#typewriter teapot

[cileklipalet]

[rugessnome]

I am unfortunately a bit fixated on "Thus Spoke Carly Rae" (it's very catchy) but I cannot help but be reminded of the Kirkegaard copier error from Existentialist Comics by the verse with the line "Is man an error of god's?"

The paper is a relation that relates itself to itself or is the relation's relating itself to itself in the relation: the paper is not the relation but is the relation's relating itself to itself

Søren, buddy, #REF! was right there

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt 6(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

Stuck in by the rain, you, Simon, and Sam receive important news over dinner...

Part 5, Part 7, Masterlist

Image from GIF by tana-the-dreamchaser

Simon followed you up the stairs like a shadow, his steps even but quiet. If not for his hand seeking yours you would have thought him a ghost. He seems to seek you like a moth to starlight and you find yourself relaxing with his close presence. You reach the door at the top of the stairs and push it open to be met with the smell of a simmering spice. You perk up instantly and call out for Sam. His curls pop out of the kitchen and seeing your entwined hands he smiles.

“Are you making what I think you are making?” You ask hopefully, eyes softened towards your friend. You step into the living area and release your hand from Simon’s. He abides by it but lingers close to you, choosing to take in his surroundings. 

The vibes of the apartment are, well, eclectic. Amongst the thriving house plants, SImon can see little bits of you and Sam. The worn love seat a dappled plum color, a plush leather couch, and, he looks at the floor and chuckles, a fox in a sweater welcome mat. You move to the kitchen after asking Simon to make himself comfortable. He nods and moves to the loveseat, taking your backpack off and setting it to the side before taking a seat. He observes further as you step into the kitchen to talk to Sam. 

On the coffee table, there is a vase of sunflowers, the TV stand is an old steamer trunk, and lining the far walls across from the door are books. Upon four shelves is a library’s worth of books and Simon stands and approaches them. Upon further expectation he cracks a smile, the inner panel of the bookshelves are painted the same as the ceiling of the bookstore. A rough hand comes up and he traces the spines of some of the leather-bound books. There are books of all kinds roughly categorized by genre. Littered amongst the shelves are other things, among them, Simon finds things like a cow teapot, a Union Jack mug holding pens, leather-bound notebooks, a dragon beanie baby, and something else that pauses his searching. 

On a desk in the middle of the two sets of shelves is a collection of mechanical parts. The smell of gun oil and steel pulls memories from service and he leans down, turning on the desk lamp to examine it closer. In the middle of the desk is a typewriter. The carriage is set aside from the body of the typewriter and the smell of oil gets stronger. He looks around the table and finds a myriad of cases, some big and others small, mostly belonging to what he assumes to be typewriters. 

You pop your head out of the kitchen to call for SImon but you find him engrossed in his examination. You smile, unsurprised at his curiosity, most visitors are drawn in by the book before stumbling upon your workstation. You step out of the kitchen and call to him. He looks up and turns to you in question. 

“Dinner is ready.” 

You say it with a growing grin as Sam had made enchiladas in a Tex-Mex style you missed. Simon looks back to the disassembled typewriter once more before he approaches you and follows you into the kitchen. If the living area was eclectic the kitchen was more so. Along the walls of the modest space hung pictures of every kind. Along the side wall, under a window was an old dresser or antique buffet that held a beaten-up record player. Along the wall were art prints, old diagrams, and book posters. On the buffet, next to the kitchen table was a collection of tabletop books, big glossy things meant as eye candy. He huffs a laugh at the selection: fox photo collections, Jules Verne releases, and typewriters. 

He turns his attention to Sam who is already sitting at the table, three places set for you guys to eat. Even the cutlery and plates are a mix of wild colors and subtle finery. You move to the stove where a baking dish holds something excellent smelling. Grabbing some oven mitts (fox chefs of course) you take the dish and set it on some ceramic pot holders on the table. 

“I hope you like enchiladas.” You say it with a pleased expression before shooting Sam a nostalgic smile. You motion for Simon to sit and he does before you take the seat next to him. 

You all begin to eat without much fuss, conversation passing in softer words between you and Sam while Simon chimes in every once in a while. However, after about 15 minutes in, Sam pauses as if remembering something. 

You see a look pass over his face before he reaches behind him and picks up a letter off of the counter behind him. He offers it to you and you recognize the handwriting.

“Sofia was here earlier, she looked urgent and dropped this off mentioning for you to read it. Something about a collaboration of some kind for a release over here. She wouldn’t give me more details than that before she was rushing off to her next appointment.”

“Huh,” You work on prying the envelope open gently, “she would normally call.”

Sam shrugs but watches with curiosity as you pull out a typed document. The paper at first touch is heavy, almost a thin cardstock, and the smell of ink and paper is crisp. There is even a wax seal holding the paper close and you want to roll your eyes. The sneaking familiarity seeps into your bones as you swipe a finger under the seal breaking it and unfolding the paper. When you read the heading your stomach clenches. It was from your old company. Something in your demeanor must have changed as you lean back in your chair feeling suddenly winded. Sharp eyes turn to you and Simon and Sam both stop eating.

“What is it? Sam asks with concern, leaning forward in his chair. Simon next to you frowns as your eyes skim the letter, your shoulders getting tenser and tenser. At the end of the letter, you bite your lip before slowly closing the letter and handing it across the table to Sam without a word. He about tears it open and reads it himself. 

“This is bullshit.” These are the first words out of his mouth and he tosses the letter onto the table. You don't reply, instead pushing your almost empty plate aside and putting your head in your hands with a sigh. Simon’s hand finds your knee under the table instantly and you eye him through your hands. There is exhaustion in your eyes, one that is familiar to him. You move to lay your head down with a sigh, leaning towards Simon naturally for comfort. 

“What is it, Dove?” He asks, voice low.

“Read for yourself.” Is all you offer and he does so, reaching a long arm for the letter before reading. 

The letter begins with a ‘greetings’ in a faceless text. Following are niceties and a “wish you are well’. One that you wanted to scoff at, given your last encounter with your previous publisher. He continues over the unnecessary and gets to the meat of the letter. 

… due to the raving success of your last book under our services, we have decided to do a release tour and event of James’s new book under your direction. We have already reached out to Sofia for contact with you.  Given both books' American popularity, we expect such a collaboration to benefit not only you but also White Owl Publishing. We expect James’s arrival in London this Sunday. If you have any questions please reach us at…

Simon frowns and looks at you.

“When the hell did James start writing?” Sam asks you but you just groan and pull yourself up, a hand reaching under the table to squeeze Simon’s in silent thanks. Something serious settles over you,

“I don’t know. Maybe when he started sleeping with the CEO’s daughter.” 

You bite it, voice sharp as a knife. The woman was an accomplished author under her fathers' direction and specialized in YA and new adult romance novels. You used to hold a lot of respect for her when you first joined the company but she soon, after learning of your specialization in children's literature, became downright dismissive. That dismission partnered with a giggly fascination with James, turned you away from her and towards the more quiet of the other authors and editors. However, given her status as the CEO's daughter, there was no escaping her influence, thankfully Sofia was always with you, and due to your focus on children, you didn't have to interact with her much. Other than events like the Publisher’s Gala, and well you know how the last one turned out. 

After the gala, you had learned from one loyal person, a fellow children's author named Sarah that the affair had been going strong for months. She hadn’t known until a drunk Sabrina had bragged on his arm at an after-party that faithful night. She called the moment she discovered your plans to leave and wanted you to know. 

Back in the moment, you debate your options. Given the publication’s no doubt about you after the Gala, you couldn’t risk saying no to this. Why they wanted to associate with a ‘failure and second rate nobody��� you didn't know. You look to Sam, his family's business was now connected with one of the largest publishers in America, and you weren't going to risk their skins because of disgust and fear. A silent resolution lit up your face, Sam, seeing this, grins. 

“You're going to go with this.” It's not a question out of his mouth. A shaky smile hits your face at that. Simon just looks to you, something about your determination makes him want to smile. His hand turns to entangle with yours under the table and you look at him, taking this as his support. 

“Johnny will want to knock some heads” His voice surprises you and laughter bubbles out of your chest. It quiets down to giggles a moment later and you pull your plate back to you. He wasn't wrong. A few tea times after meeting the man you had told the Scot the story of why you ended up in London. His brows furrowed and looking at you he cursed.

“Cheat? On a prize like you lass? Need me to do him in?”

You mention this to Simon in a giggle. He smiles.

“Good man, Johnny is.” 

He runs his thumb over your knuckles and you breathe out as your heart skips a beat, tension draining from your form as you take another bite before nodding in agreement. Simon gives you a small smile before he turns back to his food with a hum, but his hand remains in yours through the rest of dinner. 

