#so i am stoked for these shelves

[deepwoundsandfadedscars]

An aunt from the States is visiting this week and she brought some gifts for me, which is ten bone china teacups and a couple shelves that are specifically for displaying teacups 😍 the part of my soul that is a 70-year-old lady is very happy this week

[smut-anarchy]

Own Me - Prologue

Summary: You accidentally broke a priceless relic and got caught. The Slytherin heir himself, Mattheo Riddle, makes it simple: you do what he says and no one finds out; the catch is, he owns you now and he'll do whatever he wants with your mind... and your body.

Tags: Dubious Consent, Dom!Mattheo, Gryffandor!Reader, Cursing, Blackmail (More Tags Later)

Rewritten As Of: 12/26/2024

Word Count: 1,917 Words

A/N: Years ago I watched Ouran High School Host Club (iykyk) and then this past weekend I finished the amazing @iniquitousyearning (formerly @slytherinslut0) Beg For Me Series (seriously go read it) and I was totally inspired by the two, thus Own Me was born! I've never written smut before so be patient with me. All my love and I hope you enjoy! XOXO - Angel

This was such a stupid fucking way to die.

Okay, maybe you wouldn’t go that far. But as a Gryffindor, sneaking into the Slytherin common was still one of the worst things you could do, right along with standing under the Whomping Willow blindfolded or wandering into the nearby Acromantula den. Yet still, you were here, stupidly, because Daphne Greengrass had taken your wand. 

“Little mudblood lions who don’t know their place don’t get their wands. I think it’ll look great collecting dust in one of the Slytherin vases.”

Bitch. One could argue that prior to her theft of your wand you had been stoking the fires of her ire by callings her an “inbred wretch in pearls with the intelligence of a toadstool” though you’d found her more than deserving after catching her picking on a small group of second years. I mean seriously, what kind of asshole picks on a bunch of twelve year olds?

So now, here you were, sticking your face through every fucking vase in the Slytherin common room, desperately searching for your wand before any Slytherin happened upon you. Dinner in the great hall would only last another twenty minutes so if you didn’t find it in the next ten minutes your only options were to somehow hide from every Slytherin until everyone was asleep and search then or leave and tell Snape, and telling Snape meant house points deductions and surely some ridicule and detentions. Between the options of hell no and fuck no your panic was rising, making you feel jittery and unbearably stressed. Why the fuck does Slytherin have this many vases in their common room?! They don’t even have flowers! 

There was only one vase left, it had to be in there, unless Daphne was a liar, which wasn’t completely off the table either. Regrettably, it was the largest vase, towering a good foot above your head. It was jade green, with intricate gold details, and for whatever reason it seemed to give off an ominous feeling, as if it was watching you. With how tall the vase was you had no idea how you were going to get your wand out, but the clock was ticking and you only had about two minutes before you absolutely had to get out of there or risk being found. If my wand is in there I am going to hex the shit out of Daphne.

The vase sat between a bookcase and the fireplace, so as carefully as you could you used the bookshelves to leverage yourself up just enough to peek into the vase. And there, at the bottom of the vase was your wand. Climbing further up the shelves and using the stone mantle to support your body, you lowered your top half into the vase, stretching your arms in an attempt at reaching your wand. You were nowhere near being able to reach your wand, so you figured you could slip in further, grab your wand, and then use the fireplace and bookcase to pull yourself out. Good plan!

Using a small amount of force to propel your lower half from the book case you clumsily tumbled into the large vase, your body folding in half at the bottom of the vase. Unfortunately, due to your focus you neglected to hear the click of the common room door opening. 

Your body’s ungracious fall in the vase rocked it back and forth, swirling you and your wand at the bottom, before it tipped too far right and toppled to the ground, shattering it and releasing you and your wand. 

Your head was still dazed from your plunge into the vase, but you opened your eyes to behold your wand in front of you. 

“Fuck yes! I did it!” You cheered. Although a hollow victory, since you destroyed a Slytherin vase, but you’d promised to reparo it before you left and no one would be the wiser.

No one, that is except the owners of the eyes on you. You’d looked to your right and there, sitting stunned on the common room couches were the worst five people who could have witnessed you: Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Enzo Berkshire, Theo Nott and Mattheo Riddle. 

Fuck. 

Not one word was uttered. You looked between the shocked boys, you were in direct line of the door. If you’d went around the couches they’d surely grab you or have time to get in front of you and stop you, but if you went right down the middle, using the table between them to leap off you’d make it to the door and sprint so far away before they’d have time to catch you.

No time to think about logistics you’d lept up, grabbing your wand and ran towards them, leaping on the table and dashing across the surface, using the end to spring towards the door. 

“Oh no you don’t! Incarcerous!” 

While you were mid-air ropes wrapped around your legs and wrists, bringing you dropping to the ground with a painful “oof”. 

You rolled over, seeing Draco as the caster of the spell, wearing a smug grin on his face.

“Hey boys,” you squeaked, “This is all just a misunderstanding! Let me out of these ropes and we could talk, yeah?”

“I forget, do misunderstandings usually have the accused running away from their crime?” Theo questioned amusingly, his face holding an interested smirk.

“Listen, one of your housemates stole my wand and threw it in there and I was just trying to get it back, okay? I didn’t mean to break it and I would’ve repaired it and slipped out before anyone knew I was here.” You attempted to shimmy your wrists out of the ropes but to no avail, their tightness giving you a slight chaffing burn on your delicate skin. 

The boys stared at you puzzled, before jeering smiles cracked onto their faces and they burst into rowdy laughter. 

“You have no idea what you broke, do you little lion?” Enzo teased, his eyes alight with mischief and cruel enjoyment.

Their laughter and amusement was stirring an unsetting feeling in your gut. These boys had a reputation of being completely sadistic to those who crossed them, having them mock you was filling you with unease and panic. You shook your head at them, trying to display a neutral reaction to their taunts. 

“You broke an enchanted vase, lion. It can’t be repaired.” Blaise snickered.

Oh no. Fuck. Fuckitty Fuck.

You called upon all of your strength to not let your dread show. You steeled your mouth into a hard line and glared your eyes. 

“Okay fine, so I broke an ugly, big, magical vase. I’m sorry. Can I please leave now?”

Enzo and Draco were laughing in full on howls now, with Blaise and Theo sniggering to each other, sharing silent jokes between themselves. You made eye contact with Mattheo, who oddly had not said a word and was not sounding his hilarity like the others. His face held a mocking sneer, but his eyes, those obsidian black calculating eyes, stared at you, as if he was curious of this lion who had wandered into their viper den.

“You don’t sound sorry.” His voice cracked through the laughter, the other boys sounds dying out at his voice. 

“It wasn’t intentional and like I said, I was here because my wand was stolen and I-“

“Funny you should say that,” he interrupted, the edge in his voice seeping into your bones like ice, “I’m sure not a single Slytherin would admit to doing such a thing. So really, all we know for sure is that you broke into our common room and broke a thousands of years old enchanted relic from Salazar Slytherin.”

Your mouth dried up, anxiety going haywire throughout your body. On the one hand, your pride did not want to apologize to this absolutely smug, antagonistic Slytherin group, especially since it wasn’t your fault you were here to begin with. On the other hand, you broke a priceless, unfixable treasure from the fucking founder of Slytherin, if Snape found out he’d take you to Dumbledore, you would get expelled. 

A cold sweat covered your body, fear clawing your throat and your eyes building up water. “I-I didn’t know, I swear. I would never sneak in here to do something like that on purpose. Please, I’ll do anything to make up for it.”

Mattheo’s intense gaze twitched in interest, “Anything?” You nodded your head earnestly, still feeling the nervous panic tingling through out your body. 

“Untie her.” Mattheo snapped. Enzo and Blaise were the first to come out of the fascination in watching you and Mattheo, getting to work quickly on your ankles and wrists. Upon being freed from the binds you rubbed your wrists, slightly raw from the scratchy rope. You stared up at Mattheo, worry etched into your face. 

“Seeing as I’m the heir of Slytherin, I think I’ll see to your punishment. And if you take it like a good little lion, no one will ever know about this.”

Mattheo’s words only further plunged you into terror. Whatever he had planned for you, you already knew it would be unbearably painful for your mind, spirit and body. Still, trying to maintain your Gryffindor courage, you nodded in understanding. 

“From this moment on, I own you. If I ask you to come, you will, immediately. If I ask you to do something, you will do it, no questions asked and to my satisfaction. If at any point you defy me, every single shard will be on Dumbledore’s desk faster than you can say ‘Godric’, do you understand?”

Utter sorrow wracked your body, your freedom for as long as you were at this school was trapped in the hands of a vicious sadist. Merlin knows what he’d have you do, thinking on it alone filled you with remorse so deep it would echo into your bones long into the night. But this was the only option, expulsion meant no more Hogwarts, no contact with your friends, no future in magic. You somberly nodded, not able to verbally confirm without choking on the words. 

“No. Use your words, pet.” Your anger roared inside you at the title, how dare he reduce you this low? To strip you of your autonomy and independence and then demean you with such an inferior name. Your inner lion burned to disobey, to unleash the full extent of your temper on this arrogant, immoral devil of a man who goaded you with such humiliation. 

“Yes, I understand.” You bit out, not bothering to hide the venom in your tone. Mattheo almost preened at the bite in your voice, clearly amused by your fury. 

“Good, now get out before someone sees you. Meet me in the outside of the common room at precisely 7AM, not a second after.”

Your eyes glanced back at the other Slytherin boys who had been captivated by the whole interaction, your eyes begging for some kind of help that you knew you weren’t going to get.

You gathered your wand and sprinted out the door as fast as you could. You ran as far as you could away from the treacherous dungeons where you’d lost so much more than you gained. And when you finally made it to your dorm room, after your lungs burned and wheezed, you finally let yourself cry. Your wrath and despair melting together to cocoon you against the horrible truth: Mattheo Riddle owned you.

[seven-seas-of-rhye-bread]

A Fate Worse Than Death- Part 4

okayyyy we got a sad and angsty one here, be forewarned!

Warning: sad stuff, death, longing... angsty shit

Disclaimer: I am but a dumb bitch who knows nothing. Also this will be playing fast and loose with canon events going forward.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Weee, enjoy

xx

The fading sun cast shadows in the kitchen of Lucilla and Marcus's home as Aia bent low and carefully stoked the oven fires with more wood. It had been 3 days since Aia joined the household, and though she had been brought under the guise of a companion for Lucilla, she preferred to stay busy, especially helping the cook, Horatia, in the kitchen. 

Lucilla appeared in the doorway, looking beautiful as ever in a flowing stola, "Albina, may I borrow you for a moment?" 

Aia followed her out of the kitchen and down to the courtyard, where Marcus waited in a corner. Lucilla checked their surroundings, ensuring no other servants were around. "Aia, we'll need you to accompany us to the Colosseum tomorrow." Aia knew there were games arranged in honor of Marcus's conquests, but why would she need to go? She didn't find the appeal in watching men kill each other for sport. Yes, she was supposed to be a companion for Lucilla, but in the absence of Marcus, who would certainly be at the games with her. 

