#just a bunch of scottish cursing

[devil-in-hiding]

the thought of hardened convicts struggling to do farm chores tickles me to death

i just thought of Soap being chased by chickens across the land and i am just giggling

[talesof-old]

dearest gentle readers | introduction

pairing(s): marauders (undetermined) x reader

warning(s): eventually 18+, bridgerton au, mentions of marriage, slight cursing?, i’m not british so just pretend i know what i’m talking about, mentions of scandal and incest, not proofread/edited so forgive me

word count: 818

masterlist

Sponsored by Lady Minerva McGonagall and desperate to find a match before you’re truly considered a spinster, you find yourself caught up in the whirlwind that is The Season. Will you be able to find a husband by August? Or is fortune just as fickle as the ton?

Swathes of fabric lined with lace, ruffles, and beads filled the great expanse of the room.

Yellows as pale as cream and blues as deep as midnight thrown over chase and chair. London’s dreary gloom seemed brighter the longer such a vibrant array of colors decorated the space. Lady Minerva McGonagall wasted no expense on the three debutantes she’d chosen to sponsor again this season.

Beside you, Mary eyed the fabrics with rapt attention.

You fingered the expensive satin silk of the dress nearest to you. Simple in silk, but a striking royal purple, it truly was a marvel of craftsmanship.

“I can’t believe how many dresses there are.” Mary’s Scottish accent appeared to be far less pronounced than what you might’ve imagined, but you three were sure to be an odd bunch. Lady McGonagall had sponsored you lot for two years already. A favor welcomed by your not-so-noble families. Or rather, your not-so-wealthy families.

“I’ve decided on new wardrobes for you this season. You will be married by the end of it, if I have any say. Mary’s are by the window and Lily’s are by the bed.”

Minerva’s sharp gaze turned to you. You’d had either the luck or misfortune (which one it was, you weren’t quite sure) to additionally spend the last few years as Minerva’s ward. Her rough edges were thorns you’d grown accustomed to, especially in her times attempting to make you a reputable lady.

“Your’s are by the chest of drawers.”

She’d certainly paid attention to detail. Mary’s dresses consisted almost entirely of her favorites: warm pinks and oranges. Brilliantly cut to showcase her clavicle, each dress appeared as if it would cover her breasts modestly but still draw attention to her long, slender neck. The simplicity of their silhouettes showcased the utterly perfect embroidery that decorated each bodice and skirt.

Lily’s were a myriad of greens, sprinkled with the occasional peach or yellow. Her soft, drapey dresses contrasted beautifully with the sleek lines of Mary’s attire.

Your own clothes appeared to be a quite suitable mixture of the two.

In moody shades of blue and violet, with the odd periwinkle and silver, you were honestly looking forward to donning the impressive garments. Any jewelry you wore would be borrowed from Lady McGonagall’s extensive collection. A collection, you were afraid to say, you’d miss dearly once you wed.

It was Lily that surged forward to examine her pieces, a chorus of thank yous from each of your lips as you did the same. Minerva smiled knowingly. Your dresses last year and the year before were beautiful, yes, but these actually suited you in a way those hadn’t. Three years of sponsoring the same girls had gone from a favour to fondness. She leaned onto her cane as her gaze flicked between you all. Still, she would be lying if she said she wasn’t eager to find you husbands.

“This is beautiful,” Lily breathed. In her hands, an elegant ensemble of a cream colored fabric hung. You grinned. If this was any indication of how this year’s season would go, you were more than ready. Jill, Minerva’s favorite maid, entered the room holding four sheets of familiar pale paper. Your eyes narrowed in delight. Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers were a joy every season. Mary reached for the pamphlet first. She knew better than anyone how gossip could be wielded as a weapon, and her eagerness to uncover the secrets of this year’s marriage mart was palpable. You felt the same.

Dearest Gentle Readers,

How lovely it is to greet you again. Our time away from Society has proven wonderfully refreshing indeed, though I would be quite the liar if I claimed to not miss you. Our extraordinary ton has now returned from our glorious reprieve, and it seems there are a many anxious mamas hoping to prey on the unsuspecting wiles of this Season’s eligible bachelors.

Last year, scandal swept through the ton when none other than Miss Narcissa Black married Duke Lucius Malfoy in secret after a supposedly whirlwind love affair. Hopefully, Mr. Sirius Black is as unbothered as he appears.

Regardless of the nearly disastrous ending to last year’s entertaining exploits, the new batch of debutantes seem sparkling indeed.

There is fierce Lady Charity Burbage, who proves to be a bold wonder amongst a meek crowd. Or perhaps one might find interest in Lady Aurora Sinistra, who I dare say is more brilliant and sharp than ever. Even Lady Pandora Rosier seems dreamier of late.

There is one thing for certain, reader: this season will be one to remember.

Keep your wits about you. Scandal lurks in every corner, as tricky as a hungry fox and more than ready to sink its claws into an unknowing victim. Guard your hearts, gentle ton, for I fear what I will write this season will be quite damning indeed.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

[guppybibi]

Not much of a Romancer..

𖦹 pairing: Necromancer!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x ghost!fem!reader

𖦹 word count: 1543

𖦹 content: Dead Johnny (shockers), most likely inaccurate information, maybe ooc, mild cursing, i feel like this will be a rushed slowburn

𖦹 notes: the definitions are from google lmao, idk how necromancy works but..how do u do dialogue what.

Necromancy, the practice of magic involving communication with the dead by summoning their spirits, a certain act that Simon wasn't familiar with. Yet, at least. He’s been browsing through local libraries whenever he isn't deployed, researching on this topic. It never really piqued his interest to begin with, you know? Well, not until Johnny brought it up once. It stuck with him since.

“Aye whin ah die L.T., mak' sure tae git an ouija boord or learn necromancy sae we kin still talk.” He joked, already tipsy from the amount of alcohol in his system. Simon knew he was kidding, the man was bloody drunk after all. The idea didn't seem..horrible though. Would it really work? Could he still talk with Johnny or the other undead by simply using a haunted board or using witchcraft?

Now that Johnny really was gone, it wouldn't hurt to try it out, right? Simon chose to use the Ouija board first as it looked easier than to learn literal black magic. And did it work? It definitely did! Except he wasn't talking to Johnny’s spirit, instead he was talking to a fucking demon. That could also be the late Sergeant messing with him but he wasn't taking any chances of being possessed by an actual demon, he had enough demons he was fighting internally, he didn't need any more. So he turned to the last option in his book which was learning necromancy, which certainly wasn't easier.

First, he went and browsed the endless world wide web, finding tips and tricks of what you're supposed to do or not do. It was quite useful, being able to learn in the comfort of his own house was convenient. One of the few downsides of researching on the net is the fact that the internet was a cobweb of all sorts of false information, just waiting for the users to fall right into their sticky trap. Simon wasn't one of them though, he wasn't one to trust that easily, especially strangers. So he went to the public library, a place he hasn't been to in years.

It felt like he was out of place to say the least, every heavy step he took made the aged floorboards creak, earning the librarian’s stern glare every time while he nodded his head to silently apologize. So far, the most important thing he learned to keep in mind in necromancy is respect. After all, it was the undead he was disturbing. To never forget to say things like “please” and “thank you” deemed easy enough. Sure he was a cold-hearted man, a lot of people were skeptical if he even had one in him, but he wasn't a disrespectful man. So he kept these things in mind, they were easy enough to do anyway.

So, after months of researching he finally decided to start his very first ritual. He got some chalk, some white candles to repel any negative spirit, he would've chosen to use tea candles but that wasn't the better option. Get it? Because Brits like tea? Well there were a bunch of different methods he could've used, but he chose this so it better work. He was taking this chance, the chance to speak to Johnny again, to properly say goodbye.

At last, it was time. It was the dead of night, Simon decided to perform the ritual in an abandoned building. He managed to accurately set everything up, proving that the months of studying necromancy was worth it. Then, he started the long awaited ritual. It started out smoothly, with him reciting chants and doing whatever was required for him to do. He was anticipating to hear an annoying Scottish accent to come out soon, but instead he heard..a high pitched voice? From what he could tell, it was no doubt a woman. Shit, did he just summon the spirit of an unknown dead woman? Well he had to deal with this, he can only hope it wasn't a hostile spirit. It’s his responsibility now, he can't just shove your soul back into the afterlife.

“I was having a really good rest, ya know..” The spirit starts. “Until a certain someone here decided to ruin it.” She glares at the masked man in front of her, making Simon feel like he was being pierced by sharp needles. “Sorry, that wasn't my intention.” He states the truth, sighing when he realizes his first attempt at speaking to Johnny failed. He should clean up and get going before he pisses you off even more. So he does just that, cleaning up after himself and packing up. “Hey hey, stop right there big guy.” She calls out, disappearing from where she was and reappearing right in front of him.