--- 

After dinner, you stand up to collect the dishes. Sam gives you a look before shooting up to race you to the sink. You beat him by a foot before splashing him with cool water. He chuckles at you, eyes brightening at your mirthful expression. You hear the sound of a chair and Simon stands. Sam looks at you with a grin and a raised brow before he pulls himself into a stretch. 

He looks at Simon and then back to himself.

“I may have a shirt and some sweats if you’d like to change Simon.” 

The taller man moves around the table and pauses, looks down at his jeans, and gives a nod. With the confirmation, Sam winks at you and leaves the kitchen for his room. You shake your head fondly before going to wash the dishes, but a hand stops you. Simon is next to you then, the proximity quickening your heart once again.

“I’ll do ‘em,” 

is a statement and he nudges you aside gently with his large frame. You realize then just how big he is. While you were by no means tiny, Simon was tall. Sam was easily 6’ but you had to tilt your head to look up at Simon. He started dutifully washing plates without any more comments so you studied the side profile of his face. With a strong jawline cut with a few scars, your eyes focus on his eyes, focused and quiet as he works. The action, so domestic, calms something in you. While you loved being with Sam, you missed being with a partner sometimes, the attraction and the comfort. You loved Sam like a brother and that came with the typical roommate squabbles sometimes, you laugh mentally. You missed James some though despite everything. Having another person to hold was a human element absent in your life. 

But, your heart murmured, there is Simon.

You sigh inwardly, your heart skipping a beat as you envision his smiles. They lit up his face in a way that took the weight of his service, the exhaustion, off his shoulders for even a brief moment. He had seemingly been open, but respectful about some sort of feelings towards you, and you cherished his careful support. 

Your hand on his arm pauses Simon, and his eyes flicker down to yours in question. Without much thought your hand traces what is exposed of his forearm, fingers swirling around the inked skin, you linger a moment. Then, with a steady exhalation from Simon, your hands follow up his arm and over the sleeve, feeling the strength of his bicep Simon stills. His other hand reaches for the hand towel and setting the plate down he pulls back from the sink and turns his attention fully to you. 

You look engrossed in your study of him, like a jeweler over a diamond or precious stone. You lift for a moment seeing the towel and step back, allowing the man to dry his hands before he takes the next step to follow you. Your eyes widen in realization when your back hits the side counter and Simon steps comfortably, naturally even, into your space. 

Your breath catches in your throat when he raises a hand to your face, it ghosts over your cheek before, heart pounding, you lean into his palm. It is rough, worn from years of work, but it's warm, and something deep in you preens at the touch. Honey eyes find yours, widening a moment as you lean in, before lowering in reverence. Here you were, he thought, 

“Sweet thing.” 

It comes out in a whisper and your heart clenches. You close your eyes, raising a hand against his, cherishing the feel of the touch. His heart stutters then when you reopen your eyes and give him a sweet smile. Your hand runs down his arm and the other wraps around his abdomen and you close the space between the both of you with an embrace. His arms drop in surprise, but as your head comes to rest against his chest, they soon engulf you in the scent of leather and smoke. 

With your ear against his sturdy chest, you can hear his heart pick up, you smile to yourself then, happy the effect is mutual. Simon inhales the scent of old books and baked goods and hums, the sound reverberating through you. He chuckles before setting his head on yours just enjoying the feeling of you in his arms. You mutter something and he questions you with another hum. You repeat it a bit louder.

“Want dessert?” The question incites a chuckle from him and his arms loose to look down at you. Something swirls in his eyes, warm like syrup, and his lips quirked up in a smile. 

“Sure, Honey.” The two syllables of endearment are languid and you bask in them like a noon sun. His eyes flicker down to your lips a moment and your breath catches, but the sound of footsteps alerts you to Sam. You know him well enough, he doesn't want to interrupt so you smile at Simon and run your hands up his arms before stepping out of his grasp. Sam enters a second later with a bundle of clothes. His eyes are lit up and after glancing at you he grins at Simon.

“Here you are, Mate.” He gives a mock British accent and hands the bundle to Simon. You then pat the taller man's arm.

“Guest room is down the hall, Sam will show you. There's a bathroom too. I hope you eat cheesecake?” 

You ask him and he just nods before Sam motions to him to follow. Simon gives you one last glance then heads after Sam. Once both men are out of the kitchen you grasp at your pounding heart as your stomach flutters. You felt giddy, a childish wonder in your heart at the affection. Simon was so warm and you felt safe in his arms. You hum to yourself as you pass to the fridge, opening it and examining the inside. 

Beside produce and leftovers sat your quarry, made a day or so ago. There sat a glorious strawberry shortcake cheesecake, made by you. Albeit there was a slice missing courtesy of Sam but the cake was an absolute unit. You pull the covered dish out carefully as Sam pads into the kitchen alone. He leans against the counter as you work and regards you. 

You hum more as you work, relaxing further in his presence, reaching to grab three plates. You then cut modest slices for each of you before sticking the rest of the cake back in the fridge.

“You’re thinking too loud Sammy.”

You then turn to him, a knowing look on your face. What surprises you is the serious look on his, Sam’s arms are crossed as he leans. You set the plates on the table before approaching your friend.

“What’s wrong?” 

Green eyes turn to you, dark as English ivy, and they flicker down to you.

“I think James means trouble.”

It is all he offers. You sigh, taking a seat at the table. You think a moment. You wondered why your manager, Sofia wouldn't have called you, but this seemed like such a sudden onset by your old publisher. Given her sudden rush to leave you wondered where this put Sam’s family. Hearing your story the small publisher was happy to take both you and Sofia under their wing. White Owl Publishing was small, but they had cherished new classics under them. Your eyes flick up to meet Sam’s.

“We can’t risk your family’s reputation. Not after everything they've done for me and Sofia.”

Sam’s jaw clenches and you are taken aback a moment when his muscles tense. Sam had always been the most level-headed person you know. 

“I don’t give a shit after what he’s done to you.” It is firm, Sam stands taller at the statement. You think back to the firm grip on your neck. Showing up at Sam’s door with tears streaming down your face, the choked sobs. It was the first but not the last time the man had laid hands on you. Weeks before the gala was marked with a possession like no other by James. In hindsight making up for his affair but you didn’t and still don’t understand why Sam triggered it. 

“I should have knocked his teeth in the first time he touched you.” 

Sam’s voice is even but you can sense the rage simmering. You get up and go to him seeking to comfort him but you jump when you see the form of Simon at the entrance of the kitchen. Your surprise has Sam turning as well, the simmer broken.

“He grabbed you, Dove?”  Simon’s voice is ice. If you thought Sam was simmering rage, Simon has the look of a soldier. His eyes are dark and his lips are up in a snarl, but he is collected, with a refined rage, trained to kill. You gulp. You nod slowly. 

“In the past month or so before the gala, when I found out he was cheating. James got possessive.” You say it calmly but there is a bubble of anxiety, black and vile, in your stomach. You try to shake it off, but the shadow of the experience hangs over you. Simon, fresh from the shower steps into the kitchen, hands open in an offering. Sam watches as you glance at Simon before stepping into the man’s embrace, something in his chest settling with firm contentment. 

Simon on the other hand wraps you in one arm and uses his hand to smooth down your hair. He rocks you slowly and you melt in his arms. You calm in his arms, staying a quiet moment before running a hand over his shoulder and reluctantly pulling back. You look up to Simon with a shy smile,

“The cake will get warm.”

He lets you go slowly and follows you and Sam to the table. He takes the same seat and is met with a heavenly smell. The smell of vanilla and strawberry draws his eyes to the masterpiece in front of him. Sam offers him a smile before taking a large bite out of the cake that makes you giggle. You look at Simon before taking your own, albeit more modest bite. Simon follows and is met with heaven. Strawberry bursts on his tongue as the combination of heavy cheesecake and fluffy shortcake mix into a powerful combination.

“Fucking hell Love.” Is all he offers and you laugh, not expecting such a reaction from the stoic man. Your laughter is music to his ears,

“Glad you like it, Simon.” 

He could get used to the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. 

End Chapter 6

Taglist!

@ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost, @nexthyperfix

[eljeebee]

Monastery Tour!

I promised @changingplumbob a tour, so here we go!

Selvadorada Monastery is located in the Belomisia jungle, just up ahead of the field station. It is surrounded by two ponds.

Once you step foot, look to your left. You'll see an out of season banana tree and a bush of death flower.

On your right, is another tree. A bergamot tree.

Since there are no arched window this large in-game, I used these archways for the windows. Pretty neat, huh?

Anyways, come inside. Please ignore the mailbox, Lakandiwa will get them later.

As soon as you step inside, you will see a small courtyard of some sort. A small garden. It is humid in the jungle, so the courtyard garden helps with the ventilation and lets in natural light.