"Why would I need to go?" she asked, her brow furrowing in concern.

 Lucilla and Marcus exchanged a look before he explained, "when Geta sold you to me, he made a stipulation that I would have to bring you to whatever games and celebrations I go to..."

"If he was happy to be rid of me, then why does he want me around?"

Marcus sighed in frustration, " he said that you have to come... in case-- as he said-- he wanted another... 'taste'"

Aia stood in stunned silence, feeling heat rise to her cheeks and embarrassment wash over her. 

"Oh." was all she could muster. 

Lucilla took Aia's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, "we'll do anything to keep that from happening... and I think, at least for the games, he'll be too distracted by his blood lust to notice you." Aia nodded, resigned to the fact that she would have to face Geta again. She had only been with Lucilla and Marcus for a few days, but she  already trusted them-- trusted that they would protect her in every way they could. 

Later that evening, long after the household had gone to bed, Aia still laid awake in her small room, thinking about tomorrow. She hoped Lucilla was right, that Geta would be enthralled by the fighting, and it wasn't hard to imagine him being rapt by the games.

She got out of bed, putting on her simple robe and wandered out of her room. Aia had intended to get a drink of water, or perhaps something stronger, to help her sleep, but as she passed by the library, she saw firelight stretch from beneath the door across the tiled floor.

She peaked around the door out of curiosity and saw Marcus, browsing through scrolls that lined one of the shelves that covered the entire room. 

Aia was about to leave him be, but he had caught a glimpse of her and said, quietly, " you can come in..." 

She stepped into the room gingerly, closing the door behind her. She had caught a glimpse of the large library when she first came here, but never dared to venture in, though Lucilla never forbade her.

 "Do you know how to read?" Marcus inquired, leaning back against a shelf, facing her. 

She shook her head, " a little.. but not Latin.. I doubt I could read anything in here."

"Marcus Aurelius-- Lucilla's father- was an avid reader, and writer. Most of these books belonged to him. He wrote some, too."

"Was he any good?" she asked with a hint of cheek.

Marcus smiled, " yes, he was, actually. He wrote of a free, equal Rome."

"Ah, so even the Gauls would be treated with respect?"

"Even Gauls.." he confirmed with a wiry smile. 

Marcus observed Aia as she lightly touched a scroll, feeling the thin, fragile paper between her fingers, "Do you miss it? Gaul, I mean..." 

Aia stepped forward to him, still running her hands along the scrolls, liking the feel of them on her fingers-- she had so rarely touched parchment.

 She answered his question with her own, "don't you miss your home when you're off campaigning?" 

He nodded, " I do. I'm sorry you were taken, I'm sorry that you had to.." he cleared his throat, "endure Geta..." 

She burned at the memory, the helplessness she felt in the palace--how she wished for a swift death. 

"It's over now." Aia said singularly, all she cared to say about that situation, "and I have you to thank for that." 

She had still found it hard to comprehend that Marcus would do such a thing as asking Geta for her, after Aia had only spoken to him briefly that night. What Aia didn't know was that Marcus had been enamored by her beauty and her strength of will that night. The thought that Geta had had his way with her made him sick to his stomach. And the fact that Geta had hinted that he could want her again, made him even sicker, and more desperate to dethrone the twins. 

"And Lucilla..." Marcus added.

 "She's a great woman, isn't she?" 

Marcus nodded, "she's beloved by all of Rome, including me... but she's never been mine, really."

Aia tilted her head, confused by what Marcus had just said, "but you're married?"

"We are-- but her heart had always belonged to another. Ours is a marriage of convenience--we do love each other, but we are only companions." 

Aia wasn't sure what to say, she felt bad for Marcus-- a handsome man who seemed weary of war, to never be wed for love?

"Are you married?" he asked finally, after a moment of silence between them. 

"I am... or, I was. I don't know anymore. He was a good man, though I hadn't been with him long before..."

"Was?" Marcus asked, moving closer to her-- he wished he could ask her all about her life in Gaul, he would soak up every detail she gave him, hang on her every word.

 "I don't know if I'll ever see him again... " 

"I'm sorry, Albina, I shouldn't pry." 

Aia gave him a gentle smile, "it's alright.. I should get back to bed though, long day tomorrow..."

 She turned to leave, but Marcus caught her arm in his gentle but calloused grasp, "please know that I'd sooner kill Geta than let him have you again..." 

His grip was warm on her arm, his thumb gently caressing the soft, smooth skin. She looked at Marcus, her heart aching oddly and suddenly-- reminded of the love of her husband, and his willingness to protect her at all cost.

Aia gave him a small smile as his hand fell from her arm, " I know you would."  _____________

The next day was unbearably hot in Rome. The sun hung in the middle of the sky, beating down mercilessly, not a cloud in sight as Marcus, Lucilla and Aia made their way into the colosseum.

The stench of half of Rome crammed into one place was almost unbearable, Aia could understand why Lucilla chose to carry around lavender.

Aia felt sick with nerves as they made their way to the Emperors' cubiculum. She was reassured by Marcus's words last night, that he would kill Geta before he could ever get his hands on her again, but the thought of even seeing him made her stomach churn.

Aia hung back behind both Marcus and Lucilla as the emperors entered the Imperial box ahead of them. They were sickening gleeful, giddy as children to watch men be slaughtered for their entertainment.

As Lucilla and Marcus made their way to the box, Aia hesitated, her feet feeling heavy as led in the new sandals Lucilla had provided her. Lucilla noticed Aia's absence and grabbed her hand and led her up the stairs.

 She felt breathless as the arena and stands full of Romans came into view. She had never seen somewhere so grand in size, it was overwhelming. Sitting behind Lucilla's chair, she observied both the crowd and the emperors. As Geta invited a reluctant Marcus to address the people, Aia caught his eye. He gave her a wicked grin and nodded, to which she averted her gaze, looking down into her lap at her trembling hands. 

The games began in short order, with a raucous cheer from the stands as the gladiators entered the arena, followed by another gladiator atop a rhinoceros. 

Aia closed her eyes tight, not wanting to see the bloodshed, but she could unfortunately hear it loud and clear, along with the continued cheering. She prayed to the Gods that it would be over swiftly, but as she prayed she heard her name called by none other than Geta.

Her eyes sprang open to see him beckoning her. Marcus and Lucilla watched with concern as Aia made her way down to his throne, keeping her eyes on the floor.

Geta pulled her onto his knee and gave her a kiss, "don't close your eyes! You're missing all the glory! All the blood too!"

He grasped her face and turned it toward the arena, his fingers digging painfully into her cheeks. He watched her face, and shouted for her to look, keeping his eyes on her, making sure Aia was a witness to the carnage.

Her eyes filled with tears as she observed the bloody gravel and the mangled bodies strewn across the ground. She started to cry, and Geta yelled at her to keep her eyes open.

It was then, as she opened up her eyes again, that her eyes trained on a particular gladiator, she knew his face in an instant-- her husband's brother, Manus.

She gasped at the realization, but luckily Geta didn't note what she was gasping for, thinking it was at one gladiator decapitating another, ending the battle then and there. 

The crowd cheered once more, the final death bringing everyone to their feet, including the emperors.

Aia took this moment to move back towards Lucilla and Marcus while Geta was distracted. Marcus noticed the concerned look on Aia's face, still unbelieving of who she saw. 

"Whats wrong? Did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice lowering with anger. 

Aia shook her head, " I know one of the gladiators..." she turned to Lucillla, "please, is there any way I can go down there? Speak to him?" 

Marcus agreed to take Aia down to where the gladiators were taken, while Lucilla went home. She had noticed a change in demeanor with Lucilla, a sort of dazed look in her eyes, her face pale as if she had just seen a ghost. But right now Aia was focused on the ghost she had seen herself, and her heart beat wildly as they made their way down to the cells. 

"What is his name?" Marcus asked as they approached the gate. 

"Manus" she whispered. 

After Marcus talked to the guards, one of them led them down the dark and dingy way. She instinctively got closer to Marcus, finding a sense of safety in presence among the men as they made their way through the noisy and crowded halls that smelled of the copper tang of blood and sweat. 

"Manus!" the guard shouted towards a group of men who were removing their armor.

She saw him turn around, his face battered and bruised, blood trickling from a long cut above his eye-- but she was sure it was him. 

"Aia!" Manus shouted as he made his way over, his eyes wide in disbelief, "thank Gods you're alive! What are you doing here?"

Aia wasn't sure how to answer, "I work in a household here in Rome... when did you get captured?" 

Marcus stepped aside, but still in safe reach of Aia, not wanting to intrude on what was surely a personal conversation. 

"About a fortnight after you were taken... we went out after you."

"We?" Aia asked, her stomach in knots. 

"Me, Dago... some others too."

Her voice caught in her throat, " is he here? Was he killed?" 

She moved towards the crowd of gladiators, looking desperately at the faces. She hadn't even considered that Dago might be with Manus, and her heart wrenched to think he had been killed in front of her. 

Tears began to fall as she searched the crowd, but Manus pulled her back to the side. 

"Aia.." Manus said, taking her hands.  "What Manus... what? You tell me right now is he--" her voice faltered again, unable to say the last word. Manus remained silent, his eyes cast down. 

"You tell me now! Say it!" she shouted, drawing attention as she pushed Manus, a man of considerable size.  

He spoke finally, his voice full of sadness and regret, "He is dead, Aia-- he's dead." 

She leaned against Manus as she began to cry in earnest. Deep down, she felt that she had known already, that she had felt the shift in the world now that he was no longer a part of it. She also felt completely and utterly responsible for both Dago's death and Manus's capitivity. And, when she thought about it-- Manus' likely death in the colosseum. 

She felt a strong and reassuring arm around her, Marcus was holding her up, whispering in her ear that he was going to take her home.

She promised Manus that she would see him again-- hoping that perhaps Marcus and Lucilla would be able to free him with their impending plans. A carriage took them home in silence, a sense of  numbness settling over her.

Marcus hugged her to him but he did not offer any words of solace, for he knew that they would ring hollow, he said only, "I'm sorry," and left it at that. 

Tagging: @mmkkzz @galway-girlatwork @bridgertonbee1814 @quuinyoung @helsa3942

[cosmereplay]

for the kiss ask game. perhaps veil/moash #7 >:)

I will write a kiss… 7. …to shut them up.

I am so sorry I went totally off the rails of this prompt and accidentally wrote maybe the opposite??? Instead of kissing to shut up they're now fucking for information 😭 This pairing gave me the chance to write a scene from this Moash longfic I've been rotating for a long time, so thank you for that! Imagine Moash and Veil in Kholinar as part of separate groups infiltrating a lighteyes party for intel. 