“You bothered my peaceful slumber, now I’m bothering you!” She announces proudly as if she had just said the best idea for vengeance. Okay, maybe it was because Simon’s ears were already starting to ring from your voice. “Sure, go follow me or whatever.” He said with an indifferent tone, he’s been through the worst things. Things that also caused his ear to ring and rupture, so he could surely handle this. From what he could tell, you seemed like you just wanted to provoke him. That's fine, at least you meant no harm. Physically at least.

And so, you did indeed follow him. No matter the occasion, rainy or sunny, you’d be right there beside him like a pesky shadow. Unless he went to the bathroom, that's where you’d finally cross the line. You still waited for him out the door like a clingy dog though. That was when he was not deployed though, you weren't exactly aware of him being a lieutenant..Sure his room seemed very soldier-like and had remnants of proof all over but he could've been just a military enthusiast or something!

Now here he was, packing all of the essentials as he prepares for deployment while you watch him intently. “Seriously? 3-in-1 shampoo? It's not even scented!” She bitches, concerned about his hygiene routine. “It's efficient and convenient.” He answers dryly, continuing to shove all of the necessities in his bags. “Where are you going anyways? Vacation?” To which he scoffs at, do you really think he's bringing a pistol to a vacation? “Did the afterlife take all of your wits too? I’m getting deployed.”

“..Deployed?” She questions. “I’m in the army.” And with that, her eyes are as wide as saucers. “Excuse me, no wait–excuse you? And you never bothered mentioning it to me once!” Then he cuts you off. “You never bothered to tell me your name. I think we're in pretty similar situations.” Her mouth is instantly zipped, he did have a point. “Oh right..well it isn't too late to get to know each other, big guy.”

“Stop calling me ‘big guy’.” “Then tell me your name. Look, I’ll even start. My name is Y/N, nice to meet you.” She starts, holding out her hand as she expects a handshake from him. Because that's how proper formal introductions start! “Ghost.” He replies blankly, getting a raised eyebrow from you. “That's it?” She sulks. “Just an alias, that's enough.”

‘What a killjoy’ she thinks, why couldn't someone more interesting make her come to life! Like maybe a group of rebellious teens or anyone but like this ‘Ghost’ guy! “Well then ‘Ghost’, let's get to know each other!” She insists. “I won't be talking to you when I’m deployed, don't want the soldiers thinking I’m a madman.” She whines, how much did she sin during her lifetime to deserve such dull torture? Before she could even open her mouth to complain, he spoke up. “If you dislike haunting me then just leave.” “I can't.” She tells, and Simon has never seen you this quiet before.

“I bet I owe you some kind of explanation huh? Looks like you didn't research enough on this necromancing disturbing the dead shit.” He nodded, admitting his mistake. “Whoever awakes the undead is the only one who can put them to rest again, you have to perform another ritual for it. So if I don't stop following you, I could possibly lose you and permanently wander as a ghost forever. I don't want that, none of the undead does.” She explained, the words are hard to get out of her. While the masked man nodded in understanding, that's why she acted like she was glued to him like honey. He thought about it, it did seem pretty shitty. You can only do so much, going around as a ghost doesn't seem like the funnest thing in the world.

“I see. Just..stick by me or whatever.” There's something in him that doesn't wanna get rid of her just yet, maybe it's his conscience? Yeah, that was for sure it. It would feel like he was purposely putting someone back in their grave, the soil being used to bury them a little too familiar to other experiences. The woman blinks a few times, burning straight through his soul as she stares at him before nodding. Looks like he was in no rush to get rid of her, that's nice. She’ll stay by his side the whole time, whether he likes it or not.

[sloanesallow]

a little less sixteen candles

Something I wrote for Sloane's birthday (April 28th, 1875). I didn't anticipate it being so bittersweet, but that's what happens when your MC's birthday coincides with the end-game events.... (art by puri.dew) SWF | 2.6k words [read on Ao3] | [read on wattpad] | [tumblr masterpost]

It's spring—late April, to be exact. Flowers bloom all over the Scottish Highlands, and students take advantage of the warmer weather to spend their afternoons and evenings outdoors. Most travel to Hogsmeade and the surrounding hamlets, some take to the Quidditch pitch, and others lounge in the courtyards to daydream and watch the clouds pass by.

Instead of enjoying the beauty of nature or spending quality time with his friends, Sebastian is holed up in the Undercroft, scribbling notes on a blackboard with the last nub of chalk. On the table nearby, several textbooks and dusty tombs are spread open, their margins littered with more of his scrawl. He dusts his fingers off, smearing white across his pant leg before grabbing a quill to hunch over the latest pilfering from the Restricted Section.

Curses, Curses, and Even More Curses

It is an encyclopedia of sorts, one Sebastian found tucked away in some dark corner of the library's basement, being used to prop up a wobbly cabinet. The book smells like it has been fermenting in the lake and is icy cold to the touch, but the few pages that remain legible offer more information than he's been able to gleam in recent months. Despite having Salazar Slytherin's spellbook, it has taken considerable effort and time to translate, and even then the ancient writings refer to artifacts and magic Sebastian is just barely starting to comprehend.

He is reading a particularly interesting passage about blood sacrifices when he realizes he is no longer alone. Ominis stands on the other side of the table, eyebrows bunched together and lips pursed in an everlasting state of dissatisfaction. When the bloody hell did he sneak in?

"I won't bother with asking what it is you are doing, as I have no interest in arguing with you this evening."

"Lucky me," Sebastian quips back. Their friendship has been strained ever since Anne's curse, the relationship gradually turning into something far more toxic. But the fear of losing one of his best and only friends is overshadowed by the deep dread that consumes Sebastian every day—he will not let Anne die.

He attempts to refocus his attention to the yellowed pages of the old tome. "It must be a special occasion, if you're letting me off so easily."

"Now that you mention it," Ominis replies, sardonically.

When he doesn't elaborate, Sebastian glances up and finds himself curious for a new reason. His friend is dressed up, or rather, dressed down, in a neat but casual ensemble that is so uncharacteristic it might as well be a prank. Since when did Ominis walk around in anything less than his school uniform?

"Today is a special occasion," Ominis finally clarifies, though his tone makes it obvious he is teasing Sebastian for the gap in knowledge.

"Uh..."

What day is it? He wonders, furrowing his brow in thought. Tuesday? What important event occurs on a Tuesday other than...potions? No, he attended class that morning, even if he cannot recall the details of Professor Sharp's lecture. Crossed Wands? That isn't until Friday. All Sebastian really remembers from the last twelve hours is bartering with the kitchen-elves for leftovers after missing dinner, again. That, and being shooed away from the library by Madam Scribner, again.

The prolonged silence causes Ominis to scoff, more irritated than before. "Seriously, Sebastian?" he snaps, shaking his head. "Do you really not remember? Ugh, why am I even surprised? I only came down here to confirm for myself that you truly are lost."

"I am not—"

"Shut up," Ominis cuts him off with a pointed look that is a tad more menacing than usual. "After all she did to remind us—you—" he sighs, temper simmering. "Siobhan did well to hide her disappointment, but even I could tell by the sound of her voice she was upset by your absence."

"Sloane?" Sebastian blinks several times as the realization dawns on him. Tuesday. The twenty-eighth day of April.

Today is Sloane's birthday.

He drops the book and threads his hands through his hair in exasperation, cursing under his breath, "shit."

"It is remarkable, really, the patience that girl has," Ominis remarks, ignoring the way Sebastian starts to frantically pace. "More than I posses, at least. I do not know the details, nor do I wish to, but it is a small miracle she considers you a friend, for all you have put her through."

Sebastian pauses to glare at his friend, almost daring him to repeat the snide comment. What the hell does he know? But, for what seems like the millionth time in five years, Ominis is right. In his pursuit for a cure, he is slowly alienating the people he cares about. Sloane is a recent addition to his inner circle, though sometimes it feels as if she's been there all along. His feelings for the Hufflepuff are...complicated, to put it mildly. Sebastian knows he likes her, perhaps more than he's ever liked a member of the opposite sex. However, inexperience and denial leave him unwilling to call it love.

He lets out a pitiful groan, palms pressed hard against his eyes.

"I can't believe I forgot!" The memory of Sloane inviting them to a small celebration in Hogsmeade crashes into view, adding to his shame. He's been so wrapped up in research and schoolwork that it slipped his mind. "Merlin's beard—I'm an arse!"

"Yes," Ominis flatly agrees, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Good thing wallowing in self-pity solves everything."

Sebastian frowns, his gut twisting with regret, frustrated by his own preoccupation. The spread of journals and scribbled notes seem to taunt him, his head and heart torn between obligation and desire. He returns to pacing, murmuring incoherently as his brain tries to prioritize what the first step should be. Bathe? No time. He unceremoniously sniffs under his arm and winces—a cleaning charm will have to suffice.

"Is she still in Hogsmeade?" he asks, allowing some hope to flourish when Ominis nods. "Do you think...she'll forgive me?"

"She shouldn't," Ominis says, sighing again. He shakes his head, almost as if he is humored by Sebastian's enthusiasm. "But she will."