There is a spirit house here, where the monici will leave fruits and incense. They grow a lemon tree, a plasma tree, herbs, and flowers in this garden. Chief Song arranges the flowers, that she often put in front of the altar, here.

Going back, on the left, is the prayer/meditation room. They pray to the Watcher here.

Lakandiwa also does his archeology work here when the prayer room isn't used.

On the corner, is the stair access to the basement.

Raul does his gemology work here. He has quite the setup and tools! Beside his setup are cabinets full of potions, and more books. An Omiscan chest is also stored here. The cauldron is for one of the Seekers. 😉

This is where their pantry is located as well. All of their food stores are kept here.

Going back to the first floor, on the right side from the main door, is where the communal bath is.

There are stools with soaps for the monici to use, to scrub grime away. The bathing pool also has steam!

You may remember there was a wooden basin here. I've changed it into a horse ranch bathtub instead. The basin was a shower, and I wanted them to relax there instead of just standing while bathing. The fountain provides them clean water, that they can collect with a bucket. There is a small basin there (the one with the towel) for washing the hands, brushing teeth, or just freshening up! A toilet is on the left.

Let's go upstairs!

This is their candle making station. Ignore the teacup there, Raul must've forgotten it there.

One teapot, one kettle, one sink!

The grill and the stove, with a rice cooker, and a bunch of spices on the right! I love the grill from horse ranch. It's very fitting for builds with an aesthetic like this!

This is the living room! Chief Song does her knitting project here, sometimes Kashvi will play the guitar. Lakandiwa would drink his tea here when he's done with chores. Raul would often doze on the rugs with Diego here.

The corridor that leads to the bedroom also has some interesting stuff!

Technology is limited here, but they have a typewriter for letters, or for journaling! A chess table, to keep the mind sharp, and an easel to sharpen the creative mind.

Now, let's head to the bedroom.

Six beds, with three narrow wardrobe (the other one is adjacent to the door), and two wash basins at both ends of the room. The wash basins are where they could wash up just before bed, and after they wake up!

They keep their windows open, to let in the night air.

Here's a view of the courtyard garden. It's my favorite part. Small, yes, but I could spend the day here just looking at the plants.

Good night! I hope you enjoyed!

[toms-cherry-trees]

Don't Hold My Hand (I'll Break Your Heart) || Tommy Shelby x Fem OC ~ Ch. 2

Summary: A doctor's visit changes Charlotte's perspective of things, and she begins to worry about her patient

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Talks of medical injury, talks of cuts and headwounds, talk of blood and medical procedures. No beta readig we die like John

Author's note: Once more sorry for the delay but I am writing so many WIPS at the same time things slip through the cracks, but I am really hyped for all the things I have planned

Requested taglist: @call-sign-shark @zablife

《 PREV PART -  NEXT PART 》

Steam rose from the kettle’s spout, the high pitched whistle indicating the water had boiled. The teapot had been filled with fragrant tea leaves and two slices of lemon. Sugar and milk side by side in the tray, alongside a plate with homemade biscuits and a platter of elegant tea sandwiches. Two white teacups with golden rims and matching saucers, one of them prefilled with a shot of white rum. Linen napkins embroidered with an S, silverware from Italy and a touch of affection from the hands that prepared the tray.

Charlotte picked it up carefully, carrying it close to her body to bear the weight easier as she took it to Thomas’ rooms, where he currently sat with his main physician for his monthly evaluation. Doctor Foster rarely had anything new to say or any glimmer of hope to offer them; he only came the first week of every month to tell them what they already knew and collect his payment. One of the very few visitors whom Thomas didn’t welcome with a scowl, perhaps because he secretly harboured the hope of one day getting the words that he wanted from the old man.

The scent of fresh flowers accompanied Charlotte as she walked to the second floor. Ever since that conversation with Mrs. Gray, she had redoubled her efforts to brighten up Thomas’ life. Vases with freshly picked flowers decorated various surfaces of the rooms, the bouquets swapped as soon as the first petals began to wither and fall. Every morning she drew back the curtains and opened the windows, to allow sunlight and fresh air inside. She encouraged him to rise from bed at appropriate times, not allowing him to linger between the sheets for days on end. Books, board and card games and even a typewriter had been brought up, in hopes of encouraging him to find anything to keep his mind and day occupied. She hadn’t managed to do something about his hair and beard yet, but she would soon get there. 

She pushed the double doors open with her shoulder, the teacups tinkling in their saucers and the tea sloshing slightly. When the doctor came around, he and Thomas met alone behind closed doors, not even his aunt allowed in, although she always received a briefing before handing in the money envelope. Whether the man spoke or not the truth of those sessions to her, one couldn’t know.

Lottie cleared her throat, barely enough of a sound to alert them of her presence as she placed the tea tray on a low table. She tried her hardest not to snoop, but curiosity can be a wild and untameable thing. She looked through her eyelashes towards the bed where Thomas lay, stripped down to his underwear. The doctor held Thomas’ foot in his hand and urged him to push against it as hard as he could. She noticed his hand fisted on the sheets, teeth gritted as he put all his efforts on heeding the simple command. As Thomas looked down at the doctor, his gaze crossed with Charlotte’s. The blue melted to pure ice, and he grabbed the closest thing he had at hand to toss towards her, which happened to be a harmless pillow.

“Out! Out of here! Now!” 

She didn’t need to be told twice. Charlotte scurried out of the room and down to the foyer. Mrs. Gray already stood there, nervously drumming her fingers against her arm as she stared out the window. On a side table lay a closed envelope with the doctor’s name scribbled on elegant calligraphy. Charlotte noted it to be slightly thinner than the previous one she had seen, just a couple days after her arrival to Arrow House. Maybe the doctor had lowered his fees for them, or maybe Mrs. Gray had decided he got paid far too much to do nothing except bear bad news.

Both women waited side by side, submerged in their own thoughts each, the silence interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Three quarters of an hour had passed when Doctor Foster came down the stairs. He had bread crumbs on his shirt and moustache and a biscuit on hand. For some reason, that ticked Charlotte off. 

“Well?” Mrs. Gray asked harshly, also noticing that the man had surely spent more time eating than being helpful to his patient.

The doctor had the decency at least to stuff the biscuit in his pocket and brush off the crumbs before speaking. He stood straight, arms behind his back, a nervous twitch of the lips making his moustache quiver. He appeared to be intimidated by Mrs. Gray, a feeling that Charlotte shared.

“It is all just the same. His legs are weaker than in my last visit and he has started to lose sensitivity in some areas of the soles and calves. I am afraid it’s just a matter of time before he can no longer leave the chair, not even with the cane”

The news settled in the bottom of Charlotte’s stomach like a chunk of ice. They knew, all of them, the severity of Thomas’ lesions, and the limited prospects he had of recovery. But they thought, his aunt most of all, that they had more time before the inevitable. A few more years before he became completely and irremediably wheelchair bound and maybe worse than that. Charlotte knew all too well what sort of future would await then; bed sores, loss of muscle, infections. A lifespan cut in half.

And if she had come to learn something about Thomas during her time working there, he wouldn’t stand to live needing assistance to take a piss.

Mrs. Gray’s lips tightened into a line, eyes narrowing just enough to seem darker than usual. She put her hand on Doctor Foster’s bicep,the wool of his sweater straining a bit under the strength of her grip. The man didn't show it in his face, but that surely hurt. 

“May we have a word, you and I?” Her tone sounded more like a demand than a petition, as she led the doctor towards her private studio. Charlotte waited until they disappeared from sight to release a shaky breath. She steadied herself for whatever hellstorm would rain upon her and headed upstairs slowly. But halfway up, a loud crash cut through the silence, accompanied by the sounds of broken glass and muffled words that could only be curses of the thickest calibre. She picked up her skirts and broke into a sprint.

“Thomas?!” She called out as soon as she crossed the doors.

Thomas laid on the floor amidst broken porcelain and bits of food. The tea table had been flipped over, as had the delicately prepared tea tray. His wheelchair remained by the bed several feet away, with his cane carefully propped against it. Judging by the way everything lay on the floor, Thomas had tried to leave the room alone and unaided.

“Christ in Heaven what happened here?”

Charlotte rushed to his side, her keen eye immediately noticing the myriad of minuscule wounds in his hand and face from the tiny shards, along a more concerning cut on his temple from the table corner. She tried to help him sit up, but Thomas only smacked her hand away

“Leave me, I can do it. I can do it!” He growled, fighting her off like a child refusing to put on a coat in winter, or rejecting having dirt wiped from his cheek. Groaning due to the effort he rolled onto his back, but he had not enough strength to sit up without laying his wounded hands on the floor.