Veil/Moash, rated Explicit, Oathbringer spoilers but not really because it's an AU anyway. 1000 words

Moash strode haughtily around the party, feeling vaguely disappointed. So far the best part of the night had been when Kaladin blushed when he’d seen Moash’s lighteyes-style outfit, all thin smooth fabric that complemented his light tan eyes. The party itself sucked. Being raised from bridgeman directly up to guarding at Elhokar’s parties had given him a skewed view of how other lighteyes partied. The space was cramped, full of furniture and people, and the ceilings were practically as low as in his own house downtown. The food was fine, not nearly as fancy as what Elhokar used to serve.

His chest cramped a little. He had to get that stupid man out of his head.

He was here for a reason, after all. At first he’d been a novelty to them, but once they’d realized he wasn’t in the duelling lists they’d lost interest in him before he could ask any questions. So he’d been skulking at the side of the room, keeping an ear open to catch scraps of useless conversations.

He looked over the crowd again. Moving smoothly among the clusters of lighteyes was a marvel of a woman. Beautiful, with long dark hair, partially braided with tiny emeralds, and a sleek havah that showed off what assets she had. She was not curvaceous by any means, but she was working everything she had, and he could appreciate that. Her eyes flashed a pale green as she scanned the room, listening and looking around. He touched his hair, hoping it was still looking okay in the increasingly hot and humid room, and moved towards her.

“Looking for more distinguished company, Brightness?” He smiled crookedly.

She looked him up and down for a long moment, then grinned back. “In that case, you should probably move aside.”

Moash raised his eyebrows. “I find it hard to believe you don’t like what you see.”

“I’m not here for what I can see, Brightlord,” she said, and the rude way she'd said Brightlord made him start. Was she…pretending to be lighteyed? He knew of the darkeyes drops, but was there a way the other way too?

Now he was doubly intrigued. “Are you here for information? Maybe we can do a little…exchange.” He glanced to the doorway and raised an eyebrow.

She gave him a long look, then sucked her teeth in a very un-ladylike way. Oh, he was liking her more and more. “Alright, handsome,” she said with a wink. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

He followed her out the door and down a hallway. She opened a random door and peeked inside, then beckoned him in. “C’mon. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He grinned and went after her, into a cramped closet stuffed from floor to ceiling with shelves of seasonal knickknacks and decorations. She pulled him up against her, then pushed him back against some shelves, setting the knickknacks rattling.

“So…” she started, walking her fingertips up his chest. “What kind of exchange are you proposing?”

“Well no offense but you’re clearly not from around here,” he smirked, the touch stoking warmth between his legs. “I wanna know what’s going on out in Alethkar. Is King Dalinar making things better? Is he sending an army to liberate Kholinar?”

Her fingers stopped moving as he spoke. “You’re right, I’m not from around here,” she admitted. “I want to know what’s going on in Kholinar. What’s with the Queen? Why is the palace not admitting visitors? I heard the Kingkiller is in the city—Kaladin Stormblessed. Can you tell me where I can find him?” She eyed him appraisingly, then pressed closer against him. “I’ll tell you if you tell me. Might even do more, if you’re extra helpful.”

A groan left his body, along with his sense. “Alright,” Moash breathed. “Kholinar’s ready to explode into a revolution. The darkeyes are starting to starve and the lighteyes are hoarding food. The rumours are that the Queen has gone insane. I might be part of a group looking to help the revolution along.”

She rubbed her body against him. “Mmm, I might be interested in joining that group,” she murmured.

He put his hands on her back, sliding up to her shoulderblades, then down to her ass, giving it a squeeze. “I might just let you,” he murmured back. “There’s more to you. I know it. Now tell me about the King.”

The woman leaned up, her lips by Moash’s ear. “The King is dead.”

“I know Elhokar is dead.”

“I mean Dalinar. He died in battle when the Everstorm came. The Assassin in White got him. Renarin Kholin is King Regent now, and nobody's coming to save the people of Kholinar. You're on your own.”

The words almost killed his boner. “You’re here to rescure Gavinor, aren’t you? Are you going to take Aesudan too?”

“There might be some dissension in the ranks about whether we’re to take her out or take her out. I could use an ally, especially if he’s connected to the Kingkiller.” She grabbed his bulge, the warmth of her hand seeping through the thin fabric as she rubbed him back to full hardness.

“Storming…” The room was getting hot and he was having trouble thinking straight. He thrust against her hand, hardly noticing there wasn’t any fabric between them anymore. “You’re wrong. Stormblessed didn’t kill Elhokar. Fuck me and I’ll tell you who did.”

Within seconds, she’d turned around and lifted her skirts, and he was thrusting inside her, hot and wet and deep. She gasped, and for a second he could’ve sworn she was glowing.

Storms, was he imagining she was Kaladin? The thought didn’t stop him from pounding into her, getting off on the secrecy, the danger of getting caught, fucking a lighteyes bareback, the intrigue of this woman, the fact that he could finally say it—

“You know who killed King Elhokar?” he grunted as he fucked her against the shelves, setting the knickknacks shaking with every thrust.

“Tell me, tell me,” she moaned. She was fingering herself under her skirts, and she came hard, squeezing his cock with her body. He could hear the splashes of her cum on the floor.

He grabbed her by the back of her neck, holding her still, and thrust a few more times, long and slow, prolonging his orgasm the way he liked. “I killed Elhokar,” he moaned, and grabbed her hips, holding her flush against him as he came hard and deep into her. “Ah Heralds, that’s good, that’s so storming good.”

Moash and the spy held there together for a moment, both savouring the pleasure they’d managed to wring out of the night. Finally she pulled off him and started using her underskirts to soak up their cum, dripping down her thighs.

“Tell me your name and I’ll lick that up for you,” Moash said on impulse.

“My name is Veil,” she said with a smile, and lifted her skirts again, showing off the wet shine of her bush and lips. “Give me a little more and I might even tell you a secret.”

He squatted down, guided by her hand on his head, and he ate the cum from her thighs and lips, then moved upwards to her clit. He flicked and sucked, and she gasped, holding his hair tight. Storms, he could stay in this closet all night. She was a great lay.

Veil gripped him harder, trying to stop herself from screaming as she came dry, and smacked against the shelves, sending knickknacks tumbling down, smashing against the floor.

“Storms, woman,” Moash complained. They’re going to hear us.”

She pushed him off her, then yanked him upwards to standing. “What?” he asked, but he could already hear it. Shouts. The sound of swords clashing. They started straightening their clothes in a hurry.

“Beware, Kingkiller,” Veil warned. “Times are changing. The Radiants are returning, and they’re dangerous.”

They shared a look. “How do you know?” he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“There are some in my party.”

“There are some in mine, too.” He started to open the door, then paused. “If you want to find me again, ask for where the silversmiths used to live. You’ll find it soon enough.”

Then he ran. If there was a fight, Kaladin was probably in the middle of it, and he would need Moash’s help.

From the I Will Write a Kiss ask game

[eaglesnick]

“No government that is for the profiteers can also be for the people, and I am for the people, while the government is for the profiteers.”— Rose Pastor Stokes

There is a cost of living crisis and it is not about to end anytime soon.

Food and non-alcoholic drink inflation reached a peak of 19.2% in October 2022. Although food and drink inflation is now much lower, it is never the less still rising, being 1.8% higher than a year ago. Today, the Uk  has the highest core inflation rate among the G7 countries as well as the highest level of food price inflation. A study by BravoVoucher predicts the cost of everyday food items will increase rapidly by 2030.

“This research provides a scary look into the future of food prices if current inflation trends continue. The dramatic increase we’ve seen in prices for everyday essentials like olive oil and baked beans is particularly concerning. It highlights the urgent need for effective economic policies to stabilize inflation and protect consumers.” (Social Equality: 22/07/24)

While food inflation is set to rage, super markets continue to make record profits. 

Asda reported  £1.1bn in profit for year ending 31st December 2023, a 24% increase on the previous year. Tesco reported raking in a massive £2.83bn in profit, a 12.7% increase on the year before. Simsbury’s is predicting profits of £1bn in 2024, and Waitrose has reported a 17% increase  in profits.

The lower end supermarkets are making even bigger profits. Lidl reported a quadrupling of profits for the year ending February 2022, and Aldi tripled their profits over the same period.

The point I am making is that while the cost of living crisis continues unabated the major supermarkets are busy increasing profits for their shareholders. There are many reasons the cost of food has increased, from global supply chain disruption, a rise in energy costs, to increased food production costs, but one that is never mentioned is the massive spike in supermarket profits.

Yesterday I talked about dynamic pricing – the practice of changing prices to match demand and supply – the most ridiculous example of this new form of greed being walking into a Stonegate pub at 8pm and being charged 20p more for a pint than if you had ordered the exact same drink a few hours earlier.

Tesco already use dynamic pricing for their online shopping platform, to allow:

“the company to optimise its pricing for maximum profitability” (The Strategy: Tesco Marketing Mix)

OK, so dynamic pricing is employed for Internet food sales. Most of us still prefer to go to the supermarket in person and “feel the goods” as it were. So we are safe from dynamic pricing. NOT SO!

More and more of British supermarkets are introducing dynamic pricing to the “in-store” experience in the form of electronic shelf-edge labels. (ESL’s)  Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Morrisons, Asda and M&S are all reported to be experimenting with ESL’s using Artificial Intelligence to generate algorithms to determine price minute by minute. Electronically displayed prices on the edge of shelving means prices can be changed minute by minute depending upon demand and supply.

Gone is the notion of value for money. The only thing that will matter  will be how much the customer is willing to pay for any particular item at any given particular moment in time, regardless of what it cost to produce.

If price is going to be determined by how much people are willing to pay, how long before we have the scenario of the  sole remaining can of baked beans on a Tesco shelf being sold not at its current price of  £1.40 per can but at £2.50 simply because one shopper has more money than another?

Profiteering has been described as:

“The practice of making or seeking to make excessive or unfair profit, especially illegally or in a black market”

Profiteering now has another definition: dynamic pricing.

[distant--shadow]

get to know meme

lil thing where I'll give a bit too much detail so it fills its purpose, honoured honestly to be tagged by three of my favourite writers in this space @sharkodactyl, @unicyclehippo , and @astoriacolumnstaircase - anyone reading this should be reading their works instead.

favourite colour: brown(s), like a mid to a dark tone, i like them to have a bit of red involved. like our old-boy chet, I love the wood. my dream home would be all wood-panelled with built in inlayed and set back shelves and nooks a plenty and yeah just full of brik-a-brak. otherwise my favourite colours are navy blue and greens that are more mixed with blue than yellow, teals and emeralds and once again generally around the mid tones. green makes me very happy. moss and outdoors and all that.

currently reading: fic. haha. (suss my recommend reading tag) I did venture out to my (very) local queer bookshop and asked them for something that won't send me on a spiral if I'm already on one/provide some escapism and they reccomended river of teeth by Sarah gailey. anyone I've said about it to seems real enthusiastic about it, I am not well read at all when it comes to published things, tend to just get really into a few fandom authors works and picking them apart (rereading a lot) . still haven't started it but maybe I'll try take it out to the park in the next week or so. I'm dabbling in reading (and unfortunately writing) poetry thanks to @picturesofthegoneworlds and @blorbotomy 's influence, those mini books are fun to keep on you when out and about, poem or two on a tree stump or boulder with a grand vista and a brain that wants eyes on a phone screen.

last song: last song I consciously (not background music) listened to was:

I went on an early lord snow stint the other night because the air smelt crisp and there was a nice chill. they have remained my favourite heavy (as a broad term) band for a decade now.