Sebastian allows himself thirty minutes to get to the Three Broomsticks. It's still early, but Sloane and her friends have already been celebrating in Hogsmeade for most of the afternoon. Better late than never, right? After fixing his appearance as best he can in the nearest washroom, he rushes to the kitchens and haggles with the kitchen-elves for the second time that day, this time for pastries so he doesn't show up completely empty handed. He will need to procure a proper gift when his mind isn't so rattled.

By the time Sebastian exits the great hall, the sun is just setting beyond the horizon. It's warm, and as he speed-walks across the viaduct courtyard, sweat forms on his brow and neck and elsewhere he does not want to think about. Knowing his luck, he'll be a perspiring, smelly mess by the time he makes it to Hogsmeade. How attractive, he mumbles to himself, checking over his clothing again to make sure he's properly buttoned and tucked and—

"Sebastian?"

He freezes mid-step, snapping his gaze up to find Sloane and two of her Hufflepuff roommates—Poppy Sweeting and Lenora Everleigh—standing at the top of the stone steps. Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, but his short-circuiting brain won't allow a coherent sentence to form.

Eventually, he squeaks, "me."

Poppy and Lenora giggle while Sloane's lips curl into a sympathetic smile. All Sebastian can focus on is the pale pink of her dress and the way the curve of her neck and collarbone are exposed, making it that much more difficult to speak. Her cropped hair has a slight curl to the ends, and...is that rouge on her cheeks? He's never seen her look so...

"Wow," he breathes, perfectly aware of how lopsided his grin must look. Sebastian straightens up a little, clutching the small, wrapped box of baked goods in his hands. He lets out a shaky laugh. "I was...just coming to find you, actually."

"You were?" Sloane's eyes widen in surprise—is his presence that startling? He tries not to frown at the gut-wrenching realization that she didn't expect him to show up at all. When her friends don't budge to give them any privacy, he reaches up to tug at the knot of his tie, the suffocating feeling lingering as they stare down at him. Sebastian feels like he might faint, or retch, or both.

"Sloane, I—"

"Oh, this'll be rich," Lenora mutters, rolling her eyes. The dark-haired Hufflepuff is consistently disapproving of his relationship with Sloane, though he can't imagine why. Or maybe he can.

Poppy hushes her and the three return to holding similar, expectant expressions. Sebastian clears his throat.

"I—I'm an absolute git for forgetting your birthday," he starts, hoping he sounds as earnest as he feels. Multiple excuses tickle the tip of his tongue but he knows better in that moment than to offer any. This is his fault, his burden to bear. "I'm so sorry, sorrier than you can imagine."

"That's what he said last time, isn't it?" Lenora mumbles.

If Sebastian isn't trying so desperately to look forlorn, he would glare at her. Now's not the time for a reminder of how he's unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally hurt Sloane. For all the mistakes he's made, she has forgiven him time and time again, and everyone in their circle has noticed. Regardless of how much he wants it, maybe he is undeserving of her grace. Maybe the best gift he can give is to cut himself out of her life for good—one less burden for her to worry about in an already chaotic first—fifth—year.

His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach and his hopeful smile falls into a dejected pout. Before Sebastian can fully spiral into another pity-party of one, he flicks his gaze back to Sloane and decides that surrender simply isn't in his nature.

"Can we talk?" he softly asks. He'll beg if he has to, even at the risk of making an even bigger arse of himself in front of Sloane and her friends. "Please?"

Even though Lenora and Poppy are hesitant to let Sloane go, she waves away their worried whispers and nods. "Okay."

While her friends reluctantly head back towards the castle, Sebastian and Sloane find their way to the boathouse, the long walk accented by their echoing footsteps and sideways glances. More than once he thinks about reaching out to hold her hand but refrains, not wanting to further muddle their already shaky friendship. Sloane surprises him when they reach the pier, balancing herself against the wall so she can discard her heeled loafers and stockings. She perches herself on the dock's edge, bare feet just barely grazing the dark lake waters. Sebastian follows suit, tugging off his boots and socks before sitting down next to her, making sure there's a comfortable distance between them.

Before he can find the courage, Sloane breaks the more than awkward silence, "what do you want to talk about?"

It's an innocent enough question, one that puts control of the conversation in his hands. Sebastian could easily take the cowardly route and skip past an apology, force some laughter and pretend nothing is wrong. Instead, he digs deep and swallows his pride.

"I really am sorry, Sloane," he starts, finding it nearly impossible to look at her directly when it feels like his heart might burst out from his chest. All the regret he's been carrying rises to the surface. "I've had so many chances to make things right between us and I've mucked them up over and over again that I honestly can't fathom why you give me any of your time at all."

"You are..." he trails off in hesitation, remembering that a little bit of vulnerability can go a long way. "You are one of the better aspects of my life. One of the kindest, if not the kindest person I know. And...while we haven't been friends for very long, I'm bloody well terrified of losing you over my own stupidity."

Sloane flashes him a curious look. "Losing me?"

"You know what I mean," he quickly replies, even if he is still figuring it out himself. Or maybe he is too scared to admit the truth. The last thing he wants to do is push his luck when it has already run dry. They are friends—it is selfish to hope for more. The uncomfortable tightness in his throat returns. "Am I...too late?"

For a moment that feels like eternity to a fragile boy like him, Sloane doesn't respond, her gaze focused on the water and the reflection of the moon. Her pensive expression is impossible to read, but he takes it as a good sign that she hasn't run off or shoved him into the lake for the squid to drown. She sighs and slowly turns her head to look at him again.

"You're here now is what matters," she says, lips twitching up into the faintest smile. Sebastian should feel relieved, but the guilt lingers. Perhaps in an effort to change the subject, Sloane gestures to the small box, partially crumpled by his anxious fidgeting. "Is that...?"

"Oh! Right," he hesitantly hands it over, watching as Sloane lifts the lid to reveal several squished lemon tarts. He rubs the back of his neck as he lets out a self-deprecating laugh in an attempt to save face. "They're meant to look like that. It's an after-hours kitchen specialty, I'm told."

Sloane's smile widens slightly as she plucks one from the box, generously handing it to him before taking one for herself. Emboldened, Sebastian quickly conjures a small candle to press into her share and carefully ignites the wick.

"I already made a wish," she explains.

Sebastian isn't discouraged. "Well, now you can make a second one. Happy birthday, Sloane."

He continues to watch her as she momentarily ponders, the flickering flame reflected in her eyes before she softly extinguishes it with a soft breath.

"What did you wish for?"

"The first or second time?" Sloane responds, somewhat cheekily.

Sebastian doesn't push her to offer a real answer and instead allows for a comfortable silence to settle between them as they nibble at the lemony treats. The lake water gently splashes at their hanging feet and for the first time in recent memory, he feels calm. It might be temporary, but he allows himself to sink into the feeling, smiling as Sloane offers him a second tart.

"Sebastian?"

"Hmm?"

He turns his head just in time, barely registering what is happening as Sloane moves closer with her head tilted just so. Her lips meet his and Sebastian is stunned, taking several rapid heartbeats to react, fluttering his eyes shut as he leans into the kiss. If he knew that her lips would be this soft and warm, he would've kissed her ages ago. As greedy as he is to taste more, he allows the kiss to remain chaste, inching his hand across the short distance to cover hers.

Sloane eventually pulls away and when he peeks open his eyes she is smiling, cheeks dusted with a blush he yearns to brighten. Sebastian is still too flabbergasted to utter a response, nervously laughing when she reaches up to brush away a crumb from his cheek. He catches her hand before she can pull away, squeezing her fingers in his own. The momentary calm of his heart explodes into a burning inferno he struggles to contain. This time, he is sure he knows the answer, but still asks.

"Your wish?"

"It already came true."

[greenerteacups]

Well on the GOT theme now that we're here... you've written before about how the Black family fascinates you. Are there families or houses in the GOT universe that pique your interest and curiosity in that way? What are your head canons about them?

NOW THAT WE'RE HERE... such a tasty question. The for real answer is that I am Starkpilled forever. Ned Stark worst politician of all time they could never make me hate you. Rob Stark you hot dumb bonnie prince charlie clone they could never make me hate you. Catelyn Stark you gorgeous vengeful bitch they could NEVER make me hate you. Jon Arya Sansa Bran and their feral kindergartener baby brother. Theon Greyjoy somehow serving levels of stepbrother never seen before in a family with a literal bastard stepbrother in it. A boring Stark? Never heard of one. All of them are insane deranged crazy intense weirdos who believe that They are the only Normal One in this crazy-ass family. And they all are kind of right but mostly wrong! The Targaryens are the sexy dragonrider house with a million cool names and dynastic squabbles and that would usually be my jam but. BUT. God damn do I love fucking weirdos. God damn do I love some brunette bitches in fur capes.