She paid no heed to his stubbornness and instead hooked her arms under his armpits, putting all her strength into dragging him away from the dangerous mess before he could injure himself further. She grunted with every pull, managing to move him only a few inches at a time, her muscles straining against the dead weight.

“Do you think I am a sack of shit to be dragged around?” Thomas hissed, but at least he had stopped thrashing about like a fish out of water.

“For fuck’s sake you are as heavy as you are obtuse” She retorted back, clearly not caring about the properties of their caregiver-patient relationship in that moment. At least not enough to watch her language. She only cared about somehow putting him back on the wheelchair and assessing the damage. 

It took her no small amount of physical strength and skill to get Thomas back onto his chair, even with him doing what little effort he could pushing with his legs against the floor. By the time she had managed to prop him back into place, a thin layer of sweat pearled her forehead, and she felt the dampness of her skin under the thick fabrics of her uniform. She hastily wiped her brow with her sleeve, all her attention focused on the bleeding wound on his temple. The crimson stained the left side of his face and neck and soaked the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat. Charlotte pulled off her white oversleeves to use them to stem the bleeding, but as expected he rose to battle the second she tried to touch him. 

“I said don’t fucking touch me. Get away. Get away!” He barked the last words, his hands slapping hers away repeatedly. It would have been comical if it had not been so irritant. But Charlotte finally snapped, her never ending patience finally fading into naught as the blood continued to pour and her patient continued to fight. At last, she got hold of Thomas’ wrists and forced his hands to the sides, her grip firm but not painful. She leaned in, their faces closer than they had ever been before. 

“I am going to take a look at those cuts whether you approve or not. So I suggest you make both of our lives easier and stop being so difficult” Her tone rose steadily with each word, surprising even herself. She had never spoken to another person, let alone a patient, that way. But Mr. Shelby had effectively exhausted all her reserves of compassion and in that very moment, with him wounded and pricked with glass, Charlotte couldn’t find it in herself to coddle him. In that moment he didn’t need her kindness, he needed the firmness and determination of a war nurse.

And Thomas seemed to know it too, deep down. For he fell silent the second her words rang through the air, eyes widened and lips parted, shocked to have someone speak to him that way. Slowly, like admitting defeat, he placed his hands on his lap, fingers digging tightly on the fabric of his trousers. He evaded Charlotte’s eyes as she took a seat by his side, having grabbed a small first aid kit she kept in hand. 

It seemed that Thomas Shelby couldn’t stand up to a woman who spoke louder than him.

While he held the rolled up fabric to his knocked temple, she took hold of his left hand and held it up to the sunlight. With a pair of alcohol soaked tweezers she began the delicate process of pulling the tiny shards off. Every now and then he hissed in pain and tried to pull away, but it took only a sharp look and a tightening of her grip on him to put him back on track. The pieces of porcelain tinkled on the lid of the first aid kit balancing on her knees as she dropped them, one by one. When she finished she pressed an alcohol soaked rag to his hand, forcing his fingers to curl around it. Thomas’ jaw clenched, but he refused to display any sign of pain besides the flaring of his nostrils. 

Charlotte inspected the cut on his head next, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she pushed aside the blood matted hair, her face so close to him her breath fanned over his face. That close she noticed even his hair smelled of cigarettes, since he refused every effort of her or anyone to help him wash.

"The cut is not deep enough to require stitching but I will have to bandage it"

Tommy snorted "I am not going to let you wrap me up like a fucking mummy"

Charlotte rolled her eyes "Mummies have their mouths wrapped shut. I cannot afford that luxury with you" She quipped, gently dabbing at the wound with a wet gauze, being as careful as she could to spare Thomas further discomfort. But that wouldn't save him from her stern words now that they had been allowed to emerge. Gentleness had proved ineffective against him, so now Charlotte had to retort to cockiness, a quality of hers she had kept buried for being ‘unbecoming’ but which now would prove useful to crack Thomas’ stone walls.

“Deep breath” She instructed, pressing the alcohol soaked cloth to his temple. Thomas bucked like a startled horse, nails digging on the armrest of the chair and teeth gritted, his head instinctively trying to escape the sharp burning, but forced to remain still by Charlotte’s firm hold. She held him against her body in an almost maternal gesture until the pain faded into a manageable sting and he relaxed his muscles and stopped huffing. 

“Are you always this much of a brute with your patients?” He asked in between heavy breaths, although his tone had dropped some of the usual sharpness in favour of something akin to amusement. As if he saw something in Charlotte that sparked his interest.

“Only with those who deserve it” The diverted smirk made it to her lips without permission. A faint hint of pride rose upon her chest, for the very first time she had managed to make Thomas comply, even if it took a head wound and raising her voice to do so. The first step had been taken for him to finally see her as an aid and not a threat or a nuisance. And Charlotte couldn’t wait to take the next. 

After she bandaged his head, having added in between a teasing comment of how things would have been much easier if he didn’t sport the haircut of a caveman, she set up to put the room back in order. The maid brought her the broom and dustpan, but Charlotte took it upon herself to clean up, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to having others in the room while he changed out of his blood soaked upper clothes. While she swept crumbs and pieces of porcelain, the little bug of curiosity nagged at the back of her mind.

“I take it the doctor didn’t bring the news you expected” She often spoke to him, perfectly aware he wouldn’t reply, but she did it nevertheless. She always talked to her patients back in the ward, even if they couldn’t hear her or talk back. Giving them the reassurance that they had someone at their side looking after them, even if they couldn’t see her. 

Much to her surprise, however, this time the patient spoke back.

“He knows nothing, that man. I pay that man to heal me and all he does is come into me house, eat the fucking food and flirt with the maids” He pulled out a cigarette, rubbing it against his lips twice before lighting it with a black and golden lighter “He’s not coming here again”

Lottie refrained from rolling her eyes “He has been looking after you for years. Ever since you were injured during the war. He knows you better than anyone else Thomas. He is only trying to help you” As I do, she added in her mind.

“And what a great help he has been, eh?” He drummed his fingers against his thigh to emphasise his words, his piercing eyes following Charlotte’s every movement as she rolled the heavy and soiled carpet to put it aside and set the table back in place.

“I know this concept may seem foreign to you, but I beg you to show some basic kindness to the new doctor when he comes next week. I am sure Mrs. Gray had the best intentions when she asked him here and-”

He cut her words with a single statement that completely flipped her “Oh she didn’t call him here. I did”

Charlotte felt compelled to clean her ears and ask him to repeat himself in case she had heard wrong. He? Thomas himself had called a doctor to help him? It made no sense, for the man who rejected most fervently to be helped, to ask for help of his own free will.

He picked up the astonishment in her widened eyes and continued on without having to be pressed further.

“He’s been working with many veterans after the war. He seeks them to try on his new treatments. Treatments he devises himself” He snuffed his cigarette in one of her pretty vases before tossing the stub inside, letting it float around the fresh daisies Charlotte had brought that morning “He says he’s made them walk again”

A mixture of feelings flooded Charlotte, all at the same time and with such intensity she couldn’t focus on only one. Once more she had to fight back the pity, but it couldn’t be helped. How could she not feel sorry for that man who clung to the first ‘medical miracle’ that crossed his path in hopes of restoring what war had cruelly taken from him? She had seen it before, men who drank questionable syrups and tinctures, swallowed handfuls of nameless poisonous pills and subjected themselves to the most horrid types of torture medicine could invent in hopes of regaining some semblance of a past long lost.

Close second in her heart came suspicion. Thomas had mentioned that this man, this doctor whoever he was, sought the veterans himself. Which meant he utilised less than orthodox methods to retrieve confidential medical records from private practitioners and maybe even from the war offices. And those treatments created by himself? It screamed charlatan all over, a trickster who exploited desperate men and robbed them of all their life savings and more just to give them reused saline in clean vials and sugar pills in medicine bottles with handwritten labels.

Charlotte couldn’t comprehend how a man like him, so careful and methodical, a man whom everyone regarded as possessing an incomparable sharpness of mind and an overflowing resourcefulness; the man who had Birminghan quaking in their boots at the mention of his name, could be fooled by false promises of medical prowesses that smelled rotten from a mile away?

She swallowed, trying to find how to best bring up her concerns without making it sound like a direct attack on Thomas' judgement. Lottie sat on the edge of an armchair, her hands folded in her lap, fingers intertwined as she pondered her words.  

“Thomas” She rubbed her thumb and index together, a nervous tic of hers that nothing had managed to suppress “Doctor Foster has been seeing you for years now, and he has not once changed his prognosis. Don’t you find it a bit suspicious that a new doctor just comes to you and offers you a miracle?” She watched him carefully, her head slightly tilted to the left, studying his expressions. He grabbed a new cigarette, gently tapping it against the box as he spoke. 