I used to have music on all of the time, whether that be cd's at home or in my mp3 player (that I still take out with me) but these days I find listening more of an intentional activity and I prefer to have people just nattering when I'm at home and want background noise. think it's where my heads at and I've just got more sensitive to being overstimulated I guess. I was also pretty good at going to a live gig at least once a week before I did my back in, looking forward to getting into that habit again.

last series: I don't watch much stuff outside of critical role, least other than YouTube videos I'll put on whislt I'm drawing. oh wait yeah I ordered 3 seasons of xena on ebay because it's like a couple of quid a season and it is a real good comfort show and fucking amazing. I hadn't seen it since I was pre teen and it was on day time TV and I'd catch it on sick days. the amount of people I've brought it up to these past few months who've been so stoked to be reminded of it/eager to watch it with me is actually hilarious.

last movie: uhhhh God movies I watch even less. I haven't been to a cinema in over 12 years now, just not my thing, and it's funny caus my mum used to work in the film and TV industry and we had shelves and shelves full of VHS growing up (mostly bootlegged) and she can just ramble about pretty much any early era film up to the stuff from the 80s (when she was working on em) for days. never could sit through em, never felt satisfied with how the story went. guess that's why actual play appeals to me. but saying all this I did rewatch Bound for the first time since I was like 15 last month or so, enjoyed it a lot more than I did back then.

sweet/savory/spicy: savory all day. I am a salt fiend. I used to think I'd be fortunate enough to die from my salt intake. I'll put it on anything. cereal, toast, fruit. I think the other day I noted the one thing I wouldn't put it on, but I can't recall that right now honestly. it's gotta be decent salt too, sea salt or rock salt that has some texture and delicious flavour, I'm not fucking with that table salt shit. I carry salt with me in a mini mason jar everywhere I go, saves when you only have access to bland cold supermarket food. one of my earliest memories is when I was like 6 I had had my daily 1 glass allowance of squash/fruit cordial in my white Tom and Jerry printed beaker with the accordion bendy straw and so when I was pouring myself a glass of water from the tap I put salt in it caus I wanted flavour that would not show through the white translucent container. it's all been downhill from there, although I also, luckily I guess caus otherwise I would be really fucked, do drink a lot of water.

currently working on: myself and healing. hah. I never realised how much paperwork and phone calls came with this maintenance shit. I'm still out of work, and my mental health has taken a huge hit from not being able to do the things I usually would. so right now I'm just trying to keep everything together. I can draw again though, so sorry about that.

I never know who to tag in these things caus I don't think everyone wants to do them. so I'll go with this being open invite as always. hope anyone who read this far is having a good week, and sentiment is still there even if you didn't read this (unless you don't deserve my well wishes, then fuck you.)

[questionablepastries]

Vaguely funny dream I want memorialized as a tumblr post but also one that I think that doubles as a highly spiritual event in which i was gifted some mystical item which makes it even funnier in retrospect:

The dream starts with the context of me winning some sort of Nintendo sweepstakes with a free flight to japan to claim Any game I want from their main Nintendo store, which I am super stoked about. The next sequence of events is me already at the japan Nintendo headquarters store place and I’m getting ready to pick out a sweet ass game

And here’s when the divine interference begins

I think whatever entity was trying to make contact with me got what I wanted correct, I would in fact love to win a flight to Japan to visit their headquarters store and pick out a game yes

But then they were like. Ok what do humans like. Gold right? I think it’s gold.

So I’m at the “store” but……

First off there’s fog everywhere, from the ground up to about waist height. you can’t see more than 20ft in front of you because of all the damn fog, second the aisles are never ending in terms of length and number of aisles. Third, everything has this weird golden glow to it, the overhead lights are white and bright as hell, all the shelves are golden. So basically you got the concept of “store” semi correct.

But in my head none of that even fucking registered. I thought I was still at a normal ass store. I was so dead set on getting. A goddamn game I ignored the dimensional paradox of a store I was in.

And so I’m like eager to check out the shelves and see what games I get to pick and.

They’re all donkey Kong 64 for the Nintendo 64

All of them. Not only that but they’re some sort of premium exclusive to the store golden edition. Nothing but this golden donkey Kong 64 IVE NEVER PLAYED A DONKEY KONG GAME IN MY LIFE, I DIDNT EVEN OWN THE CONSOLE, it was just endless shelves of exclusive golden donkey Kong 64!!!!!!!! I was like so distraught and dissapointed over this u have no idea

anyways ANYWAYS, this is where it gets weird I think I get my copy of a game and then this jumpscare ass glowy hoe is like right in front of me and they’re also a glowing being that radiates light but surprisingly my eyes didn’t burn out I could just tell there was someone in front of me, and they’re also trying to put a necklace on me so I just let them, and as they’re doing that I notice the necklace they put on me was a hamsa necklace (thumb facing left with giant diamond in the center eyeball; didn’t understand the importance of the symbol till I fully looked into it). Honestly it was severely intricate and looked like it was made out of silver. Cant get over how shiny the eye diamond was, and that’s when the dream ended

So basically I attribute all my crazy gacha pulls to that necklace but also I guess I’m particularly blessed by the amount of fuckery that doesn’t happen to me or my small immediate family so maybe that’s also due to some sort of protection idk idk I guess I’m permanently wearing this sweet hamsa necklace in my dreams or something

[giireadss]

Ink and Insights

Amidst a labyrinth of lore, I am adrift the pages strewn like autumn leaves, but at what cost does knowledge sift? I pay homage to the tomes that grace my shelves, a boundless gateway—to worlds beyond, to tales that captivate and illuminate arrays.

I am entranced by the tales of Poe, his words a siren's call and Sappho's verses akin to a beckoning, like a whisper in the hall I can’t ignore.

But it's not just the literary giants that stoke my heart's flame, It's the potency of language, and the revelations it can claim, and calm.

My insatiable thirst for knowledge is an inferno, a blaze untamed Kindled by a passion that never fades, a hunger never maimed— From the depths of psychology to the apex of philosophy I seek to unravel the human psyche, a ceaseless odyssey.

I take a sip of coffee, relishing its aroma rich in deep thought.

Letting my mind wander, unencumbered and carefree to seep. The tarot deck lays open, a mystical portal to other realms and I muse on the secrets it holds, what wisdom at its helm, my heart shatters.

As the night wears on, I am lost in worlds of my own creation because escaping is my mechanism.

A world pulsating with curiosity, romance, and unbridled fascination, though the journey can be wearisome, it's worth every bend; for the quest for knowledge is a flame that will never end. A flaming sword burning, bright and light unaccustomed to the reality.

Within the universe of books and ideas, I've found my truest self, my zeal and wonder are my greatest wealth or the lack thereof? Is it bothersome to be so in over my head?

Of the endless possibilities that the written poem holds, I will make it my lifelong home for in the pages, I find a place to belong, a world where the mind and soul can sing their song.

[godteri-takk]

WWOOOWWWWWW THEY ARE SOO PRETTYYYY OMGGG seriously one of the best lines so far and ESPECIALLY for Frankie, but ill do em all in order.

I think Cleo is the only kinda bad one here, i personally hate the way her hair looks and the makeup is not doing it for me. and what is that silluette??? would she really wear a rounded metal corset (idk what those plastic ornaments/skirts are called so ill call em metal skirts) and the cyan shawl like that?? it just looks so weird and bad. but i love the asseccories o her head, the shoes are so slay and the sleeves w the black bandages are SO chic i love it. but ye i often feel like they dont know what to do w Cleo, it's very hit or miss.

Draculaura looks perfect, it seems the designers know exactly her colour palette and fashion sense cus Drac ALWAYS looks good and this is one of the better ones, like oooommggg it just. is perfect. the metal thing the skirt the pink shaed her hair the makeup the balloon, shoes couldve been better but they are gooooddddddd <<3

I. am SO stoked about this Frankie, one of the best Frankies ive SEEN in g3 like DAAMNN!??? my fave in this line, wish i could buy them but they'll never hit the shelves here lol. LOVE the colour palette of monocrome, blue and pink (plus some silly colours on the skirt) goooshhh its so balanced and perfect, i often dont like it when they give them pink blush but it works ok here, and everything else is so good so it doesnt matter. i LOVE the asymetrical look they went for!!! different length on earrings, shaved side and diagonal hairlock and that gorg headpiece AOIJDIHJ one sleeve (w poofy shoulder, LOVE IT) and one pink glove on the other, asymatrical metal skirt as well and THE PINK LEG?? soo sleek, it's chic it's sexy it's playful in a cool controlled way it looks perfect w their blue skin and cyan shoes THE SHOES ARE SO PRETTYYY and the lipstic w light blue tips and dark blue middle!!!=???? GEEENIOUSSS!!!! it bears repeating, the blue shaved side of head is .. just brilliant. obsessed w this Frankie. the designers COOKED w this

I dont have any attatchment to Cupid as a character I dont think ive seen any of the movies shes in or anyyything. but! really like her design here. the curls and hair n headpeace and lil heart on the lips and like collour pallette in general is soo nice and playful and kinda gorg like it's giving rokokko. it's sweet and cutsy and over-the-top and i love the bracelet w the lil arrow <<3 so yea very happy about this line, too bad ill never see them irl but hoping for youtube unboxing/review vids soon ^w^

Monster High Scary Sweet Birthday

Cleo, Draculaura, Frankie, & C.A. Cupid

[clairehoneybee]

Mid-Atlantic Nursery Trade Show - 2025

Fresh off the MANTS (Mid-Atlantic Nursery Trade Show) floor in snow-covered Baltimore, I made lots of fresh contacts and found many exciting plant introductions that I want to use in my future landscaping projects. I am stoked for the 2025 gardening year and the new plants and ideas that are hitting the nursery and garden center shelves. It was so refreshing to enter from the frigid weather…

[loregoddess]

2, 5, 8, and 20 for the fandom ask game?

2. a headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like! This one's a hard one bc most of the time if I come across a headcanon that doesn't float my goats I just move on and don't give it much thought (it's clearly floating someone else's goats so no need to punch holes in it, we don't need any drowning goats), and then if the headcanon happens to haunt me anyhow I just kinda adopt it w/out too much fuss bc the person who wrote it was clearly on to something I didn't at first realize, but hmmm....