The more serious answer is that I think the Starks are one of the best families because not only are all of their characters individually developed and rich, but their family as such also has a really clear identity, which in turn informs how each of the members sees themselves. The Starks are often hinted to have a similar magic/spiritual connection to the earth that the Targaryens do, but because it's not as flashy, they aren't recognized as such by anyone. The children's pseudo-psychic bonds with their direwolves are the first kind of creature "magic" that we see in the story, long before Daenerys's dragons or any dragons are introduced, and I think the parallel is intentional. They're one of the oldest dynasties in Westeros. They're far older than any of the Valyrian houses; they've held Winterfell for so long that living memory doesn't even account for the full history of the castle. They built the Wall! They're a family of greenseers and wargs, children with mystical powers of sight and perception! And they're tied into the history of the land. They're mystical and ancient and old and powerful, and their stories all take the shape of myths. Which is such a fucking cool idea for a curse, right? Because like, what if your family curse was that you were destined to be the heroes of the story, every time? No matter what it cost you, what it did to you, what it asked of you? When the world calls, it's you, Stark, against the slings and arrows of fate. And it bequeaths to you the magic gifts that you need to perform that duty, because it is your possession of those gifts that make you the only ones who can. What kind of a tragedy would that be?

The serious and non-textual answer is that the North is to some extent modeled off the Highland clans — that is, a bunch of really proud, distinguished houses that all predate the unification of empire and maintain their distinct identities subsequent to that unification, and live in an ice-cold highland climate with mountains and rivers and lots of mythology and folklore about magical creatures and ghosts that is basically like the highlands and like okay the North is Scotland, okay, if you've never been to Scotland you just need to trust me on this but it's Scotland, it's fantasy Scotland. Which rules. Because Scotland is fucking awesome, firstly. And secondly, I love that Scottish house is the one house that keeps its shit together and hangs on for hundreds of years while all the bitches down south try to kill each other every 50. I love that the North is its own place, and it's still a little wild and mystical and it scares off everyone who's not from it, but the Stark children all know it and love it and so to them that wilderness feels like coming home. That's my pitch for House Stark.

[blingblong55]

Earned it- Johnny "Soap" Mactavish NSFW

Based on a request:

Hi, I just saw your request is open.. I hope you’re not fed up with smut requests 🥺 . Lately I’ve been craving some Soap x Reader, I just want to give sloppy toppy 3000 to his johnny jr and some good dirty hard-fcking, hair pulled from the back, neck choked from Soap.His voice/accent fr..fr 🥺☺️ I’m sucker for scottish, hot manThat’s all, that’s my request . Its okay if you don’t feel like doing it! 🫶🏻 tysm !!

GN!Reader, smut, 18+, MDNI,

A/N: will be short but good :)

----------

Lately, you and Soap have been having some stress relief ideas that you had put into work. If you were stressed because of some mission, he'd be in your room, helping you relieve your stress and focus your energy on some more, promising times.

This time around, he was the one in need of some relief. One, he has a long mission coming up, two, you have been flooding his fantasies lately, wanting that pretty mouth of yours to please his every need.

"C'mere love, I need you." he texted you after his meeting with the team.

"Omw," you replied, knowing exactly what he needed.

Once you reached his room, he was sitting there, already stroking his needy cock. His moans already pleading for you. "Oh Soap, looking at the mess you've started." a smirk on you, knowing you'd comply with his needs. "Just get over here or I'll finish myself" his voice raspy.

You obey, walking to him. He sits up on the edge of his bed, pre-cum already leaking down his hard self. You get on your knees, mouth wide open and spit on his cock, your hand stroking it. Doe eyes looked at him, a devilish smile on him. "Just put that pretty mouth to work," he was becoming more desperate, wanting to leave his sticky mess in your mouth already.

You spit on his cock, your tongue licking his sticky tip. Moans leaving his mouth, cursing you and him, praises thrown in the bunch. You eventually started to insert his cock in your mouth. The way you had gotten so used to his size and length made him smirk, he had shaped you into his perfect little toy. "Just like that." he grabbed you by the hair, pushing you down.

Wet, sloppy noises coming from you. You at times would gag on his cock, which only made him even more prouder. What you couldn't fit in your mouth, you'd stroke with your hand.

Pumping into your throat which you'd knew would be sore by the next day. He slid deeper into you, making him moan louder. The faster he'd let you go on his cock, the closer he got to cumming in your mouth.

"Fuck!... Yes...ah...mm" he moaned, whimpered and whispered, feeling even more sensitive.

He pushed your head deeper, his hot sticky load filling your mouth. Once he pulled you back, he made you look at him, hand on your neck, choking you. Something which he knew you'd like after he treated you as his toy.

He made you open your mouth, his load leaking from your mouth, "swallow the rest," he closed your mouth, forcing you to swallow all you had left.

"Good boy/girl." he kissed your lips, letting himself taste some of his own mess through you.

A/N: short...but needed, hope this fed you, ya nasties;)

[freddie-77-ao3]

sup yall we're vibing here

anyway. hey, my name's freddie, and i'm finally trying to write an actual intro/master post which... we'll see how this goes.

important stuff is highlighted in orange.

so, basic stuff:

as I said, my name's freddie. he/him pronouns. i'm a college student (majoring in accounting, might add a psych minor). not gonna say which college but i'm currently in california.

i've been on tumblr since 2019 i think? not under this account, this started as a fandom account and then spiralled out of control... really fast. um, my regular tumblr which i've not actually opened in ages is @chronicchthonic14 so. yeah.

not particularly relevant to this blog, but i might mention it at some point so, i have autism and adhd. and some other things but. like. that list is very long and those are the two most relevant because i promise if i come off wrong/mean, i didn't mean to, i just forget to make my words normal. but. those are the two most referenced. if for whatever reason someone wants to know more or has questions you can send an ask ig?

i'm scottish, born there. moved to US when I was four. finishing uni and moving back.

some quick warnings

this blog definitely contains cursing/vulgar language, whatever you want to call it, so if you're not comfortable with that, probably not the blog for you, as i don't tag cursing or anything for you to filter out.

if, for whatever reason, if i ever reblog something that contains a slur (against racial minorities, queer people, anything) i will ABSOLUTELY tag that though.

also if anyone has any trigger warnings they think any content needs, please let me know-- asks, dms, comments, reblogs

the cursing thing also applies for sort of dirty jokes? think that only applies to like. two posts and very not explicit. those aren't currently tagged but if they get any more explicit they certainly will be.

queer identity because the explicit reminded me, i'm asexual, and probably straight. maybe bi? dunno, don't particularly care. and i'm trans. ftm. this isn't the blog i talk about that on usually though, unless it relates to a specific ask or a fandom thing.

which, getting into what this blog is for because i can't think of anything else i need to add here (guys let me know if i forgot important stuff, please, i'm an idiot!!! i will forget the important stuff and write random shit instead!! i've already deleted three tangents from this!!)

sooooo

fandoms!! ones i write and/or post about or will potentially post about

percy jackson extending to hoo, toa, tkc (definitely post way less about this), mcga (again, way less). haven't read TSATS or COTG yet, but spoilers are fine. i post way more about minor characters. write fanfiction for and have some posted (both on here and ao3) and a bunch of snippets.

dcu-- films, comics, animated shows, all of it. personally, my favorites are young justice (the comics, not show version), new teen titans, and batman inc (batgirls, nightwing, and red robin esp). late 90s yj run is my favorite, and i loved the DCeased event. favorite batman comic is definitely court of owls run. no fanfics posted, but some on docs.

mcu-- way less so, but have a stucky oneshot. slowly making my way through in timeline order.

throne of glass. i'm an aedion and chaol apologizer because they do a bunch of dumb shit but then WHO DOESN'T in this series. fanfics in doc, not posted.

this would go on for ages if i listed everything so instead, here's an ask i answered on my fandoms/genres and everything. feel free to send me asks about anyone. if you send me something about radium girls i may cry though (tears of joy) so there's your advanced warning.

main things you'll see on my blog are incorrect quotes, snippets, and the occasional fic

this^^

my... idk, contact policy? seriously what do i word this

asks are always open, anon is on.

if you send hate... whatever. i'll probably delete it.

unless i find it funny. then I'll post it. there's really little you could say to me that would hurt.

when i say asks are always open, you can drop anything you want.

literally anything

you need to vent? want advice? want to request headcanons? request a fic? give me a prompt? ask random things about me? something else I've forgotten? go right ahead

if you want to ask me to update my fics? go right ahead. sometimes i forget i didn't post something.

send as many asks as you want, i don't care if it might be spam

i can't promise i'll respond to asks in a timely manner, sometimes i open my inbox and forget they exist for months, i'm sorry. if it's something you really want answered you can send another one

dm's are alright? if you want to be friends or something, go right ahead.

anyone can reblog any of my posts/comment/heart, i don't care. you want to heart 50 things in a row? i adore you. if i had kids, you would get my firstborn

if we're mutuals you can ask for my insta/give me yours.

now, other accounts:

anyway, i think that's it?

[imbeingchokeholded]

Missing Suds

Haha, I'm back to write more Soap and reader because I'm desperate and I love him lmao

Anyway, continuing on!