“Doctor Foster is old and behind the times. Did you know he was the last man in Birmingham to have electricity in his house?” He sighed and scratched his brow with his thumb, pushing the edge of the bandage out of the way “He thought the toxic fumes would poison him in his sleep” 

Lottie snorted. She failed to understand how a man scared of electricity gave credit to this new physician. “Okay, I understand it. Doctor Foster is afraid of progress, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t good at what he does” Charlotte wondered if her reasoning would find home in his brain or if she just wasted saliva talking to the walls “But this man? Thomas, don’t you find it at least a bit suspicious? Did you even question him on where he got your medical file from?” Nothing made sense, that after they checked her background before even summoning her for a mere interview, they didn’t hold the same standard to the man who would be juggling Thomas’ health in his hands.

He didn’t acknowledge her concerns, obviously. In fact, he seemed to not have heard them at all. He turned his wheelchair towards the double doors, the sunrays warming his skin as he closed his eyes, dried up blood still glued to the side of his face and clinging to his beard. He brought up the cigarette to his mouth but never made it quite there, hovering just an inch away from his lips as he stared out towards the vast woods. 

“The doctors make progress every day. They create new medicines, new treatments, they heal more and more people every day. If one doesn’t help you go to another, and another, and another until one does what others can’t” As Charlotte approached him slowly, she noticed he had a sort of dreamy look in his eyes, and for a moment she worried he had gone too hard on his nighttime visit to the morphine bottle. But the dazed gaze didn’t come from opioids. It came from hope. Endless, boundless, foolish hope.

And it worried her to no end.

Charlotte crouched next to Thomas slowly, her hand coming to rest in the crook of his elbow. Surprisingly, he didn’t shake her away; perhaps he didn’t even notice her at all, lost for a moment in a daydream of miracles and a bright future.

“Thomas” Soft words, pleading even, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt “Think this through, think carefully. If something sounds too good to be true, then it is too good to be true. If this physician is such an eminence, then why is he not sharing his discoveries in the Medical Society of London, or being named director of a large hospital? Why is he not speaking before the King and being put in the list of honours of the year? Why is he seeking his patients instead of them flocking to him?” She shook his arm, hoping to shake his senses too “This is a scam, Thomas. He is a liar. I am sorry, but you will not get better, and you know it Thomas” 

Those last words hit the sensible fibre in him. He shook Charlotte off with such roughness she lost her balance and toppled back, landing on her ass on the floor. The dreaminess had cleared from his eyes, swapped back to his usual coldness and the everlasting hint of anger, anger at the world and destiny and everything and everyone that had led him to that state.

Thomas pushed open the double glass doors with his fingers and rolled his wheelchair forward. The sun framed him, making him seem like a shadow stepped out of golden light. He lit the cigarette at last, puffing out the smoke in rings. He leaned back his head, as if relaxing to take a nap, but his eyes remained open, focused on the clear skies. He spoke the next words softly, but they resounded loud and clear for Charlotte.

“I will walk again. I know I will” A long drag of the cigarette “And if I don’t, then there is nothing left for me in this life”

[tu-sugar-mami]

Hi! I'm wondering if you can write how Alcina would react if she found her dobbelgänger? Someone who looks Identical to her and it would probably be one of her maidens. People probably gossip about it too. I want to see Y/N's reaction to it too so like maybe they are together and they see a maiden pass by who looks exactly like Alcina. Lipstick and everything.

(I didn't see any other requests like this so I said why not request this one cause the idea is so interesting)

-Milkie

Hii!! Thank you so much for sending this 🥰 This sounds interesting, yes! I don't think I've read anything like it before and it's an honour you thought of me for this  ✨✨✨ sorry it took me so long, I got carried away and then didn't know how to finish it 😅 although, I don't really know of this is what you had in mind but I went a bit angsty there. Hope you like it! 💖💖

Words: 1800

Tags: angst, a bit of humour, implied feelings, sad stuff, kinds good ending?

_________________________________________

Being Lady Dimitrescu's personal maid is no easy job, especially since the responsibility of bringing her every wish and/or demand could become slightly complicated. There's only so much you can do with your short legs scurrying around in such a grand castle. 

Despite being almost always busy, you do find some time to enjoy a cup or two of that sweet tea you love so much, and love it even more when you share it with your Lady. 

Climbing up the stairs you somehow manage to balance a tray with the needed assortment of ceramics with a teapot full of very hot water on one hand and a quite heavy stack of important documents on the other. Your focus is split between not dropping the platter and reading the stack of papers in your hands trying to find the listing error in the first page (a job usually reserved for one of the daughters) and you find yourself so enthralled by the task that it's only when you reach the hallway that your focus is interrupted by an approaching figure.

Without raising your gaze from the documents, the corner of your eye catches a glimpse of a familiar face. A smile blossoms in your lips at the passing woman, but confusion settles in you. You're sure the Lady is in her study at this time of the day, but you pay it no mind, surely she has a reason to leave her sacred workspace. 

Turning to the left, you ask for a miracle to help you open the door while your hands are occupied. Luckily, being crafty and resourceful was a requirement in the job description, and with a push of your elbow onto the doorknob you enter the Lady's office.

"Oh, there you are. I need those papers transcribed here."

The voice brings you to a halt as your brain catches on. Wait, didn't the Lady just pass by you at the hall? No, surely you're mistaken… 

Quickly turning towards the hall, half of your body peeking out of the still open door, your eyes inspect the now empty hallway in search of an explanation. 

Now that you recall it, the woman in the hallway was strangely at eye level, unlike your Lady, so perhaps she was only a maid you just didn't see correctly.

Well, it's been some stressful days lately, and you suppose your mind is tired. 

Deciding to think nothing of it, you pour the Lady some tea and prepare yourself for the upcoming ache in your hands (the typewriter makes the job easier, but doesn't mean it's less tedious).

It's around late afternoon when you and The Lady find yourselves strolling through the halls in an attempt to dissipate the headache that the stress has caused on the Matriarch. It's also around that late afternoon that you stumble upon her…

A few moments pass by before you do a double take and your hand shoots towards your Lady's skirt in order to stop her from walking away. 

Alcina isn't thrilled, and if it was any other maid she would have already have them paid for their transgression, but as it's almost a custom now, she only rolls her eyes and turns to see what has you so busy that you can't even speak to properly ask her to sto–

As soon as Alcina turns she sees the reason. She sees her.

An exact copy of the great Lady Dimitrescu is busy dusting one of the giant flower pots in the hall.

She is identical, in every way but the height and skin. How did you not notice her before? You're pretty sure you would have seen the close resemblance right away, unless… The daughters are always the ones in charge of 'welcoming' the new batches of maids that come in every month or so, and knowing them, they don't dwell in appearances unless they find one of the morsels to be especially interesting. Perhaps that's why such a sight slipped right by you. 

You wouldn't believe it if the maid wasn't standing right in front of you. 

She had the same high cheekbones and soft jaw as your Lady, that much is evident, but what catches your attention the most is her eyes. That unique and familiar gaze that brings you comfort and reassurance is present in the maid. She looks younger than the Lady for quite a few years, although you wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly how many apart. Still, the resemblance is unique, more like a copy rather than an offspring. It seems impossible and yet…

You look to your left in a quick movement, ready to go back and forward only wanting to compare and see for yourself that your mind isn't playing tricks on you, but you stop as soon as you notice your Lady's face.

Alcina's expression is a shocked one, more than you've ever seen her bear before, but you notice something else within that stare. Her eyes become slightly teary, but despite your efforts you can't decipher what the meaning of the unshed tears is. 

And of course, you can't possibly know the turmoil that brews inside her. 

Right in front of Alcina stands the woman she once was, or more like the one she could have been. A version of her without her humanity stripped away, without the marks of betrayal and hurt, without the lines of experimentations and pain. In front of Alcina stands the woman she once saw in the mirror, like a cruel joke, in all her human fragility and ignorance. Almost as if the universe had one last way to mess with her and mock her.

Within Alcina aches the desire to touch, to feel, to have a close glimpse of what she was before, and yet the unspoken fear of the mirage before her disappearing keeps her hand grounded, and with it her body stays unmoving.

The Lady hears, among other drowning sounds, the judging whispers surrounding you three in the hall. Words from the maids that have huddled up at the corner, watching with harpy eyes the scene unfolding in their unwelcome presence. 

For the first time in years, perhaps decades, Alcina Dimitrescu is at a loss of words. She would have never thought that an image of herself would make her feel so vulnerable, so threatened. And perhaps also for the first time, the powerful Matriarch feels…powerless.

Until your touch on her gloved hand brings her back from her stupor, that is, effectively stopping her from spiraling any further. Your hand, tiny in comparison to hers, is the anchor she needs right now. 

