SKEIN

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 3 - STARLIT

The Key in Arabella’s hand is a hauntingly beautiful thing.

It’s like a shard of midnight biting into her palm, its teeth dark and jagged, its neat round bow spangled with constellations. A pattern of pinprick dots. It doesn’t glow, but it feels like it does. It feels like Arabella stole it out of the sky.

(She didn’t, of course; she stole it out of Karliah’s pocket, easy as anything.)

The Key doesn’t glow. It doesn’t do much of anything, truth be told; whatever hidden potential it’s supposed to be unlocking remains securely fastened in whatever secret recess of her mind it’s stuffed in. But it’s fine – this is probably something that takes time, and she’s only had it for a day.

Arabella twists the cold metal shaft in her unbandaged fingers, ignoring the spike of pain the motion provokes, and glances at the door. Still shut; firelight seeps in from the other room through the cracks. This room is lit with a tall tallow candle, dripping its wax across the surface of a wooden nightstand. It’s quiet – though she can hear people shuffling about behind the door, they seem to be trying not to make too much noise, hesitating to disturb the sweet young traveller that came pleading for aid. How kind of them.

She thinks she has an hour, perhaps a little more, of resting quietly before someone comes knocking. Best use it wisely.

So she strips off her top few layers, dropping them crumpled onto the bedspread, and then pulls off her patchy blue underdress. It’s not exactly comfortable – even with the air heated by the hearth in the next room, it’s still bloody cold, and everything she touches with her right hand rasps painfully against the glowing burns. The bandages on her left aren’t much better. At least they’re silk, from her poor old scarf; easier on her mind that way, if not on her skin, and the dregs of the honey poultice they bind in is still somewhat doing its job. Unfortunately, she needs both hands. She painstakingly undoes the bandage, stuffs it into the pocket of her pack, wipes her still-sticky hand on a goose-pimpled thigh, and turns her dress inside out.

It's a shame, she thinks; this is one of her favourite pieces. Bought and then altered and dyed by her own hand after her first pay at the Guild. She can see the patches where she applied the pigment unevenly, where the expensively imported dye began to run out. A shame; oh, well. She finds the silk thread under the bust where the cloth is gathered for the dart to be stitched in, pinches the fabric between her fingers, brings it to her mouth.

It’s good quality stuff – doesn’t rip easy. But she’s not got her nifty little scissors – left them in the other pack – and can’t be bothered to sift through the one she took for a small blade when she can tear it open with her teeth just as well. It only takes a minute. When it’s done the fabric hangs, uneven and frayed – but it won’t show, it’s just the inside, and this is so much more important.

(Y’ffre, it’s so much more important. There could be nothing in the world more important than this, this hurts-to-hold chip of nightertale, its stelliform bitting, the hypnotic lustre of its bow. It will move mountains. It will move her.)

Arabella slips the Key in between the piece of fabric she tore and the one external. She doesn’t have all her sewing things – the scissors left at Brynjolf and Karliah’s poorly improvised camp, half her threads left behind in the waterlogged ruin – but she has a couple trusty bone needles and a skein of unpigmented thread. With neat, sturdy stitches, she sews the gap back up again.

From the front, you can’t tell it was ever disturbed.

(Not strictly true – there’s a little lump. But when she’s wearing it, it won’t be noticeable, disguised by its location under her bust; if she could get something else to wear – something with the inelegant silhouette of the loose dresses and aprons so often preferred by the women of Skyrim, for instance – it would never be seen at all.)

Arabella pushes herself up off the bed and tugs the dress on over her head. The knobby shape of the Daedric artifact sewn into her bodice presses against her ribs. She flexes her hands – searing in the cool air, most of the blisters still swollen and glistering – and prowls over the floorboards, silent and sure-footed, to riffle through the coffer chest pressed up against the wall.

There’s plenty in there – more than one person’s worth, she thinks. Maybe she got lucky and this little side room is where all this kind clan of cattle-farmers store their clothes. She sifts through it all with the care of a surgeon – taking out a yellow ribbon-belt here, a plain brown kirtle there, a dark blue overcoat, a garishly orange apron-dress. They’re not awful, but they’re also things she would never wear; if she can just get her hands on a hood for her hair, she’ll be able to move with much more ease. Her friends won’t know how to ask after her –seen any gorgeous Bosmer women in hideous linen garb, wearing a hooded mantle that makes them look like an egg? She’s aware that she’s not the most visually unidentifiable, but if she changes just a few things, she can blend in. She’s done it before. She’s willing to do it now, if it means that afterward, she’ll never have to again.