Warnings!: Female reader, fluff, smut, cursing, Soap being Soap, and again, warning for Bad Scottish cause im stupid. Also like...voice kink?

So sorry if this is bad I'm used to writing for cowboys lmao

You smile to yourself as you turn the water on to your bathtub. It's been a long day, a really long day.

Your body seems to scream at you with every single movement. You've been up since the asscrack of dawn, and you hadn't gotten much sleep the night before.

The tub fills in front of you and you decide "fuck it" and dump some bubble bath solution into the water, right beneath the faucet, watching as the bubbles begin to form as the running water mixes it.

Quietly you strip from your clothes, feeling gross from the days work, you toss them to the ground and then step into the bath, feeling the heat of the water on your ankles.

You settle into the bath, sighing as you submurge yourself into the steaming water as it rises up.

After only a few moments you turn the faucet off and sit in the silence of the bathroom, the sound of the water sloshing when you move is the only thing that keeps you from believing you've gone deaf.

Your eyes close and you lean your head against the back of the tub, letting the heat of the water sink into your muscles, your bones, feeling relief begin to come over you.

When you open your eyes you look at the surrounding bubble suds, you'd seemingly added just a bit much of the solution.

You sigh and pick up a bunch of bubbles with your hands, and look at them bringing them towards your face.

"Aw....Soap."

Your mind thinks to your handsome fiancé, and his stupid military nickname. Soap, known for 'cleaning house'.

The stupid Scottish bastard. First he had to make you fall in love with him, and then he had to go get deployed somewhere, he could die, be shot to death, and all you'd recieve would be a call or a visit from Captain John Price.

You blow the bubbles out your hands and lean back, your mind now occupied with thoughts of Johnny MacTavish, wondering if you'd ever actually get to have your first name lined up in front of MacTavish.

"Stupid idiot...come home already." You mutter the words aloud, not thinking about it as they leave your lips. You know it's not fair to call him an idiot, it's not his fault he has to be deployed, but you can't help it.

"Idiot hmm?"

You look to your right, towards the bathroom door where Soap now stands, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame.

"Tha's not very kind of you lass."

"Johnny!" You nearly get out of the tub to rush to him, but remember you're nude, and instead opt to lean against the tub, reaching your arms towards him. "Johnny! I missed you so much!"

"Sounded like it, calling me an idiot!" He snorts, and walks towards the tub, crouching down in front of you, placing his hand under your chin as he offers you a kiss. "I missed you too bonnie."

"When on earth did you get home? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"Ah, Y/N, don't you believe in surprises?"

"Not when it comes to you." You huff and lean back in the tub, looking up at him as you cross your arms. "Surprises are not allowed when it comes to you."

He snorts quietly and watches you as you look up at him with a mixture of worry and love.

He crouches down once more and grabs your chin again.

"Aw Love, don't look at me like tha'." He smiles at you. "You know I'll always come back home to ya Lass. Dinnaé worry."

"It's hard not to worry Johnny. You could die every time you leave."

"I know, but I can't die. Not with you at home." He smiles, showing off his pearly whites.

You roll your eyes and huff, trying to pull away but his grip on your chin is fairly tight, and he refuses to let you look away.

"Lass, Y/N," he corrects himself. "I'm serious, I do my damndest out there to stay safe for you."

"I know." You mumble, leaning into his palm. "I know, but it doesn't mean that you'll always be able to stay safe."

He sighs and nods, letting go of your chin before he stands and begins to undress himself.

You simply watch in silence as he removes everything, shoes and pants, shirt and dog tags.

You take in the sight of his form, well sculpted, muscled, but not too muscled, a few scars littering his skin from missions in the past, none quite as prominate as the scar across his eye though.

He turns around and faces you, making a motion with his wrist flicking his fingers towards the opposite end if the tub.

"C'mon, scoot Love."

You oblige, and scoot forward as he climbs into the bath behind you, letting out a little groan as his body hits the hot water.

The two of you find a way to settle together in the tub, and you lean your back against his chest, grabbing his hand under the water.

"I missed you Johnny..." you mumble.

"Aye, and I missed you bonnie."

Silently you lift his arm above the water, looking it over gently. You twist it left and right, watching for any new marks.

Soap chuckles at this, it's routine for you, he knows as soon as the two of you step out of the bath you'll look the rest of him over too, checking for new scars, new bruises, cuts. Anything.

"Nothin' new." He hums. "Swear it on my life."

You lower his arm back into the water and lean back once more, not fully convinced of his words.

He's silent as he kisses your neck gently, his lips dragging along your skin slowly, languidly.

"I really did miss you Lass...Y/N I missed you more than I can put in words, always do." He says in a hushed tone.

It sends a tingle down your spine, his voice always gets to you, it's already low as is, quieting it and adding in that accent of his...it always got to you, since the day you met him it got to you.

"Always?" You question. You know you always miss him, and realistically, you know he more than likely does too, but theres a second part of you that wonders if it's true. He's got far more important things to do than miss you.

You sigh and turn your head to look at him, a smile crossing your face at the look in his eyes. He's got love in his eyes, too much for you to dare dispute.

"Always mo ghràdh."

You move and gently place your lips on his, glad when he seems eager to return it.

When you break you find his hand has traveled from your waist, lower, towards your thighs.

He always gets this way the first night he's home from a long mission.

Handsy.

Not ever in a bad way. Never a bad way. For you when he got handsy, you took it as that being the only way he knew how to properly express himself.

He often told you that, told you he wasn't very poetic, good with words and expressing emotions.

So it was through actions that he showed his love.

A kiss on your cheek or forehead, one on your shoulder, on your knuckles.

Or he's spend a night with you, saying things in a hushed voice, mostly that he loved you, while the two of you made love.

Other times, if the mission didn't go particularly well, it was less of a making love and more of a fucking.

Not that you minded.

He brings you back to the present with a kiss against your shoulder, his hand moving ever closer towards your inner thigh.

"Love, this okay?"

"Always Johnny."

He chuckles quietly, offering your shoulder another kiss as he gently brings his fingers to your heat.

His tumb moves slowly around your opening, not daring to jump right in.

You sigh at his touch and twist your head just slightly, kissing the part of his neck you're able to reach, which earns you an appreciative hum in return.

He lowers his voice, leaning his head into yours, keeping his lips near your ear.

"Can't wait to have you properly," he mumbles. "Squirmin' at my touch, beggin' for me..."

"It doesn't take much with you Johnny..."

He smirks, you can feel his mouth begin to upturn against your skin.

"Aye, cause I'm such a charmer?"

"It's mainly your voice..." You admit.

"Mhm....what about it?"

Your face warms and you smile, reaching your arm up and wraping it around the back of his neck, you feel his fingers finally begin to push into you, stretching you nicely.

"It's deep..." You sigh. "I live how deep it is, and when you lower it, its better...and your accent obviously..."

"Really lass....that so?"

You nod, and let out a small sound as he curls his fingers the right way.

"You sure there's nothing else Love?"

His other hand sneaks up on you, grasping your throat gently, pushing your head back to allow him a better angle to kiss beneath your jaw.

"Shut up Johnny."

He laughs, low and nearly taunting.

You respond by simply giving a soft moan of his name.

He's an expert with your body. He knows it better than you, and he knows exactly what to do and when to do it.

Every kiss to your neck or jaw, every movement of his fingers, every low word spoke in your ear, they're deliberate and well timed.

"Aye, mo ghràdh, so damn beautiful, I truly missed you, I did." His voice is a whisper, low against your ear as he picks up the pace of his fingers, listening to the sounds that fall from your lips, paying attention to the way you move your hips, bucking up into his hand.

"C'mon Love," he mumbles. "Cum for me."

With his fingers moving and his words in your ears it doesn't take much longer for you to do just that.

He helps you ride through it, squeezing your neck gently and mumbling "I love you Bonnie" in your ear, waiting until you're finished squirming, laying your head against him with a deep sigh.

He kisses your cheek as he removes his fingers and then brings them to his mouth, licking them clean.

"Tha's been overdue." He sighs himself, and wraps his arms around your waist. "For me an' you I'd say."

You laugh and close your eyes, feeling the warmth of the water around you, enjoying the feeling of his skin against yours.

"I love you John."

"I love you Y/n."

[pyromegalomaniac]

OI YOU

I HAVE AN IDEA

Puppet (or maybe actual) cryptid reader x Wally

I have so many ideas how to turn scary to spoopy

MOTHMAN - Fluffy little fellow that is extremely socially awkward

SIREN HEAD - little rockstar with another mouth on their neck. Horrible eyesight, and probably has a spare speaker everywhere hidden

SKINWALKER - just a silly shapeshifter who steals food and plays silly pranks

LOCHNESS MONSTER - professional mer-person, carry’s around spray bottle to sprits people who curse scales and SMOOOOTH. Skin

BIG FOOT - hiker, and buff as heck, socially anxious but always whispers out a ‘Language’ adnormally tall

EL CHUPACABRA - actually has a pet goat named baby. Fluffy!!

them is just off the top of my head. Their just silly little guys with silly inhuman features

Hey again, 112!! Glad to see you like my stuff enough to come back!! This sure is a lot of ideas!! I don't think I'll be able to quite capture your vision... but I can try!! I'll do my best!! I don't know a bunch about all these cryptids, but I know a crap ton about mothman, funny enough, since I listened to a podcast episode about him. Enjoy!!

