#success correspondences

[msmc-796-official]

+ Good morning, Heaven's Fury!!

+ Pardon the brief radio silence, I was bogged down trying to pack, prepare, and decipher the tedious legal jargon around my 'transfer'; That, and I was not prepared for my Milkrun. Not sure what I was expecting, but I haven't been this tired in years. + Fantastic news, however! As of tonight, I am shipping out to join MSMC's 148th detachment, "Aftermarket Brokers"; I saddled up with a more R&D-centric detachment in an effort to make the most of my specializations. It should be a nice balance of ground deployment, prototype development, and study. Of course, there's still the brief training window before I can actually meet, let alone deploy with, my squadron- but my application was picked up by 148th almost immediately.

+ No more putting it off, I guess. Now's the time for that last, big step; Moving in. + Thank you all for your inspiration, and for the motivation to make this jump- I hope to make you proud.

+ (PS; I have a bottle of Kahlua to send to Slipshod, I think I owe them one, don't ask. Had to try and guess what they might like; I'll send that over once I'm settled.)

+ Thank you, again, -- "GRAY"

// Congratulations, Gray! The 148th are a very talented squadron when it comes to engineering, they're very lucky to have snagged you so quickly. I'll have your welcome gifts sent over to their hangar, so you can access them right away after you get moved in.

+ aw shit, you got me kahlua? man, I haven't had that since HORUS - I'll look forward to drinking that. (one of my old hacker buddies liked white russians a whole lot; we used to experiment with my vodka collection and see what we could come up with that didn't taste entirely awful.) oh, and you're very welcome for the help ;)

> Congratulations on joining MSMC officially, Gray. While I myself have not personally interacted with the members of MSMC-148, I have it on good authority that they're a very well put together team. I think you'll be a good fit with them - they wouldn't have picked up your application so quickly if they didn't think so, too.

+ yeah, congrats on getting in with the R&D squad - they're good pals of mine. rumor has it some of their older members were privy to our side of the zheng license back in the day - might wanna ask around and see if they still have any of the original blueprints. also, if you see him around, tell Tinkerbell (his actual callsign is Tinker, but I'm not gonna let him off that easy for beating me at poker) that it's his turn to host game night; drinks are on me since I lost last week

// You've really come into your own since we first met you, Gray; it's an honor to get to welcome both you and GRAE to the team. We're all incredibly proud of you, and look forward to piloting alongside you someday very soon. And hey, if you ever need guidance on where to go next, or just want to chat - our hangar doors (and our inbox) are always open. You know where to find us.

+ ditto that. you did good, kid - welcome aboard!

> Congratulations again, Gray. From all of us.

Yours among the stars, forever and always!

-- Angel, Slipshod, & Lockbreaker

[pantachorei]

@reflective-muses :

prompt: general sentences, vol 18 aventurine to dr. ratio

"Is there no end to your talents?"

❛    if   you   find   yourself   impressed   by   my   capabilities,   perhaps   you   should   endeavour   to   broaden   your   own   range   of   skills.   you   may   want   to   start   with   learning   how   to   reign   in   one's   gambling   addiction,   for   one.   ❜

[lolo3h]

So I was thinking about the other grass type tierlist I made based on what plant families grass type pokemon were based on and made another list categorizing the uses the plants the pokemon are based on

[fideidefenswhore]

Did Henry VIII forbid Princess Mary from any correspondence after she was bastardized by statute? Different biographies claim different things, was hoping for some clarity and insight.

If he did, he did a fairly poor job of enforcing the rule:

1172. Anne Shelton to Henry VIII. I have spoken with my lady Mary, as you desired, and asked her by whom she sent the letter to master Carowe. She said she sent it by her servant Randal Dod, and that lady Bryan delivered her lady Carowe's letter open, the effect of which was to desire her for the Passion of Christ in all things to follow the King's pleasure, otherwise she was utterly undone. After I had spoken with my lady Mary I went to my lady Bryan, and she affirmed what was said to be true. Hunsdon. this Sunday, at 8 o'clock in the evening. Signed. 'Henry VIII: September 1534, 16-20', in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 7, 1534, ed. James Gairdner (London, 1883), pp. 453-457. British History Online.

This contradicts the below:

968. Princess Mary to [Cromwell]. Apologises for her [poor] writing; "for I have not done so much this two year and more, nor could not have found the means to do it [...] but by my lady Kingston's being here."  'Henry VIII: May 1536, 26-31', in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 10, January-June 1536, ed. James Gairdner (London, 1887), pp. 402-420.

Which contradicts...

1253. Marillac to Francis I. Saw letters of hers in French, written to the Emperor's ambassador in the time of her “ennuy.” [...] [Her] chamber woman says that when her mother was first repudiated [1531 or 1533] she was sick with “ennuy,” but, on being visited and comforted by the King [1536], soon recovered and has had no such illness since. 'Henry VIII: October 1541, 11-20', in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 16, 1540-1541, ed. James Gairdner and R H Brodie (London, 1898), pp. 585-592.