The talk outside the door has risen, just a little. Arabella nudges the coffer closed and darts back to the pack left on the bed, rolling up the clothes into tubes and stuffing them under Karliah’s bundle of medicines Arabella would refuse to use and Brynjolf’s drawstring bag of dice. (They were surprisingly useful – provided many an eve of entertainment while they travelled, though the fact that the game dice came out the cave with them and much of their food and tools did not is ridiculous.) By the time the doorknob rattles, Arabella is lying curled up on the bed next to her crumpled pile of jacket and overdress, blinking sleepily at the light pouring in through the chinks.

The door creaks open. The woman who led her to the room is standing there silhouetted, a stout-fingered hand on the knob. In this lighting, Arabella can hardly make out her face, the grey in her hair washed out in the hearth-gold. She blinks again, to sell it.

“Hey there,” says the woman whose name Arabella has already forgotten. “How are you?”

Arabella smiles, then – closed-lipped and sunny. “Oh,” she says, with a careful handle on her voice, keeping the posturing under control, “so much better. I can’t thank you enough for letting me impose on you like this.”

The woman flaps a hand. Her eyes, Arabella can just about see, are glittering; there’s a dimple folded into the fine seamed wrinkles on her left cheek. “There’s no imposition at all. There’s not much chance of meeting new people so out of the way – it’s a big to-do when someone from the next farm on comes a-visiting. We’re happy to have you.”

“I’m so grateful,” Arabella says brightly. There’s a haze of cooking-smoke in the doorway, and with it open she feels like she can hear voices rising all through the house.

The woman smiles, drawing back a little from the doorway; the light falls over her face, long nose and big teeth and downturned eyes. “No trouble at all,” she says, fingers tapping on the iron knob. “I just came to check – make sure you’re awake, and all, seeing as the food is ready.”

Arabella blinks. This time, her surprise is mostly genuine.

(Ah, shit. She’d more or less forgotten the conventions of hospitality, and now she has to politely extricate herself from its trappings.)

“You’re so kind,” she says, voice as sugary earnest as she can make it, “but that’s not at all necessary! I was just going to begin to make my way to our rendezvous point – we did make plans for some kind of event like this, I promise we weren’t complete fools.” Oozing hell, what name had she given them? She remembers the names of her companions – Viatia and Bravyn, the three of them a group of intrepid would-be adventurers that got separated fighting a couple of frost trolls, and please, ma’am, I’m not entirely sure what to do out here in the dark, could I come in out of the cold for just a few minutes? But she’s not entirely sure what she told them her name was. And she wasn’t careful enough about stressing that when she said just a little while, she meant it.

(It’s not safe to stay still.)

Brusquely, the woman says, “Ah, don’t be ridiculous.” Her face twists, and she’s quick to add, “No-one thinks you’re a fool, dear, just young. But of course you’re not running off so soon – you’ve been injured, you need to rest a little while.”

“My hand’s much better,” Arabella objects. She twirls her fingers in the air too quickly for the woman to notice that it very much is not – then busies herself putting on the layers she’d taken off to alter the dress. “It was the bandages stopping me from fighting more than the injury, truly. I took them off. And besides, I don’t want to make my friends worry. They’re already there, most likely, and I can’t make them wait –”

“You can’t travel at night. You’ll get horribly turned-around in the dark.”

“You already pointed me in the direction of the road. I know how to get there based on that.” The guileless little voice is beginning to rasp on Arabella’s throat; this is an act she prefers to play when she’s sure of getting something out of it, and a stead of cattle-farmers out in the middle of nowhere don’t have much for her to connive for. But she has to stick to the play she’s chosen.

The woman’s fingers are callused on the tips. She wrings them, rough as wet wool, and frets, “It’s really not safe. You should stay the night, get some food into you and some sleep, and we can have someone travel with you in the morning.”

“I can’t,” says whoever Arabella is pretending to be, all frowning and softly regretful. “I’m sorry.”

It’s so astonishingly easy to say the words when she doesn’t mean them.

The woman deflates. “If you’re sure,” she says. “It’s your choice, of course – but I can’t have it on my conscience, if someone I promised shelter came to harm.”

How stiflingly sweet. “I won’t,” Arabella promises.

It’s a positive cacophony behind the door, now; rather nice that all these seemingly very loud folk were keeping quiet on her account.

The woman claps her hands together. “Well,” she says, bright again, “if you will go marching off into the snow again you must at least eat first. Can’t go venturing on an empty stomach.”