I guess at least for theories specifically, I remember coming across the "Majora's Mask might be a Twili artifact" theory on some forum like, a hundred million years ago, and I shelved the theory in my head almost immediately bc I was more into the idea that Termina was an actual alternate world in the LoZ universe bc alternate worlds are an established canon thing that Just Happens Sometimes. But when Hyrule Encyclopedia dropped the "actually Termina IS a world created by Majora's Mask that reflects the psyche of the wearer" I was like, okay wait hold up, that theory about Majora's Mask being a Twili artifact suddenly seems so, so much more plausible now, and I can explore that theory in a lot more depth for further theories about the Twili and the properties of Majora's Mask, and I've been happily rotating those theories in my head ever since (I know a lot of fans were really upset w/ the Encyclopedia making Termina a dream world canon, but man I was so stoked for it bc of that one little theory I had seen and dismissed so many years earlier).

5. something you see in fics a lot and love Alas I don't...read fics that often and wish to one day remedy that (I need to rediscover my general love of reading first, but I'll get there eventually), but from the fics I have read...I guess I really like seeing characters get to heal? Like, mostly I'm really into video games so I end up seeking out fanart/writing about the characters I love from games, and most of the games I enjoy understandably don't usually get into the "how do the characters deal with or recover from [insert traumatic event from game's story]" which like, fair, you can only do so much in the frame and limits of a game, I get it. But as a result when an author is like, "Actually hold up, we need to talk about this character and what happened to them a bit more" and like, it's an honest-to-goodness deep-dive into healing as a narrative in it's own right, I dunno, I just think that's really neat. I don't feel like I'm really good at writing that specific type of narrative either, which is part of why I respect writers who can/do write it so much.

8. you hope more people will come to appreciate ___ (a ship, a trope, an episode, etc) Probably like, "I'd live for you" as a trope/theme if that makes sense? Like, don't get me wrong I get the appeal of "I'd die for you" in stories, but I think there's a lot of potential power in "life can be hell, but you make me want to live, you've given me hope in life, and I am going to live"

(usual internet disclaimer: yes I know both these tropes/themes can be used for super unhealthy codependent relationships, no I'm not trying to advocate for making such types of relationships some sort of golden standard that we all should strive for, yes there is a way to write both of these and have the relationship still be healthy and stuff; I bring up "I'd live for you" bc "I'd die for you" stays dangerously close to the same territory as jokes about wanting to die arise as a form of suicidal ideation and--like replacing "die" in those types of jokes with something else can help improve overall mental health--I wonder if shifting "I'd die for you" to "I'd live for you" would have similar effects, but I'm no psychologist, this has been a disclaimer)

20. your very first fandom! Hmm, depends on how we're defining things. If it's just "being a fan of things and making up stuff about it w/ at least one other person" then probably Scooby-Doo? Me and my brother grew up watching the cartoons/movies and also had some dolls of the Mystery Gang when we were kids, and we used to make up some wild narrative-driven games making up our own monsters and mysteries for them to solve (unsurprisingly we're both storytellers of some sort as adults). But if we're defining "fandom" as more like, an actual community, then it'd be Legend of Zelda, since that's the first thing I ever made like, legit fanart for that I shared with others online.

[parasite-core]

So I’m still unpacking from my move but I am super stoked about my closet because I have shelves where I can put things I like instead of them being crammed on cluttered desks or stuffed into bags to never see the light of day. So check out what I’ve got so far. I have a Vox Machina shelf, a Mighty Nein Corner, a misc figures/Bionicles shelf, a staging ground for my medium sized minis, and a dragon corner.

Some of it’s still not totally organized yet, I’m not totally happy with the placement of the random transformers, they’ll probably get moved up to the misc figures shelf. But it’s still leagues better than it was at the old house.

[fiendishthingee]

Without a library, I wouldn’t be half the person I am. That may sound overly dramatic, but it’s a simple fact. So many of the things that people take for granted today, whether it’s the internet, streaming services, cell phones or even a home computer, really didn’t exist when I was growing up. If your mind needed liberation from the cage that locked in your imagination, the key came in a nondescript laminate card that found its way into your pocket care of thoughtful parents. As you got older and might need to write a paper, you were either at the mercy of whatever encyclopedia collection your house had or hunted the shelves of your local library. For me the need for both drew me in over and over again, until the joy of discovery took over and set me on a path that I’ve never strayed from. 

It was in the Cayucos library, tucked in a corner off the pier that drew tourists in the summer, that I found a book called The World of Fantastic Films: An Illustrated Survey. Hooked by the cover of a spacecraft flying over a suburban neighborhood, it was in its pages that I learned about not just who was responsible for films that had already captivated me (Hitchcock, Spielberg, Lucas), but lit the fuse of my obsession with the work of more artists (Kubrick, Cronenberg, Scott, Carpenter) I’d have never otherwise known about. My creative world exploded immediately, a mental big bang that later grew on finding those magic rectangles called “videotapes” as they appeared on library shelves. It was in those same aisles, soon joined by more at Cayucos Elementary, that I fell in love with writing itself. What began with the usual curriculum of Jack London, Harper Lee, S.E. Hinton, and Ray Bradbury soon pivoted into the more challenging realm of J.R.R. Tolkien, George Orwell, William Golding, and J.D. Salinger. It was also there that I saw a book with the cover of a ghostly face offset by a single drop of vivid red blood on its lips called Salem’s Lot. By the time I got to when Charlie Rhodes awakens at midnight to the sound of someone blowing the horn of his school bus and discovers that it is loaded with bloodthirsty children, I was a goner for a certain bespectacled weirdo from Maine. 

Which is why the news of certain states attempting to circumvent the will of their sane population by closing libraries altogether rather that restock books deemed dangerous by a delusional zealot minority both breaks my heart and makes me incredibly angry. To rob both children and adults of the most basic form of both entertainment and knowledge is to starve them of everything that is remarkable about human culture. Libraries are one of the most vital conduits to that we have, with hundreds of years of accumulated wisdom and inspiration in books just waiting for a curious mind to crack them open and find something that speaks to their heart and mind. 

Culture wars are always incredibly stupid, as they usually serve only to point out how myopic and bigoted one side (guess which) is. But as certain factions, who can’t seem to deal with the natural evolution of our society in the same blunt fashion that a caveman recoiled from fire before learning to harness it, push harder and harder to wipe out anything that would threaten a repressed white pseudo-Christian narrative, the stakes have risen to a terrifying level. These are people who are fine with the lives of our country’s children being devastated by constant gun violence but draw a line at offering those who may still be alive the chance to broaden their mind and make up their own minds about what will make for a better life. Fueled by crackpot conspiracy theories and stoked by the fulminating opportunism of right-wing media, they threaten both library staff and patrons with violence if they continue to support inclusiveness rather than fortify division. They turn up at city council meetings to spout shrill nonsense and attempt to bully their way into what they feel is some half assed “moral” victory but is really just a bunch of paranoid psycho bullshit. Even though I don’t yet have any kids, this kind of knee-jerk suppression makes me sick to my stomach and cannot be allowed to gain more of a foothold in this country than it already has.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

from eden (a witch!harry au): teaser

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

COMING FRIDAY, JANUARY 20TH @ 5PM PST/8PM EST

[shreddedparchment]

He Says He Loves Me Pt.06

Snow and Flowers

01/22/2022

Pairing: Loki x Reader          Word Count: 5,418

Warnings: language, implied infidelity, angst, jealousy, fluff

A/N: I’m coming out of my endo flare up and period and I am so happy I could finally finish this chapter. I literally had just the last like 1k words to go. Anywho, I hope y’all enjoy! If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work!

Please DO NOT repost or translate my stories onto any other blogs or sites!

NO taglist for this story.

It’s a relief to step into the relatively warmer air of the folly.

It’s a stately limestone tower with its marble floors and iron braziers on the walls giving the entirety of the building a much more ancient feel as opposed to the ornate golden sconces of the main house. The chandelier is also darkened metal.

All the candles are unlit and the only thing illuminating the three story tower is the blue winter glow coming from the open curtained windows.

Loki huffs lightly, rushing towards a small bench nestled underneath the cozy nook created by the spiraling staircase that rises up onto the floors above of which you cannot see from here but can imagine it’s just more open space decorated similar to this one.

On every wall that is not a window is a floor to ceiling bookcase.

Somehow, the Odinson estate adds even more books to it’s already massive collection, to your utter astonishment.

“Here,” Loki says, moving towards you with a pretty yellow shawl, woolen and warm as he carefully places it around your shoulders.

“Thank you, I can manage.”

He quickly takes his hands back and a step away from you too at the stern tone in your voice.

You’re so angry at yourself for having given in to him. Whose shawl is this? Nothing is lit so he had no idea he was bringing you here.

Despite his declarations that you are the first person he’s shown this place to, how is it possible there was already a woman’s shawl resting on the very hidden bench underneath the stairs?

You can’t escape your distrust of him and as he watches you for a moment take in the shelves of books, you can tell that he understands that you do not trust him.

He smiles--well, more like smirks--and then rushes to the large fireplace on the opposite wall from the entrance and rushes to light it while you browse the wares.

It takes a few minutes as he stokes the blaze for the heat to seep through the shawl Loki provided, your tippet, and finally your gown to your skin underneath making you shiver.

“I’m sorry, I should have sent a servant to light the fire before we arrived,” Loki says, poking the wood before reaching down to grab another log and throw it amongst the crackling blaze.

“Were you planning to ambush me in the garden and get me over here? Was our accidental meeting fabricated?”

You’re not expecting him to answer but his scoff and chuckle pull your gaze away from the collection of novels. You haven’t seen one single book on these shelves so far that normal society would not consider frivolous. Nothing to increase one’s mind. Only entertain.

It’s heaven.

“Do you really think me so calculating?” Loki wonders, putting the poker away before turning to look at you as he rubs his hands together to warm them.

You stare at him, waiting with an almost bored look on your face as he waits for his answer.

He realizes you’re answering without answering and smiles again, amused by you for some reason.

“Well, warm up here and I will go up and light the rest of the candles to give us some more light.”

Instead of going back to your browsing you watch him move around the first room as he lights not only the braziers on the wall but he uses a rickety ladder to light the chandelier.

Your heart hammers as you watch him balance on the meek little thing until it begins to sway too far to the left and you rush over to hold it steady with one hand.

He freezes, sensing his fall, but then turns to look at you as it stops wiggling.

“Thank you,” he gasps, relieved.

Unable to speak with kindness to him just yet, you bite your lip and kind of wish you’d let him fall.

When he’s finished and the room is brightly lit, he excuses himself and disappears up into the rest of the tower.

With him out of sight, you go back to your browsing but aren’t really reading any titles, merely scanning them as your thoughts are busy pondering Loki’s behavior both here and over the past few days.

After who knows how many minutes, you end up by the arched window that faces the estate in the distance, the garden invisible from here amongst the rest of the frozen landscape.

The snow crystals that sparkle at you from the blanketed ground dazzle you. It’s a wonderland, truly. This enormous house with its prestigious family.

While it can’t compare to Kilnaroch, it’s lovely all the same.

It also isn’t empty. Not that you don’t count Mim. But she’s often busy and you sometimes wonder if she’s your companion out of duty rather than friendship. She was your governess, afterall.