And, it even contradicts Chapuys, who mentions her correspondence during this time, as well. There are times he's unable to receive any messages, but Mary was writing him frequently at some times, intermittently at others. Like, during 1534, Chapys falls for some false flags (such as, crowing about how Mary managed to secure the best place on the barge setting out for Elizabeth's new household, sent word to him where the barge would be sent so that he knew which place to wait for her appearance on the shore... shortly followed by him whining about how this showcase of defiance seems to have intensified her mistreatment, and caused the arrest of "a young lady who did her the most service", including interrogation by the Duke of Norfolk as to how, exactly, Chapuys learned which place at which riverside he needed to wait to watch her pass...), but from 1535 onwards, she even manages to send her own letter to the literal Emperor, and she claims it will be very easy to slip out of her sister's household, that all she has to do is drug Anne Shelton and shimmy out a window to accomplish this, all the way to 1536, where she manages to copy a letter her stepmother has written to Anne Shelton and send it to Chapuys, and sends him word that she approves of the plot to oust her stepmother from the throne ("On 2 May 1536, he wrote that Mary had encouraged him to get rid of Anne and, on her advice, he employed various means to do so [...]", Inside the Tudor Court, Lauren Mackay).

There is of course, the possibility that it was 'forbidden' to Mary officially, but that the unofficial policy was to turn a blind eye/allow it so that her correspondence could be monitored. Warnicke espoused this theory, I'm not terribly convinced, however, because while Chapuys does mention Mary's letters, he also, in the thick of the Exeter Conspiracy arrests, claims he's not too terribly worried for Mary's well-being because he's long told her to burn correspondence from him, and he himself has already burned her most controversial correspondence, kept the red herrings he dictated and sent her some for good measure, should her household be searched (since a complete absence of correspondence from Chapuys would be suspect). Although, the possibility that Henry knew his eldest daughter had solicited foreign invasion would perhaps put the pressurizing of his council for her arrest six months afterwards, into an...interesting, context? (Was he planning to hold onto this information/evidence just in case he ever needed to use it? Had he not acted upon it until that point because he wanted to leave the option of an Imperial alliance open? Had he not told his council, but was he planning to if she refused the oaths yet again, mid-1536? Et al)

Tl; dr again, if that was his forbiddance, it seems it was either rather toothless (it would be instructive to read the letter Shelton was responding to here, wouldn't it) and/or inconsistent. There seem to have been periods within this timeframe where this 'rule' was more strictly enforced than others.

[larapeteira]

*plays 'Which side are you on?' on loop to deal with 'America Decides'*

Thanks, Succession, I don't think I'll be able to sleep til the end of the series now.

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

So the main thing I’ve learned from this post is that thousands of people have conflicted feelings about the divine right of kings in Lord of the Rings

“liking something in fiction doesn’t mean you condone it in real life” but instead of dark fanfiction tropes it’s about liking jeeves and wooster while being a socialist

[the-travelling-witch]

SHE MOVED! And got wine <33

The wedding was beautiful! Super simple in a large rented house and the brother giving a speech (I ate like three carrot cake cupcakes)

But my grandmother did get drunk and call me a and in her words a “strawberry” and then said “wait no ur more blonde” she also talked about aliens? Idk but I love her dearly she’s great her and her aliens

i sure did!! and only had a minor meltdown over it ^^ (the wine was super good though since it was our friends’ grapes)

ohhh sounds super cute!! also no family gathering is complete without some weird relatives lol ㅠㅠ getting blonde/strawberry is better than my friends going “yeah holly you’re just not blonde anymore :/“ after going on about how blondes are their type… just say it to my face idiot /silly

[cilawarncke]

On Writing Towards Progress

The upcoming release of Lee, Kate Winslet’s film about photographer Lee Miller, got me thinking about how much has changed for women in the past century. And how little. Lee Miller was one of four women photojournalists accredited by the United States armed forces in World War II. Among the many striking images she created, Miller photographed the liberation of Buchenwald and Dachau: indelible…

[thecupidwitch]

Spell Bags

What Are Spell Bags?

Spell Bags are usually small bags that contain a range of ingredients linked to the intention of your spell. They can sometimes be known as different names, or have slight cultural differences. For the purpose of this post I will refer to a spell bag, but they may also be called spell sachets, charm bags, and in some cultures, mojo bags (please do your own research). You can also make spell jars, which are pretty much the same, only you use a jar and not a bag.

Bag Colors

Gold - wealth, protection, the God Silver - prosperity, the moon, the Goddess Yellow - healing Orange - travel, communication, messages Green - nature, growth, prosperity, abundance, friendship Blue - peace, calm, wisdom, benevolence Purple - wisdom, wealth, grandeur, mysteries, justice Red - success, romance, strength, protection Pink - love, healing, friendship Black - absorbs negative energy

How to Make a Spell Bag

Think about your intention for making the spell bag… Why are you making it?… What do you want to get from it?

Think about ingredients you want to put into the spell bag and their correspondences… What ingredients will fit into your spell bag?… What specific ingredients are associated with your intentions (for example, what herbs are used for protection)

Collect your bag and ingredients, and focus your intent on each of them. You may also want to write a magickal chant. This can be simply read out, or written down to leave inside the spell bag.

Assemble your spell bag.

Spend time either meditating on your intention, or reciting your magickal chant.

Find a place to put your spell bag. This may simply be on your altar, or in your pocket. Alternatively, there may be a specific place you want to put it (such as by your bed for a sleep spell bag, or in the corner of your room for protection).