(♡˙︶˙♡)

Wally x puppet cryptid!reader Headcanons🍎👻

Mothman-

Burying your face in your neck fluff

Your fluffy little antennas perk up or droop depending on your mood

Seeing Wally always makes them perk up

Wally loves petting your fur

You have really bad luck, accidents always seem to happen around you

That's okay Wally loves you

You give people nightmares when you're in a bad mood, so you try to stay near Wally since he makes you happy

Siren Head-

Generally loud as balls

Bumping into crap since you can barely see

Sometimes you pick up frequencies from radios

Wally loves to sing and dance with you

You're used a lot in Sally's plays for music and sounds

Lochness Monster-

Scottish Accent maybe

Lifeguard at the local pool

"Don't forget to bring a towel!"

(I'm sorry I couldn't help myself-)

Moves really smoothly

Wally likes watching you swim

He will NOT get in though

He doesn't know why you'd wanna get wet

Bigfoot-

Doesn't like pictures

Getting your portrait painted is fine though

Picnicking in the woods w/Wally

Healthy snacks like granola bars and stuff

So tall you can pick the tallest apples off trees

Strong and tall enough you can pick him up so he can pick the high apples too

Chupacabra-

You eat so much

Everyone likes your pet goat Baby

Wally has basically adopted it as his child

You are a very happy family

You will literally steal pies off windowsills

That one friend who always has food in their bag

Not to share necessarily

But you will sit down with Wally and eat a bunch of food

Wowsers, that's a lot!! Hope you liked these, 112!! Thanks for requesting them!! I had fun writing them, and I look forward to doing more in the future!! Much love!!

ヽ(>∀<☆)ノ

[roxannepolice]

Brain at 4pm: Loooook, I knooow you have that one scene you want to write but... I'm just... not in the mood? Thanks for the candles and music and all, but... naah.

Brain at 4am: I won't let you sleep until you write that down :3

- Give that poor hamster a break - the Master's voice was muffled by the pillow.

- Huh? - the Doctor turned towards the other Time Lord in confusion, only partially caused by a sudden halt to his thoughts.

- The hamster. In the rusty squeeky wheel you call a brain. I can't sleep with the noise.

- Right, as if you cared for some hamster - the Doctor quipped and, shoving his hands in his pockets, came closer to the bed.

- Cute, hungry and agressive... I do feel an affinity to them.

The Doctor snorted. And then, if only to keep other thoughts at bay, he asked a question that's been bothering him since the... cheesecake.

- I was just wondering, you know... What have you been up to between getting sucked through the gate and the Mondasian colony? It was a while, judging by the beard and hair...

- Are you saying I look old? - the Master turned towards him lazily. From where he stood the Doctor could see his amber eyes gleaming in the dark. - And anyway, you figured it out, didnt't you? The Time Lords cured my little condition and kicked me out, then I couldn't drive... I have to wonder, were you this polite with her?

- With who? - the Doctor dodged, clumsily.

- Oh, come on. The girl me. Missy - the Master wrinkled his nose. - Couldn't help the feeling you saw her as... distinct from me, the actual me. I got sucked to Gallifrey because I'm so incompetent and then she pops in with empathy that came from nowhere.

There was hurt just detectable under the Master's scorn, but what he said brought up one of those nasty pussy wounds the Doctor figured out he has to face, whether he likes it or not.

- Was hard to be polite with you after what you did to Bill.

- Ah, of course, because if only I wasn't there, you would have swooped in - once you finished your absolutely necessary show of brilliance - and got her out with only a cyber heart that had nothing to do with dragging her to an epic adventure she was absolutely not iffy about.

- Don't make this my fault - the Doctor's whisper was angrier than a shout could ever be.

- Not saying it was your fault - the Master made a show of how unmoved he was - just a consequence of your action. Or inaction. You know, by the time we got to my room you have already started scribbling on a blackboard. I imagine you could have already reached the lift by then.

- Can't imagine why with such an efficient mind you ended up ruining a perfectly functional colony - the Doctor spat back.

- Well, you met them, not exactly the brightest bunch in the universe - the Master shrugged back.

There was a moment of heavy silence in the darkness. The silence of clouds heavy with thunder.

- Why didn't you stay with me? - the Doctor finally broke it, a light rain deadlier than any noise.

- Oh, I don't know, because my experience with considering what happens when I'm dead is that saving someone's ass gets mocked at best?

- That's just petty.

- Never said I wasn't that. You were there when I executed Bill Gates over a Windows update.

- And apparently you heard some words I said.

The Master cursed quietly, angry at his blunder.

- Ok, I listened, as in registered what you said, but you speech was so incoherent I woulnd't say I heard anything. "Without witness, without reward" this, "you're going to die too, how will that be" that - no accent deserved the butchery the Master did to the Doctor's Scottish one. - So which one is it, without witness, or what about after you die? Seems a bit contradictory to demand no witnesses yet worry about after you die... You'll be dead, what's that to you?

- Much to anyone you might have helped.

- Sounds like a witness to me...

- This is strawman sophistry, you know full well what my point was.

- Urgh, professor, I don't believe I noted that down...

- Just... be kind. Don't turn back on other people. Save them if you can.

- As you did Adelaide Brooks?

This silence was more like the soft ringing after your head gets hit by a brick.

- How... what do you know of Adelaide Brooks? - the Doctor asked quietly, his voice choked. He made so sure to keep his thoughts away from the Bowie Rocket launch throughout the party. So sure, even the Master couldn't have...

- No, I haven't peeked in on your hamster. Didn't have to. That rocket's timeline was as clear on your whole being as waves on a radio. Wasn't hard to figure out the rest. So?... - the Master raised himself on the bed in a way reminiscent of a cat spotting a mouse drowning in a bowl of cream.

- I saved her - the Doctor whispered, without looking at the Master, instead hugging his own chest, his head lowered - and two other crew members. Couldn't save everyone, but I could save them. Her. They were... I saved them, too, but I was saving her... And then she... and then she...

- And then she reminded you laws of time aren't just fancy abstractions made up by Rassilon and Omega during an orgy, only constant flow of musts, musn'ts, wills, won'ts, wants and not wants. How about that.

There was another moment of silence, this one wet with unseen tears.

- That's your problem, Doctor. You believe you can see without being responsible. And, consequently, aren't responsible if you don't see. Responsibility can't see you if you can't see it. And when I tell you one must either rule or serve, becuase that's what responsibility is, you dismiss me as a villain in your fairy tale.

This moment of silence was soft and cold as a burrow in snow.

- Still such eloquence - the Doctor finally said. - But if you do know all this... why destroy?

- That's one easy way to really stop being responsible.

- Easier means more boring - the Doctor echoed the Master's earlier words.

- Guess sometimes - the Master started in silence warmer by bodies pressing against each other in the snow - sometimes boring isn't so ubearable. Don't tell anyone I said this.

The Doctor kept looking at the floor, still hugging his chest. That's not your fault, Donna's voice echoed in his mind. You can't save everyone, echoed his not-own.

Then there was rustle of bedsheets. The Doctor glanced at the Master over his shoulder. He pulled away the covers making a place for him in his bed.

- C'm here.

- What? - the Doctor asked with a disbelieving half-smile.

- Oh, come on, you clearly want to sleep, but don't want to sleep alone, and even you have enough dignity to not get between your evil stepmom and favourite niece, and even I have enough taste to not let you kicked puppy face interrupt the birthday girl getting the presents from her husband. So. Come here.

The Doctor snortled, but undressed to his underwear and got into the Master's bed. The other Time Lord promptly turned his back on him. 

- No cuddling, though, you try to cuddle and I'll bite your arms off.

The Doctor snorted. Pity. As Donna called him out, he did like the Master in this body, and now, and even on the colony ship, there was a certain... softness to his form, which looked traitorously welcoming.

- Are you now saying I'm fat? - the Master hissed without turning back.

- No, not really - the Doctor laughed. - Just... I do like the look. And that's just the thing. You look like you lived quite some time between the gate and the black hole. That's why I asked.

The Master sighed.

- Well, not that I really immediately crashed because I couldn't drive, it was some good, veery good years in between, at least on my side of the experience. But no, not as long as it looks. Still back on Gallifrey, after I was stabilized and had the drums taken away... - the Master swallowed and the cuddling prohibition became even harder to obey - I finally had a moment to look at myself and. What the actual fuck, I looked like a 90s grunge band dropout!

- It was kinda cute - the Doctor laughed. - I liked it.