Alcina turns to you, and what she finds in your eyes as you look up at her is nothing but pure adoration, as if you have already decided that she is perfect just as she is right now. Almost as if you've just chosen her out of the other more humane and better versions of herself in front of you and the ones to ever exist. The love and affection that had been so obvious to her before but you always put effort in keeping hidden is now shining through, unstopped and undimmed, and Alcina's unbeating heart for a moment feels full of life again.

 

With your hand now in her gentle grasp, she feels like she can breathe again, and with the newfound strength she dares to invite the maid for a chat over tea.

When the moon is already starting to show her presence above in the skies, after some surprisingly nice talk, something across the coffee table catches Alcina's attention.

Alcina only needs to see the mischievous grin on your lips once to feel another incoming headache. You've been her maid for five years already for goodness' sake, she already knows exactly what you're thinking…

…

…..

The Lady doesn't know how you managed to convince her to do this, but she's waiting with you hidden behind a stone pillar just after summoning her daughters 'urgently'. 

It's not long before three buzzing swarms approach, but instead of her mother waiting they find a woman facing away from them sitting on their mother's usual chair. 

Daniela confusedly sniffs the air, and she finds that her mom's perfume comes from the same direction as the woman, but she can also smell the blood pumping and a heart beating. 

"Who are you?" The youngest asks with her hand already reaching for her sickle. 

"Ah, my daughters! I didn't see you there, lovelies." The maid greets with a higher pitch voice, before turning to the girls. You have to give her some credit, it would be impossible for you to not laugh if you were in her place. "Come here my girls, mama has missed you." 

"Mother!?" Bela and Cassandra ask in unison. Her eyes are wide and they're switching their gaze from the woman to each other. 

Behind the pillar you watch the scene unfold, and your Lady's hand soon covers your mouth to prevent you from letting out a chuckle, although when you look up you can see an amused smile on her lips. 

"What happened?" Daniela asks, gesturing wildly at the woman's body. "You look, good? Less tired maybe, a little tiny bit uh…less um… like this?" She raises her hand above her head and shakes her hand slightly.

"Holy Mother Miranda, is that really you Mama?" Cassandra asks, slowly approaching the maid. 

Alcina lets out a silent chuckle and with a stealth you didn't know her capable of, sneaks behind Daniela, the closest daughter.

"She is most certainly not, darling." 

Not unlike a cat, Daniela screams and jumps almost two meters before dissipating in a cloud of flies, before reforming next to Cassandra, her hand pleases over her chest, and if her heart could still beat it would be frantically hammering against her ribcage.

"Holy sh-"

"Daniela, language!" Bela nudges her sister with her shoulder. 

Your laugh resonates in the room, and Alcina briefly looks at you, her eyes as soft as her smile, before returning to the girls. 

"I can't believe they really fell for it." You walk towards the maid and put a relaxed hand on her shoulder. "Sorry we made you do this, let's go get some lemonade girl, you look a bit pale."

After you leave with the maid in tow, Alcina takes her rightful seat and pours herself a cup of wine.

"How come no one bothered to let me know of this guest? I should hope next time you do take time to greet every new maid properly, girls."  

"We will, Mother." Bela says, taking a step forward from her sisters. 

"I know you will." Alcina says gesturing away with her hand, and after her beloved daughters leave, she's left again to ponder about how just much she fucked up by accepting Miranda's gift…

_________________________________________

You can find the rest of my stories in AO3 as Lenchisus

You're welcome to leave your request!! 💖✨

If you love my work you can support me on Kofi

https://ko-fi.com/lenchisus

[the-fiction-witch]

Study

Media - Nanny Mcphee Character - Simon Brown (Age Up) Couple - Simon X Reader Reader - Y/n (Wife) Rating - 12 Word Count - 1073 Requested- You have to do more Simon Brown x reader stuff🙏 Love your stories, keep it up! <3

The house sat perfectly peaceful, the sound of the rain muffling the world beyond the stained glass windows. The gentle pottering and pattering of the raindrops falling onto the various surfaces, a gentle tickle of the windchime still playing its tune in this storm. Within the house the log burner crackled and popped as the damp would burn on the hot flames, the lights out as the power never worked in the rain and storms leaving the room lit only by the log burner's flames and the candles that littered the room. The only sound to break through it all was the clicking and clacking of typewriter keys being elegantly danced over, with the familiar sound of the spool being pushed back at the end of each line.

Simon Brown sat at the desk, typewriter under his hands. He worked diligently and speedily, copying down from the previous draft that sat on the desk beside him the typer writer key marks littered with pencil notes to implement. Mostly misspellings, punctuation and formatting elements. His small wooden bin beside his desk overflowing with crumpled pages.

He wore brown trousers, and a light cream button down his sleeves rolled to his elbows so as to not risk catching the cuffs in the typewriter's often vicious keys, a blue waistcoat embroidered softly with birds only noticeable in the lights shimmer. All his clothes fit him comfortably with signs of alteration in the seams showing their wear. His blonde locks were messy as he often ran his hand through them absentmindedly when he was thinking, his tongue between his teeth as he worked, with his favoured pencil behind his ear.

A gentle creaking grows louder in the halls of the house and soon enough the study door opens to reveal Simon’s wife, Y/n Brown.

She dressed in her sky blue and cream dress with a square neckline and cap sleeves, a lobster tail crinoline, and a large blue bow at the small of her back, the dress hemmed just perfectly so she could still see her little house slippers when she walked. Her hair pinned up in an intricate milkmaid braid, and her baby bump notably poking itself out as she swells larger. She carries with her a small tray with a teacup, saucer, sugar, milk, a plate of three small muffins and a teapot with a knitted cosy on top.

When he hears her come in he flips his draft page over hiding the contents and immediately stops typing resting his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped together and he set his chin on his hands.

“I’m not disturbing am I?” She asked softly,

“No. No. you’re alright.” he answered,

“I come baring tea,” She cooed as she set the tray down on his desk far from any of his important papers, and she poured him the first cup, “It’s elderflower and rose today,”

“No more Lemon and tea tree?”

“Unfortunately not, you have the last for bed.”

“Fu-” He began but his eyes met her as she gave him a very threatening look, “Fudge.” He corrected,

“Umm,” she hummed,

“I said fudge! Nothing wrong with some delicious fudge,” he said taking his tea and having a small sip,

“Yes, but it’s what you were going to say,” she warned,

“No idea’ what you're talking about, I was going to say fudge.”

“Course you were Simon,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she tied around his office, “That damn clock has stopped again.” She sighed tapping the old mantle clock hoping it would begin to tick again,

“It has?”

“Hadn’t you noticed it hasn’t moved in three hours?”

“... I’ll be honest, I kinda just thought I was being really productive today.” He sighed, “I was wondering why you were bringing me tea so early,”

“You need a new one, don’t need to give you an excuse to be locked in here all day any more than you already have.”

“I know, It’s just sentimental Y/n,” He sighed, “I’ll pop it somewhere else and head to the market next Sunday to see if we can find one,”

She nodded and went to his small bin gathering any fallen papers, “May I?”

“You may,” He nodded re-reading his writing,

“Are you sure?” She asked picking it up,

“I’m very sure,” he nodded,

“Final answer,” she warned as she opened the log burner door,

“You may throw it away Y/n I promise.”

“Alright then,” she nodded starting to toss the crumpled papers on the fire,

He sighed seeing his hours of work be burnt but he knew it was all scrap anyway,

She returned the empty bin to beside his desk and had a peak over his shoulder to read what he’d written but he put a hand over her eyes, “Hey!”

“It’s not done.” He glared, “Keep those adorable little eyes off Mrs.”

“Just a little snippet?”

“Nope.” He chuckled, “Go on, scamper.”

“Fine,” she pouted,

“Ohh before you go have you seen my pencil anywhere?” He asked,

She chuckled softly and pulled it from behind his ear as always,

“Ah! Thank you Y/n,” he smiled, he took the pencil and then her hand giving her knuckles a tender kiss just beside her wedding ring, he then took her bump in his hands softly stroking her dress as he cradled her belly giving the baby within a big kiss, “Hello little boy, you cosy in mummy’s belly? Yeah? You stay nice and warm in there then till your all ready to come for cuddles,” he cooed,

“He likes it when you talk to him,”

“He does?”

“Of course, he always stops wiggling when you talk to him,”

“Doesn’t that mean he doesn’t like me?”

“No, he’s happy, he’s listening and enjoying daddies cuddles,”

“Awww my sweet little boy,” he cooed kissing her bump one more time, “I’ll see you later for dinner?”

“Of course, I’ll come and get you,” She smiled,

“Can I get a kiss from my lovely wife before she goes?”