Tip-Jar

[pantachorei]

@reflective-muses :

prompt: little rot, part 1 aventurine to ratio

"what kind of person do you think i am?"

what   a   pointless   question   to   ask.   a   grand-standing   one,   a   clamorous   one,   a   wastefully   witty   one,   a   concerning   one.   the   gambler   was   a   great   many   things,   and   a   headache   for   the   esteemed   doctor   above   most   of   them,   as   the   majority   of   people   who   witnessed   their   banter   could   attest   to.

none   of   those   things   would   be   beneficial   to   disclose   to   aventurine,   however,   nor   was   ratio   inclined   to   part   with   his   personal   opinion   on   him.   above   all   else,   though,   he   thought   the   gambler   was   likely   fully   aware   that   he   found   him   acceptable   company.

❛    you   are   wasting   both   our   time   with   useless   questions   like   that.   ❜

[frekless]

Think I need to go to therapy again.

Problem is I really really hate therapists.

Been there done that. Hate the whole process.

Especially the emphasis on CBT. Does not work for me.

But I think I need to talk to someone about the last 6 months.

I have been running on adrenaline since the end of February and now that everything is starting to get back on track I am crashing so hard.

[lilacstro]

⭐what can your birth time mean for you through Chinese astrology

paid readings open

support me on ko-fi :)

let us see, what does your birth time say for you. Here we will talk about your birth time and the Taoist (Chinese) system of Astrology. It is pretty similar to how they do it for years, assigning animal to every year. Similarly, an animal is assigned to every hour. I first came across this through a blog by the writer called "Alchemist" though I cannot remember the website. If someone can remind me, I would credit them anyways, though this was around a few months ago.

if we would talk about this in western system, in my knowledge I would rather recommend looking at the sect of your chart, which you can find on my blog under the masterlist.

I found this to be somewhat accurate in descriptions, so I thought it would be worth sharing something different than what I usually post :)

★Rat Hour (11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.)

The Rat hour is when these creatures are most active, marking both the end of one day and the beginning of another. Those born during this time are known for their resourcefulness and ambition. They have a knack for setting goals and achieving them, thanks to their natural charm and determination.

★Ox Hour (1:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m.)

The Ox hour is when oxen are said to start chewing their cud, a time considered to be the darkest part of the night. People born during this hour are gentle and hardworking, possessing great patience and the ability to manifest their goals. While they are reliable and persistent, they can also be quite stubborn and extremely furious when angered or frustrated.

★Tiger Hour (3:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m.)

Tiger hour corresponds to the time when tigers awaken to hunt. Those born during this period are destined to achieve much in life, often facing significant challenges that help them build confidence and courage. However, they may also be seen as self-centered due to their strong attachment to their accomplishments, or perhaps it's just others being envious of their success. They are very brave and have the ability to fight any situation or person.

★Rabbit Hour (5:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.)

The Rabbit hour is when these gentle creatures start their day, working on their nests. Individuals born during this hour are deeply empathetic and sensitive, with a rich sensual side. They are naturally gifted with powers of fertility and manifestation. These people can actually be pretty restless and very physically active, and very beautiful and attractive, at least as perceived by others. Others may also see them as innocent most of the time!

★Dragon Hour (7:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.)

The Dragon hour coincides with the time when dragons, symbolizing the arrival of sunlight, emerge from the east. Those born during this time are blessed with immense power, even if they haven't fully realized it yet. They are often impatient and stubborn but are also incredibly generous and remarkable. These people often have a lot of intensity inside them, and they can actually sometimes be careless with their words, coming off as harsh, rude or critical at times. Perfectionist tendencies.

★Snake Hour (9:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m.)

Snake hour is when snakes leave their burrows as the ground warms. People born during this hour are endowed with earth's wisdom and have an insatiable curiosity. They are both charming and clever, with the ability to attract energies and events that help them achieve their goals. Usually very interested in psychic stuff and wise beyond years. These kind of people are usually not loud, both in speaking and actions and they just strike. No one can know what they are thinking and what they are planning to do. They are mysterious and do not easily reveal themselves.

★Horse Hour (11:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.)

The Horse hour is when horses take a break to rest and eat. If you are born during this time, you are blessed with the power to free yourself and others from the burdens of illusions. You are enthusiastic, persuasive, and inspire those around you, making you a valuable team member in any endeavor. These kinds of people not only are good at teamwork, but they are super helpful and kind to others.

★Ram Hour (1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.)

The Ram hour is when rams become more active after their midday rest. Individuals born during this time are highly creative and possess the perseverance to turn their dreams into reality. They also have a talent for building supportive networks around them.

★Monkey Hour (3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.)

Monkey hour is marked by the lively and talkative nature of monkeys at this time. Those born during this period have an unpredictable destiny, often experiencing life events that significantly alter their paths. They possess a great sense of humor, are extremely intelligent, and cherish their secrets, which they view as a source of power. These people are very active physically and can be physically restless as well. Very charming personalities.

★Rooster Hour (5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.)

Rooster hour is when these birds signal the end of the day as they return to their nests. If you are born during this time, you are known for your bravery and loyalty. You have a great sense of humor and a secret love for adventure. While you can achieve your goals, there is a part of you that longs for freedom and exploration. There is also a luck with achieving financial success and beauty!

★Dog Hour (7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.)

