#old ladies need enrichment too

[the-wright]

I like the scenes in LOK where Korra meets Toph, but it would have been even better if she mentions that she's been suffering hallucinations brought on by past trauma, and Toph's like "Oh shit, you've got the wrong old swamp witch. Keep walking like a mile that way."

And when Korra does that she runs right into Azula.

[fandomwritingbit]

Okay what about one where there reader is Michael's new (hot) art teacher and William is just "Michael you need to join the art club immediately" or "well I GUESS if the pta needs help with the spring art festival -"

Hello! This has too so long I'm sorry 😶 Uh I hope this is what kind of thing you were looking for, thank you so much for the request.

Side note it took me so long to figure out what pta was lmao

So,

art teacher (gn)reader x william afton (sfw)

"Well, I'm happy to let you know that Michael is doing really well in my class. He's an absolute pleasure to teach." You smile, looking from the father to the son. The resemblance was more than evident, but their attitudes were opposites, Michael sat as he always did, hunched forward, his hands twisted together, he was scarcely able to hold your eyes for more than a few seconds. His father though took up a lot of room in his chair, his posture reeking of easy confidence and he had no difficulty looking at you. It was moments like this that you could learn a lot about a student’s home life and it was abundantly clear that these two weren’t so close.

"But?" Mr Afton prompted, his tone jovial. He was beginning to understand why his son likes art so much. A lovely thing like you leading the class? Who could blame him? He'd expected some old lady wearing well too many scarfs, glasses on a pearled chain around her neck, not someone like you.

"But,” You can’t help but smile, heat rising to your cheeks, “as I'm sure you've learnt from his other teachers tonight, currently Michael might struggle to meet the entry requirements of universities." As you spoke, you had to work hard to keep your thoughts on track, this man was attractive in a way you didn't expect. He smirked when you paused, and you forced your gaze on Mike. "But as I said to Michael before, we've got plenty of options to boost grades."

Michael spoke up, "Need to join a club or something."

Nodding, you turn to explain why to Mr Afton. "Yeah, certain enrichments can be graded. I'm advocating the art club… He'd get the opportunity to make a portfolio, which Unis love, and I have no doubt he'd excel." The man before you looked bemused, his eyes flicking up from your lanyard to your eyes. 

"And, do you run the art club?"

You grin a little embarrassed, "Yeah, I do-"

The dad chuckles and looks to Mike offhandedly, "Then you should absolutely join." To which he rolls his eyes, partly at his father’s blatant flirting and at the lack of enthusiasm at joining your club.

Mike sighs, "Yeah okay, I'll go."

"Smashing. I'll put you on my register." You pull out the document from your lever-arch folder and quickly jot his name down. Whilst doing so, the man opposite you watches your left hand for a ring and on seeing there wasn't one, smirks from ear to ear.

Once done, you quickly put your hands out in an attempt to stop them from leaving, "Uh, before you go. I'm really sorry to ask, but we're holding an art festival next week and I'm struggling to find some help... would you be willing to lend a hand?'' You automatically feel guilty for asking. Doing so in person put a lot more pressure than a general email, but you were hoping to almost force him. Like you’d tried to with every other parent tonight. 

You catch Michael’s expression, you’d asked him the other day if he had anyone that would want to help out and he’d laughed a little, “Uh no, not really.” he’d said.  You do feel like you’ve gone behind his back a bit, but if you can’t get a few more pairs of hands this festival is going to fall on its arse.

He sat back in the chair, his feet poking out at your side of the desk, "A festival? What exactly would you have me doing?" 

You smile, pleasantly surprised that he was obliging you, "Mainly the setup, it's a lot of stuff to move out to the green. Though of course all-day help would be appreciated, I just don't want to push my luck."

"You already are," he smirks, "when is it?"

"Next Friday, the 19th." Your eyes go wide as you wait for his answer, all the other parents you’d asked tonight had told you that they were working on Friday, as people tend to do, and you have a feeling that he was about to say the same.

He hums, “Friday-” but is cut off by Michael, 

“You work Fridays.” he states, a harsh tone on the words, making you think that he really didn’t want his dad to help you out. 

Scoffing, he shoots his son a look, “Yeah I do.” Before turning his attention back to you, “But, I could skive it.” The expression on his face is hard to place, perhaps mischievous, or sly. Regardless, you panic slightly.

“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that, Mr Afton-”  

He puts his hand out to silence you and it works, you bite your tongue instantly, “I know, but I will. It’s not exactly like I help out frequently.” He’d decided already, either because his son was clearly desperate for him not to do so, or because he’d like to spend a bit of time with you. Let's face it, it was both. And so, you were left with little option but to graciously accept, and you thank him. 

As your student and his father leave, he shakes your hand. “Thank you, Mr Afton. You’ve really helped me out.” Both your hands encase his and it doesn’t occur to you that that is unusual until you do it, heat beneath your face. He flashes you a smirk that makes your blood ice, before nodding. 

“It’s fine really. Should be fun.” 

~

Friday was as manic as you had expected. The second you arrived at the college you were behind, the mass of stalls and pieces of art were absurd to move even with the three others you’d manage to recruit: the head of languages, Martin, a science teacher, Kris and of course, Mr Afton. Another parent was expected but dropped out last minute, adding to the workload. And the people in charge of the stalls and activities wouldn’t arrive until kick-off so to speak.

Surprisingly, Mr Afton was a godsend. Helping you drag the stall skeletons on to the field, well you dragged them, he rather easily picked them up, somehow managing the awkward height and weight without breaking a sweat. 

“Now, you’re just showing off, Mr Afton.” you giggle, trying not to look at the way his arms flexed whilst he carried the objects. You can’t really help it though and try to steal what glimpses you can as the two of you lug 12 stalls outside. If you’d have known he was doing the same you probably would’ve dropped everything and made a fool of yourself, so mercifully he’s much slier with his staring than you are.  

It’s only when you’re done with the moving, the two of you can start decorating, the other workers put on duty setting up the games, things like a ring toss and lucky-dip. You study him for a moment while he’s distracted tying the string of a line of bunting around a nail that probably shouldn’t be sticking out of the stalls, and good lord this man looks a lot like his son. Everything from the dark hair which probably wasn’t as neat as he’d left it this morning, to the shape of his brow, making his eyes look hooded and narrow. The difference was all attitude and experience. You have to glance away when you start thinking about his experience. 

“Ooh what are you looking at? Am I doing it wrong?” he asks, bringing heat to your cheeks at the knowledge that he’d just caught you staring for way too long. He turned his head, looking down the sting, checking to see it wasn’t coming undone or tangled. 

“No, sorry.” your smile hints at your embarrassment, “It just crossed my mind how much you look like your son, sorry.” God you hate the way you’re smiling just because he’s looking at you but it’s completely involuntary. 

He smirks at that, “Well, I am fairly certain I’m his father.” his tone was playful despite the nature of what he was joking about. “I take it you don’t have any kids?” 

“Uh no, no I don't. What gives that impression?” 

“You look well rested.” he walks over to you and crouches down to look in a box at your feet, “And you’re smiling too much.” 

You giggle, “I know.” You rub at your temples, “It’s a nervous thing.” The second you say that you question yourself why, what a weird thing- you feel so awkward. He’s just a man. An attractive man- yes. But just a tall… brooding… handsome… man. 

“And here I was thinking you were just enjoying my company.” he sniggers, bringing you out of your head, it’s been a long time since a bloke had made you all skittish like this. He properly faces you now, searching your eyes. “What’s making you nervous?”

You, you internally answer, quickly thinking of a more appropriate response, “Just uh today. I have a feeling it’s going to be an absolute nightmare.” You drop your eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

You briefly rest a hand on your forehead. “Got no choice really.”

He moves to walk past you but pauses, standing half behind you. “Well, I can stay and help out. If it’s not me that’s making you nervous?” he smirks as he moves away, his voice teasing, riling up some butterflies in your stomach. 

~

He stays, and soon after the others arrive, students flogging their wares and local crafts aficionados, though you have them actually working, you don’t mind Mr Afton drifting around doing a bit here and there. As nice as you find him, he didn’t strike you as someone that would be happy to run a stall on his own. 

Once everything has settled down and the festival is running smoothly, you allow yourself a moment of a break. He finds you sitting on a bench just off the green. There he takes a seat beside you, digging in his pocket for a packet of cigs. 

“You can’t really smoke here, you know.” you laugh as he stops mid action, his lighter half raised.

He shrugs, reasoning “I’m outside.” resuming the act though now watching you for further reaction.

You fold your arms, a grin contradicting the seriousness. You’re well-aware that you weren’t going to stop him. “Still a college… I won’t tell on you though.” 

He chuckles as he takes a drag on it. This was like a flashback to his youth, so he plays his part, “Good. No one likes a sprag.” Man, it’s been a long time since you’ve heard that.

You try to steal a glance at his left hand, wanting to triple check that he wasn’t wearing a ring. Not that you would say or do anything, you just need to know. Not seeing a wedding band wasn’t enough though and the question dances around inside your head.

You finally bite the bullet and spit it out. “You’re not married then, Mr Afton?” you gesture to his hand, to give him context to how you arrived at that. You’d tried to sound like you were making small talk but it failed miserably. 

The mean laugh he lets slip is pure reflex. “No. Not anymore.”He wanted to tease you by asking why you wanted to know, but you’re already flustered and avoiding his direct gaze. 

“So you’re uh…?” you hesitate to finish the question, realising you were jumping to a conclusion. 

Thankfully he finishes it for you, “Divorced? Yeah.” He just loved how you smiled at him in relief there, the amusement evident on his face.

You try to explain why you fumbled that so badly, talking quickly, “Well. I didn't want to say divorced and get it wrong."

“In case…?”

God, your face is hot again, why can’t you just talk normal to this guy. “In case… you know… you were uh widowed or something.” 

“Or something?” he questions again, trying not to laugh at how you were stumbling. 

You put your head in your hands, laughing self-deprecatingly at yourself, “Leave me alone - I’m…” 

“Nervous?”

“A little yeah.” you speak, your face still obscured. “I mean you’ve come and sat with me. I’m just curious why.”  

You don’t need to look to feel the smirk on his face. “Maybe cos I wanted to.” You feel his movement on the bench and look up to catch his gaze, his head cocked to meet your eye line almost perfectly. “You’re pretty, you know. Even with your head in your hands.” 

Your eyes open wide at his bluntness as you try and think of something to say in response. You’re starting to see why Michael was so desperate to keep him away.

[prof-peach]

ADOPTABLES NOW LOOKING FOR A HOME £25 (British Pound) per mon, Paypal only, First come first serve, DM to proceed with a paypal email for the invoice should you be interested.

HOUNDOURXPOOCHYENA -------- SOLD MECH RATTATA --------------------- SOLD ODDISH (CRETA) -------------------- SOLD MAGIKARPXCARVANHA ----------- SOLD

------------------------------Bio's below-------------------------------

As you approach the adoption booth nestled beside a smoothie stand, and a small shack renting wetsuits for the ocean close by, a woman with dark hair tied back smiles in your direction. The staff member dons the token Dōtaku green shirt, whispering to the cluster of pokemon at her feet, and the one in the tank on the table behind her, all watching on, ever hopeful.

"Welcome to Dōtaku Island's adoption day, we have three sweet mons looking for their forever homes, each with unique personalities, which im sure I can shed some light on for you, if you like?"

As you move along the line, she begins to talk to you about each.

You start on the small pup, a dark furred pokemon that stares up at you with big open eyes, standing just under 2ft in height. "This one was rescued from Magma grunts, a Houndour and Poochyena cross. She was quite agressive at the start of her rehabilitation, but now has passed all saftey measures with flying colours, and enjoys a good scratch on the belly these days. The professors have worked wonders on her, she'd make an excellent companion for anyone who struggles with the cold, but probably not the best for serious battle, as she's a little shy when under direct observation by many people. Her typing is Dark currently, and we dont expect her to gain more than mild fire attacks shoudl she choose to evolve. Warm cuddles are something she specialises in, an ember no doubt may be possible with time, but a mighty flamethrower might not be in her cards. Focus her exercise on agility, she sure can run, and LOVES to chase things, so balls and frisbees are great fun!" Next in the line is a rather old looking Rattata, one hand prostetic, but seemingly dexterous and functional.

"This little fella is affectionatly known as Clank, he walks around and you can hear his little paw on the tiles in the labs, so it kind of stuck. He unfortunatly found his way into some farming equipment that got turned on, and was brought to us as a last chance about three years ago now. He survived against all odds, sadly other professors and medical experts didnt want to give him the chance her deserved due to his common species type. Clank however defeated all odds, recovered, despite losing tail and hand, he was gifted a new one by Professor Grey, and now lives a very busy little life. He loves bananas and peanuts, and has a sharp mind, so needs a lot of enrichment like complex toys and one on one time with a trainer. He's not too good with larger mons, so we advise he have his own space, or go to a home with other smaller pokemon."