It would be sweet, how responsible this complete stranger feels for her wellbeing, how determined she evidently is to stuff her with food and keep her as safe as one might expect to be in the middle of nowhere in the dark, if it weren’t so frustrating. Arabella rolls back her shoulders, conscious of the press of the Key against her ribs. “I can’t possibly impose –”

“I insist.”

She really should go.

But. Eating isn’t a terrible idea – last thing she had was Brynjolf’s poorly-butchered horker, his soft city-blitzed hands barely able to slaughter the thing much less carve it up, and that was last night. She’s out of luck trying to hunt until the swelling of her hands goes down and she returns to a more reasonable level of pain. (One would think the mythical artifact sewn into her dress would be able to help with this; apparently not.)

Arabella isn’t a fool. She fully expects Karliah, at least, to try to track her down without delay – and Karliah is good. She’s seen it. Until she’s put a little more space between them, she can’t afford to let her guard down. But Arabella is good at what she does, too – she’s been on the run near as long as Karliah has, and she had more than a bleeding-out Guild and a backstabbing coward on her tail for a good bit of it. The only tracks she left them were her boot-prints marching unfaltering into the river, and the first place they think to look won’t be the longhouse of some backwater acreage.

“I only eat meat,” Arabella says.

The woman scarcely blinks. “We’ve plenty of that to hand,” she says, gestures to somewhere in the smoke-tinged hall behind her. “Nanna’s just made a new batch of tallow, so there’s fresh beef scratchings.”

(There’s one more advantage Arabella has, if Karliah does manage to sniff her out: Karliah is a better person than she is. She’s in no state to fight after half searing her hands off on Mercer’s fickle hide, but if worst comes to worst she can torch the wooden walls and slip away in the aftermath.)

Arabella smiles. “I do like scratchings,” she says, and lets the woman take her to feast.

It’s actually not bad, as these things go.

Soon as she steps out of the room, pack slung over one shoulder, a gaggle of people she is reasonably certain weren’t even in when she arrived greet her extremely loudly. The room had seemed so enormous scarcely an hour ago – long and narrow and taking up most of the building, a proper storybook Skyrim house – but now it feels small, so filled with people and noise that Arabella can scarcely cross the floor. The hearth-fire eats merrily away at its wood logs, casting everything in orange light. Cooking smoke clings to the cluttered rafters. The long table is laden with food, most of the strangers standing or sitting around it, one bright-haired child sitting on top of it with their legs swinging off the side. Someone has a horribly tuned catgut lute that they’re plucking at ineptly at various intervals. It’s all very sudden; Arabella feels gloriously dizzy.

The woman who persuaded her to stay – who fussed over her when she arrived an hour ago – drags her around, ever-helpful, to introduce her to every bright and blurring face in the jumble. Arabella learns all of their names, greets them with painstakingly exaggerated politeness (if she’s locked herself into playing this way then she’s going to at least have what fun she can with it), immediately forgets who they are. It’s all an anarchy of siblings and cousins and the child of someone’s good friend and oh, it’s a funny story actually, he came here just like you one day, great slab of ice in his gut and the wraiths following him, we had to light a bonfire in the fields to get rid of them before they got at the cows – and so on, and so forth. There’s no real difference between any of these things that matters; Arabella chatters with them all, smiling closed-lipped so none of them would be put off by the teeth, lets them drag her onto the bench next to a small child who stares with great fascination at the jangle of her earrings and tries to touch the bars jabbed through the cartilage. She’s seen children, of course, in the last few years – even talked to them, on occasion – but this one is so very small. She stares back at it until it gets bored enough to look away.

The food is fine. A bit boring, but then it’s improvised – they hadn’t expected a guest – and, of course, it’s Skyrim, so all the good cuts of meat are drenched in herbs. There’s even beer in the delicious-smelling stew. But there are scratchings, as promised, and boiled eggs, and something lean and tender cooked in ghee; the old woman she’d met, pupils almost as pale as her hair, glares ferociously at a platter of liver when she hears that Arabella won’t eat it when it’s cooked with leek and says something about sour milk that she can’t quite catch over the noise. The noise never quiets, everyone shouting over one another to be heard; she quite likes it. She listens to whatever she can pick out as she peels her egg with her fingernails, demurely covers her mouth as she eats.