Dog hour is when dogs are most vigilant, as if sensing potential danger. Those born during this time are known for their anxiety but are also incredibly trustworthy. They take their responsibilities very seriously and are always willing to help others. However, they can be short-tempered and pessimistic at times. These people are super kind, affectionate and loyal. Usually friendly, however, they like to carefully see and analyze what they are getting into, even apart from relationships, but are strong in commitment.

★ Pig Hour (9:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.)

The Pig hour is when these animals become very quiet, symbolizing intelligence and reflection. If you are born during this hour, you are bright and sensual, with a strong intellectual capacity. You are outgoing and tend to attract good friends, but you may also struggle with focusing on the negative and find it hard to let go of things.

[ad-caelestia]

How to Enchant Items 🔮

To enchant an item is to infuse it with magical energy. This energy can come from a variety of sources, including celestial bodies, elements, crystals, herbs, or even yourself. 

Some individuals use the words “enchant” and “charm” synonymously as a way to describe the process of infusing something with energy, but for the sake of this post and due to my own beliefs, you enchant something and it then becomes a charm. Alternately, a charm can be something with its own innate energy, like a crystal or herbal amulet. 

Enchanting items to turn them into magical objects involves more than just intent - you must learn to channel and manipulate energy, and direct it into that item for enchanting to be successful. 

Although, the process of enchanting is extremely versatile and there are many ways to do it.

Here are a few ideas on how to enchant items, in no particular order:

Surround the item with crystals of corresponding intent

Surround the item with herbs of corresponding intent 

Place the item in a jar filled with herbs that represent your intent

Place the item in front of a candle and meditate on your intent 

Anoint the item with an oil, charged water, or crystal elixir of corresponding intent 

Hold the item in your hand(s) and visualize it filling with the appropriate energy 

Hold the item in your hand(s) and speak or sing your intent aloud

Craft a symbol to keep near the item in an envelope or sachet

Sew, stitch, or carve a symbol into the item  

Write your intention on paper and keep in an envelope with the item 

Pair the item with a corresponding runestone or tarot / oracle card in an envelope 

Take the item and put it in a box with other items that represent your intent such as crystals, herbs, talismans, amulets, etc. 

Bury the item in soil with herbs and/or crystals that match your intent (please don’t put salt on your lawn though, unless you want dead grass)

Pass the item through incense smoke that matches your intent 

Pro Tip: Time your enchantments with the appropriate planetary hour, day of the week, time of day, or lunar phase to increase your chances of creating a successful charm.

© 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺 𝙰𝙳-𝙲𝙰𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙰

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 5.2k

Summary: Teaching a Siren to read is perhaps the best or worst idea that you've ever had. If only you were half as capable of reading between the lines.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

‘U-G-L-Y’

“Wow,” you drawled. “What a wonderful use of your new talents.”

The fish you were cooking landed upside down on the hot stone with a crackling sizzle of skin that you could feel as a jumping prickle of heat all along your arm. You poked at your impromptu stovetop with your impromptu stick-spatula and prepared your impromptu leaf-plates. A true culinary connoisseur, you were. When you were rescued, you were going to argue to Riddle that you deserved a promotion to the kitchens. Though, apparently not everyone appreciated your talents.

‘UGLY’ the Siren poked again, jabbing his talon into the sand.

“Then bring me prettier fish,” you returned, pointed. “It’s not that hard.”

His sharp, black claws came up to point at you next alongside his wonderful, two-syllable insult. Then back to you again, with four fingers this time. Both hands going for it. There was a tight, irritated expression on his face that you refused to call a pout because firstly, surely this vicious king of the seas could never pull something so childish. And secondly, because in these past few days you’d developed a terrible habit of just chattering each and every one of your thoughts aloud. And if you called him bratty, or dared imply such pouting was coming from his regal visage, you were just setting yourself up to get drenched by his flailing tail all over again.

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” you said, bland. “Ugly is the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.”

He huffed and smacked his fins against the sand. The trailing, dark tips cracked against your leg and you kicked him right back. It didn’t actually hurt, no more than a pinch to the side, but you’d spent enough time with this asshole now that not fighting back like a toddler pitching a tantrum wasn’t an option anymore.

Just over two weeks, now. Fifteen days and counting.

Those first few days had been spent in a nervous, prey-like panic, of course. Watching him circle the bay with his shredded fins, crying at the top of his lungs until your goosebumps had goosebumps. And then you’d helped untangle him from the mess you’d made, delicately working salt-brined twine away from weeping wounds. Sure, there’d been that whole hoopla of him pinning you in the sand after your act of Great Chivalry and promptly threatening to rip your throat out with his teeth, but you’d moved past that. The offering of home-cooked meals had softened his scaly hide, and then the even greater move of handing him your species’ alphabet like some great, guarded secret of old had sealed the deal. Cheers all around. It’d only taken you nearly being eaten, disemboweled, and drowned, but you’d made peace with your roommate. What a success story.

And now instead of trying to murder you, he just called you U-G-L-Y.

So, you know, baby steps.

The thin, pointed end of his tail whipped up from where you’d kicked him to twine around your ankle and give a sharp tug that had you sprawling face first into the sand with an oomph. Your great tumble sent all those pretty letters of his scattering in the breeze, and you spat out a mouthful of grit.

“Here’s a new one for you,” you chirped, digging your fingers into the muck. F-U-C-K—Y-O-U.