“You may,” she nodded leaning down to give his lips a small peck,

“Love you,” he cooed rubbing his nose on hers,

“Love you too Simon,” she smiled before she left his study going to do various other chores around the house,

Simon tried to hide the blush that still rose to his cheeks even after so long being married to her, he still got all blushy and giddy when she kissed him or told him she loved him. He took another sip of tea before turning his page back over and continuing on with his work, now with a wide and cheery smile. 

[woven-birds]

(last updated december 2024)

ೃ ⁀➷

hello! <3

this is my main tumblr, it doesn’t really have a theme i just post whatever i like and what speaks to me. i have a few side blogs that are a bit more uniform that i’ve linked below if you’d like to check them out. :) 18 + only please! posts are mostly from my queue (i’m far too lazy to tag them as such haha). also please always feel free to ask or tell me anything. <3

i’m kristen. i am an avid daydreamer. a vegetarian. mom to two boys. bookworm. neurodivergent (AuDHD). 29. infp. half native american (mohawk tribe) & irish.

🌜🌞 taurus sun, gemini moon, libra rising 🌞🌛

i live in upstate new york. i read too many books and drink copious amounts of tea & coffee. i’m obsessed with anything antique or from a bygone era. my hair is always messy no matter how hard i try to make it look decent. i am comprised of dresses, flowers, & dreams. i’m forever sleepy. i still love playing on playgrounds. i often feel homesick for places that i’ve never been. my head is always in the clouds; i’m perpetually daydreaming. i feel most at peace in nature. i am a true crime/horror junkie. a self proclaimed weirdo. a proud member of the silly goose club. if i’m not reading, writing, doing a puzzle, playing a video game, or baking, you can probably find me listening to music, overthinking, or being anxious. sometimes if you’re lucky it’s all three. i’d rather be thrifting or looking at the stars.

my favorite sounds: trains in the distance (it’s an incredibly lonely sound but it’s strangly comforting to me in a way), birds singing, rain hitting the window, the keys of a typewriter, book pages turning, cats purring, clocks ticking, the sound of leaves crunching when you step on them in autumn, the crackling sound a record makes when the needle first touches it.

these are a few of my favorite things: flower crowns, old hollywood, gardens, fairies, teacups & teapots, fairy tales, bunnies, squishmallows, sharks, outer-space, macarons, graveyards, dresses, handwritten letters, studio ghibli, pressing flowers between the pages of my favorite books, strawberries, the smell of books, flowering tea, wes anderson films, bookstores & libraries, cuddling, butterflies, floral print, cozy sweaters, candles, when smells act as time machines, penny presses, everything about autumn, holding hands, rainy dreary days.

music: fleetwood mac, turnover, nirvana, the front bottoms, andrew mcmahon, chappell roan, bon iver, sonic youth, phoebe bridgers, david bowie, death cab for cutie, yeah yeah yeahs, mitski, ghost, the smiths, ethel cain, type o negative, pixies, the cure, faye webster, spiritbox, lana del rey, coheed and cambria, alexandra savior, fiona apple, sleep token, deftones, billie eilish, the story so far, taylor swift, eliott smith, bright eyes, florence + the machine, blink-182, & more.

tv: buffy, gossip girl, bridgerton, supernatural, doctor who, grey’s anatomy, the x files, the vampire diaries, yellow jackets, peaky blinders, last of us, outlander, new girl, it’s always sunny in philadelphia, walking dead, parks & rec, charmed, twin peaks, friends, what we do in the shadows, schitt’s creek, degrassi, community, pretty little liars, etc.

films: i love horror movies. i am also obsessed with studio ghibli, wes anderson, & audrey hepburn films. <3

books: my all time favorite books are jane eyre & pride and prejudice. i am also a fan of thrillers, poetry, fantasy, and a sucker for a cheesy romance book (sue me). always open for book recommendations if you’d like to send me one! (:

my side blogs: @teacuploveletter // @fairieslivehere // @shesdaydreamingagain // @arainyautumnnight // @porcelainmoons // @grungyfairy // @snowandtinsel // @dreaminginnostalgia

other places you can find me:

instagram // kristenisdaydreaming

pinterest // magicwildflowers

twitter // rainygirl53

snapchat // rainygirl53

discord // kristenisdaydreaming

spotify

sometimes i ramble about things/write poetry

tags: music // films // television // art // quotes // food // books // fashion // nature // flowers // tea // coffee // animals // doctor who // supernatural // pokémon // bridgerton // buffy // autumn // space // moon // sky // makeup // landscapes // interiors // studio ghibli // disney // animal crossing // fairies // important reminders // sanrio // sailor moon // vinyl //

(some graphics featured in this post are by @saradika-graphics others are ones i’ve found or made myself using canva.)

[randomravager]

this lady was so cool! we gave her the prompt “teapot” and she wrote a poem on the spot with her typewriter :D

[z-ppy]

Room 22

After Jack gets his soul back, he realizes things will never be how they were. But they might be close. Slightly divergent from canon in small ways. @dawg-motif ty for the idea

__

“I’d like… for things to go back to the way they were.”

His voice was careful, measured, hitting the right intonations to convey fondness, to appeal to fatherly instinct, to appease. He’d picked out exactly what he wanted to say and how he’d say it. I regret it. The… accident. 

___

They’d filled up his room after he died, crowding the empty space with tangible, but forgettable things. Moldy boxes, swords and masks, clay pots that occasionally let off sour-smelling fumes, an entire tarnished tea set that had a sign reading DO NOT STARE AT REFLECTION taped to the teapot. Books, stacked horizontal all the way up to the ceiling, covered an entire wall, the spines buckling out under their own weight. Unreachable and unreadable.

They’d moved his typewriter. He’d only used it once; pressing the stiff keys and listening to the reluctant click when they popped back up. It sounded like Sam’s creaky knees, which made him smile. He smudged his fingers with ink that had once been black as he poked around inside, trying to see how the machine worked, pulling his hand out in surprise when a rusty gear snagged the delicate skin on his knuckle. It stung for a second, then smoothed over, the small smear of bright blood sinking back under his skin. 

Focus broken, he wandered back to the library, leaving little dark fingerprints all over the keys, desk, bedspread, and trailed along the tile wall in the hallway. Sam grabbed his hand when he reached for the book Sam was looking at, and gave him a long lecture about the proper conservation of historical archives, dirty fingers, and asking before you touch. 

He didn’t play with the typewriter again. At first because he was ashamed, then because he was resentful that Sam had snatched him and told him off like a misbehaving child, and then because his soul was gone and he didn’t really care anymore. 

_____

He’d barely noticed, before, that he’d been transplanted ("Only down the hall," Sam had said with eyes that said he was sorry), but now, with tears that never really dried stinging his eyes and an ache in his chest that felt heavy, suffocating, threatening to climb up into his throat and choke him, he could hardly stand it. His soul felt like a burning rock too hot to wrap his hands around. Now, through his blurry tears, he finally understood.

___

The air glimmered with dust particles when he flicked on the light; the draft from the hallway banishing them to darker corners of the room. He avoided the effigies and cut-glassware, careful not to trip over anything either. But he wasn’t human, he wouldn’t trip, and he probably couldn’t be cursed either. 

The wall of books was one faded grayish color, each book defined by a fuzzy outline. Jack edged closer, weaving between boxes, and ran a light finger over one of the spines, trying to make out the faint golden lettering. When it didn’t crumble under his touch, he brushed harder, blowing on it. Dust flew in his face, and he sneezed. The lights flickered. There wasn’t really a biological reason for the reflex– his grace destroyed any invading particles before they could harm him, but it was stubbornly hardwired into his human form nonetheless. He sneezed again, and the overhead light shattered, sending sparks and pieces of glass flying. 

Boots thudded down the hallway and Dean skidded into the room, scanning for danger. He stopped short when his steps crunched on broken glass. He looked at Jack, then at the shattered ceiling light.

“I, um…” Jack began, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

Jack hadn’t thought he’d ever hear Dean laugh again. 

_fin_

[opheliapenning]

An Inexhaustive List of Things I Hope are Never Truly Forgotten

Shirts that breathe with the wind. Phone calls from anyone, anywhere. Paper train tickets. Milk bottles that might break with the spillage. Tights. Church bells that ring on the hour. Postcards. Armchairs by the fireside. Coins in my pocket. Books. Theatres in all their prestige. Telegrams in all their succinctness. Fountain pens. Velvet adorning bodies and furniture alike. Brooches. Watches for timekeeping. Teapots. Gloves for any season. Radios. Old paintings above the piano. Classical architecture. Coats. Alarm clocks to hold me truly accountable. Cameras. Conversations in all their sincerity. Cardigans. Address books. Baths that need no occasion. Records. Typewriters to tell you my stories. 