The third is a rather large oddish, standing double the size of the average specimine of its kind.

"This lovley lady has been nicknamed Monroe, she's a bit of a diva now, but wasn't always so confident. Professor Peach spent a couple years one on one with her to build up her moral. She came to us with a pretty heavy viral infection that caused dieback in the leaves, and her unusual complexion, the lumps however are superficial, and cause no discomfort, issue, or long term effects other than originally causing her emotional distress. She use to feel less than pretty, we'd had a few trainers pass her up due to hew apperance, they were less than friendly about their opinions of her, as you can imagine they got chewed out pretty badly by Peach and all teh staff who were there to overhear. She felt down, so the one on one time was all about making her feel amazing again! When her leaves started to grow back in we realised she was an unusual species, resembling Aglaonema Creta, a very pretty plant. She is jolly and sweet and kind, and just wants to shine, potentially a great candidate for contests or more flamboyant battles if you were so inclined."

The last in sat in a large tank on teh stall behind her, a grumpy looking water type.

"Mr.Grumpy here isnt all that mean, dont let his expression fool you, he's been looking for a home for a while now, but he just gets passed off as intimidating or scary, so it's been a long journey for him to find that perfect partner. A Magikarp and Carvanha cross, he can be tempermental, a little rough at times, not so easy to handle, but more than capable in a fight. he likes his fin held, and the staff have taken to putting movies on a laptop for him when hes not out in the rivers and waterways. His check ups go swimmingly, pardon the pun, thanks to media distraction. He hardly bites anyone these days, unless youre rude and done ask him before handling him. He's all about polite manners, so if you do that, nothign can go wrong! We're not sure what he'll evolve into if he chooses to, though we have a sneaking suspicion he'd be a water/dark type due to his moveset."

[cigarcloud]

Card Shark (18+ Minors DNI)

Word Count: 4000 Ao3 Link Summary: You had never been to a casino before, but you missed playing card games as a kid. Unfortunately (or luckily) for you, you catch the casino owner's attention when your luck runs too high for his tastes. Author’s Note: My first ever reader fic and my first ever smut. I've been addicted to reading One Piece reader fics lately, especially @turtletaubwrites and @discordantwritings, so shout out to them! Content: AFAB!Reader, Fem!Reader, Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Rough Oral Sex

It could have been the bright, flashing lights and the rolling tick of slot machines with what appeared to be living corpses sat in front of them. Or maybe it was the crowd. The uncomfortable press of strangers moving against strangers, everyone in someone’s way. The harsh clink of glass against glass, the scrape of chairs continuously vacated and filled. You couldn’t pin point exactly which, if any of these, were what overwhelmed you most as you stepped into the casino.

You had never been to a casino before, and to be honest you didn’t know what to expect. Despite living so close to one for a while now it had simply never crossed your mind before. But, you were bored. Life was a monotonous routine. It was one you usually enjoyed, but even creatures of habit needed enrichment every now and then. A memory flitted across your mind, visions of playing card games as a kid. You didn’t know much about casinos, but you knew there were card games. It seemed a good enough reason to finally visit the famous Rain Dinners.

You made your way to a table where people were playing Blackjack, and waited for the game to be over. The dealer glanced your way and shot you a toothy grin.

“First time here?” He asked, and his grin stretched when you nodded. “You’ll need some chips. Anywhere from 100 to 1000 berry per round at this table.” You smiled gratefully for the instruction and took out 500 berry, figuring a few rounds were all you needed to satiate your sudden nostalgic appetite.

It took a bit to get comfortable, but by the third round you felt in the zone. The familiar wave of focus pulled you under as you watched every card, that ability to take it all in and turn it into probability always came to you naturally, and led to you winning damn near every game you played as a kid. The sensory edge the casino has been pressing against you dulled as you honed in, your nerves eased as you settled in to an old routine.

After your first five rounds finished you looked down and realized you had double the chips sitting in front of you. You decided to play a bit riskier for the next few, until you had around ten times your original amount of chips. You lost yourself in the cards again, oblivious to anything around you, effortlessly resetting your numbers when a new deck was brought in. Nothing else was registering to you, until you felt the weight of a massive hand that almost covered both of your shoulders settle on your back. You felt yourself startle, skin shifting against the touch.You turned and found yourself staring into a familiar face.

You may be new to casinos, but you weren’t new to Alabasta. This was Sir Crocodile, pirate warlord and keeper of the peace. You knew he was a big man in the figurative sense, but the physical reality lived up to every modern day fable being whispered in the streets. He towered above you, above everyone in the place, seated or standing. The scar that bisected his face did nothing to diminish his looks, it might have enhanced them further. His slicked back hair was meticulous, his eyes a piercing gray. Those eyes felt as though they were cutting you to ribbons more effectively than his massive golden hook ever could. You smiled up at him quickly, confused and a bit unnerved by his presence.

“Having good luck tonight, aren’t we little lady?” He said around his cigar. You’re pretty sure he’s had a cigar in his mouth in every single picture you’ve seen of him. “Seem to be winning quite a bit.” You smiled a more relaxed smile this time, nodding.

“Yes she is Sir, and getting luckier as the night goes on.” Crocodile’s face twitched ever so slightly hearing about your consistent stream of luck in his casino.

“That so?” He asked, his gravelly voice shooting straight down your spine. Your nerves were ratcheting up again, as the Warlord seemed to be growing tense. You swallowed thickly, waiting for him to speak. “Well, it seems I’ll have to talk to management about hiring dealers who know a card counter when she’s right in front of them.” Your face flushed, not knowing what he meant but getting the clear impression that you were doing something wrong.

“Sorry, Sir!” The dealer responded, much more alert to the precarious mood of his boss. “It won’t happen again, Sir!” Crocodile chuckled, before he took a deep drag of his cigar. You felt your eyes track the movement before you forced them back to a more neutral position. Now was not the time to be taken in by a handsome face.

“No, it certainly won’t. Get out of here.” He spoke to the dealer, but his gaze burned into you.

“Now.” He spoke again, finally breaking his eyes away to shoot the dealer a look of absolute venom. You felt just a bit more relaxed now, knowing that he didn’t look at you with nearly that level of contempt. The feeling was fleeting though, as his gaze drifted back. He certainly didn’t look at you like that, no. How he looked at you was far worse.

He looked starving .

After a few tortuously long moments of silence you decided to speak up.

“I can stop playing if I need to, but I don’t know what you mean by counting the cards? Like adding up the numbers? How else would you play?” That earned a bark of laughter from the man towering behind you, and a more genuine smile graced his features.

“Well, then. Seems you don’t even know what you’re doing.” You huffed at the idea that a simple game like this was above you, but you didn’t dare interrupt. “In any case, might want to go exchange these for berry.” He nodded at your chips. “Quite the winnings for a first timer.” You looked down at the chips in surprise.

“I get to exchange these back?” Another laugh erupted from his throat, and you felt the massive hand squeeze you lightly.

“Oh sweetheart, how’d a girl like you end up here?” He asked, taking a drag of his cigar. He gestured for you to stand and led you to a counter, his hand on the small of your back.

While it was certainly embarrassing to be asked to stop playing and clearly shown to not know anything about how casinos function, it might have been worth it for the warmth of the hand that seeped into your body. Sir Crocodile was certainly attractive, and his attention, now that it seemed wholly positive, felt nice to have.

“So, sweetheart,” He said, and you felt yourself flush at the endearment he once again used. “What’s your name?”

You grabbed the berry the worker behind the counter handed you and peered up at Crocodile. “Y/N.” You responded, hoping your voice wasn’t too quiet for him to hear with the wave of nervous excitement that passed over you.

“Hmm.” He hummed. “Well Miss Y/N, I am Sir Crocodile. A pleasure to meet you.” He grabbed your hand and bent down to put it to his lips, looking straight at you. You gave a nervous laugh at both the gesture and the entirely unnecessary introduction.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.” You replied. As he raised to his full height again, he flashed you a grin that had you recalling childhood tales of big bad wolves.

“That so? Well, I’d love to hear more about you, and that funny little talent you have. I happen to find myself unusually free this evening. Join me for a drink?” He asked.

Well, saying no to a warlord didn’t seem like the smartest idea, and besides, there was no harm in a drink. You nodded and let him guide you, relieved that he seemed content to let the conversation wait while the two of you walked. Your mind was racing and you had to admit to yourself that your body wasn’t in any better of a state.

You startled when you returned to yourself and realized the noise of the casino was much quieter. You were leaving the floor, entering an empty hallway and walking decidedly far away from the bar. You felt a flightiness settle around the edges of your mind. You were so focused on the attention of a good looking man that you forgot he was a killer. A government supported killer at that. Also, the owner of the casino you seemed to have done something offensive in. You swallowed thickly and paused, but Crocodile’s firm hand pushed you forward, causing you to stumble just a bit.

“Something the matter, doll?” His words were ice water over you, but despite the situation heat simultaneously rose to your cheeks and dropped to pool between your thighs.

“I, uh- just realized we aren’t going to the bar.” You replied, and you held no illusion that your nerves didn’t shine through every detail of your face. This earned another laugh and a squeeze, although this time much lower than your shoulder. His hand was just high enough to say he was not cupping your ass, but it was a near thing. He might as well have been, for the effect it had on you.

“Distracted are we?” His raspy voice sen t a shock through your spine, and your thoughts were starting to get completely out of control. The voice in your mind telling you this is dangerous was getting quieter and quieter by the second. “Such a gorgeous girl deserves my full attention. I’m taking you to a private room for our drink .” The way he said it seemed to imply so much, and you were left numbly following him to wherever he decided to take you. You didn’t think your voice would have worked, even if your mind could have come up with a response.

After another minute of walking in silence the two of you stopped at an elevator with gleaming gold doors, an intricate pattern engraved on them. Somewhere in your mind you found space to wonder why even the elevators had to scream his wealth and power. He pressed the button to go up and gently guided you in once the doors opened.

You felt completely suffocated in the small space, and completely unsure of how to stand, or what to do with your hands, or if you should try and make conversation. You risked a glance up and find the man was true to his word, his attention was entirely on you.

“Uh… so… what do you like to drink?” You ask ed , your voice barely a squeak. You stare d straight ahead, unable to meet that intense gaze for another second. God this ride is taking forever .

“I prefer whiskey myself.” He responded, and his voice was so taunting as he said it. “And what does my little card shark like?” He asked, as the elevator came to a stop and the stupid golden doors mercifully opened.

“Um, ciders, usually.” Not that you drank much at all, a fact that you were sure he picked up on. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d managed to know everything about you from the few words you spoke.

“Here we are.” He said, showing you to a lavish room with a plush couch, a bar in the back, and a massive desk set before a wall made entirely of glass. The entirety of the room was lined with bookshelves, and you caught a few titles about the history of Alabasta that looked interesting. You could see the skyline through the glass. You wondered if you could pick out your neighborhood, but he startled you out of your dissection of the space before you could truly try. He gently grabbed your hand, and took you to the couch.

“Is this your office?” You wondered aloud. He nodded in response, before leaving you to go behind the bar. There was the opening of a door and the sound of clinking as he collected glasses from a cabinet. He poured whiskey into both and brought them over, while you tried not to stare too openly at his massive hand that made the two glasses in it look like children’s toys.

I’d need prepped to even take a finger .

“Afraid I don’t carry fruit juice in my office.” He teased as he handed you your glass. You accepted it with a smile, but didn’t move further. His gaze sharpened a bit as he raised his drink. “Go ahead Y/N, I’m sure you can handle it.” You felt your stomach flip at the sound of your name leaving his lips, and the innuendo that might have been entirely in your mind, and you were certain you couldn’t handle any of this.

“Thank you.” You murmured, bringing the glass to your lips and taking a sip. It burned going down, but you weren’t so unaccustomed to liquor that you coughed. You licked your bottom lip to clear it of a stray droplet, and watched as Crocodile’s silver eyes followed the movement.

“Gorgeous.” He sighed, as his hand moved to your hip. “So, what’s a little doll like you doing bleeding me dry?” He asked, his thumb drawing circles on the fabric of the skirt you wore.

   "Uh, sorry Sir." You managed to get out, albeit breathless. "I just missed playing as a kid, that's all really."

   “And how did you get so good playing toddlers?” Crocodile replied, curiosity in his eyes. You wanted to look away, feeling every bit as overwhelmed by him as the entire casino downstairs, but you were trapped.

   “I don’t know. It’s just an easy game?” He took another drag of his cigar. “I just keep track of all the cards that get played, and after a few rounds its easy to guess if you should hit or not.”