The Siren yowled, which you’d come to recognize far too well as a prickle along your nape and that forever echoing tug, tug, tug somewhere in your head that could never return the call with its corresponding answer. His tail flailed out again to smack at your hands. It was thick, and scaly, and all smooth, powerful muscle. The fact that he hadn’t crushed your poor fingers into a sad, bony paste by now beneath its wrath was a miracle. If you were a more optimistic person, you’d say he was being extra gentle with you on purpose. But even you weren’t delusional enough to think he liked you that much.

“Okay, okay,” you grouched, spitting out another mouthful of pebbles. “Fine. Just not around the food. Unless you want to have to go hunting for dinner all over again.”

The Siren huffed, rolling his eyes like it was a professional sport, and settled himself prettily back against the butt of his tail like he’d never even tried to beat you to death with his fins at all.

You sighed and pulled yourself back out of the sand, scrubbing it from your salt-sticky skin as best as you were able. You returned to poking at your fish. They weren’t too terribly singed, despite your distraction. And the Siren seemed to like the edges extra crispy either way, so it wasn’t any kind of loss. You were in the middle of balancing your impromptu stick-spatula against another impromptu stick-spoon to try and flip the fish without destroying it entirely when you felt a gentle poke, poke, poke against your arm.

You looked back and the Siren stared down at you, lips canted in a sharp smirk that was all pride.

U-G-L-Y—A-N-D—S-T-U-P-I-D, the sand said.

He’d been struggling with applying the whole -pid noise to the proper lettering, because of how similar it was to -ped. And the spelling had been tripping him up (with much obvious frustration) for the last day or so.

“Well done,” you sighed, not even too terribly upset that it had taken you months in Riddle’s impromptu classrooms to learn what he was picking up over the course of a few, harried sessions delivered with broken bits of sharp sticks and an ever changing canvas. “Try this.”

You scribbled another message in the sand. An insult, naturally, because he seemed to like those. You sounded out the letters as you hopped the tip of your finger over them one-by-one, and the Siren stared down at the inscription with the sort of intense focus meant for ancient tomes or sacred texts. You watched his lips move silently as he sounded it out alongside your mini-lesson, and then he was reaching forward to trace over the letters with the curved tip of a claw—knuckles bumping yours for a moment before shooing your hand away.

You returned to your dinner—finishing up the poor, murdered fish as best as you could and doling it out as usual. You reached out to hand pretty boy his leaf-plate, which he took like a lord accepting a meal from a lowly servant. All upturned noses and pointed disinterest. He set it beside him and nibbled on the offering as he continued to study the new task you’d given him—grand, purple fins splayed out at his sides to brush against your hip like a habit. And this was your life now, apparently. Sitting and frying lazy, shallow water fish over a heated stone while your Siren student studied curse words in the sand. If you managed to survive this, no one would ever believe you.

.

.

The wrecked ship called to you like, well, did you even have to say it.

(It felt like a low hanging pun at this point. You’d never be able to use the expression again for as long as you lived without thinking of narrowed, purple eyes nearly rolling up into the back of a too pretty head because you were apparently that annoying.)

Every day when you ventured towards the western side of the islet to feed your teeny, round octopus friend, you couldn’t help but sit and stare at the shattered hull. It’s not like it was in any sort of shape to actually get you off your little, sandy prison, but it was… There was something about it that was familiar enough to scratch an itch in your brain, but just alien enough that figuring out what was itching was outright impossible.

Silver songbirds.

‘Not safe,’ the Siren had demanded, with an almost frantic look to him. Not safe.

Every time you tried to venture closer to get a better look, it was like he could feel it. And he’d be pacing the shoreline like a blood-frenzied shark—rattling off muted, angry complaints the whole time that popped against your skin like soda fizz. So, lesson learned. Keep away.  

It was a particularly sweltering afternoon today. Not a cloud in the bright, blue sky and nary a breeze to be seen. Sweat was beading unpleasantly along your brow and all down your back, and you hated it. At least on the Rose Queen there had been shade. And the lower decks of the ship submerged in the waves had always felt at least a little chilled. You could practically feel the damp, cool wood against your cheek. The smell of salt and pine oils in your nose. But here, on this stupid not-island with its barren trees and nothings, you just had to suffer in silence. The memories of your ship had you thinking of the washed up Songbird all over again, and you were in the middle of a heated, internal debate over making a swim for it again when something cold rained down over your face in small, scattered droplets.

You blinked back into focus to see Mister Merman at your ankles. You’d been sitting with your heels in the water, but no deeper. Because the shallows were still his territory, and while he hadn’t tried to hold you under in a while now, it was hard to forget something like that so easily. You didn’t really want to chance it if a foul mood struck him, no matter what sort of fragile truce seemed to exist between the pair of you lately.

Last you’d looked he’d been sunning himself on one of the wide, flat rocks—as he was wont to do. Lavender-tipped hair splayed out along his cheeks in a pool of soft gold and fins spread at his hips like the finest, plum silks. How he never seemed to burn with that delicate, ivory skin of his you had no idea. Maybe it was a Magical, Mystical, Merman perk yet undocumented. Or maybe he was just Like That. But he’d been snoozing away on his favorite boulder, and now he had rolled in with the tide to lounge by your toes. His fingers were spread, still dripping with sea water from where he’d flicked you in the face. You frowned at him—partly curious, but also pissilly blinking salt out of your eyes that stung, because come on dude.