Ophelia Penning

[cat-appreciator]

You’re not disproving my thesis that a writer is a kind of gremlin who lives in a teapot with a tiny typewriter.

The Four Sacred Artistic Motives:

-what if this bad thing was good instead

-how about Make-Believe Land can have whatever I want

-would that be fucked up or what

-I think that shit's hot

[herhumancondition]

Making Lists at Shisha Lounge

Making lists is what I do, so that is what I did. Although, the way I went about making the list was somewhat unusual. For I have made lists in anticipation of the morrow’s grocery, or in agitation of the day’s chores, but never in observation of another being; always pedantically, and never involuntarily. Had it been under more favourable circumstances, I would have preferred a desk, a lined booklet, and daylight. But as the situation would have it, I had to make do with quietly typewriting on the column of my mind, as the air grew thick with blueberry-mint sheesha, that had been made thicker in the lungs of my company, in the dead of the night. It was 2 am. I have never made lists at 2 am; strangely yet, I had never made lists about a man.

Nevertheless, the typewriter keys of my mind clanked away —

He likes objects, the shapes of them and the sciences of them. 

Cable cars, vandalised walls, ornamented doorknobs that add a bit of character to the otherwise dull house on its deathbed. Gravity, electromagnetism, photochemistry. To see him gravitate towards those very many objects, to see him electrified at their relational chemistry, is like watching a hearth burn slowly amidst the stone-slab heart of winter.

He likes the celestial and their daily soap. 

The sun letting himself go after a long day, making the horizon glow in debaucherous hues, saying — this is quite an ordinary thing to do in the west. The moon rising in her glory soon after, with its wing of stars who had taken it upon themselves to dictate the fate of mortals as a zest. He does not believe this mockery has much material effect on its intended subjects, however, he does find it lovely to gaze at the dozen cliques they make while they are at it.

He likes antiques, the rust of them and the dust on them. 

If he could, he would open an antique’s shop, or so he says to me. Exposed brick walls held from dilapidation by the spines of dark mahogany shelves cradling books where the pages turn yellow and smell like tobacco. Engraved rings; rolled up films; wood-carved boxes holding someone’s prized possessions, sentiments left brazenly on sale. Teapot sets gazing out the window into the streets; air thick with dust made of particles of ash and ancient skin, diffusing light just as he likes it.

He likes to capture that light into little pockets of film. 

He likes books, paintings and vinyl, art that one can touch and is, preferably, somewhat grim.

He likes to read literature that tears apart his heart and the thought of that makes me vampiric.

He would likely read this someday, and he would perhaps enjoy it.

He likes the ocean, peace lilies, cottages by the mountains, paddling ducks in the pond. And most importantly, the essence of small, ordinary things. 

Small, ordinary things and their symmetries housed in his polaroid heart, turning into stories larger than life, because that is how he sees the world. 

And that is why I like him. Or at least, what I like about him.

And strangely, he likes me.

I think that strange because, someone who looks at life in symmetric grids, could tolerate, if not almost enjoy, the asymmetry of my emotions, draws caution. It pull me inwards into myself, makes me want to hide behind the cellar door of my mind, demolishes all the sparkling ideas I had of what love is supposed to look like, leaving them cackling in the heart of the hearth. It’s inexplicable and in a way, paradoxical.

The clank-clanks of my typewriter mind pauses for a brief breath, then as the blueberry-mint smoke leaves the depths of my lungs, it picks up — 

He likes paradoxes, the burden of them and the bearer of them. 

That is another of his many other objects of interest. 

[angelicfelonentertainment]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Decorative Teapot Executive Desk Typewriter - Phone - Books Ceramic Decor.

[casgirldykery4ever]

repeating "you know that's gonna be a bitch to clean" to myself is not stopping me from wanting the typewriter teapot

[penkraft123]

9 Ways to Add an Artsy Touch to Your Life

9 WAYS TO ADD AN ARTSY TOUCH TO YOUR LIFE

Art doesn't exist in a vacuum and neither do artists represent an alien being. Art belongs to us all and we all have an artistic mind, however, the perception around our artsy self depends largely on how we infuse creativity in our everyday life. We all might go to an art exhibition from time to time but that doesn't make us artsy. Unless you express art through the commonest things in life you don't exactly enhance your life with art. Here are 9 ways how you can add that missing artsy touch to your life in simple ways.

Statement furniture:

Beds and sofas are expensive pieces of furniture that adorn almost every household, however, they aren't the kind of things that impress the eye or satisfy the seeker of creativity. Statement furniture adds a dimension of the artsy in your house. By adding an old Victorian wall clock in a modern drawing-room, or an old Oriental cabinet in your wooden floored library you significantly enhance the look of your house which also becomes an extension of your artsy personality.

Old curios collectibles:

The east is the goldmine for unique remnants of the past, which not only add a sense of history to your home but also tremendously enhances its aesthetic value. War memorabilia, vintage typewriters, old sewing machines, old photo frames, vintage chairs, and rare toys often set the room in the perfect mood. These can sometimes be found at very low prices in antique stores and flea markets, and one such collectible can influence the room significantly.

Up-cycling everyday clothes:

Although more familiar to a bedroom set in modern-day interior designing this can be used in other parts of the house too. The success of this technique depends on the quirk of the design. For instance, even a simple addition of fresh flowers to a basic earthen teapot transforms it into an aesthetically pleasing vintage item. Some readers like to see books around them even more than they want to read them. This often messes up the room and makes it look untidy. Storing them in old steel boxes and metal trunks gives you the sense of the mess that the masochist self wants yet decently avoiding any mess that it can potentially create. Similarly, if you don't find a cloth stand, simply up-cycling a ladder not only creates a functional and durable cloth stand but also gives a different dimension to your room.

Thinking beyond the obvious:

There are many affordable options and mediums that can be used to decorate walls but often when we need to decorate our walls, we only think of paintings. Beautiful metallic flowers, an artistic mirror, an intricate marble hanging, or interesting vintage maps all of these, and more can be perfect for bringing in the artsy touch in you.

Books- got looks:

Beautiful coffee table books are a great way to enhance the acute; cor at home but not too many people think of this. Big books with stunning covers, when stacked together, or placed at angles, look great on coffee tables or even side console tables in the hallway or living room.

Traditional is the key:

Perfect for bringing an ethnic touch into your home, traditional Indian art is exquisite, detailed, and not that expensive. Indian art forms such as Gond, Madhubani, Warli Art, Pichwais, Mughal Miniatures and Tanjores not only adds an artistic touch to your home but also becomes a medium of reflection of your taste and preferences to the world, a window through which they peep into you.

Photo walls:

Create a photo wall by framing some of your favorite photos from weddings, birthdays, travels, etc. Photographs sit on corner tables inside a photo frame and we love displaying personal photographs around the house. Why not add a quirk to them and make the extra statement? Using bold frames of different sizes, and creating an interesting collage to cover a large wall in a stairway, study, or bedroom adds to our sense of aesthetics and artsy element.

Master Artist Prints:

A large painting in the living room always screams for attention. But an original artwork, even by lesser-known artists, could burn a hole in the pocket. Instead, you can invest in limited edition prints of beautiful artworks by master artists, such as Husain, Raza, Vaikuntam, etc. High-quality prints, usually made using the serigraphy technique, have a very similar texture to paintings, and hence, look stunning. So imagine owning an authentic Raza print, signed by the artist himself, for less than 30,000 rupees. Can it get artsier than this?

Paint-it-all:

It is very trendy these days to keep walls empty and show art through them. Adding a splash of colors always helps. Painting an entire wall can be expensive, but adding color to a small part of a wall, or a panel, using an interesting pattern, can look extremely artistic, and most importantly pretty easy on the wallet.

9 WAYS TO ADD AN ARTSY TOUCH TO YOUR LIFE

Penkraft conducts classes, course, online courses, live courses, workshops, teachers' training & online teachers' training in Handwriting Improvement, Calligraphy, Abacus Maths, Vedic Maths, Phonics and various Craft & Artforms - Madhubani, Mandala, Warli, Gond, Lippan Art, Kalighat, Kalamkari, Pichwai, Cheriyal, Kerala Mural, Pattachitra, Tanjore Painting, One Stroke Painting, Decoupage, Image Transfer, Resin Art, Fluid Art, Alcohol Ink Art, Pop Art, Knife Painting, Scandinavian Art, Water Colors, Coffee Painting, Pencil Shading, Resin Art Advanced etc. at pan-India locations. With our mission to inspire, educate, empower & uplift people through our endeavours, we have trained & operationally supported (and continue to support) 1500+ home-makers to become Penkraft Certified Teachers? in various disciplines.