A soft clearing of his throat brings your attention back to Loki. You’re startled however, because you turn and he’s merely a foot behind you.

You try not to let him know he’s surprised you but the way his lips curl up at the corners in a satisfied grin tells you that you aren’t fooling him.

“Forgive me,” he states. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow and turn back towards the estate.

“Did you enjoy growing up here?”

“At times,” Loki admits with that smile still in place.

He turns to look at the side of your face and you can feel his stare boring into your cheek and temple. You don’t dare turn to meet his eyes.

“Oh?” you urge him, interested and also eager to distract yourself.

“Mm,” he says and you think he won’t elaborate but then he moves to the stairs and holds out his elbow for you. “There are more books upstairs.”

You turn to him, watching him for a moment before deciding it’s better to just go. You’ve already come this far.

You drop off your muff on the table as you pass it before hooking your arm through his and gently take hold of his elbow.

He’s so warm. You can feel his heat through his jacket. The curve of his arms is pleasant and surprising. He looks so lithe. Not thin, but perhaps a bit wiry. There’s more girth to his form than immediately apparent and you stare at the subtle curve through his jacket and wonder things you should not wonder about a man you hardly know.

Your cheeks burn and your ears are on fire as the shame of your imagenings gets the better of you.

“Are you hot, my lady?” Loki teases, his smile softer and his eyes more genuine.

“No,” you say too quickly.

His smile grows wider but it isn’t the irritating grin from before. What does it mean?

“My father expects a lot from me,” Loki says, taking you up the staircase carefully and waiting when you need to gather your dress a little before walking on.

“I noticed,” you agree.

“Even as a child, I was expected to rise above my peers and match my brother’s ambition. As the heir, Thor had a lot of responsibility but also a lot of privileges that came with his future inheritance. He could afford to be a little more...easy with his efforts.

“And yet, my brother went above and beyond my father and mother’s expectations and has set an example that I have been trying to catch up to since we were boys.”

Loki’s mischievous and rebellious nature makes sense if he’s had to live in his brother’s shadow all this time. Why he found it necessary to take it out on you, you still don’t understand.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better about how you treated me at the ball?”

You don’t mince your words and you aren’t afraid to show him you’re still displeased.

“No.” Loki assures you. “No, and I truly am sorry for my behavior that night. Rowenna, that is, the Lady Gardner and I bring out the worst in each other. Both of us were expected to fulfill certain roles in our respective families and we were drawn into a friendship that has helped us both release some...tension.”

You frown, not liking that one bit. Did they go about making other young ladies feel terrible about themselves?

“Do you consider snubbing ladies an effective release of tension? I suppose you both ran around destroying reputation after reputation. No doubt leaving an endless trail of possible young brides sobbing behind their fans.”

Your hand is tight around his arm and he looks at your gloved fingers before he places his hand over them and stops at the top of the second floor landing.

The gesture gets your attention and you look up at him to find him watching you, concern and guilt etched on his face.

“Will I never be able to earn your forgiveness? I know that my efforts have been enthusiastic, but I only wish to show you that I know that I was wrong in treating you as I did.”

Your chest aches painfully, that inescapable bitterness rolling over you again but with it is a surprising amount of satisfaction at his sincerity. 

He must truly be sorry?

His green eyes are striking. They’re so piercing that you can only imagine he reads you like a book. 

Young and inexperienced as you are. You must be easily seen through.

Swallowing hard, you ignore the strange flutters that thrum along your heart and settle in the pit of your stomach. You look away, down at your hand around his arm to gather your wits but when you meet his eyes again you don’t attempt to disguise the hurt you feel.

He did it. He put it here. It’s only right he sees it.

“You made quite the first impression, Loki.”

The air is suddenly charged. Your skin tingles as his name leaves your lips, tongue suddenly numb against the roof of your mouth as you press your lips together nervously.

Loki blinks, his breath caught in his throat. Stunned probably by your use of his first name, but you cannot bring yourself to address him by the more formal and somehow less distinguished Mr. Odinson.

This time he looks away to gather his thoughts but when he meets your gaze again, his eyes are bright and eager, his lip curled at the right corner in a smile. Smirk? It’s somewhere in between.

“I know. I will make it up to you.” He promises.

“When?” you wonder. “And why? I thought you had decided that I was not the woman you wished to marry.”

Loki nods, “Perhaps I was a little hasty in my declarations.”

As you reach the second landing you find only one bookcase but where others had lined the walls below there are tables and chairs. A smaller tea table near the middle sits as centerpiece underneath the ornate iron chandelier overhead.

“As for when I shall make it up to you, I suppose only time will aid me in that venture. Come,” he urges you and leads you to the next flight of stairs.

He doesn’t stop until you’ve reached the top floor and here you find a small circular sitting room with layered carpets in shades of beige, green, and gray that cover the limestone floor and preserve the heat pouring out from the final fireplace.

Along with the cozy fire and the closely situated sofas, there on a narrow pale oak table is an elaborate porcelain tea set with a white and gold design and a tiered tray of various cakes both lightly iced and plain but garnished with pressed white phlox blooms.

Several of your favorite books are also placed on the smaller table at the longer sofa’s end as well as a thick fur trimmed blanket thrown casually over the back simply waiting to be draped over your chilled shoulders.

“Mr. Odinson,” you begin, pulling your arm gently from around his elbow so that you can lean back away from him to stare up into his slightly smug yet surprisingly bashful face.

He meets your eyes, his face softening just a bit as he allows himself a quiet chuckle.

"You've caught me. Would you be very angry with me if I told you that our meeting in the garden was not so wholly unplanned?" Loki confesses.

“Not angry exactly, but your skills at deceit have been exposed, sir. I’m aware now.”

Loki’s face actually pales more, if that is even possible with his already fair complexion. He looks a little guilty too but you release him and move to take a seat on the longer sofa.

As you settle, your stomach grumbles and you reach for one of the simpler cakes and devour it quickly before setting to serving your tea.

Loki also sits with you leaving enough space to keep things proper but as you finish pouring your tea Loki takes the milk and offers it to you.

You nod once and he pours a little for you.

“Sugar?” he wonders.

You watch him a little taken aback not expecting his doting and it feels a little overwhelming.

“What are you doing?”

He speaks slowly, confused and brow scrunched by your wary tone, “Offering you some sugar? Do you not like sugar in your tea?”

“No, I love some sugar in my tea, why are you trying so hard?”

Loki relaxes, suddenly grinning as he takes the small tongs from the sugar bowl and plops two small spoonfuls into your cup.

“Just as I said before, I will find a way to remedy my behavior and the impression I made upon you when we first met,” he explains.

“Yes, but this is a bit much. Would you be this way with anyone else?” You’re not looking for special treatment from him. All you’ve wanted from him is to be treated with respect and decency, nothing more. Nothing less.

“No.” Loki says with a small shrug as he sets the tongs aside and settles back into the sofa. “But you are not just anyone else, are you? My future wife deserves distinction and to be doted upon.”

Your heart nearly stops as your stomach erupts with unexpected flutters. Then your poor heart sputters back to life at double the speed, the pounding of it loud in your ears as you swallow and try not to let your hand shake your teacup.

Loki looks unaware of your flustered state as he reaches down to smooth out his jacket and waistcoat.

He really has no idea of the effect he has on the people around him and this irks you to no end.

When you say nothing, Loki finally looks at you, a small curl to his lips which you detest. Does he see your fluster?

To hide it you bring your tea to your lips and drink, the soothing heat relaxing your body.

Once you’re a little more composed, you set your cup down and reach for another small cake.

“I don’t need you to overcompensate,” you nearly plead. “In fact, if we are going to go through with this, I would prefer if we were both as genuine as possible."

Loki nods and reaches for his own small cake before taking a careful bite.

"I promise," he says after he's finished his bite. "That I will be nothing but genuine in all of my sentiments from this day forward."