- You're not exactly known for your taste, dear Melanie will back me up on this if nothing else. But anyway, I figured out I can wait for my hair to grow out, or I can make a good use of some 5 minutes worth of Artron energy.

- You spent 5 minutes of your life to deal with a bad hair day? - the Doctor laughed again.

- A good deal to not have to avoid mirrors for a month! And no, the 5 minutes were for the full set with the beard.

- I like the beard, too.

- Couldn't help but notice.

- I always like you.

- Don't get soppy on my bed.

- You're beautiful.

At that the Master didn't find a flippant response in good timing. He chose to pretend he's already asleep instead. The Doctor took advantage to break the firm no culdding rule, slowly got closer against the other Time Lord's back and placed an arm around his waist. When the only retaliation was a an angry snore, he pressed his mouth to the Master's shoulderblade, too.

And if, after a surprisingly good sleep the Doctor woke up with his hand pressed close between the Master's hearts, well. What happens on birthday parties stays at birthday parties.

[midwestbramble]

Birch Folklore

Betula alleghaniensis

Ruled by ♀

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Contents:

Overview

Folklore

Uses in Witchcraft

Safety Notes

Conclusion

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Overview

A fast-growing deciduous hardwood that reaches 65 feet or more at maturity. Grows near lakes and streams and throughout urban landscapes. The bark of yellow birch is a pale yellow-bronze or gold color and is scored horizontally with lenticels (the bits that make it look like it has eyes). The outer layers often peel into thin, papery strips giving the trunk a shaggy appearance. In older trees the bark is gray and can develop ragged strips that curl or loosen along the edges.

The leaves are ovate and serrated, usually around 2 1/2 to 5 inches long. They are arranged alternately on the branches. Flowers (catkins) grow on both male and female trees and form in late winter before the leaves open. Male catkins are pendulous, and female catkins are erect.

The tree has a distinct winter green scent and flavor of tender new branches and leaves. Almond flavor tends to be a cherry tree which also has shiny bark with lenticels.

Also a good host for the chaga mushroom.

Bark and twigs should be taken from smaller saplings or from fallen branches. These should be taken in early spring when sap is flowing and wintergreen flavor is prominent. Use pruning shears or clippers to snip off tender spring growth, leaf buds, and leaves, and then dry. Store in airtight containers to preserve flavor (volatile oils are prone to evaporation).

Tap mature trees and harvest the tips of branches in moderation. Sap should be collected in late winter at the same time as maple. Seek out stands and select trees that are at least 6-8 inces in diameter. Need 20 gallons more sap for birch than maple to make 1 gallon of birch syrup.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Folklore

-Evoking Leshii or Lieschi-

A Russian ritual calls for using birch to summon the Lieschi, a slavic tutelary forest spirit. Peasants would cut down very young birch trees, arranging them in a circle for protection before calling upon the spirit.

-Baba Yaga-

This Slavic witch of legend was said to make her home in a birch forest, surrounded by a fence made of birch posts topped with enchanted human skulls. It was also said she used a birch broom to sweep away her tracks while traveling in her mortar and pestle. In the story of "Vasilisa the Beautiful", Baba Yaga even instructs the birch tree not to harm the young girl, which tries to lash her and put out her eyes. When Vasilisa escaped the birch let her leave since she cared for it while staying with Baba Yaga.

-The Wife of Usher's Well-

In this old Scottish ballad describes three sons who have died returning to their mother in spirit wearing a birch hat. The ballad also describes the gates of Paradise being guarded by birch trees.

-The Lady in White-

A Czech tale tells of a young woman who dances in a birch forest with a lady in white. The lady in white gives the young woman a bunch of yellow birch leaves which turn to gold once she leaves the forest. Incidentally, the young woman had been spinning wool the first two times she danced with the lady in white, and upon the second time the lady had spun the finest thread for her in thanks.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Uses in Witchcraft

Birch is a wonderful spirit to call on for protection. When treated right she will bestow upon you gifts and protect you from those who would harm you. Not to just be used as a shield, birch is a spirit that has no qualms about fighting back and thus may aid in curses aimed at those who have harmed you. But be warned, if treated without respect, she may turn on you.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Safety Notes

No known safety issues.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Conclusion

The birch is a wonderful guardian. Even before learning all the lore, there was a birch tree in a park near a town I used to live in that I worked with as a protector. She didn't put up with disrespect either. So remember to treat your birch tree with care. This isn't even all the lore out there, so much of it is little beliefs about how to work with her. What have your experiences with birch been?

References:

Midwest Foraging by Lisa M. Rose

Midwest Medicinal Plants by Lisa M. Rose

Vasalisa the Beautiful

The Wife of Usher's Well

The Lady in White

Images:

Title image made on Canva, birch photo from Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

An Illustration, 1906

Vasilisa at the Hut of Baba Yaga by Ivan Bilibin

The Wife of Usher's Well (found in the Allen Ginsberg Project)

From "Favorite Fairy Tales Told in Czechoslovakia" illustrated by Trina S. Hyman

[childotkw]

Oh my gosh, i love your AUs SO MUCH!! I was wondering, for the Off the Beaten Path AU, can we have a snippet of Harry being oblivious/distracted and Albus and Gellert silently fighting for Harry?

Thanks darling 🥰🥰

—————————

It was a peaceful day, Harry mused as he lay back in the sun-warmed grass. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth that was burrowing under his skin, and breathed in the scent of the wildflowers that filled the field he was in.

It had been years since he had had the chance to simply…exist. To soak in the world without the suffocating weight of the world on his shoulders. And sure, this misadventure in the past was not ideal - but it was also the first time in his recent memory where he wasn’t being hounded by what seemed like everyone in the world with even the vaguest opinion on his life and what he should or should not be doing.

Instead, all he had to contend with was two young men that would someday grow up to be legends.

Peaceful.

Or at least it had been for a few minutes, because Harry could hear two familiar voices carry over the breeze. One with a subtle Scottish brogue, and another very heavily German.

It had been one of the biggest surprises, actually. That Dumbledore as a young man did not possess the same polished, soft manner of speech Harry had come to know.

Surprising, and somewhat hilarious.

Even now, Harry’s lips were twitching. Listening to Albus and Gellert - because they were Albus and Gellert to him now, rather than Dumbledore and Grindelwald - argue never got old, if only because their clashing accents was endlessly entertaining, and both had the habit of their speech thickening when they got frustrated, which just led to more confusion and misunderstandings.

He sat up, spotting the two men walking towards him briskly. Albus was in front, one arm shoving Gellert away while the other cradled something behind his back protectively. Gellert, seemingly forgetting he was a wizard, was flailing his limbs to try and claim whatever it was.

Harry cocked his head, arms braced on his knees as he waited for them to reach him.

“Harry!” Albus exclaimed, blue eyes shining brighter than the clear sky. He shoved Gellert one last time, hard enough to topple the other, and put in a burst of speed, leaving Gellert behind and skidding to a stop before him.

“Albus,” he returned, amused.

“I made something for you,” Albus said, beaming and ignoring the loud cursing of Gellert as the blond struggled to his feet. “Here.”

Harry blinked at the flower crown presented to him. It was well-made, tightly wound and with an array of bright flowers decorating it.

“Oh, wow, thank you,” he said, reaching out to take the offering, only for Albus to hold it out of reach with a growing grin.

“Allow me,” the redhead teased, leaning down to plop the crown on Harry’s head. Satisfaction blossomed over his face as he stood back up and placed his hands on his hips. “You look stunning, like one of the fae.”

Harry laughed, gently touching the crown and raising his eyebrow at the joke. “Thank you, Albus - it’s beautiful.”

“It’s a bunch of dead plants, hardly something to write home about,” Gellert groused as he finally reached them. His expression twisted oddly when he spotted Harry though - a weird mixture of approval and distaste.

“You come up with something then,” Albus shot back, a smile with teeth on his face.

“I could beat any stupid gift you make easily,” Gellert hissed under his breath, as if that would somehow hide his words from Harry when he was sitting right in front of them.

“Well go on then,” Albus said, waving an obliging hand as if conceding the stage to his friend. “We’re waiting.”

Harry saw this devolving very quickly. Already a red flush was working its way over Gellert’s pale cheeks. He knew denying Gellert’s attempts would led to an argument, so Harry took the path of least resistance. “I would love anything you gave me, Gellert,” he assured, hoping to cut through some of the strange animosity these two seemed to have.

[monsterlovinghours]

hi! I was just wonderin bout where the mafia beejes came from? like how did you (or someone else? idk mang when have I ever paid attention) come up with the idea

Excellent question! I believe back in 2019, there was a Mafia Beetlejuice AU going around, and then @yankyo (I think) received an ask about an Irish Mafia flavored Beetlejuice, and in the discord server that a bunch of us are in, we went feral over the idea of there being different kinds of crime boss Beetlejuices. Thus Gio, Cia, Zhuk, Scarabee, and Bajo were born.