He flicked more water your way and said something that you couldn’t manage to catch the shape of. When you didn’t respond with anything other than a pointed scrub of the water dripping down your cheeks, he reached out to wrap a clawed hand around your ankle and give a gentle tug.

“What?” you frowned, confused, and he tugged again.

He canted his head towards you, and then out to the cove behind him. He slipped back with the soft, frothy roll of the waves—just a foot or two—and clearly meant to pull you with him. You slid against the sandbar with a yelp and dug your heels into the muck to keep from getting yanked all the way in.

“No way,” you snipped, kicking a mess of water into his face. He didn’t even blink, just frowned down at you with a twisty sort of petulance. “I thought we were over this. If you drown me you won’t get any more cooked food, y’know. And I, in turn, would very much like to not be drowned. Win, win.”

That frown of his went stiff, and his lips twitched down at the corners. His amethyst eyes darted away and for a moment you swore that those gemstone irises flashed with something almost like guilt. He rolled forward with the next curl of surf and pressed a claw into the damp, dark sand at your hip. He scratched out a careful message, stubbornly refusing to meet your gaze all the while.

Won’t, it said.

“Forgive me for not believing that,” you returned, dry. “You’re oh-for-two now, I think. And, you know, fool me twice, and all that.” Though maybe the first one didn’t really count, seeing how you were both tangled together and sinking to the bottom in a mutual sort of destruction. But whatever. You were keeping it.

The Siren’s brow pinched in the middle and he reached forward to dig his claws in again.

Accident.

Your own brows jumped nearly to your hairline. You were just about to politely point out that dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean until they were bubbling from the nose and flailing wasn’t really an accident,but then you remembered the startled look on his face. The way he hadn’t stopped you from clawing your way back to the surface and how he’d carefully helped tow you back towards the shore after. And… maybe he hadn’t really meant it. It had to be strange, probably. Being able to thrive so easily below the waves and then be faced with someone who would die if they were left facedown in a puddle.  

“…Fine,” you huffed, and his eyes jumped back up to yours with all cat-in-the-cream smugness. “But just because I’m about to drop from heatstroke. Not because you asked.”

The Siren rolled his eyes at you and returned to dragging you by your ankles into the shallows.

The bay really was very lovely. It was crystalline clear and the sort of brilliant blue that you’d never even known existed until you’d left the land for a life on the open ocean. The sand below your feet was soft and white, with barely any pebbles or broken bits of shell to dig into your toes. You watched a few crabs scurry out of the way as you were led deeper and deeper, but most of the cove’s occupants were spoiled and slow. Unbothered by this weird, fleshy, bipedal creature stepping past because they’d never known anything else. Once you hit waist-deep, the Siren let go of you to sink more fully into the water. He swam around you in a languid, looping circle—plum fins cresting the surface to flick water against your arms and scales shining like polished glass in the sunlight. It was still far too shallow for him to move around in earnest with how massive that tail of his was, and how wide and trailing his great, beta-like fins were, but he was still elegant. Still fast and flexible as he swam rings around you like an orbit.

“Show off,” you scoffed, but couldn’t quite bite back the grin twitching at your lips.

Because creature from the deep trying to devour your crew or not, Sirens really were so impressive, weren’t they? Straight out of a storybook, and deserving of every song and tale attributed to them.

You reached out before you could help yourself to run your fingers along his tail. The scales were smooth, and sleek, and cool against your palm. The wispy ends of his fins caught along your fingers, but other than a bit of a tangle, you almost managed to run your hand along the whole of it. And what was it? Eight feet? Ten? Bigger than you at least, that was for sure. It wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. No fish, or whale hide, or shark. Something entirely of its own.

You realized on the next loop when your fingers danced over a patch of still healing scales that you’d felt already that he had most definitely realized your err in personal space, and was letting you poke about on purpose. You glanced up, embarrassed and warm faced, to see the tail end of a smirk quirking out from the water’s surface. Preening bastard.

You turned up your nose and waded deeper. There was a ripple in the water around you, like a chuckle, and he returned to his looping circles. Occasionally his tail would brush up against you to get you to jump, but otherwise he kept his hands to himself and—as promised—did not attempt to wrestle you down to the sandy floor and your subsequent watery grave.

Once you’d made it up to your chest, the Siren was able to start his dance in earnest. He darted away to make a wide arc around the edge of the cove—sunshine catching on his scales like a glare on the water. He shot from one end to the other, so fast it was nearly dizzying to try and keep up with. And then he was back to circling your ankles all over again—tangling your legs in his fins and curling his talons against your calves to try and drag you deeper.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed, paddling after him until you were well and truly above your head. The bay wasn’t very deep, but there were a few areas that dipped down to at least fifteen feet. So soon enough you were bobbing like a top in the gentle surf as he looped around your idly kicking feet—brushing up along your ankles and tugging at the frayed edge of your shirt with his claws when he passed by.