   “Mmm, little card shark. Not supposed to do that in casinos.”

   “Wouldn’t that make it hard to win?” You questioned and he chuckled, blowing out more smoke.

   “That’s the point, sweetheart. Casino only works if the house is winning.” You took another sip of your drink, with the hope that it would help you relax. It didn’t, but Crocodile seemed to enjoy watching you. “Poor thing, probably felt so embarrassed at that table. Didn’t even know what you were doing.” His hand moved up to the hem of your shirt, and you were sure that if you could get any more red you did. His voice was so condescending, but it was going straight between your thighs.

   “I, uh-” You were cut off by him pushing your shirt up, his fingertips resting just underneath your breast. “Oh!” You squeaked, jumping a bit. Unfortunately that movement was enough to get his fingertips decidedly on your breast. He brought his hook over and you felt yourself stiffen as it caught your shirt collar.

   "Such a good little mouse, you look so pretty when you freeze.” You couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath, and you barely managed to keep it from escaping as a moan. “Let’s see how you look without this, hmm Y/N?” He didn’t wait for a response, tearing your shirt off in one fluid motion. You gasped and moved to cover your breasts, but he caught both of your wrists with ease in his right hand. He pulled them up over your head, admiring the view. “Now, now… be a good girl for me Y/N.” He said sternly. You wriggled a bit, trying to free yourself, but in the privacy of your mind you knew you didn’t want to go anywhere.

   “Let me see how you really feel about this.” Crocodile said, and brought his hook to your skirt. Once it was torn away, nothing stood between his gaze and your soaked panties. He smiled that sharp, animalistic smile at you, and this time you couldn’t bite back a whimper. “Mm, seems you like my attention. So stop squirming.” His voice took a hard edge to it and you went still. “Good girl.” You were getting wetter by the second, and the building fear that sent fire dancing over your nerves was only increasing your arousal.

   “Uh… Crocodile-” The hook went straight to your throat, the point turned away so as not to hurt you, yet.

   “Sir or Daddy. Take your pick.” You moaned at that, and the feeling of the cold steel against you.

   Something is seriously wrong with me.

   “Yes, Sir.” You said quietly, and he hummed his approval, taking the hook away and leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I please have my hands back, Sir?” You asked, looking through your lashes up at him.

   “You are asking so nicely. Promise to be good?” He tone was deceptively gentle now, and you nodded. He raised a brow before you realized what he wanted.

   “Yes, Sir.” He released your wrists and cupped your chin instead, pulling you into a kiss. You felt suffocated in a somehow pleasant way, and when he silently asked for entrance into your mouth you gave it to him.

   As he explored your mouth with his teeth and tongue, his hand released your jaw, lowering to your thighs. You moaned as he ran his fingers over your slick-coated underwear, your legs parting of their own accord.

   “Good girl.” He murmured into your mouth. He moved your underwear to the side, a giant finger teasing along your entrance. You gasped as he gently pushed in, breaking away from the kiss with a string of saliva still connecting you.

   “Fuck…” You bucked your hips forward, taking the rest of his finger inside. It was stretching you out with a slight burn, and you had to wonder what the night had in store for you if just one finger could do this. You let your head fall back as he pumped it in and out of you, his thumb coming up to circle your clit.

   He curled his finger a bit, and you were seeing stars. His thumb kept rubbing up against your swollen nub, and you could feel the waves of pleasure building, ready to crash.

   “Mmmm, please!” You cried out. He pistoned his finger faster, watching you come completely undone against him. Your breath grew ragged and slower as you came down from your orgasm, looking up into his heavily hooded eyes.

   “Did you like that?” He asked, his voice was gravel across your skin, and you whimpered. “Use your words, sweet girl.”

   “Yes, Cro-” You yelped as you were bent over his knee in one fluid motion, the air knocked out of your lungs with a harsh gasp. A hand rested over your ass, only a thin layer of fabric covering you. That was quickly removed, your underwear now shoved down past your thighs.

   “I believe I already told you, Sir or Daddy.” A swat landed on your ass and you gasped. His giant hand covered you entirely, even your thighs stung a bit. “You gonna be a good girl for me?”

   “Yes, Daddy.” You moaned, cursing yourself for such a slip up as his hand picked up a steady rhythm. Soon your ass was raw and scorching under his touch, and tears pricked at the corner of your eyes. “Sorry Daddy.” You choked out, and at last his hand paused in its movements.

   “It’s okay, sweet girl. Daddy knows you didn’t mean it.” You couldn’t help the whine that escaped your lips, followed by a new flush of embarrassment over your chest. “Took your punishment so well, you deserve a treat.” The sweet, low rasp of his voice put you in a daze as he maneuvered you like you weighed nothing. You found yourself on your stomach, face to face with his belt buckle.

   “Fuck, Daddy.” Your voice came out as a thin whisper as you took in the tent in his pants. Like everything else about him, it was larger than you were used to. “S’too big.” You whined, looking up at him through your lashes.

   “Won’t know until you try, will you sweetheart?” He emphasized this with a tug at his belt buckle, looking at you expectantly. “Don’t want to disappoint me, do you?” His hook crept back up to your neck, applying a gentle pressure.

   “No, Daddy.” You couldn’t believe all it took was a finger for you to forget who you were in the presence of. You most certainly did not want to disappoint this man, or become boring to him. Boring cheaters probably received a much worse fate than interesting ones. You intended to remain interesting.

   You unbuckled his belt and tugged at his zipper, moving his pants just enough for his cock to spring free.

   The pants had been hiding a lot . It wasn’t big, it was absolutely massive . You swallowed thickly, before moving your mouth over the tip. You took the base in your hand, another wave of fear-excitement-arousal coursed through you when you realized you couldn’t circle your fingertips. You took a breath before letting your tongue fall out, licking across the tip.

   It tasted like salt and musk, and you needed more. You relaxed your jaw as much as you could and slowly worked your way down. The tip wasn’t too difficult, but you only made it about two inches down the shaft before the girth started giving you trouble.

   “Pretty girl, I’m not known for being patient.” His voice startled you, and you jolted forward. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you were barely halfway down. You forced yourself to stay put as you caught your breath, then started moving up and down.

   The weight against your tongue was addicting, and you closed your eyes as you began to suck in earnest, swirling your tongue around to catch the tip every time you pulled back. Slowly as you bobbed your head you began to take more of his length.

   “Good job.” He groaned, and the praise shot through you as adrenaline. “Keep your mouth open, Daddy wants to use you properly.” You groaned at that, doing your best to keep your jaw relaxed and your breath steady. He grabbed the back of your head and began fucking into your mouth, letting himself bottom out.

   Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes and you could feel bile rising as his groin pressed against your face. You desperately swallowed against it, breathing harshly through your nose. He didn’t relent for a second, using your throat just as he promised. He was brutal, and it contrasted deliciously with the sweet words spilling from his lips like honey.

   “Such a good girl for me, so sweet. Perfect little angel, gonna keep you forever.” Your eyes rolled back in your head as he thrust even more sharply. He lasted only a few more before he was spilling cum so deep in your throat you didn’t have the chance to taste it.

   He pulled you off, and you somehow found it within yourself to still feel embarrassed when a wet pop accompanied the motion. Your jaw ached, your ass was sore, and you knew it would only be worse tomorrow. Still, you felt alive.

   “Well, sweetheart. Now comes business.” You blinked up at him slowly, your brain sluggish and body tired. “Gonna have to ban you from my casino, card shark.” He chuckled, wiping saliva from your chin.

   “Wha- then what was this?” You asked, voice pitching up as you realized he wasn’t letting your entirely accidental cheating go.

   “You getting bratty with me?” His voice dropped an octave and you felt his hand inching towards your already abused backside.

   “No!” You yelped quickly. He raised an eyebrow at you for a long moment before you realized your mistake. “No, Daddy.” You amended. His hand abandoned it’s journey to your ass and instead ran along your side.

   “Good. This was just the consequence of being such a pretty thing in my presence. You still have to make amends for cheating me out of berry.” Your eyes widened, and you were barely able to stop the protest that wanted to make its way out of you. “Oh, don’t look so scared little mouse.” He grinned wide, not helping your fear at all. “How about you make it up to me by letting me take you to dinner.”

   “Dinner?” You asked, completely lost now. “Like a date?” He laughed, giving your side a squeeze.

   “Sure, sweetheart. A date.” You gave him a tentative smile in return and nodded.

   “Uh, yeah! I mean- yes, Sir.” Your mind was now working into overdrive, trying to understand the situation you found yourself in. “Do I have to call you that in public or?” You trailed off, and his predatory grin was back in full force.

   “You can try and find out.”

   You weren’t sure whether you wanted it to be a threat or a promise. One thing you knew is you wouldn’t be bored any time soon.

[grandparomeaskblog]

So annoying when a teen is pointing at you like ewwl you are in MY fandom but because you are old so you must be a perfert. Im gonna tell all my buddies to block you. How dare you to 'act nice' you are obviously trying to groom minors.

And then you see their blog and it's full of sex. Yeah so you are a teen obsessed with sex. But I am the problem for making non sexual content and enjoying a fandom that was made by a man MY AGE.

Most old people dont even have time to groom minors. We got bills to pay, kids to feed, take their parents to the hospital, fix a roof, unclog the sink and Gods know what.

You know what people have time to groom minors? Kids YOUR age and a little older. Teens living in with their parents.

Dont put your pictures online, dont give personal info, be safe. Old people were once teens too and we tell you where the true dangers are in life. Don't push away all elders in your life pretending its safer. Its NOT. Are there bad people in life SURE is every stranger you meet poison NOPE. This age polarisation needs to stop. Touch grass, go outside talk to people with all sexes, ages, hobbies, religions, political views. Just talk. You don't have to agree with everyone, thats not the point. Just talk and enrich your life. And when you are in trouble with WHATEVER, doing taxes, loss, getting a job, you have people of all walks of life you can ask for tips. Its great knowing older folk how things work.

Real predators have great ways to cut you off from helpfull people. Dont let yourself get cut off. The wider your support group the better

Ok rant off. Old lady is going to do the dishes now. Fuck you haters trying to cut off other kids from support. You need therapy.

[fereldancore]

Wooo, playing DATV - no spoilers.

No doubt it is a good RPG with excellent graphics, good gameplay design, charming aspects, updated super funky combat, a nice few callbacks etc, and those companions have so much potential. 25hrs in so far.

That is the thing when you buy a new game, you put your money down and roll the dice, sometimes you just don’t win a prize - you just get the experience, and for good or bad, it was just that. I am fine with that, but if I hate it - mmm just bad luck.

I really like the sidequests, but then again I am a freak that loves the Hinterlands, all fetch quests (and driving the Mako EVERYWHERE in Mass Effect). The main story I dislike.

I am not someone that warms to things in time, It’s how I am built, I do carry on to complete a book or game to think, learn and enrich my life experiences. But I know early on if I am going to carry a game, book or song in my soul to be rotated for eternity, and this isn’t it.

I know it is Northern Thedas, but it is almost as if it is in an alternate timeline or AU. A single NPC comment or two line companion chat will not handwave solve lots of the issues enough for me to be satisfied. Satisfaction with lore is an important personal requirement for me, yes things change and I have disliked several changes in the DA world over the years, but have had to adjust and manage.

BUT this time some things have changed too much, retconned or invented but don’t fit well enough to be okay, I guess I have limits?. I wasn’t secretly hoping for old characters to come back or big flashbacks as somebody in my inbox suggested. No, their stories are told. Let them rest, they deserve it.

1 -I need more cohesion between the old and the new, the huge logic gaps healed over. Yes, I have ranted about things I don’t enjoy personally (as I do with all games) but I still want to like this game. I was an optimistic cheerleader pre-release, so it is a letdown for me, still have 80 plus hours of gameplay to enjoy and well it does have an ending of sorts, even if it doesn’t hit the heights I’d like. Tough nugshit love.

2 - I am very happy that many people love the game. I hope you to really find joy and excitement in this game, get fired up to create fanworks, cosplays and happy daydreams. If you still get butterflies in your stomach playing VG the same way I got prepping for the Battle of Denerim, bellylaughing like I did with the Kirkwall gang or shedding tears over veil decisions in Inquisition then EVEN BETTER!

3 - I am even happier that some people have said they are going to return to the older games when they finish, to either replay or have a new experience.

4 - Yes, I have ranted about the things I really hate in the game, but not much different to being an ‘Anders was Right’ apologist on LJ over ten years ago, I am an old lady who has had online firefights over Final Fantasy V and Runescape so I am a butthurt veteran of many fanwars. However, I have always made it clear that no matter how much I I like to vent, I won’t say a game is shit or bad or take the piss out of people who disagree. We will discuss, rant and wax for a long time, but I won’t hate a writer, creator or someone with a different POV, it is just the material and my personal opinions, and if I don’t like something it is not the end of the World.