Since then, we've actually made more of these dons, or what we consider to be "don-adjacent." There's Devlin (unknown), a nomad curse-breaker; Lag (Scottish), the estate's grounds keeper and animal handler; Saft (German), an anarchist and weapons dealer; Bjalla (Icelandic), a vampire-coded protégé of Gio and cold-blooded assassin; and Mozzie/Jericho (Australian), a cyberterrorist with DID.

Jesus I hope I didn't forget anyone

[tomatoluvr69]

Longtime followers of this blog may remember unless they respectfully and respectably blocked it out the time that I went into a multi day state where I was beside myself, just absolutely debilitatingly giddy with mirth, by the concept of Amish romance novels and pirated a bunch and read one start to finish (it was bad btw). Well unfortunately at the library yesterday I saw a romance on display called “When A Scot Ties The Knot” which had a shirtless muscular guy in a kilt on the cover and the plot is that there’s this girl and she’s so so shy and so she doesn’t want to do her debutante thing so she makes up an imaginary boyfriend so she doesn’t have to go to parties bc she’s not like other girls. And she writes a bunch of letters to a guy with a fake Scottish name and puts them in the mail but then a hot rich guy with that actual name shows up I guess. And I actually can’t stop thinking about it. And I know if I read it it will be bad and I’ll be wishing I read something else instead. But I guess once every year or two I must become fixated on a bizarre romance novel like the time in 2019 or something when I saw a post online about “The Angel Wore Fangs” which was that one where the vampire Viking angel who was cursed with ‘vangel’ status bc he was “once guilty of the deadly sin of gluttony” and he has to FIGHT ISIS about it…and falls in love with…a pastry chef named Andrea I think? And i specifically remember her being referred to as “the too-tempting mortal” And they time travel and have sex on a plane I think. Anyways I read that one in paperback while on a backpacking trip which was an interesting choice. Ok sorry for always writing incomprehensible paragraphs on this blog. I literally don’t even like romance novels. It’s more that sometimes the plot of one infiltrates my consciousness and the only way to exorcise it is to read it even though I don’t even enjoy it unless it’s ridiculous but usually it’s just boring but I think I feel it coming on again. There is something so wrong with me

[doctorwhoisadhd]

what are your thomas england thoughts? like what do u think thomas was like b4 they died

ok so thomas england is DEFINITELY one of the players who i imagine as part of the Prehistory Fridays Gang. so first he was around for everything in prehistory (along with fletcher berger, sebastian diaz and his partner, erickson hendricks, rhonda elliott, our lady of perpetual friday, fenry marlow and their dog homer, fitzgerald massey, jessi wise, and mrs silk who was then miss silk. and then also baby york and his dad parker, who was dating miss silk. obv not all of these people were necessarily fridays players at the time though maybe they worked behind the scenes). so THAT was a whole thing.

honestly part of the problem of being LITERALLY retconned out of the game is nobody remembers you anymore. thomas england was only around long enough to get joke lore, we were only really just starting to flesh out relationships between the players when he got incinerated, and he didnt get any of that. and what adds to this problem is, well in the fridays style of lore, we dont necessarily think about what a player does outside of blaseball, or at least we DEFINITELY didnt early on (and didnt get ANY new entirely unlored players until relatively late af in the game — so like, after sixpack on s4d86 our next two were fenry and yass statter jr in the s13 and s19 elections respectively). so as a result there isnt any kind of a precedent to fall back on for what i think about what he did?

but here's what i DO know;

i disagree with the wiki on this one: neither of his parents are from the UK (there is no way). i like to think like, at least one of his parents is native, and hes lived there his entire life

his legal name is thomas england + thats whats on all his blaseball stuff, but typically with other islanders he'd use pelekane (which is what some of the last few members of the hawaiian royal family called england in ʻolelo hawaiʻi). so its like, his career name is thomas england

hes transmasc B) also ADHD

he played first base

he loves doctor who, and not just because its from the UK. like, hes seen the TV movie and at least one of the peter cushing movies and most of classic who, listened to a whole bunch of audios, reads the comics and the novels and like every EDA, has a subscription to dwmag, his bar for media quality is on the fucking GROUND so its literally all good he just loves dr who so much. he also probably has a cosplay of literally every doctor (including the shalka doctor and like the curse of fatal death ones too)

despite this he DOES. NOT. know ANYTHING about UK culture. he is constantly having amelia bedelia type misunderstandings of what things are. (ex: beans on toast = toast, peanut butter, jelly beans / "the tube" = "big pneumatic tube like the one for salmon, except people sized" / thinks john lennon's name was actually "john lemon")

he cant tell a single british accent apart he just identifies all of it as "british accent". fitz massey is from australia and is completely unaware that he thinks they are british. it is extremely lucky that he has never met anyone from ireland because they would probably strangle him. (weirdly though: despite him identifying approximately 50% of kiwis as british seemingly completely at random (absolutely no common criteria has been found at all. not looks not age not location nothing), he identifies 100% of scottish accents as "aotearoan")

he plays ʻukulele! maybe he worked at a ʻukulele store for a time at some point, even if it was like a summer job during high school... i like to think he's what got heat into playing :')

obsessed with choose your own adventure stories. he loves them.

(fridays angst train incoming) so york grew up with the whole Prehistory Fridays Gang as his family, and when york was really really little he couldnt say "thomas" (or england or pelekane, for that matter) but would ask him if they could play "docka who" all the time, so eventually what stuck for thomas england was he became york's "uncle who"

[captaincleverusernamehere]

I want to try and start a chain of people’s “Scottish Play” stories (as in times in a theatrical production where someone said the name of it (oh, screw it, I’m not in a theater, “Macbeth”) and legitimately had a cursed production). I am not a superstitious person, but the Scottish Play’s is a curse I will always attempt to avoid after this summer because, oh boy.

Picture this: It was the middle of Tech Week, a bunch of teenagers were milling about during a five minute break, talking about the show and school next year and what have you. The conversation came up about summer assignments, one kid (who will remain anonymous and was definitely not me haha whaaaat) said they started reading Hamlet for fun, but then heard their brother’s class was assigned Macbeth over the summer and decided they would stop and join him in reading that play instead. The name of the play was said three times during that conversation before the kid realized what they’d done. A silence fell over the group. A joking silence, laughed off in a few seconds as everyone else blamed the speaker for any future screw ups in the show. The rest of rehearsal went off without a hitch.

The play was named three times. The first effect came to fruition the next day, on a day the speaker was not called. One of our taller actors could always be seen wearing round sunglasses while on stage. He complained that the lights were too hot and bright, and he luckily managed, because of this, to incorporate the glasses into one of his costumes (and they really worked, tbh). While doing his scene from atop the raised platform that was a part of the set, the brightness of the on-stage lights (not the ones that were in front, but the ones directly above) was no bother to him thanks to his shades, but the heat rather was. He continued with the scene, getting angrier and angrier as directed, until he was, in fact, smoking. His proximity to the stage light, due to his raised position and genetically-granted elevation, had caused his hair to, only briefly, and rather characteristically for his role, begin to smolder. He was fine, but it was rather shocking all around.

It only got worse from there. Much worse. The second event happened on opening night. Fifteen minutes into opening night, to be precise. The first two songs had been sung, and they went great. Our lead was full of energy. The whole cast was full of energy. The first combat scene was coming, and it showcased our coolest costume in the show, a huge rigged skeletal cage, attached to a backpack worn by the actor for the monster, who wielded a huge greataxe. None of this had anything to do with what went wrong. What did happen is that exactly at the correct time in the combat, when the lead gets slammed to the ground by the monster, an unfortunate arm placement during his stage fall caused him to break his arm on stage. Those of us backstage genuinely thought he had just really gone for it, acting-wise, hearing his vocalizations of pain, that is, until they kept going, and then the curtains closed, and then the panic set in. He was driven off to the hospital, we waited thirty minutes for the understudy to arrive, and the show continued, where it left off, opening the curtains on the lead character, now played by the understudy, unconscious on stage. He played for the next two shows, and did a great job. Everyone in the cast wrote letters to our injured cast mate. The speaker of the curse made sure to include in theirs that the cast mate should feel free, should they believe in the superstition, to seek revenge upon them however he saw fit.

The third, you might say, dear reader, could not POSSIBLY have been caused by the curse. In fact, it hardly had any effect on the show at all, other than a few cast members arriving a bit late. To that I say I do not care. I know in my bones that this was sent to teach me a lesson. What was it? Well, a huge storm (the first of many on the east coast), came through. Half of the cast lived about thirty minutes away from the theater, including myself, and carpooled, while everyone else was more local. Yet of course the storm only effected us over in the more easterly county. A tree had fallen alongside my house and ripped the gutter off, though that was pretty much all the damage I or anyone in the cast sustained. It did knock down pretty much every other tree in a several-mile radius, slowed traffic, and was legitimately the worst storm our county had seen in my lifetime, however.

So yknow. I’ll try not to say the name of that play again if I can help it.