When he next rose above the surface, you’d already taken in a big mouthful of water in preparation, and shot it right into his face. The Siren’s whole expression shriveled up like a hundred-year-old prune and you laughed so hard he had to curl his tail around your waist to keep you from dipping under the waves and choking yourself. You let him drag you around and only grabbed at his fins a little. He would dive below your feet and you’d sink after him. Not nearly as agile or adept, but competent enough to follow his little game of tag without losing completely within the first few seconds. It was—it was nice. Genuinely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d swam for the fun of it. Way back when you’d first joined up with Riddle’s crew, maybe. It’d been a hot day, just like this one, and you’d been anchored in a safe, shallow inlet off the coast of an archipelago. Deuce and Ace had jumped in first, already brawling, and you’d dove in soon after. It’d been a mess, and Riddle had nearly hung the three of you up by your toes for it. But it’d been fun. Familial. Warm. Something you’d never forget. And while this moment didn’t feel entirely like that one had, there was something similar about it. Sure, you weren’t trying to give the Siren a bloody nose and there were no rock wars, but it was… well, it was nice.

By the end of it, he was swimming lazy, looping shapes around the cove, and you were being dragged alongside him like a raft—kept afloat by the curling press of his tail and relaxing in the afternoon sunshine with the cool ripples of the ocean water to keep you both comfortable in the heat.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked, as you relaxed in the gentle lull of the surf. “With your pod, I mean.”

The Siren stiffened beneath you, but after a moment he nodded. Slow and rigid. Which—

Oh. Right.

“…sorry,” you mumbled, gaze darting away.

Because he was missing his family just as much as you were missing yours, wasn’t he?

All that frantic pacing at the start of your mutual stranding had just seemed to… fade away as the days passed. He would still circle the entrance of the cove some mornings, singing towards the skies and tilting his head—fins pricked as he searched for an answer. You’d feel it in your nerves, see the gulls overhead dipping in a trance and watch the crabs crawl up onto the sand like they were being dragged out by their little claws. But most of the time now he just… didn’t. He spent his days mumbling over the letters you showed him, or carefully preening over his healing fins and resting in the sun. Catching fish for you to prepare and roast, and taking his meals at your side as you both snipped at each other with sandy curse words. It was pleasant, this routine you’d fallen into together. But all the same, he never really stopped checking the ocean waters. And you could see a spark in his eyes, an itch. The same one that lit yours, no doubt, every time you caught yourself squinting for the outline of ships on the horizon.

The difference between the two of you, of course, was that in a few more days his scales would be healed enough to face the dangers of the open water alone. Life as a rogue mer was notoriously perilous. The lone Sirens were those that poachers were willing to risk battle with for a trophy. They were the ones caught in fishing nets, and found mauled by rival pods. But your Siren was smart. He was big, and strong, and impressive. He’d find a way to survive it, no doubt. One morning you’d wake up and he’d have darted off into the deep to search for his family. To go home. And you…

You would still be trapped here.

Alone.

Forever.

Rotting under the sun with no one to take you swimming in the afternoons. Or bring you clawed up fish to cook for dinner. Or to use your writing lessons just to insult you with scribbled words in the muck.

Which—that was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? At the start of all of this.

And it was only fair, in the end. He was the better of the two of you, after all. Born and bred to thrive in the depths of the sea that would swallow you whole without a thought. And if either of you was going to survive, to find your home again, it was always going to be him. Maybe you’d be a story, like he would have been for you. The strange human with no ears, just like the rest of the pirates whispered about. Who taught him that fire could make fish extra tasty and that leaves could make perfectly serviceable plates if you tried hard enough.

You sighed, and bubbles of salt water frothed along your mouth.

The Siren raised his head from his own lazy sprawl to arch a brow at you in question, and you did the very mature thing of spitting water in his face all over again.

You ended up being dragged through the cove in a flurry of spitting, Siren rage. Laughing and laughing until he huffed and hauled you back to shore to keep you from swallowing any more seawater like the idiot that you were. And it was fine, really it was. He wasn’t so bad, not really. And if he was able to reunite with his pod once more after all those days of hollow wailing and pacing, pacing, pacing that had made something deep in your soul itch like a freshly scabbed wound that you just couldn’t stop picking, well, that wouldn’t be such a bad ending after all.

.

.

The next afternoon while you were out on your daily Octopus Wellness Check, you came across a piece of pale, purple sea glass mixed into the rocky shore. It was smooth to the touch and frosted over by the endless tumble of the tide. You held it up to the light and it sparkled just like the Siren’s scales.

“What do you think?” you asked the octopus as it grabbed shredded bits of fish with its chubby, little tentacles. “Do you want it? Or should I give it to—”

You blinked, startled, and realized all at once that you’d never learned the Siren’s name. Or given him yours. You’d just sort of been calling each other a variety of derogatory pseudonyms and hoping for the best. Which, huh. You hadn’t even realized you’d wanted to know his name. It wasn’t yours to take, of course. Let alone from someone who would no doubt be leaving so soon. But it was a thought.

“You always give the best advice, you know,” you told the teeny creature, and it hid from you like you were a great, looming monster of old. “Whether you meant to or not. Thanks for that.”

So on the way back to your cove, you picked through some tufts of beachgrass to find the longest, driest spikes. You began winding them together as you walked, and settled down in your favorite little corner of the inlet to continue your weaving. The Siren, naturally—being as nosy as he was—was immediately hovering over you like a child watching someone hold a bag of sweets just out of reach. You clutched your little project to your chest like a secret, and it had him puffing up in irritation and smacking his fins against your sides like your refusal to share whatever had caught your attention was a crime beyond comparison. He arched up as tall as he could to try and peer over your shoulder, and, in failing at that, just outright tried to snatch the thing from your hands.