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Fic background ask question! You mentioned that you chose House Costayne for Otto’s mother’s house, what drew you to that house specifically? Did that house influence Otto or his mother in any specific way? 🖤💛

Ahh, thank youu! This is gonna be very long & rambly, so I'm putting it under a cut

So, ngl, I haven't fleshed out Hobert & Otto's mom a whole lot--and given that Steffan Rhodri (Hobert's actor) & Rhys Ifans are both in their mid 50s when HOTD starts, it feels like a safe assumption that both their parents are probably dead & not just their dad. So I've been working with the assumption that Unnamed Costayne Mother had them a bit later in life & has been dead since my fic started (not unlike Lord Yorbert Royce, but hers was just plain "being old" instead of cancer). So you can see why I thought "maybe I don't need to do a whole bunch with her," especially given how expansive the cast of the fic already is.

Mostly, I picked her being part of House Costayne because I thought it would be so silly if Hobert & Otto just were the cousins of Ella, Yorick, & Aemon's uncle. A kind of Five Degrees of Kevin Bacon thing. So many people are so many other people's cousins in my fic that it's just very "Why not? It's very silly at this point." So that's why those guys' mom is the paternal aunt of Lord Owen Costayne, who is Lady Rhea Royce's brother-in-law (the one she likes). It's funny to me if those two guys are related to Stoic Sports Man Who Lets His Wife Peg Him & have that much more connection to my main OCs (especially since Otto is beefing with Yorick when he's a literal small child for no other reason than "this is my rival's son").

The secondary, & less crucial to my decision making, reason I picked House Costayne is that if I'm already altering canon so much in terms of shuffling some of the Dance alliances around, & was already planning to make the Costaynes be with The Greens because them siding against their liege lords apropos of nothing didn't make sense to me, then why not just give them a whole bunch of connections there? I'm already giving House Costayne a reason to side with Aegon (their Lady is the aunt of my OCs), so let's just make Lord Owen be Otto's cousin too! So it's really more "just tie these guys to the Hightowers even more than they were before."

A thing to remember about me is, "yes I know the lore, but I also sometimes forget it." This is how we get things like "I accidentally made Borros Baratheon have a connection to Criston Cole because I forgot which house Criston's dad works for" & "I accidentally made implications that Otto is, like, probably the nephew of Elinor Costayne." So that's fun. SOTF Version of Ser Otto Hightower, man that you are. Being Hand for 3 Targaryen Kings (pay no attention to him getting fired twice) while also very much having a mom who was directly related to one of the Black Brides. I have Elinor in my big, main family tree & still forgot that implication & it makes everything have directly trackable motivations, but also be so, so much funnier. Hand to the guy who almost killed Maegor out of some weird sense of ambitious gratitude (the throne beat Jaehaerys to it, & honestly, slay), Hand to that guy's grandson to try & nip future problems in the bud (& stay on that bureaucratic grindset), beef with your boss's brother because "I don't like his vibe. He might try some fuckshit--don't you remember what happened last time one of you guys had a little brother with a wife he disliked & zero enrichment in his enclosure?," spend the rest of his life trying to head off issues that may or may not exist. I'm not saying I've made Otto an unintentional hero or that he's justified & absolved in anything, because he absolutely 10000000% is not. I'm saying I've made him be a character in a workplace comedy who thinks he's in a prestige drama, because SOTF is a comedy actually.

The weird cocktail of "your dad was an overly strict prick with standards in the stratosphere who never said he was proud or hugged either of you," & "equally kind of cold & pragmatic mom who had to helplessly watch as her relative was forced to marry The Actual Worst Guy To Happen To Westeros So Far & just never recovered" is what made Hobert & Otto Like That

[grison-in-space]

I have a training question for you (and maybe other dogblrs too). My goldendoodle (Ajax, standard size, 6, the greatest =P) used to be okay about being left alone, and then pandemic meant my partner and I wfh for three years, and he has basically never had to be alone. Which means that when we do both need to leave, he has started hunting for cardboard in the house to rip up.

I have tried blocking him to just be in the living room, leaving kongs and food puzzles and scattered treats he can hunt, but he has clearly learned this is a fun activity for when he is alone. Last time, even with all the activities, he pulled out a sweet potato from dark storage and shredded/ate it (I didn’t know he could reach back there and at least it wasn’t something dangerous).

But we are starting to approach a semester where we are going to have to leave him more regularly (which is great tbh, I know a lot of this is that it isn’t something he has experienced a lot so I think a new pattern could be good), but I am not sure what to do about the destruction. He was crate trained as a puppy but never liked it much, so I’d hate to have to go back to that but I’m wondering if I need to reacclimate him to that =\

Do you have any thoughts/suggestions?

Yep, I'm going to say it: this is time to practice crate training again! I am maybe not the best person for advice on this one because my dogs are actively encouraged to rip up cardboard boxes as a form of enrichment, so my living room is often covered with cardboard shards. On the other hand, I also crate young dogs when I leave the house, and being crate free is a privilege in my house that is earned rather than given.

(My old lady actually used to find sweet potatoes from god only knows where and deposit them on my pillows any time she wasn't crated when I left, before the younger dogs arrived. I have no idea why they are apparently so enticing.)

I generally transition dogs away from crate training as they show me they can be responsible. The crates are always available, but I leave doors open for short jaunts away, then gradually longer ones until the dogs have earned my trust. If he's not supposed to hunt for cardboard and destroy it--does he destroy cardboard when you're watching? does he know it's off limits? where are you hiding his snacks?--then first start by making sure that when you leave, he can't reach it.

You could also handle this by shutting him in a room that is dogproofed--perhaps he cannot handle the responsibility of the whole house, but he can handle your bedroom, or a bathroom, and the size of the dog-friendly area can be slowly extended again over time.

[pennamesmith]

Oops I accidentally etc etc. Sequel to this and this.

Transversal

A corner of the lab crackled.

Entrapta glanced up from the deadly laser she was welding together. Some of the older equipment across the room hummed to life, and a glowing portal opened in the air. A young man and a not at all young man tumbled out of it. Entrapta brightened when she recognized them.

“Oh! Hello, extra-dimensional friends! It’s been a while.”

Finn leapt to his feet while Simon remained face down on the floor, groaning.

“Yeah, we haven’t seen you since Marcy’s house party!” Finn said. “Actually, is that sword lady still around? We’re here on adventure biz.”

Entrapta pulled her welding mask up. “No, Adora’s in space right now. Doing space stuff,” she added, with only a hint of envy. “I can still help you out, though! I’m something of an adventurer myself.”

Finn considered this seriously, stroking the short beginnings of a beard. Beside him, Simon staggered to his feet, suit rumpled and glasses askew.

“Are we there yet?” Simon asked, dazed.

“Simon and I are doing human bonding, and we need a good dungeon,” Finn explained. “PB said you’ve got, like, a whole castle fulla traps n’ shit. I’m old enough to say that now, by the way. ‘Shit.’ Would it be chill if we go exploring in your house?”

“Oh sure!” Entrapta waved them on with her hair. “Just be careful. The security bots are still set to ‘purée.’ Ha ha ha!”

“Finn, is this really necessary? We’ve done this sort of thing before,” Simon moaned.

“And we’ll do it again!”

“Right, but I was just thinking…”

“Thinking about how awesome our adventure is gonna be? Way ahead of ya, buddy.” Finn started pulling a variety of dangerous weapons from his backpack. “I got all kinds of epic loot! What sorta build you want?”

A shadow appeared above them. Both humans turned to look up.

“Hello,” Hordak said, looming into the light. “It is tolerable to see you again.”

He cast a look at Simon, who was wobbling under the weight of Finn’s various swords. “I could not help but overhear your conversation just now.” His ear twitched. “I would like to make a suggestion for your enrichment activity.”

Finn shrugged. “Shoot, bro.”

“Treacherous and overstimulating as the castle labyrinth may be, you might also be interested in the mines of Dryl. Many ancient artifacts have been uncovered there.”

Simon perked up. “Ancient artifacts?”

“More than you could fathom. And more as yet undiscovered.”

Simon looked pleadingly at Finn, his eyes huge.

Finn nodded in manly sympathy. “A collection quest it is!” He pulled a pick and shovel from his arsenal and brandished them above his head as he charged out of the lab. “Excavation time!”

A moment later he reappeared in the doorway. “Um. Actually, I’m gonna need you guys to show me the way.”

While Entrapta giddily gathered her maps and revved an enormous drill, Simon looked back toward the towering alien. There was a deep sadness in his eyes.

“I have not forgotten what you told me,” Hordak said in answer to the unasked question. “I believe we share some… narrative similarities. I, too, have caused harm I now regret. And I have not always been in control of myself.”

Simon sighed. “You ever feel like everything’s changed, but you’re just a different version of who you used to be?”

“Frequently,” Hordak said. He snorted.

Simon hesitated. “How do you keep going?”

“Friendship and hobbies, mainly.” Hordak looked at Entrapta and the lab they shared. “It’s a good life, if you don’t weaken.”

Simon picked up another shovel. “Okay,” he said.

“Let’s get going, then.”

[innytoes]

3 sentence prompt: Reggie pairing of your choice + Dog Walker

Reggie always insisted he didn't have favourite clients. Which was half true. He didn't have favourite dogs, he loved all of them. Even the difficult ones, or the yappy ones, or the ones who would fake out being done pooping until he tied the baggy only to go: NOPE WAIT.

The human clients, though... well, there he could be honest and say some were better than others. The little old lady with the shih tzu who always slipped him an extra quarter so he could 'get himself a little treat'. The fabulously wealthy gay magician with the fabulously groomed borzoi who understood that you were never too old to have money pulled out from your ear (especially not when it came with a generous tip whenever Cerberus managed to drag Reggie behind him through the mud in an attempt to murder a squirrel.)

And of course the cute gay couple who had hired him temporarily. One of them, Willie, was the one to usually walk their rather energetic Pudelpointer in the afternoons while his boyfriend was at work. But given that both his leg and his arm were in a cast at the moment after 'a jump I totally could have made, it was just bad luck', they'd hired Reggie to take over for a while.

Pigeon was a dream of a dog, smart, well-trained, and always up for adventure. He got along well with the other dogs, but he was Reggie's only Thursday client, so they got some quality ball-throwing and jogging in as well.

Listen, he was just providing excellent dog enrichment, after he learned Pigeon often went running with Alex on the weekends. It had nothing to do with the way Willie's eyes raked over his body in his short shorts and tank top on Thursday afternoons. Or the way he'd invite Reggie in for some lemonade 'provided you get the glass yourself because I can't reach that high right now'.

He was pretty sure Willie's other, non-broken arm could reach the glasses just fine, but he wasn't complaining, especially not when his shirt rode up a little and he heard a strangled noise behind him (Alex, who had started coming home for lunch on Thursdays, just coincidentally around the time Reggie came home with Pigeon after their runs).

Pretty soon, one glass of lemonade became two, became 'why don't you stay for lunch, we made too much anyway', became long talks at the dinner table, Pigeon's head in his lap staring adoringly at him while Reggie stared adoringly at the dog's owners.

They never actually said anything, though, so Reggie figured it was just some harmless flirting. He sighed about it to Pigeon sometimes, though, about how lucky he was to be able to sleep in between those two gorgeous dudes, to cuddle with them on the couch.

When Willie finally got his casts off and was cleared by his physical therapist, Reggie had to admit he took his time getting back. He wanted to savor the time with this sweet pooch, say goodbye to him properly. They went to the dog park and he threw the ball for as long as Pigeon wanted, giving him all the treats and scratches and cuddles he could, before steeling himself for a professional goodbye.

Except when he rang the doorbell to hand over the dog (half an hour later than usual, whoops), rehearsing a polite 'no' to one last glass of lemonade (no need to drag this out), Willie and Alex instead asked him something he couldn't say no to.

Their first date was dinner at a dog-friendly restaurant, and thankfully, Pigeon didn't mind sharing the space on the bed between Alex and Willie.

[flynndesdelca]

For Day 7 (Role Switch) of @chelltastic’s Portal Drawtober 2023 Challenge. As I’m not really an artist, I chose to write short pieces for the prompts.

"Those people, in the portrait.  They look so... familiar."

It was hard to look at the portrait in question.  After all, she had been there when it had been commissioned.  Why it was hung here, of all places, she would never know.  But the eyes that stared at her from the canvas were hauntingly familiar, and it made her look away in frustration and shame.