The kid keeps trying to grab her hair, now. One man across from her tells her that he used to go out venturing, back in the day, and attempts to give her a great deal of advice. It’s entirely well-meaning, so she nods and smiles with just the edge of her teeth and does not, under any circumstances, spit at him. (She’s acting inexperienced, she knows. Even so, it grates.) She refuses all the wine she’s offered – fruit and honey both – but it keeps getting offered by new people, red-cheeked and grinning. She learns about the ins and outs of cattle herding, and the story behind that pale young man’s nickname, and that they don’t normally have so much food to hand but there are a few neighbours visiting at the moment, isn’t that lucky? She’s getting a free meal out of it, and everyone is so delightfully clamorous, so she keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps eating until her plate is clean and the child is now, inexplicably, asleep.

There’s no signs of the company winding down, so she says very quietly to her woman (who is engaged in a spirited debate over the best way to figure out which chicken of a coop has developed at taste for egg) that it’s time for her to go, and then she has another five of them trying once again to persuade her to stay – just until morning, it’s not safe.

It’s a rather dull thing to dodge through, the second time.

Half of them walk her to the door. It’s very kind of them. It’s all very kind. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders and bids her goodbyes individually to each of these people she’s met within the hour and won’t remember by tomorrow. They all wish her well. It’s very sweet.

When she finally ducks out into the dark she’s struck by the silence. The needles of the trees are rimed with frost, the house roof covered in snow; it’s a shock to the system, all of it cold and clean. Arabella feels, standing at the end of the shovelled-clear path at the beginning of a copse of trees, like the world has stopped moving.

Fields and forests before her. Beyond that – forests, the proper ones. The stars glitter above her in their high-north formations; Arabella presses the heel of her hand to the metal at her ribs, feels the shape of it cold against her skin. She can’t wait to forget these constellations.

She’s going home.

[cheesecakemermaid1048]

the concept cookie's translated description(With edits from me in attempt to make sense of them because google sucks)(part 2)

Nymphaea Cookie

Cookie Quote:What history can we discover today?

Archaeologist Excavation + Egyptian Training

This cookie, which had lost its vibrant green flowers, was miraculously created by mixing water lily petals from an oasis with soft cheese dough from the desert. seen from above. It is said that thanks to the mysterious power of the blue water lily, a tiny oasis is created where Nymphia Cookie dug the ground….

they might somehow be related to the god of healing, which is popular among cheese ball birds.

A bag that has become dry and crispy after a long trip to the desert.

Blue water lilies represent regenerative healing.

coin choco cookie

Archaeologist's Sponsor Coin Choco

If Chi is the flashy, pure rich(?) type, this is the old miserable type. He is a friend of a cookie made for an assignment a long time ago. Maybe he can become the archaeologist's sponsor for the troublesome season?

(Artist note?)I remembered what you said and brought it as an NPC.

The coin bug disguises itself as a coin sticks to the ground and bites when a hand approaches

(beetles)Golden Chocolate Scarab Mulberry…

Creme brulee cookie

Cookie Quote:"I'll dig into it all!"

Creme Brûlée/Spoon/Archaeologist

Overly motivated

Creme: What do you think you'll find if you dig further?

Cookie from the top: Come back!!!

Childhood…

Creme:Ever since I was young, I have been interested in relics of the past (like the Ivory Dragon's palace).

Creme,nerding out:Oh~ The story of the other world’s Noble Phantasm that has been passed down from the Kingdom of Gold Cheese. The poetry is a phrase. (description)Me (later rapid-fire explanation)

(third image) Creme:I am farsighted, so I only wear glasses when reading books.

Lemon Kadayif Cookie

(sketch with them & camembert)" I found a suspicious fox cookie that was persistently chasing me."

(Reference image)It is made by baking Taipei(?) dough wrapped in cloves and cinnamon until crisp and topped with sweet lemon syrup. Sprinkle chopped walnuts or pistachios on the hot kataipi, pour in lemon syrup, and roll it up.

(sketch with a bird on their head)Sometimes cheeseball birds mistook it for a back and sat on their heads. I tend to dislike people who aren't my best friends.

(their hair down sketch)The ends of the hair become long and stranded. They say you can cut it down and make a nest for your honey skein friends…

(lemon hair clip sketch(Maybe the secret to the hair is Lemon herself? I don't know what's sealed

(sketch of smaller mummies)It is possible to communicate with honey skein mummies and hawks.

I guess he's a colleague because he follows along well.

(underneath the large image of them) The ends of the uncut hair gradually ripen in the desert heat and turn brown.

Ghost cheese cookie

"I'm not dead, I'm reborn!"