“I won’t give it to you if you keep being a pest,” you warned, and immediately he was slipping back to rest on his stomach in the damp sand with a starbright curiosity in his eyes, chin pillowed atop his interlaced fingers and gaze following the movements of your hands like a cat tracking a mouse in its hole. Clearly the promise of it being a treat for him was mollification enough to keep him from hovering.

Once you’d braided a sturdy enough chain, you carefully twined it around the sea glass in a little, crisscrossing cage of fibers. Just knotted enough to keep the ocean-worn trinket safe and in place without hiding the shine of it. With that, you held up your trophy with a dramatic wave, and the Siren was popping up all over again. His amethyst glare tracked the swinging pendant with startling focus and a surprisingly wide-eyed spark of confusion.

“Here,” you said, reaching out to drop the makeshift necklace into his lap. He caught it in his claws, eyes still far too round with shock. “It made me think of your scales. I thought you might like it.”

He was staring down at the gift in utter silence. And not the normal sort of quiet either—where your broken eardrums simply refused to pick up on all his petulant grousing against your person. This was actual silence. His lips were parted like they were caught on a breath, but he wasn’t saying anything. Not even a complaint about how plain and ugly it was. He curled his claws daintily around the woven chain, as if he was afraid of tearing right through it with an accidental prick, and then held the sparkling bauble aloft like he was utterly entranced by the soft gleam of it.

After a long, long moment of that near eerie silence and a pool of dread filling your belly that screamed you’d clearly fucked up in some way (overstepped some weird, Siren tradition. Accidentally insulted his father. Handed him a bad luck omen on a string. Something), the Siren was twisting around to show you the back of his neck. He held up the woven chain so it draped along his shoulder blades, and he pointedly shook the ends at you.

When you just gaped back in shock, he turned to sneer over his shoulder at you and jabbed a claw at his throat, then the necklace, then you, then his throat again. Which, oh. Oh! That—that you could do.

So you reached out to pluck the ends of the grass-woven thread from his talons and he immediately shifted around again to make himself comfortable. Curling his tail firmly against the sand with his plum-lined fins spread out in all their glory like a spill of purple ink along the shoreline. He set his shoulders square and firm, and looked straight ahead with that same, queer sort of focus to him as before.

You tied the ends of the necklace in a bow against his nape, making sure it was securely fastened in place and not snagging any of the softer, shorter hairs at the back of his neck. Once it’d been fussed with to his liking, he turned back around and stared you down until you could feel goosebumps prickling up all along your spine. You wanted to meekly tell him that it was just sea glass. Just a little trinket you’d found in the sand that you’d thought was pretty enough that he might like to have it. But the words died on your tongue. They felt wrong somehow. And you’d put your foot in your mouth plenty of times throughout your life, but this definitely felt like it would have been the biggest boot of all.

“…You like it?” you tried instead, because that sentiment at least seemed less like something that was ready to clog up your throat.

The Siren nodded, firm, his eyes still drilling into yours with that unnerving level of focus.

You coughed into your fist and awkwardly attempted to shift away to give yourself a bit of room, and—Huh. When had his tail come up to wrap around your leg? That made running away a bit inconvenient. You’d just have to try and wriggle your way out and hope he would take mercy on your far inferior musculature, and—

There was a poke at your hip. Tap, tap, tap. One, two, three. And you glanced back up at him with a pinched frown, confused.

The Siren pointed to a scrawl in the sand. Tap, tap, tap.

Acceptable.

You gawked, and then swallowed a laugh so fast it nearly choked you. Because he was still himself, wasn’t he? No matter what. Sassy, asshole fish. Gods, you were going to miss him.

You wiped at the bubbling, giggling tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and reached out to pat at his tail in good humor.

“I hope you find your happy ending,” you beamed, and meant it.

The Siren just looked at you with one of his familiar, lemon-sour puckers. He pointedly reached up to flick at the necklace around his throat, like that had anything to do with him finding his family again at all. Like it wasn’t just some silly trinket you’d gifted him in hopes that maybe one day he could look back fondly on the little human that he’d found himself stranded with. To not just forget you outright. To make your fleeting presence in his life something tangible, rather than just a mess of already fading scars and memories that would too easily be swept away in the depths of the sea.

“At least it’s acceptable,” you said finally around your giggling, and he huffed at you in a way that almost looked fond. You stood from the sand and brushed the mess of grit and salt off your pant legs. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner and I’ll teach you some nicer words tonight. So you can give me a real compliment next time.”

There was spray of water all along your back from where he’d no doubt dove back into the shallows behind you and walloped you with his fins to the best of his ability. And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be bothered by it at all.

.

.

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[cocteautwinslyrics]

Me when I understand the themes and nuances of Succession

[contact-guy]

lol THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG but it's such a cute story opening that I had to draw Watson roasting Holmes's messiness for the newspaper and Holmes skillfully maneuvering his way out of having to do chores. It's all canon, even the indoor sharpshooting, except for the bit about the cold bath.

canon text under the cut:

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a little recherchè.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.

-The Memories of Sherlock Holmes: The Musgrave Ritual