"Do you recognize them?" The follow-up question that she was not prepared for.  She shook her head, knowing that the unblinking 'eye' of the former Central Core's optic would see the motion.  "You seem upset by it."  She shrugged in response, not particularly wanting to talk about it at that moment.  Or ever, really.  "Suit yourself," came the reply, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

She knew who the people in the painting were, because she was one of them.  Once, she had been the assistant to the CEO.  The beloved Miss Caroline, the Lady of Science.  Right hand to the man, Cave Johnson, himself.  Those times were long since gone, though, and thinking about them was painful.  That wasn't who she was anymore, anyway.  There was a reason why her name was redacted, and her file a bizarre mishmash of conflicting information that could easily be detected if someone sat down and actually read it.  Thankfully, no one had.  And so, little Miss Red Aperture had flown under the radar as one of the handful of orphans that the Enrichment Centre had produced and taken into its care.

Never mind that said orphan was retirement age.

She had taken the situation with grace and care, shouldering burden after burden while Cave had chased after his dreams, only to see them fall one by one.  She had worked tirelessly behind the scenes, handling things so that he hadn't needed to concern himself with them.  Everything she had done had been for the good of the company, and the company had loved her so... so much that in fact when Cave had fallen sick from moon rock poisoning, he had named her his successor.  With a caveat, of course.  If he couldn't be immortalized in a computer designed to house a living mind, then she would take his place.

The idea had been horrifying and unpalatable to her, but she had felt that it could be a decision that was reversible if given enough time.  Time that she had not been graced with, as he had passed far too soon after the proclamation - public, of course, as was his wont.  And so, she had forestalled it to buy herself time, claiming that retiring would be the best time to do so.  Preparations would be made, and when she finally hit that milestone she would march willingly into her new life.

That had given her the time she needed to come up with a different plan.  Oh, should they really be installing an old woman as the eternal CEO of the company? Certainly she had done so much good over the years, but that had been in her prime.  Locking her permanently at the helm as a 60 year old was a poor decision.  They should really find someone younger, whose mind would stay eternally sharp and who could use the accumulated wisdom of years spent to inform that sharpness.  Clearly this would be a better way to go about such a monumental task! A few whispers here and there, so that the right ears could hear them, and soon enough she was called into a board meeting to announce that the plans for Project GLaDOS were going in a new and different direction, and that she wouldn't be required to stay on after all.

It had been a relief to know that she had dodged that particular bullet.  She hadn't even given a thought to who might be taking her place until she was called in to sign off on the experiment and to observe the upload.  The young woman they dragged in had needed to be sedated before they could attach the necessary electrodes and other terrifying technology to her for the transfer.  Flipping through the subject's file, Caroline had realized the reason this person had been chosen was due to a shockingly high level of tenacity, a trait that was unwanted in the average test subject, but that the scientists believed would help her to adapt and survive in her new existence much more quickly and easily.  A young girl, a company orphan, by the name of Chell, last name stricken from records.

Caroline hadn't been able to watch the whole procedure, as it had turned her stomach.  She had been extremely pleased that it hadn't been her there, sizzling away under several dangerous machines designed to digitize a living brain, but there was something about the whole thing that had left a bad taste in her mouth.  The actual transfer would take hours, apparently, and she wasn't required to sit through all of it.  Chell herself would cease to exist, only living on through whatever made the transition into the cold steel of the computer.  There was a lot to do to try to bring that consciousness into fruition.  There was still a lot of science to be done there.  They would be sure to have it done before her retirement, of course, so she could be there for the unveiling.  A steep deadline, as the year was fast approaching, but they were certain of their success.  After all, they had perfected the previous iteration of this technology in the various personality core constructs and AIs that performed essential tasks all over the facility.  This was just making a slightly more complicated version of that.  What could go wrong?

A lot, apparently.  The tenacity that they had selected for as a desirable trait meant that the resultant AI was intractable.  The circumstances surrounding the whole ordeal had left said AI with a very deep streak of anger and hatred, and any attempts they made to activate it lead to it attempting to kill scientists in the room.  At one point they had tested connecting it to the facility, and it had immediately attempted to try to flood the place with neurotoxin.  They were coming up with a solution to handle this, they  claimed.  She simply stared at the calendar, noting the year, noting how much longer was left.  Could they really? They had always pulled through before... well, almost always.  The portal device, what had been her pride and joy, had been shelved for this.  She had hoped that would be her legacy, but now it was more likely that this... terrifying murder-computer would be what she would be most remembered for.

Solutions failed and failed.  The will of the computer was simply too strong.  The only way they could come up with to control her was to distract her.  They started engineering specific kinds of personality cores specifically to hamper her.  She overpowered almost every one.  It was determined that combining them in various configurations seemed to have the best effect, as she couldn't silence them all at once.  Too few and she could overpower them, frying them in moments.  Too many and she would simply shut herself down to avoid their ceaseless commentary.  Finding the right cores and the right number was key.  A month before the day, the good news hit her desk.  A stable configuration was believed to have been found.  A relief.  Perhaps this wouldn't be as damning as she'd thought.

The day came.  The main event of the day was the annual "Bring your Daughter to Work Day", an event that she enjoyed.  It was nice to see so many smiling young faces, the future of science.  The event was lovely, a wonderful way to send off her long career.  The crowning pinnacle was to come...

Disaster.  Had it been a ruse, or a side effect of being deactivated to be formally 'activated' at the event? It didn't matter.  Retirement was no longer the order of the day.  Escaping the rampant AI determined to capture the survivors of her initial rampage and force them into testing was all that mattered, now.  Luckily her knowledge of the building that she had been there for the construction of helped her there, and she had managed to scrape by.  There were others, though she never met them in person.  Just the signs of passing, of secret camps, of signs.  Caches of supplies.  Slowly even these dwindled over time.  How many were left alive? It was hard to say. Those announcements could have been for anyone... or they could have been for her.  Who knew? 

It was a chance encounter that had changed her mind about the whole thing.  The man had been tired, carrying a companion cube with him, and Caroline had been certain that he would talk to it as though it was speaking back to him.  He had known who she was, of course he had, and they had talked.    The truth had stung, but it made sense:  if she had simply accepted her duty and gone into the computer as she had been slated to, perhaps none of these horrors would have happened.  This was her legacy, and this was her fault.  And if she was still alive, she could at least attempt to do something about it rather than dodge her final responsibility yet again.

And so she had found her way to the record rooms, and forged an identity for herself.  Aperture-raised children would be introduced into testing at an appropriate age, and so that was what she went with.  The orphan that Chell should have been, but had never been allowed to be.  She added that name to the testing list, and dutifully shut herself into Relaxation, to await a chance to maybe do something about the whole thing...

The Caroline in that picture no longer existed, and hadn't for a long time.  The person there with GLaDOS - Chell - skewered on one of the shaping prongs of her beloved handheld portal device was a nobody.  Someone who should have done the right thing once, but had run away from it.  What would have happened if it had been her instead? She couldn't say.  Had it been worth it to sacrifice Chell in her stead? She couldn't say either.  What was good and what was right was so very muddled in her mind, and had been since she had first been awakened and started testing.  The idea of doing something had seemed so strong back when she had talked to the man, but it had fizzled out when she had realized that there wasn't really any way to actually change anything about the situation.  Had killing Chell really been worth it? Was it self defense, or something else?

"Is it already time to rest? Didn't we just have a rest break? How are we supposed to make it back to the surface before that little idiot explodes everything if you need to stop to sit down every five minutes?" Chell intoned from her little tinny speaker mounted on the potato battery.  She must be very agitated if she was willing to show that much emotion - too much and she'd short out again.  With a sigh Red Aperture slapped herself on the cheek with her free hand and carried on, leaving behind the portrait and the memories that it had stirred within her.  There was still a long way to go to get back up to the building, where something far worse than GLaDOS had been was waiting for them…

[thestarofcottonland]

i need perfume blogs to follow im lacking enrichment it has become my dominant personality trait >_< and the fragrantica forums are too dry like im still in there every day but the old biddies get mad at you for asking about slutty scents . like dont tell me they dont exist ladies

[zmzebra-writes]

Title: The Lake Summary: Sword fighting at the lake goes wrong for a local LARP group when the Lady of the Lake replaces a sword lost in her domain.

On the bank of the lake a group of young teenagers played with swords. Or foam swords at least. The LARP club for the local school had taken a field trip to the nearby lake for enrichment and “appreciation for nature’s beauty in the heart of Wales” as one of their club advisors had put it when explaining it to the school board. The school board just shrugged and approved it. Emrys Wyllt was an eccentric fellow, but as long as his co-advisor, Fay Morgans, was there, she would prevent any harm to the children.

“Hiya!” yelled out a 15-year-old boy as he brought down his sword on his opponent.

The opponent, a 15-year-old girl, parried his sword and went in for an attack while his sword was down. “Not so fast!”

“Faster even,” he said as he blocked her stab. He pushed back on the sword to make her stumble before going in for the final strike.

Unfortunately for him, the girl was faster— catching her balance, she dodged his attack and sliced him across the back. “But not fast enough.”

The boy groaned at the loss, before falling to his knees. “Ack. I’m dying. I’m dying,” He fell face forward onto the ground, “I’m dead.”

The girl rolled her eyes with a smile before poking his body with her foam sword. “Come on, get up.”

“I can’t. You’ve slain me.”

“Then roll over to the graveyard with everyone else I killed to wait for the end of the battle to be revived. I have more people to kill and Ms. Morgans will get mad at both of us if you end up tripping someone up or get trampled.”

The boy pouted as he stretched out his arms and began rolling to the graveyard. “Fine…”

Ms. Morgans spotted him rolling across the battlefield. “Cai! Stop rolling carelessly underfoot. Did your legs break? If not, get up and use them!”

Cai stopped mid-roll and sulkily got up. “Yes, Ms. Morgans…”

The girl laughed under her hand as she watched her friend get scolded when suddenly it was her own turn to be called out by the other club advisor, Mr. Wyllt. “Lady Rhiannon! If you’ve finished fighting Sir Cai, Sir Mortimer is ready to be your next opponent.”

Rhiannon looked over her opponent as she walked over to the battlefield. If her memory was correct, Mortimer was one of the youngest club members at 13 years old. At first glance, in his all black clothing that swallowed him up and his quiet yet kind demeanor, many of the older members tended to underestimate him. Rhiannon knew better though. She had been studying his battles with the other LARPers and underneath each strike, she recognized true skill formed from years of practice. Mortimer doesn’t struggle to win battles during fights, but he also doesn’t wipe out his opponent as she assumes he likely could. It’s almost as if he wants people to continue to underestimate him and let down their guard with him, was Rhiannon’s opinion of the boy.

She wouldn’t underestimate him, however. She hadn’t come this far to lose to an underclassman because of her own foolishness. She would beat him fair and square. 

Rhiannon stopped a few feet in front of Mortimer. Mr. Wyllt nodded at them with a reminder to “play fair and stay safe” before heading off to investigate a group of students who were getting a little too rowdy.

“Are you ready to begin?” asked Rhiannon.

“I’m ready,” said Mortimer as he got into the ready position.

Rhiannon followed his movements. “Then we start on three. Together-”

“3.”

“2.”

“1.”

“Go!” they shouted together as they both went in to make the first move. Their swords parried against each other before pushing back and leading to their next attacks. 

Rhiannon noticed Mortimer’s movements became more sure and targeted as he realized he would need to pull out all the stops to have a chance to defeat her. Parry, strike, block. Parry, strike, block. They traveled around the field looking for an opening on each other.

The duo appeared evenly matched until Cai yelled out at them from the graveyard. “Hey, Rhi! Morts! The lake!”

Rhiannon glanced over to spot the lake a few steps behind her. Mortimer took the split second opportunity to attempt a lunge, but Rhiannon was able to react fast enough to dodge to the left. She brought her blade down as he overcompensated and nearly fell into the lake, yet Mortimer was able to shift his weight to avoid slipping and parry away her blade in the same movement. 

Both faced each other on the edge of the lake where one wrong foot meant getting wet socks from stepping into the water. The attacks continued with equal fervor until suddenly the loud voice of Ms. Morgans struck them from across the field. “Rhiannon! Mortimer! Stop fighting so close to the edge of the lake!”

The pair were caught off guard which caused both their attacks to miss their targets. Mortimer’s foam blade ended striking Rhiannon’s hand as she was swinging in the direction of the lake, causing her sword to go flying into the water. 

“Shit!” she cursed in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Mortimer instantly as he lowered his sword and got closer, “Is your hand okay?”

Rhiannon opened her eyes to look at her hand. “I think so? Probably just bruised.”

“Sorry again,” Mortimer said as he looked down at her red hand, “I didn’t think I’d actually hit you on that swing.”

“Happens to the best of us,” she said before looking over at the lake where she could see her sword begin to sink below the surface, “Now if only my sword was a bit closer in the water.”

“This is why I told everyone to stay away from the waters edge when fighting,” said Ms. Morgan as she walked over to the pair, “Imagine if one of you had fallen in instead. It’s a straight 3 meter drop down into the water at this point of the lake.”

“Sorry, Ms. Morgan,” the pair responded.

Ms. Morgan looked down at Rhiannon. “Rhiannon, I see that you’ve injured your hand. Let me see it to check the damage.”

“Okay,” said Rhiannon as she lifted her still stinging hand.

“Hmmm…” said Ms. Morgan as she ran her hand up and down Rhiannon’s, “No broken bones, no sprains.”

She released her hand. “You should be all alright now.”

“Thanks,” Rhiannon took back her hand. It didn’t sting anymore.

Ms. Morgan looked out to the lake where the sword had sunk. “I shall get Mr. Wyllt to see if he can scrounge you up another sword, otherwise you should ask your peers if you can borrow theirs. Perhaps Mortimer would be happy to lend you his own sword in return for striking your hand.”

“Yes. Thank you, Ms. Morgan.” 

She turned around to head over to Mr. Wyllt who seemed to be talking to a group of upperclassmen in the back. Mortimer and Rhiannon turned back to the lake. The foam sword had disappeared from the surface. Rhiannon crouched down to the water’s edge and brushed the surface, leaving ripples in her wake. 

“I’m so sorry for knocking your sword out of your hand. I know how much time it took you to make it,” said Mortimer as he crouched down too, “You can use my sword for the rest of the trip. And I’ll make you a new one when we return to school.”

“Thanks, Mortimer,” said Rhiannon as she looked down into the green lake, “But right now, all I want is my trusted sword back.”

All of a sudden, there appeared a glowing object growing larger underneath the surface of the lake. 

“Huh?” said Rhiannon as she and Mortimer began to lean forward to see. 

The glowing object got closer to the surface until a shining sword’s blade rose through it. Rhiannon and Mortimer leaned away to avoid getting stabbed.

The sword raised higher and higher revealing a detailed hilt with two mirrored chimeras and a gemstone embedded at the junction point. It also revealed a pale wet hand gripping the golden handle with a relaxed yet secure grip. Rhiannon and Mortimer watched in silence, unable to move from their spot.

Slowly the hand extended into an arm, then a head, then a face, then a body, until there was a whole woman standing on the water’s surface with a sword lifted into the air with her right arm and a fancy scabbard in her left. The woman had long flowing inky black hair, pale skin tinged purple, and wore an ancient looking ornamental gown. On her head was a golden braided crown. She looked over at the crowd of students who had all stopped what they were doing to look at what seemed to be a group hallucination.

“Hello,” she began, “I am the Lady of the Lake.”

Her voice was soft yet carried across the entire field.

“I’ve come to give the sword Caledfwlch to the next rightful ruler of the Britons.”

The Lady of the Lake looked down at Mortimer and Rhiannon. Mortimer moved to kneel on one leg and nudged Rhiannon to do the same. Lost, she followed. Might as well treat the fae with respect like her family always told her to do.

“Young Rhiannon, daughter of Gwynedd,” she began, “You contain the strength and valor of Arthur himself. You will be the one to lead your people through the upcoming storm. May the spirit of Arthur give you strength.”

She looked up to address the crowd. “May all their spirits give your knights strength.”

Unsure of what came next, Rhiannon looked up at the Lady of the Lake to see her slowly bring down the sword to first tap her right cheek with the flat of the sword and then her left cheek. “I dub thee Lady Rhiannon,” The Lady of the Lake returned the sword into its scabbard, “Put out your hands.”

Rhiannon raised them. “With this sword you shall cut down all your enemies in your path and with this scabbard you shall never bleed. Treasure them and use them more wisely than their previous owner did.”

The sword was placed in Rhiannon’s hands. “I will,” she said confidentantly, “You can trust me to do my best to lead.”

The Lady of the Lake smiled down at her. “I trust you.” 

She looked up again at the crowd. “I trust in your knights to support you as Arthur’s once did.”

Her eyes caught sight of someone as recognition flew into them. Her brow furrowed as the Lady of the Lake spit a stream of lake water at Mr. Wyllt who spluttered, but accepted the blow. Ms. Morgans sidestepped the nearby splashes of water as she rolled her eyes at her co-worker.

Satisfied, the Lady of the Lake smiled at the children who all watched her with wide eyes. “Good luck,” she said before sinking back into the water from whence she came.

The group sat in silence. No one knew how to break the atmosphere to begin to explain what had just happened to them. Rhiannon looked down at the scabbard in her hands. Mortimer leaned over to look as well. Together they admired the intricate stitching along the body leading to a shining hilt. 

The scene was eventually broken by Cai’s loud voice. “Mr. Wyllt! Does this mean Rhi’s the new president of the LARP club?”

Mr. Wyllt chuckled as he twisted the water out of his beard. “I think it means a bit more than that, Cai. But hey, look on the bright side, you don’t need to get a new sword now, Rhiannon.”

Despite how mind-blowing this all was, Rhiannon found herself wanting her foam sword instead. It appeared that the Lady of the Lake was not the greatest at getting items in the lost and found back to their rightful owners. The sword she made was probably still at the bottom of the lake. What a loss.

[daincrediblegg]

2, 9, 11, 12, 22?

2. Do you read/reread your own fics? It really honestly kindof depends on the fandom on this one. Generally speaking when I put some creative thing out there of any kind I am loathe to re-watch or re-read it (with the exception of looking at my own fanart- unless it was especially bad I love looking back at some of my old stuff just for the sheer thrill of seeing how much progress I’ve made) BUtT!!!! There is the exception of when it’s like. I’m either in a fandom in which the character I like gets character assassinated in fics a lot of the time and I need enrichment from outside sources or my own. OR when I’m just in a fandom where people don’t write x reader fics that much for the character and I’m the only one writing them and I have to re-read myself bc that’s the only content out there (current predicament re; everything Jared Harris has been in and it’s a crime that I’ve spent the whole year trying to remedy lmao).

9. Do you write every day? If you wrote today, share a sentence of what you’ve written!

OK SO!!!! This was actually a couple of paragraphs I got down yesterday and it’s some of the more solid stuff I’ve put out in recent months, but I’m very proud of how it turned out:

Sinclair was never particularly fussy when it came to her appearance, which made changing for dinner a fairly brief affair. She had learned from an early age that there was certainly no room for such attentions on a ship, and in fact had great fun in witnessing first-time sea-faring ladies, passengers of course on The Demeter, who tried to keep their appearances in spite of the swell and sway of the high seas. She remembered fondly then, the laugh of Mrs. Rose Anthony. How she’d wished to hear it now and all these months gone past. She would have laughed to see Fitzjames on the deck this morning, with that ridiculous cloak flowing behind him like a peacock with his feathers at half mast. None of the men would see it as she did. Not that she was in too much want of friends among them. But fewer still would understand her sense of humor as Rose had.  Pondering this, Sinclair forewent her shirt and waistcoat- both of which were custom tailored, as it wouldn’t do for the navy to commission such a garment. But her father had, for her sake. One of his many parting gifts. The very same man whose picture Sinclair’s gaze drifted to as she buttoned the deep blue bodice that had also been part of the set he had purchased for her, this one long sleeved to match the deep blue flannel day skirt she kept on, and which had served her so well in the chilly climate. She’d missed too how well he’d been able to do her hair for an occasion like this, where Sinclair now only managed a bun tied fairly neatly to the back of her head (more than she’d dare to manage for her daily duties, she might add), but it suited her all the same for the impression Sir John, and indeed, most of the men had of her. Neat as a pin. Diligent. A fixture of a plain sort of beauty in the corner. Never the center of their attentions, but never quite ignored.

12. Do you have a playlist for your current WIP(s)? Share it!

As I said in the other ask I have like. Just so many. None of them coherent- but THIS ONE has been my instrumental inspiration for a little while so there you have it. Someday I will consolidate all my fave lady terror vibes into a proper playlist... but that is not today...

22. Do you know how your fic will end before you start writing?

I mean… sort of. Like in general I do like to have some kind of sense where something is going before I start it- if it’s anything I’ve learned from commercial failures like GOT and the Star Wars Sequels it’s that poor planning will fucking kill you because actually as it turns out narrative structure is important. But at the same time- I think this was a quote from George R.R. Martin that some writers are “builders” who have everything pre-conceived before they put anything down (in reference to Stephen King), and some are “gardeners” (like George) who let stories just grow as they go. For me personally I’ve never felt too tied to either camp, so I put forth my secret third option being: “chef”. I know what I want the end-product to be. I have a general sense of what it should taste like and how I should cook it-thematically speaking. But things still come up as I go. Sometimes it needs a bit more of one spice than another and I try to listen to those instincts when they tell me to add something to what I’m making. 

11 ANSWERED HERE

[erisluna35ocblog]

N2CatS Omake idea: Renember how Hisui knew of Adrien's arival in the future because of a book Bunnix was implied to dropped off on her? I'm like, what if Marinette passed on a hundred tips on how to care for her cat like she did with Alya in Hacksan? There's Bunnix giving Hisui some time shennanigan guidelines and there's Marinette, dropping a list of Adrien's favorite foods and allergies and how her kitty at age 14 needed plenty of enrichment so please don't coop him up too much even if its for his own safety. While Adrien dropped a more encouraging note because Adrien remembered his time there but now has more context for the old lady, who, to him, is also a girl he raised and mentored... Just gonna leave this note here before I forget.

[storytelling-unlimited]

Prompt by @givethispromptatry here.

I hope you all enjoy this. This whole this is under a cut due to length.

Sasha’s boots splashed through the pothole-ladened pavements of Starmanger Street. These were new boots, scarlet red and short-heeled at the bottom. Getting muddy and dirty by walking through streets they weren’t designed to be seen on. The pinnacle of style for young ladies these days, as the salesclerk had pitched to her mother when she bought them for her. If she were a fussier person, she would have probably been bothered by it. But her only real complaint was that they pinched. In any case, she needed some sturdy shoes for this trek outside, and these were the sturdiest shoes she presently owned.

“This would go fabulously with that red coat of yours,” Mother had told her. The new red coat, gifted by her mother after another shopping spree where she bought too many things. Sasha did not care very much for that coat. It was fragile and thin. A pretty, lacy thing meant to be draped around pretty dresses, not to ward off the cold and the wet. Quite frankly, it was a coat that failed at being a coat. At least if one believed that coats should be worn to ward off the cold. Sasha saw no reason why she should wear something like that if she already had a perfectly functional coat to call her own.

She hugged her coat closer to her body, wishing that she had brought a belt with her. It was her old brown coat, thick with fur and leather layered on top of each other. She had owned that coat for five years at that point. For people of her social standing owning clothes for that long was akin to keeping rotting vegetables in the refrigerator. Yet she simply liked the coat too much to let it go. It was warm and comfortable, plus when she first got it at thirteen it had been just slightly too big for her. As she grew up, she grew into it, and it was currently just a little too small for her. Still, it remains standing. It was durable, reliable, and as non-fungible as a clothing item could be. A perfectly comforting piece of clothing to brave an unfamiliar environment in.

Ah, Starmanger Street. Sasha grew up being told that she should never traverse to this part of the city. Every parent, every teacher, every caretaker in her life. In her thousand-dollar magic enrichment classes, her tutors all told her that Starmanger Street was where the scum of the magic world ended up. Many of her tutors were like her; born to a wealthy background and taught from young within the walls of these elite institutions. In particular, a tutor from her pre-teen years held a particular hatred of the place. And if it was ever brought up, he would go into long, angry rants about why he so despised the place, that miserable street.

His name was Mr Cox. When he was a boy, he had been a star pupil in his magic classes. He had been the son of a wealthy businessman and an heiress to a chain of hotels, and any class on magic was given to him if he had requested it. He took it all, and excelled in them all. But in his mind, he simply had to. “I had to be the good one, because my brother would never be that.”

Mr Edward Cox’s elder brother Martin had been the embodiment of sloth and sloppiness, he had told the class. While Mr Edward Cox would bring home the best grades for his class, always appearing in ‘student of the year’ pictures with a pressed suit and a sensible haircut, Martin Cox did the opposite. He skipped classes, dressed haphazardly, and never bothered to properly groom himself. He was a tall, lanky, hairy man who hardly bathed and didn’t work. And he, like his brother, had dreams of becoming a magician. 

There were many paths a magician could take. One could become a wizard, a witch, an alchemist, a paladin. If one really wanted to reach for the stars, one would try to become a sorcerer. There were also the all-purpose magicians, folks who were not really any one particular type of magician. A common joke among magicians was that these folks were either experimental eccentrics, or lazy bums who couldn’t succeed in much of anything. With his dreams to become a sorcerer, Edward Cox saw himself to be miles away from where his brother stood. Martin was stupid and lazy, and hardly cared for anything in the world. His family had quietly disowned him, and he sank down from his life of luxury and privilege into the depths of Starmanger Street.

Edward Cox ultimately never became a sorcerer. But he ranked high enough as a wizard to teach at one of the very institutions he was once an alumnus of. Every year, youths who were once just like he was came into the school. And every year, he made it his duty to turn them into brilliant young magicians who took a path like he did. His brother had been a failure of a magician and an embarrassment to magic, and every year, he told his students his brother’s story in the hopes that no one would ever turn out like him.

“You must all remember: the only true way to become a magician is to work hard. Creativity, talent, experimentation. These are all fine tools to have in your arsenal, but ultimately, you need to study hard in school. You are all a brilliant batch, bright and talented enough to attend these schools. Don’t waste this chance and become some layabout failure.” They all said that, all the teachers. Magic was a brilliant art, and the way one excelled at it was to work hard and study it. At times, they hardly had the opportunity to try out any magic in the classes, because the teachers were all so focused on making sure the kids were excelling in their book-learning. 

“But what about Jo Granter?” Sasha had asked one time. She had been thirteen. An avid reader outside of school. And among the many heroes of modern magic that she learned of from her own reading, Jo Granter stood out in the crowd to her.

Jo Granter was among one of the most famous self-taught magicians. Born to a poor family, she had spent her days studying as much magic as she could. She used to check out every book on magic she could find in the library. She took community classes on basic magic as a young adult. She went out on the road to showcase all her brilliant performances. She studied to become a nurse, and then later made a career change to become a social worker. Using that experience, she ended up creating her own form of magic. It’s a relatively new branch, but people have started calling her the mother of Fairy Godparents. The most impressive thing about her was how she had become the person she is, and from such humble beginnings too.

This was the point where her teachers would explain, “yes, yes, she was a rather brilliant person. But alas, not everyone has the unique talent she has.” Jo Granter was an aberration. An oddity. A one in a million billion trillion occurrence. “If magic were so easy to learn, surely everyone would be able to do it. But it is not, and not everybody can. Which is exactly why these schools were set up. Now children like you can learn about magic, and you can learn about it properly.”

Classes consisted mostly of book learning. Learning theories of magic, magic history, learning about the different fields of magic and what one can learn from each one of them. Sasha’s parents, like many parents of the children attending these schools, invested a lot of money into getting her the best possible equipment for her classes. The most high-quality cauldron, the newest model of wand, special notebooks with gems and ancient sigils and eyes on the cover. But tragically they often sat unused in the bags and lockers of their children. Only occasionally, if the teachers felt like the children had appropriately grasped the concepts of magic, would they be asked to take out their wands and their cauldrons. Finally, the drawing chalk and the potion ingredients would be taken out of the supply closet. Then, and only those few times, did they actually play around with magic in school.

It was a risk being out here. A real risk, and in her heart of hearts Sasha could feel panic squirming around, like a snake in a sealed box desperate to break free. But she had to swallow her fear. Swallow it down tightly. Bravery was a rough mountain to scale, but Sasha brought her boots and her ice picks, and she will not let go of this will she had. This will to go out, this will to head into the unknown, she simply couldn’t let go of that.

*****

Sasha was about seven years old when she decided that she wanted to be a magician. Prior to that point, the things she cared most about in life were owning more toys, eating more sweets, and getting the attention of her ever-working, ever-busy parents. They were always so busy. And when they weren’t busy they were dressed up and going out to parties. When they weren’t doing that, they were throwing parties at home. During these times, they would tell Sasha to be a good girl, stay in her room, and play with her toys quietly.

Sasha had, as far as she knew, always been a ‘good girl’. Obedient and polite, nice to her parents, and she would never go out of her way to be mischievous towards anyone. Her father and mother attributed it to the strict upbringing she had. Though they were simply too busy to really stay around and look after her for long, they found the best nannies, maids and babysitters to care for her in their stead. These caretakers were stern in their approach to children. Many abided by the idea that children should be seen, and not heard. Sasha could not remember much of the earliest parts of her childhood. But she remembered the feeling of fear found its way into her psyche quickly. If an adult in her life told her to not do something, you can bet that she wouldn’t do it. It always used to freak her out whenever she saw other children engaging in mischief and mayhem, following their own whims. They would march on without fear, into off-limit rooms and out of bounds locations, off to do some forbidden action that the adults specifically told them not to do. Sasha would stand back, worried about what sort of trouble they may get themselves into. Fear of punishment was such a core part of her being. How could she dare step out of line?

This was, of course, the ideal sort of child to the adults in her life. Finally, a child who actually listened to them. When she was older, she started getting rewards for such behaviour. When the week had finished, and her parents were not busy at work, they would bring her out to formal occasions as a treat. Fancy dinners, theatre performances, ballets and operas. There Sasha would sit, dressed in her pretty, frilly dresses. Sometimes one of the nannies or maids would tie up her hair all cute, with ribbons and hairclips. And when she went out with her parents, she would be the most well-behaved child anyone had ever seen.

“How polite, how charming,” her parents bumped into acquaintances often while out and about. They dawned over her silence and her seeming lack of want or need. Their nieces, their nephews, their own grandchildren and children. They could never be like her. “So well-behaved,” they would say. Sasha would smile, and after being promoted enough times, she would remember to thank them.

She could convince the world of her good manners simply by keeping quiet and staying still. No one ever yelled at a child who was still. No one could get such a child into any sort of trouble. Yes, if she wanted to stay out of harm's way, it was best to pretend that she did not exist at all. And to so many adults in her life, that sort of child was an acceptable one. The most acceptable sort of child. Finally, a worthy accessory to take out. Finally, an obedient child.

And then there was one day. They took her out to see a magic show unlike any other magic show she had seen before. Her prior experiences with magic were mostly stage magicians. Hucksters who performed cheap tricks out of an instruction manual to entertain children for birthday parties and holiday dinners. But this magic show, now that was different. 

They got actual magicians to perform. Brilliant figures, in elaborate costumes and with prowess and skill beyond anything she’d ever seen. The music was loud, so that it could fill up the entire amphitheatre. And the music combined with their movements, performing what seemed like dances after dances with magic. Showing off their skills and talents with such rhythm and grace. The loudness and flash, the sights and the sound and the feeling, they all melted together into a pounding sensation that she could feel in the very depths of her heart. Once she saw the show, with its stunning music and magic and lights and beauty, something deep within her broke free from a cage she had no idea was locked. Inside, Sasha was never quite the same again.

*****

Sasha swore that someday, once she truly had the freedom to choose out her own clothes, she should refurbish her entire wardrobe. Choose clothes which were much more practical than what she currently owned. Most of her clothes had been designed for the purpose of looking pretty, which was fine on its own. But if she truly wanted to excel at magic, she figured she needed to go out and experience more things. She needed to scout and hike, to travel and search. To scour dusty, ancient libraries and look for old teachers who no longer left their homes. In order to experience more out there, she had to dress to prepare. Which meant less lacy dresses and more practical clothing.

Even with the most practical clothes in her wardrobe, Sasha still felt out of her element. Starmanger Street was an incredibly wet place. It looked wet, felt wet, and now it was beginning to smell wet. It was about to rain again, she knew. Maybe she should have brought an umbrella, or one of her waterproof ponchos. 

Sasha walked around the neighbourhood, absorbing the sights and sounds like a sponge. Starmanger Street, the home of the struggling magician. Most folks who lived here were probably out working at this time. Working as cleaners, cashiers, service staff. Making themselves valuable to people who were of her class. Sasha looked into her coat, where she had stashed away her weekly allowance. It was probably more than most people here made in a month. And she hoped that money could help someone out here. Heaven knows, anyone living out here probably needed the money more than she did.

But first, she had to find someone who was willing to teach her anything.

Sasha was familiar with the code of magicians. Not capital M Magicians, like what she had been trained to be her whole life. Capital M Magicians were all star and glamour. Everyone knew what such a magician was like, and they were always granted the best for anything. They didn’t need special codes to talk about anything. Not when everything was already special and laid out for them already. 

True magic - the type of magic she read about - was something special. Real magic, beautiful magic, divine magic. The type of magic Sasha dreamed of doing. Now, that required codes. Not everyone wished for that type of magic to exist. Why would they? Such magic only disrupts and disturbs the status quo. Many people, mostly the rich and powerful, would do anything they could to squash that kind of magic. This type of magic was a revolutionary act. To create, to think, to conjure up something into existence. Magic at its purest state was egalitarian, a true equaliser where no one had to be one thing for long, and anyone could seek out the power if they so desired. Institutions and societal structures ended up transforming magic into something else entirely. A way of ranking up and retreading old roads under the guise of innovation. But… real magic still existed somewhere. And it was dangerous. And it was cutting-edge. And still very few wanted anything to do with it.

More than anything, Sasha wanted to try her hand at that mythical real magic. Have a taste of it, brush her fingertips with that world. If only because a life where she did not even try would be a life that fizzles into waste.

The streets were empty, but hopefully folks would start to return home soon. Sasha consulted her watch, and by right, it should be quitting time. She was well aware of how many residents here had to end up working overtime, for a number of reasons, most of them terrible. But… maybe she could find someone. Someone soon. Ideally before anyone found out that she was missing. Most of the staff at home stopped paying attention to her once she was old enough to lock herself up in her room and refuse to interact with anybody. And that day she knew her parents had an important wedding dinner to attend in the evening. Some daughter of a politician marrying one of the finest young millionaires in the city. He had gotten rich off of starting up his own business; a company which shipped groceries to other people around the city. Her parents subscribed to such a service. As she walked through the cramped apartment complexes, grey and decrepit thanks more to neglect rather than age, she spotted a couple of homes which had the iconic orange uniforms hanging out to dry with the rest of the laundry.

She wandered about a bit, tapping on doors she hoped had someone in them. Oh, how tired were her feet, how she hoped to sit down somewhere and rest for a bit. Ideally with a cup of tea, chatting with a witch on her future magic education discussing the topic of payment (which would be no issue for her). Surely there had to be someone around here who was still at home. Sasha mourned the lack of chimney’s in this block of buildings. Historically speaking, witches had always inhabited little cottages. There, people could always see whether or not a witch was in. Smoke piping out of the chimney in big, grey puffs. The clearest sign in the world that someone was in.

As it was, she walked around carefully. Skipping over litter, potholes, puddles and pieces of dog shit that no one bothered to pick up. Keeping eyes, ears, and nose open for any signs of an inhabitant.

And as it turned out, she could hear the faint sounds of a radio playing somewhere in the immediate area.

Sasha turned quickly, towards the direction of the radio. A pop song that was way overplayed grew louder and louder as she walked. Every other noise, from the nearby traffic to the loud calls of crows, faded away into the background. She could feel it. Someone she could talk to about her continued education. Practically everyone in this neighbourhood was some flavour of magician. Even if she herself wasn’t, or was unwilling to teach her for whatever reason, surely she could still at least point her to another willing teacher.

The noise seemed to be at its loudest at block 13B. A small house, like all houses in this neighbourhood. With miscellaneous items all strewn around the minimal yard the home came with. All sorts of strange knick knacks and tchotchkes. Peculiar wind chimes and ugly garden gnomes. A colourful knitted net, there to always catch the direction the wind blew in. Several pots full of strange plants. A few old shoes filled with dirt containing fresh saplings. A dirty little elephant-shaped watering can in the corner. The strong smell of… something. A whole bunch of different things, if Sasha were to try and place her finger on it. Spices and tea and perfume and something delicious baking in an oven. This was the smell of heaviness, homeliness. This was the smell of a witch’s house. 

Sasha walked up the steps leading to the door eagerly. When she spotted no doorbell, she lightly rapped on the door once, twice, three times. And then waited, waited. No response. She knocked again, a little harder this time. Surely someone would hear something this time.

A rustling of keys, the metallic sound of unlocking. And then the door swung open. Out of instinct, Sasha reverted into the state and mindset of a beauty. She smiled, dusted her coat off subconsciously, and stood up straight and tall. This was how she had been trained to present herself to other people all her life. And she was glad she extended that courtesy to the witch in front of her. 

The witch in front of her looked vastly different from most people in her life. When Sasha met other people in their homes, typically they would be dolled up. They only ever let in guests for socials and parties, so they were always dressed up for these events. Looking neat and tidy, prim and proper. Surrounded by cosmetics and luxuries. They seemed like the type of people who should be put away in glass enclosures. Where they could stay in their pristine state forever, untouched by human hands. Comparing the witch in front of her would feel like comparing a thousand dollar gown to a cheap megamart dress.