"Good."

~~~~~~~~~~

Loki keeps to his word and you extend your stay, to Rowenna’s displeasure and the Duke and Duchess’s delight.

The onslaught of flowers upon your far from poor quarters does not cease. Loki sends bouquet after bouquet of the same midnight purple dahlias. You know they must be costing him a fortune but when you sit at your vanity and Anna does your hair, you can’t help but smile and admire the beauty of each bloom, your heart swayed by the gesture a little more with every petal.

You hate it.

Yet, your curiosity gets the better of you and you just can’t help but wonder, “Why Dahlias?”

“My lady?” Loki leans in closer, his proximity giving you a gentle waft of his scent and you nearly forget your train of thought before you focus again and lean towards him so that your lips are nearer his ear.

The din of the couples and crowd around you, all of it echoing off of the walls of the ballroom back to you make it nearly impossible to carry on proper and polite conversation. You’re standing awfully close to Loki and you are not unaware.

As you speak again, Loki reaches to place his hand over yours, currently gently wrapped around his elbow as he stands with you near the head of the room where his mother and father usually stand but are currently making their rounds.

The touch, though your hand is gloved with stylish short lace gloves, gives your heart a stutter. The heat of his hand you can feel seep through and the way he gives your fingers a gentle squeeze to assure you he is listening pleases you too much.

“I was only wondering, your flower of choice? Why Dahlias? Every morning I wake to find a new vase full of them beside my bed.”

Loki turns to you, concern etched across his sharp features. His green eyes shine underneath a quizzical brow as he leans back slightly to get an accurate appraisal of your own expression.

“Do you not like them?” he worries.

You read his lips more than hear him and shake your head, waving his worry away gently.

“No. No, they are lovely, I only wondered as to why you’ve chosen only that flower. That’s all,” you clarify.

Loki still looks confused and he looks over at the quartet of strings playing their music as couples dance and partiers drink and eat. A group of four, two young couples you do not recognize from the endless balls that the Duke and Duchess have thrown since you’ve decided to stay, break into loud obnoxious laughter.

Your and Loki’s attention are not the only pulled to them by their display.

“Is it just me or have they gotten louder as the night has gone on?” Loki wonders.

A rhetorical question so you don’t bother to answer but you nod anyway and he gestures to the double doors across the hall.

“Come, let us take some air,” he says but waits as you look down at your gown and gather the ruffled skirt.

It’s a beautiful gown but not made for this frigid winter. You’d worried more about being stylish tonight than practical.

The gown has vertical stripes, thick and heavy made of sturdy shiny satin in ivory. It stands in beautiful contrast against the sheer muslin that lays between each stripe, the layer beneath that the same shade as your own skin. The effect it gives had startled several gasps from those in attendance and Rowenna had been successfully outdone which had been your primary goal.

At the front, just along the sharp dip of your neckline you’d placed a pretty golden brooch with a stunning diamond at its center. An heirloom that had once belonged to your mother.

Despite convention, you’d left your hair down for the most part, only part of it gathered at the top of your head and held in place with long matching ivory ribbons and pins.

It’s no wonder that even now as you make your escape with Loki, the eyes of Loki’s guests are drawn to you.

Rowenna’s are especially narrowed to slits, her lip curled in distaste.

You don’t acknowledge her dislike of you with anything more than a cursory glance.

She can hate you all she wants. You know this is where you belong now.

Once you and Loki are clear of the ballroom, he waves Anna over who has been waiting by the back steps that lead down into the kitchens.

She approaches with a green shawl embroidered with golden leaves and vines. Loki takes it from her and wraps it around your shoulders as she hands you a white muffler.

“Thank you, Anna,” you tell her and she gives you a quick curtsy and smile before backing away as Loki offers his arm again.

You take it and he leads you out through the back doors into the frozen garden.

As opposed to most nights where the garden is swathed in darkness, tonight’s ball has warranted several different lights be placed about the carefully manicured topiary. Only two other people are about the gardens, two men chatting loudly but too into their own conversations to notice you and Loki as you pass them smoking thick cigars. The smoke drifts towards you and Loki quickly switches you to his opposite side so that you might avoid it.

He turns you to the right and leads you down along a row of large prune shrubs away from the duo.

“I’m glad you enjoy the flowers,” Loki says. “It gives me great pleasure to know you like them.”

“I do, they make my rooms smell wonderful, but why that particular flower?” you repeat for him, needing to know the answer more than it is probably important.

He smiles, only half of his lips curling up as he looks down at the snow on the ground.

The soft crunch of it beneath your feet is oddly pleasing if not freezing. You won’t be able to stay out here for long. You’ll get soaked. You can already feel the bottom of your dress growing heavier.

“Are you warm enough?” he checks.

“Loki,” you whine, hating to wait.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “You’re impatient.”

So he’s teasing you! You give him a playful glare, despite yourself. You’re intoxicated by his mood. How does he do it? How does he pull you in? You know you aren’t the first, yet here you are…unwilling to fight it.

“I chose it because it reminds me of you. Not the color. The color I personally enjoy. Pink would look wonderful and also reminds me of you but the flower in general makes me think of you. They’re elegant and graceful. So are you. There’s a purity in them as there is in you.

“The moment I saw you, if I’m honest, I pictured a pure white blossom with gold-tipped edges.”

You feel your neck burn a little, your heart flutters but you keep walking and try to pick anything off what he just said and keep the discussion going.

“Do you often compare women to flowers when you first see them?” It’s odd but do men really do it?

“Perhaps not every woman, only the ones that stand out. And you were a vision. I’m sad I ruined your dress. Truly, I’m sorry.”

You wave his apology away. He’s been apologizing since the day in the folly and you’ve already accepted.

“What is your mother? A golden rose?” It’s the first image that appears to you.

“Mother, despite her outward appearance, is much more humble than she might seem. She’s a crown of daisies.”

You watch him as he speaks and you can see the love he has for her. It touches you and you clear your throat.

“What of Rowenna? You and she are close friends, she must have been assigned a flower.” Loki huffs a laugh. “A venus fly-trap perhaps?”

Loki coughs his next laugh, clearing his throat but struggling to regain his composure.

You can’t help but smirk a bit, happy to have caught him off guard, but your dislike of Rowenna is no secret.

“How do you know of the fly-trap?” he wonders.

“I do read other books besides novels, my lord. I am aware of several carnivorous plants through my studies.”

“Ah,” Loki smiles, amused still. “As much as I’d like to make you happy by agreeing with you, no. Rowenna was a common orange daylily. As was my presumption when I first saw her and it was confirmed when we spoke.”

“What makes her so?” you ask, a little bitter as your mind is flooded with the pretty flower.

“Well, daylilies are an invasive species. They clump and cling to the spot you plant them, are hard to remove, but um…” he hesitates. “...they’re easy to cultivate.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you wonder if he means what you think he means.

You know he can’t be pure. His experience in love must be much greater than yours. As your cheeks flood with heat, you can’t pretend not to be disappointed that finally after weeks of wondering, Loki has confirmed for you the depth of his relationship with Rowenna.

It makes sense why she refuses to let him go.

But she’s married…how can she? Has she no shame? No decency?

Your walk gets very quiet and you’re so distracted by your own thoughts and disappointment that you don’t feel how Loki has tensed beside you. 

After what must be ten minutes, Loki clears his throat.

“My lady if I have offended you in any way…”

“Hm?” you look up at him as he comes to a stop and stares at you with a surprisingly cautious look. The slant of his eyebrows, the worry, brings you back to yourself. “Oh, no! Sorry. I’m-I was lost in thought.”

“About Rowenna?” he guesses.

“No!” you deny adamantly. Perhaps too much so. “No, of course not. I was merely thinking that um…well you…you like purple?” you ask. “I would have figured you more into shades of black and green.”

Loki looks confused and stares into your carefully curious gaze as you await his answer. You know that he must be wondering if you’re genuine in your denial but he must know that you aren’t even if he wishes you to be.

For the sake of recovering the evening, you assume he accepts your refusal and relaxes a little as he pulls you back into a slower walk.

“I-er, I enjoy most dark colors. I suppose I chose the Midnights because I saw both you and myself in them. And are we not to be united? Was I wrong to picture us together?” he ponders, a touch of his fretting in his voice.

Your own gets caught in your throat as you tighten your hold on his arm. How can he say these things and not get choked up with nerves?

���Rowenna was very angry tonight,” you whisper, unable to find more air to speak louder.

You pull him to a stop, unable to ignore this worry any longer. For the past three weeks you’ve spent every moment you can with Loki. He’s kept to his word in the folly and each instance of time spent with you has been done so in earnest.

Every second, minute, and hour that he’s had to spare has been spent in your company and other than your flowers, no other gifts have been bestowed. This more than anything has given you hope that he might mean these shocking things he says.

“Loki, I-I don’t need to know the extent of your relationship with Rowenna,” you begin, but he tries to cut in and steps closer to you, saying your name so softly that the beat of your heart stutters and you nearly give in and let him speak. “Please, do not interrupt me. I must say what needs saying.”

Your heart might have confirmed his sleeping with her, but you will not bear his lips telling you so.

“Very well,” he whispers, swallowing hard the lump in his throat. He does turn however, to face you and he takes both your hands in his, holding them as his thumbs stroke the pattern of the lace on your gloves. “You have my silence.”

“Mrs. Gardner has made it perfectly clear by insinuation that what you and she have shared in the past is more than mere friendship,” Loki gives your hands a small squeeze. “I am not so naive to think that at your age you might not have made…connections. My Mim, that is to say, my governess and now lady’s maid has explained to me with great detail and without filter the ways of men.

“I do not hold that against you. But…” you wonder if maybe you’re being too hasty. Are you assuming too much after only three weeks?

“I only wish to know that what you shared with Mrs. Gardner is over. That while I must endure her glares and whispered insults, that I do not also have to bear the injury as well.

“Do I have anything to worry about with regards to Mrs. Gardner? Are-Are you in love with Rowenna, Loki? Should I-” you clear your throat, struggling to breath around the thickness in your throat. “Shall I step aside and allow the two of you to be happy? Am I the one keeping you both from happiness?”

Loki whispers your name, drawing your eyes up to his. The gentle smile on his lips, the soft set of his eyes gives you hope that you aren’t wrong to assume that his time with Rowenna is at an end.

“Is that what you’ve been worried about? Is that why you’ve been avoiding our nightly walks?” he checks, and you can’t believe he actually noticed that you’ve been staying indoors after dinner instead of going on your walks with him the past two nights.

“She’s been so overt about her dislike of me,” you pout. “And the things she says when she knows that no one else is listening but me.”

“I will talk with Rowenna,” Loki assures you, reaching up to stroke your arms. “As a matter of fact, now that the snow from the storm has finally melted, I will send her and the Viscount home. They have outstayed their welcome.”

“Really?” you check, hopeful but still a little on edge.

“Shall I kick them out now?” he asks, smiling at his joke.

“Loki…” you whine, but can’t help the smile that pulls at the corners of your lips.

“I would, you know,” he admits. “If you wanted them gone at this very moment, I would call for the carriage and send them off. Shall I call Jones?”

He makes to pull away, the threat of calling the horse master making you laugh as you pull him back.

“No! It would be so unkind to send them off so late. I might not feel bad about sending Rowenna away but the Viscount has been nothing but kind and attentive to me. I would not see him slighted. Rowenna is blind in the kindness of her husband and the quality of his character.”

Even though you should not think it, if one of them should die from illness or injury, you hope it is Rowenna first so then the Viscount can find himself a more suitable wife.

“I suppose you’re right. Still, should you want it, you need only say the word. Your wish, Countess, is my command.”

Through smiles you wrap your arm around his again and nudge him forward until he’s leading you around the garden once more. As you begin the second circle, snow finally begins to drift down from the sky.

It’s a light fall and will probably stop before you go to bed. While it lasts, it gives you and Loki a lovely sight for your late night walk.

You walk in silence a few minutes more, the two men from before make their way back into the smoking room and shut the doors tight.

“Now we’re alone,” Loki begins, and your heart is thundering against your ribs. “I’d like to ask you something.”

You swallow hard, turning in the slush beneath your feet to face Loki again, eyes frantically scanning his handsome face to see if you can read the question there.

“I have to see the Prince tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in the morning but I will be back in two days. When I return, will you come with me to the folly again? I have something I would really like to ask you.”

He smiles, and even though you and he both know that it’s the question, you nod frantically. “Of course. Of course, I will.”

“Wonderful,” Loki says, stroking your hand around his elbow again before looking down at your feet. “I think I’ve had you out here soaking long enough. Come, let’s go and warm ourselves by a fire.”

[snackhobi]