Mac and Cheese/Ghost/Melting Cheese cookie

A macaroni-flavored cookie that was researching the Gold Cheese Kingdom a long time ago falls down a deep, deep vein of cheese. While wandering aimlessly under the mineral vein, she was discovered by Cheese the Mole, who lived there and was transformed into her current form, Ghost Cheese (Mac and Cheese).

Are they being reborn as cheese, turning into a dead body, and existing only in the underworld (metaverse)? Even though she is dead, she seems to have no regrets. Rather, she might be happy to know the secret of the Gold Cheese Kingdom (I'm sure you won't)While researching about eternal life, macaroni-flavored cookie before becoming ghost cheese, discovered the Gold Cheese Kingdom, and discovered the secret to eternal wealth.

They're archaeologist with a passionate personality who doesn't give up.

(Side description on a small version of her)No legs visible

(Underneath the larger version)What if it was a ghost but its entire body was light golden?

(Reference image?)“Wow! / Oh my god, you’re a ghost.”

Coffee Cheese cookie

(Reference image of cheese)Espresso coffee bean powder

The outside, covered with coffee bean powder, has a bitter and rough taste. The cheese inside is creamy and rich in flavor. Once a cookie gets caught up in it, they won't be able to get out. A petty thief who uses their gift of words to lure away cookies and rip them off.

(talking about their paw)palm tattoo

(First image with coffee cheese and Kopi Luwak)The troublesome shoplifting duo of the Kingdom of Golden Cheese

(Second image of Coffee glaring at Burnt cheese)They want to rob the treasure trove, but they fail every time because Basque cheese(Burnt cheese) is on guard. It would be nice to have a cat<->dog gimmick.

Finger food cookie

Cookie who loves beauty and dance in the luxurious city of the Metaverse. She was one of the guardians who guided the souls, but she got caught up in the world of music and now only spends her time playing, eating, and dancing. Cookies that interfere with this guardian's pastimes may see her fearsome side.

(Reference image) Finger Food Concept(party food)

(Hathor reference) goddess of love and beauty reference Hathor (loves dance and music)

(Finger food on stage sketch)Finger food: Until we all die~

(Same sketch)Have a lot of fans

Support type

When she starts playing, cookies are forced to dance for a certain period of time and no other actions are possible.

Kopi Luwak Cookie

Here and there wander around town

When using an attack skill, they raise their hair and tail

How do you find picking out the pockets of Gold Cheese's Village's petty thief cat, Chili Flavored Cookie(Chili pepper Cookie)? Cats leave footprints wherever they pass by.

A lump of grass rolling around in the desert? Like 20 burns(I am not sure what this means…)

Sphinx cookie

Cookie quote:" Can just a cookie solve the riddle of the Sphinx?" Sphinx Cookie, which existed in Cheese Valley for a long time, fell asleep as a stone statue for thousands of years but woke up after the creation of the Gold Cheese Kingdom.

(Concept idea) What if Gold Cheese was the first to solve your riddle?

Somewhere in the deserted Cheddar Cheese Mountain, he is sleeping in a state of parmesan at the top of Gold Cheese Kingdom (it looks like a statue)

(concept image)Parmesan cheese lion tail ver.

(reference images) Parmigiano Reggiano & Sphinx

Sphinx in their stone stage, thinking: Walking on four legs in the morning, two during the day, and three at night…I'm thinking about a riddle

Sphinx Cookie exchanges riddles with Gouda(probably talking about a high priest bird), who is said to be the smartest of the birds.

When it becomes a stone statue, sometimes cheese ball birds come up to rest or peck at it even though it is hard. (Remember it and scold them later)

[lixenn]

Want to crochet...

Maybe a blanket, but I will need to get so much new yarn (my wallet is already crying). Also I don't even use my other crochet blanket that often what am I supposed to do with a second one??

Also I want to finish me mesh fingerless glove thingys but I LOST YARN CHICKEN TT AND THAT YARN WAS A GIFT IDK WHERE MY FRIEND GOT IT FROM AND I CAN'T REMEMBER THE SKEIN DETAILS ANYWAYS SO I'M FUCKED *cries in crochet*

My other friend said that she has the same yarn at home but she's not here at the moment she's at her uni place so that's a dead end too.

I have other types of black yarn but the colours or yarn weight doesn't fucking match and most of my stuff is acrlyic while the gloves are actually cotton. So rip me I guess. And they look so cool too, I didn't even use a pattern for it I just improvised with the honey comb stitch and I was pretty proud of that and I CAN'T FUCKING FINISH IT.