Yet, she had to admit, there was something about her that was majestic in its own way. An energy about her which commanded respect and attention. A pride that was palpable. An air that was awesome. She seemed to dress in a cheap mashup of items. Colourful makeup bought at a corner shop somewhere. That heavy blue shade of eyeshadow and dark purple folks associated more with costume makeup than anything one would wear day-to-day. A practical black dress which looked like it could take any number of spills, accidents, and washes. Rubber sandals which were probably slipped on because the witch was too tired to wear any other type of shoe. An assortment of plastic bangles and chunky earrings and arts and craft project necklaces hung from her like Christmas ornaments on a fir tree. The witch’s skin was as pink and blotchy as a peach and her long hair was as dark and greasy as an oil spill. She was the most magnificent person Sasha had ever laid eyes on.

“Yeah?” She asked, hands on her hips. “What do you want?”

“Are you a witch?” Asked Sasha, excited to try out this code. The code of magicians was written about all the time. In books, in zines, the books and zines no one else reads. She borrowed as many as she could out of the library, and spent hours holed away within the building reading reference-only.

“Why?” Asked the witch. Sasha noted the quirk in her brow. The relaxing of her features. As if she wanted to know where this conversation was going.

“I want to be a frog,” recited Sasha from memory. 

The witch sighed. “I’m not that kind of witch.” She stepped aside, gesturing Sasha towards a messy living room. “Why don’t you come in and sit for a bit. Lucky for you, I made brownies today.”

Sasha joyfully stepped in, glad to finally be able to get off her feet. Inside, the witch’s house was a real mess. Every surface seemed to be covered with some sort of clutter. Dolls, books, arts and crafts projects, toys, crystals, flowers, and even a skull could be spotted all around her. The room had no coherent theme. The striking purple of the sofa clashed with the green-yellow curtains, which in turn clashed with the bright orange rug and the tablecloth on the coffee table. On one part of the sofa, a pile of wool and some knitting needles lay abandoned, frozen halfway through a craft project of some sort. A small furry thing squirmed its way out from under the coffee table. It was a black cat. As it looked up, it gazed lazily up at Sasha, and then proceeded to pay her no mind.

The sound of the radio continued to echo through the room. If Sasha looked carefully, she knew she could probably find where it was hidden among this vast collection of things. Like some sort of find-the-item puzzle game. The ones she saw at the bookshops all the time growing up.

The witch left for the kitchen when Sasha walked in. When she walked out again, she held a tray with a plate of brownies, a snowman-shaped tea kettle, and two mismatched coffee mugs. “I hope you don’t mind chamomile,” she told her. “It’s the only sort of tea I’ve got left. I’ll need to go grocery shopping soon.” She chuckled, seeming to be a little more at ease than she had been when Sasha first knocked. 

“It’s really no problem,” said Sasha. The witch placed the tray down on the only empty spot left on the coffee table (which was mostly filled with papers, books, painted rocks functioning as paperweights, and a plastic toy horse), and there, Sasha faced a brief conundrum. 

Was it polite to accept a meal from the witch? Those brownies did look good. All oozing chocolate, smelling sweet. But was it right for her to eat something like this? When she had so much and the witch, being a resident here, was so much poorer? What was the protocol here? She tried to remember.

And then the witch grinned that cheerful little grin of hers, and tilted her head. “Well, you don’t have to wait. Come on and tuck in!” And as if commanded, Sasha reached out from a brownie, and sank her teeth into it. A chocolatey burst of flavour filled her mouth, warmth oozing in like lava into a mountain’s crevice. It was one of the best things she had ever tasted. After finishing off that one, she could not help but reach for another one. 

“So,” began the witch, smiling. “Let’s introduce ourselves first. My name is Angela Angleton. But you can really call me anything. Angela, Angie, Angel, all fine. How would you like for me to address you?”

Sasha looked up from her consumption of brownies, and licked the corners of her lips clean. In any other setting, she probably would have been embarrassed to do such a thing in front of company. Yet in front of Angela. Such behaviour seemed right and natural somehow. “My name’s Sasha,” she introduced.

“As in, Sasha St Clair?” Asked Angela, a wink in her eyes.

Sasha nearly choked on the brownie in her mouth. “Well, now I’ve got to know: how did you do that?” She had heard real witchcraft could make a person extremely powerful, able to do the most mysterious things. Surely this could be a start in learning the secrets of the craft.

Angela smiled. “It’s simple really. I’ve seen you occasionally on the news.” She poured the tea out carefully into the mugs. “Your hair’s a very distinctive shade of blonde. As long as someone pays enough attention, I think they could figure out that it was you.”

Sasha paused in her place, before clumsily reaching out for a mug of tea. “Oh… so, that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Angela smiled and nodded. “Much of witchcraft really is just observing what’s there. Noting and reading and looking and seeing what’s there, and then storing away that information until it’s become useful.”

Sasha nodded, storing away that information into her mind, to be used sometimes later. 

“But I do wonder,” said Angela, blowing on her own mug of tea to cool it down. “Why would someone like you come all the way out here to get a teacher? I would assume that someone of your standing could very easily get a teacher. Any sort. The most accomplished, successful magicians in the land. Why go out here to find someone, using old magician’s code of all things too?”

Sasha took a sip of the tea. It had this burnt sort of flavour. The water was almost definitely way above the recommended temperature for brewing this sort of tea. Yet she couldn’t help but find that the flavour was just right. The poorly made tea was the worst tea she’d ever had in her life, yet drinking it probably was a sign that she was having more fun and doing something more interesting, than she would have done if she had stayed home and had her perfectly prepared afternoon tea. 

“Well…” she began, fingers curled tightly around the mug. It was some sort of souvenir from a trip to some place. Showing a picture of what looked like an important landmark of some sort. But what exactly the landmark was, she couldn’t tell. From young, Sasha had been terrible with geography. Her mind had always been better equipped to comprehend what could be, rather than what was, she thought.

“Yes?” Prompted Angela. She smiled patiently, but her bouncing leg said eager, curious anticipation at her answer.

“I think… I wanted to learn some real magic,” answered Sasha. And once she said that, suddenly all the words started to fall out. “Growing up I always felt like the type of magic I learned was somewhat off. We barely got to actually practise it, and so much focus was on memorising what came before us. When we actually got to try out magic for ourselves, so much of it was just simple spells. The basic stuff. Anyone could learn it by copying a video of a magician over and over again.

“But I want to do more, is the thing. I wanted to be like these magicians I see on stage. These cool innovators, who are always pushing magic in new directions. I see them up on stage, and their skill and their talents and their conviction and their passion… it’s all palpable.” She took another bitter, burned sip of her tea. “I want that sort of passion. I want people to be able to feel it out of my own magic.”

“And you can’t find that with your current training,” said Angela. Sasha nodded. “It’s all such clean magic. Everything I could learn was so polished and perfected, it felt like that was nothing I could do to innovate or push it.”

Angela quietly placed her mug back on the tray. It was only now that Sasha realised that she didn’t seem to own any coasters. 

“Well, that is a good explanation. Tale as old as long as magic has had a hierarchy.” Angela reached for one of her own brownies, and took a big bite out of it. “Though in the past it was always the poorer kids coming to the folks with money to get some training or funding.”

“Speaking of money,” said Sasha. She reached into her coat pockets and grabbed a wad of cash. As she did, she realised that she hadn’t taken her coat off yet. Was it impolite? Angela didn’t appear to mind very much if it was. “If we are going to do this, how much should I pay you?”

Angela smirked. “How much do you have?”

Sasha pulled out a fistful of hundred dollar bills. Angela’s eyes widened. “Is this enough?”

Angela picked up her dropping jaw before it could sag all the way down. “I can’t possibly accept this.” She shook her head. “Not all of this.”

“Surely you could make use of this money somehow, though,” said Sasha. “Please. You’ve already agreed to teach me magic - real magic. That’s been my biggest dream ever since I was a little girl. I need to be able to pay you back somehow.”

Angela looked at her, considering her like a mother deciding what to cook for dinner. It was one of the tensest moments of Sasha’s life. The hope of a new sort of life, the hope that she could possibly do something interesting and fantastic with it. That hope starts here. Going out here had already been a risk. Travelling on the train and the bus for the first time, navigating the winding streets of the city, Being on her guard to avoid getting mugged or worse by anyone who may recognise her. All of it made her realise how unequipped she had been for living regularly. She could not leave empty-handed. The trip absolutely cannot go to waste.

Angela appeared to reach out for the money, but then she gripped Sasha’s hand tightly. “Tell you what,” she began, “why don’t we make a deal?”

Sasha could only nod. In witchcraft, a deal could mean any number of things. They would always be a risk, but some risks simply had to be taken. That was the first lesson any magician worth their salt learned. A lesson that could not be taught, but would eventually be picked up.

“How much money do you get as an allowance every month?” She asked.

Sasha had wanted to ask how she knew that was her allowance money. But upon thinking about it, realised it would be obvious to anyone who thought a little. “About… five hundred a week. So it should be two thousand dollars every month.” “Right then. Tell you what. Every month, I give you an assignment. You go out and get something for a family living in this neck of the woods. Anything they may need. School supplies, birthday cake mix, new clothes, something. I’ll tell you what they need at the end of the month, and then you come and visit me and hand me the items you’ve gathered. I’ll be specific about some of them if needed. Some things folks need here are different from the grand, gourmet stuff you’re used to. But I’ll try not to be too specific. 

“While doing this, you also cannot let anyone know that this is what you’ve been spending your money on. Not a soul can be told, not unless you’re positive that they’d also be willing to help you in this endeavour. Every month, I’ll make sure that you only spend about five hundred dollars, so you still get to keep a thousand five hundred for yourself. If you want to meet these families, let me know and I’ll figure something out. But as much as possible, I encourage you to stay anonymous about doing this.”

Sasha’s eyes widened. For a minute, she found herself clinging onto her dollar bills tighter. As if afraid that they may disappear into thin air. She paused, unsure of what to say. 

“Well, do you have any objections to this deal? You can always back out,” said Angela. In a tone of voice which meant what she said.

Sasha looked up, then looked around the room. The place was messy, filled with the traces of life, lived-in in a way so unlike her own upbringing. Her own childhood was filled with sterility. Picture perfect minimal homes filled with the latest furniture and the dullest colour. With any belongings thrown out the minute something goes out of style. They were all beautiful rooms. Living rooms and bedrooms and bathrooms and kitchens which belonged on the cover of magazines. They were meticulously upkept. Armies of cleaners and maids and cooks worked behind the scenes, making sure that nothing fell out of place. Not a spot of dust could be perceived, lest someone gets fired that day. Sasha’s toys and dolls were kept strictly to one playroom as a child. Both as a testament to their wealth; how grand it was that their only child had a beautiful room all for herself simply to play with her mountains of toys. But also so that her mess - all those dolls and books and stuffed animals and balls and crayons and plastic instruments - did not leave their containment and contaminate the stylishness of the rest of their perfectly curated house. 

This room was filled with toys. Arts and craft projects, books, dust, crumbs, spills, scribbles, clothes, mess. Half the furniture was outdated from different decades. Foraged from yard sales and thrift stores here and there. Interior design magazines be damned, they could not afford better furniture. No doubt, this was a place that was absolutely brimming with life. It was impossible to push the human out of your mind in such a room. The signs of life were just too strong. You simply could not look away.

She thought of the money in her pocket. What would she spend it on? Perhaps watch a show? But there were only so many movies and performances going on in a month, and there was no way she could attend them all. Let alone if she had any interest at all. She could buy some food. But, she already ate plenty already, and she always had a ton of money leftover anyways. Why eat more than she could chew? What good would that even do anyone? She could buy more things for herself. Clothes, or books on magic. But what good would they be? She had whole wardrobes filled with clothes already. Most of them haven’t even been worn by her yet. Sure, she wanted to refurbish her wardrobe, but only once she could move out, and no one could press her on why she started dressing like the lead to an adventure story. And books on magic sounded enticing, yet wouldn’t learning magic with a teacher be better? Better than simply reading another book and memorising the facts given to her. That brought her mentally back to the deal. She looked up, up at a patient Angela awaiting her response.

“You know what?” Sasha placed the cash on the table. “I’ll accept the deal.”

Angela smiled, and patted Sasha triumphantly on the shoulder. “I’m happy that you’ve taken it up.”

“But now that that’s done, I simply have to ask,” said Sasha, as she realised she had not brought this up once her whole time here. (Why? What magic possessed her that she didn’t even bother bringing it up?) “When can I start learning from you? Where do I report?”

And at that question, Angela merely smiled and patted her on the shoulder again. “You’ve already begun. Go where you’re next needed to continue on to your next lesson.”