you’d thought yourself content in your loneliness and accepted your place in the world. then hoseok—holding the power of the sun in his hands and his smile—stepped into your life.

pairing: hoseok x reader / word count: 2.6k / genre + rating: sfw, magic!au, just a lot of fluff really 🥰

warnings/etc: self deprecating talk + discussions of loneliness and inadequacy towards the beginning but that’s it :)

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @morndas​!! 💕 I adore you!! thank you for beta reading my fics and for being such a wonderful person, I am SO GRATEFUL to have you in my life!! (and thank you to the lovely @joyfulhopelox​​ for beta reading this for me when I yelled out for help at the last minute! ✨)

The thing is—

The thing is.

All your experience of love so far has left you aching. It’s left you feeling empty at the end of it; it’s taken and taken and you’ve given and given and it’s left you lonely.

Loving is hard. It’s hard, and it’s frightening. The thing with love is you're simultaneously in the safest place you can be and at your most vulnerable—because you're cracking yourself open and saying ‘look, this is me’. Because you’re trusting someone to not flinch away from all the twisted, frayed ends of your soul crammed messily inside you. You’re safe with them, because you love them, but you’re also vulnerable because you love them and you care about their thoughts the most, which is why it’s so hard.

You should be safe, anyway. Love should be a place of caring, of affection, of warm hands and soft words and gentle touches—not a space to put the pieces of your broken heart and soured dreams, a hollow echo of what you’d always hoped for—

But you’d tried not to think about it.

(Tried to move on from the people who hurt you.)

Tried, instead, to focus on all the shining stars in your life, the points of joy—poured those handfuls of happiness into the world around you, filling the cracks and holes, shaping your life into one you’d always wanted. One that was worth celebrating, even with its heartaches, with its pain.

(Even with its wild, seemingly endless loneliness.)

You grew. You grew and you learned and you grabbed hold of life with two hands, struggled onwards and upwards, setting your sights on the future and working towards it. And you succeeded. It took time, but you succeeded. You grew into your wisdom and power and magic with all the tenacity of a weed burrowing into the pavement; bloomed as beautiful as a wildflower in the concrete. You found your place, your niche, and you scraped together what you had until you finally found somewhere you could call your own. Somewhere you could call home.

You took your new cottage and suffused it with you. Surrounded yourself with the things you loved—scented candles and small knick-knacks and well thumbed story books, poetry, trinkets, rocks, gifts from others and gifts to yourself, homely and comfortable, superfluous but also necessary (two mushroom shaped shakers, pepper and salt; tin mugs with foxes dancing across their patterns; a teapot shaped like a frog). You planted lavender at the front door, hydrangeas at the back door, coaxed wisteria up the trellis, watched your cherry tree bloom in the spring and shake its pink blossoms across the pond, scattering petals across the water, listened to the throaty singing of the frogs in the cool darkness of twilight. You stoked the fire in the oven, filled the kitchen with the warmth and the sweet smell of your baking, breads and tarts and pies; boiled jams and soups and stews over the hob, filling foods for yourself and your friends, made all the more for sharing. You would sing quietly to yourself, murmured melodies and loud arpeggios as you trailed your fingers across the spines of your books, all your shelves full to the brim. 

Magic flowed out of you, peony petals and candyfloss and blush. Turned the air soft with it; grey rose, silver dust and pink glow. It took time, and patience, although loneliness still lingered—you were reminded of it each morning as you brewed enough tea for just one cup, each night as you lay alone in bed—but soon the cottage became your sanctuary, for all that it felt like there was some small emptiness hidden around each corner. Something you could ignore, mostly, could forget about—until you caught it out of the corner of your eye, ever-present, sneaking up on you when you least expected it.

(But you were used to that, after all. Used to pretending that it wasn’t there. You would shut your eyes to its existence until the lonely hours of the night, where all your daydreams would overflow into the cool dark of your room. Every love song and poem you’d ever read or composed in your own mind would unspool from inside your chest like so many untethered red threads. It’s so much harder to hide from yourself in the darkness.)

You placed a sign above your door, swinging in the breeze; decorated it with your own hands, chose the silver moon to represent this place and painted its name in cursive: Lullaby.

And you made Lullaby a place of comfort, a cradle song to keep people safe into the night. Not just a sanctuary for yourself, but for others too. As long as you can keep others happy then you’re happy. That’s what you’d always told yourself, told yourself that the quiet dreams you held close to your chest could wait, that your unattainable desires could be shoved down, deep-deep-deep down. You’re a Sage, after all, someone who’s there to hold a hand out to those who need it. To offer your wisdom to those who ask for it, to be a support to the people around you; it’s who you are, to your very bone, every shimmering facet of your magic humming with that truth.

(You’re not the main character in any story, not the shining star in the sky, bold and blazing and bright. You’re a side character, a set piece, there to make people laugh, to bring them calm. You’re fine with it, you are, you swear you are, but—sometimes you wished you were more.)

But then one day your front door had opened, bringing in the smell of summer and the explosion of life outside, slanting rays of sunlight cast across the room—silhouetting the figure in the doorway, someone new and unfamiliar, someone who shone as wildly as the midday sun in the wide blue sky above. Someone with a gleaming smile, polite but joyful; someone with dark eyes that seemed to glow gold in the sunshine, haloing his brown hair and turning streaks of blond into honey in its light; someone who politely asked if he could speak to you, to ask for your wisdom—

“I’m Hoseok,” he’d said, “and I’m looking for the sage?”

“That’s me,” you’d replied, your voice a little high around the sudden racing of your heart.

And his smile had spread even further into something genuinely pleased, his warm eyes crinkling. “I was wondering if you could offer me some help.”

—and something nestled deep in your chest, a little spray of starshine you’d thought faded had quietly flared to life, and your heart had said:

Oh.

At first you’d tried not to think about his beautiful hands with his delicate fingers, the dimples of his cheeks, the bright of his eyes. Tried to keep your composure, to reel yourself in, make yourself small. To be a guiding voice to someone who was asking for your help, rather than reaching out, unfurling from your place of comfort to try and touch something you wanted when you’d thought you’d never feel this way again.

And as time went on you told yourself that you were content with friendship. Because you were, felt more than blessed to have Hoseok in your life in any capacity, even if that aching hunger in your soul was gnawing at your ribcage, wanting to be fed. Starving for it. But you were used to being hungry. Used to compartmentalising that hunger into something small, used to carving it out of your chest and hiding it away under your tongue, unspoken and unseen.

But sometimes things just happen. Sometimes flowers burst from the dirt even without a caring hand to coax them forth; sometimes different trees grow intertwined; sometimes two people find their paths crossing and discover that their edges meet perfectly, two puzzle pieces slotting into place.

Hoseok glows. Metaphorically, bursting to the brim with energy and determination and unwavering focus, but also literally. The sun’s magic fills him, spills from his finger tips, liquid gold; the edge of a crashing wave caught in the dawn’s rays, the pollen dusted in the heart of blooming flowers. He’s so bright you fear you might be blinded by it if he weren’t so gentle; so bright you fear you might be burned by it if he weren’t so soft.

It surprises you, still, that he could ever need your support. That this golden boy ever came here in the first place, hunted down Lullaby and the sage there, in this small cottage with pink and yellow and red roses growing over the fences, with strawberries and blackberries hanging sweet and fat and heavy on their brambles outside. 

You never thought you’d see him moving around your garden, through your flowers and past your herbs; see him crouching down to watch the bees and sing to the birds just like you do, serenading the fat pigeons and tiny sparrows and sleek blackbirds. The plants in your garden turn their faces towards him, chasing the sun’s nurturing light, and you don’t blame them (you do the same, after all). During the night, he stands under the cherry tree, watches how the water turns from its mirror sheen to ever-growing ripples as a frog disturbs the surface; he shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, inhaling the night air and moon and stars while you drink every inch of him in.

You’d shared your space in the past, with friends you loved dearly, but found that it had worn away at you—so you’d thought yourself better off alone. You’d found Lullaby and thought yourself content in this soft space, this quiet place. But then Hoseok had burst into your life like the sweetness of honey spreading on your tongue and… he hadn’t left.

He’d given you hope, even in the early stages when you tiptoed around this thing that had threatened to burst free inside you, the gossamer thin wings of some newborn thing trying to take flight after being trapped in a cocoon for so long—he hadn’t done anything except be himself, palms upturned not in supplication but in a motion of giving. He hadn’t asked you to be brave but you took the leap anyway, took a step out from under the comfort of shade into the heat of the sun.

He’d made you want to give love a chance again. He’d made you feel strong enough to be weak, to let him in and see the parts of you you’d kept hidden to keep yourself (and your heart) safe.

He’d seen you, and he’d seen you, and he’d chosen to stay. 

No one ever told you that love could be like this.

No one told you that love could be easy. 

No one told you that love would feel like a sun dappled room, golden light spilling over white, mellowing and soft, every sharp angle turned into easing lines of warmth. That love would feel like walking through the open door of someone’s heart into a space that was waiting for you there. That the space was made for you and you alone, that it would have been made on purpose, that someone would have seen you and seen you, inside and out, and chosen to make that space for you. That they would carve out room for you in their chest, invited you in, slot you in so easily between their lungs and heart. 

No one told you that you wouldn’t have to make yourself small for love. That you could be loud, that you could talk and talk, that you could be you, with all your flaws, and still be infinitely lovely and wonderful despite them. In spite of them. Because of them. 

No one told you of the joy you’d feel as someone mixed their books with yours, shelves a menagerie of stories and poems and spellbooks that the two of you share. No one could have described the sheer elation of meeting someone who didn’t tire you out, who invigorated you just by being there, who made you want to be the best version of yourself and who helped you by being at your side.

(You don’t think you could describe it even if you tried. Don’t think that you could line the words up on your tongue in a way that made sense, only know that you feel everything so much your chest threatens to crack open with the rising swell of it, rejoicing in the intimacy of existing at the same time as someone who wants to tend to that love with as much gentleness as you do.)

The question Hoseok had come to ask you that day—the struggle he was having, something he’d been trying to put to rest—had been a deceptively simple one, on the surface. Struggling with incantations, with twisting his magic into different and unusual shapes; it had run deeper than that, deeper than a tangled invocation or misdrawn sigil. Hoseok was a powerful mage but something was off. 

There’s something missing, he’d said, I just don’t know what it is.

But there was a reason you were a sage, after all. You were good at helping people organise their thoughts and solve their issues, even if your own fell by the wayside.

We’ll find it, Hoseok, you’d promised. Let’s work together to figure out what it is.

You just hadn’t expected he’d help you with your struggles, too.

(Hadn’t expected that the thing he’d been missing in the centre of his magic, the empty space in the very core of its heart, had been you.)

It still surprises you, sometimes, that Hoseok has stayed.

It still surprises you when you wake up, slow and unrushed and gentle, and the bed isn’t empty. Hoseok is all loose limbed, sprawled across you, holding you close. It takes time for you to take in your surroundings and breathe in the scent of your sheets and clothes and Hoseok, who smells like orange and grapefruit; cedar and patchouli, bright and sharp with a deep undercurrent. (How fitting, you think, for this shining boy who has so much inside, so much depth wrapped up in a beaming smile and warm brown eyes.)

The sun is rising outside. And here, inside this home you’ve built, you’re wrapped up in its arms, your very own golden hour. 

It’s comforting, the smell and sensation, Hoseok wrapped around you in so many ways. Even when he’s asleep he glows faintly, a night light of shimmering magic. You watch him as he slumbers, all your plans for today at the very back of your mind—the bourbon and brown sugar peach pie you’re going to bake, the newly scribed spells someone had sent you to read over, the watering of your plants, the filling of your bird feeders; all of the things clamouring for your attention fall silent as you lie next to the man you’ve fallen in love with and just let yourself bask in it all.

He wakes up leisurely, lashes fluttering as he rises from the realm of dreams into the real world. The second his eyes open, as unfocused and swollen from sleep as they are, they fix unwaveringly on your face.

“Hi,” you murmur, as quiet as the ocean’s waves lapping at the rolling shore.

“Hi,” he smiles back, still soft from sleep, a lovely smile, your lovely Hoseok. “Good morning.”

For now there’s nothing else to worry about.  No worrying about what the rest of the day holds. No aching and yearning, emptiness eating away inside you; he’s here, he’s here, and he’s here to stay. There’s nothing else to think about.

Just you, and him, and the two of you, together—still half asleep, and stuffed full of sunlight, and magic, and love.

taglist:  @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove​