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ghouljams · 5 months

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Hey ghoul! 💗 I hope your doing well.

I just wanted to ask if you have any headcanons about the Fae boys houses in the Fae wild. And how they travel to and back from them. Are their human homes just fronts/gates to there actual homes in the Fae world? What happens when they bring guests over? Is witch going to visit Price's house?

(your recent regency price fic has me feeling all types of ways. Thank you for keeping us feed throughout the holidays I love you!!)

I have so many headcanons on the boys houses... I have... I have so many... Lemme run through them.

Soap's house we've been to once before when Love stabbed Ghost. Much like Witch's house it's a traditional sort of cottage surrounded by other buildings. However unlike the sunshine and open air the Witch's house is bathed in, I imagine Soap's house is at the end of a narrow alley. The sort of alley you wander down when you're trying to find shelter from the rain, the sort of alley you'd never be able to find on a map, and yet here it is. You wander down it, your eyes searching the blank stone of the businesses on either side, the length of them seemingly stretching beyond the actual size of the buildings. They're only two or three floors tall but they seem to tower over you. Then just at the end of the alley is a little Tudor cottage, with flowers in the window boxes and smoke coming out of its chimney.

Inside it is rustic, a narrow stairway leads up to the gabled bedroom, and the living room is full of plush furniture, old nick-nacks, framed maps and flags, a few rough sketches are tacked to the wall, all in different styles and signed by different hands. The whole place feels stuffed full and well lived in. The threshold is strong, ancient, a house still lived in by the man that built it. The mid day sun always seems to be shining in through the windows, warming the place to that perfect nap temperature. I imagine a lot of wood elements and heritage furniture, less art than you'd think, and oddly the art that he does have is simple. From artists long long dead, and remembered only by Soap. Back when a single sketch could fill him for weeks. Old loves, before he grew bitter from their loss.

Gaz's house is the newest of the bunch. He has a flat in the city, something sleek and modern that makes Price's skin crawl. Or at least, it looks modern at first glance. The wood floors don't ring any alarm bells, though the grain is knotted and shifting, the slats seeming grow and spiral out from the center of the flat like rings from a tree. The windows certainly don't give anything away, they're normal glass, taking up the walls of the room and overlooking the city, never mind the greenery taking over his balcony and creeping up the side of the building. His walls, surely those are modern. They're just normal walls, painted with a deep green and strangely textured, like moss when you press your fingers to it, yet when you try to look closer it feels like normal wallpaper.

The kitchen then, that's modern. Sleek chrome appliances and marble countertops, a fridge stocked with bleeding meat and vegetables fresher than you could ever find at the store. Ivy winds its way around the top of the cabinets, spilling over the edge. You can't find the plant it comes from, but surely there must be a pot up there. His furniture is all wood, tasteful, classically designed with a modern twist. The pedestal his table rests on looks like the trunk of a tree, its branched spreading out to hold up the round glass top, its roots twisting into the floor. His bed seems to be growing out of the floor, the wood blooming up and cradling the pillowy mattress. His couches and chairs are a rich black leather. It all speaks to quiet luxury, and something pretending to be modern. A cuckoo in the nest, playing at being human.

Ghost's house feels like a memory. A wood cabin, grey stone lining the bottom of it, and snow weighing heavy on its gabled roof. Light flickers warmly in the windows, bare trees surround it, holding it close with loving branches dragged low by snow. There are footsteps in the snowy ground leading to the door, and smoke coming from the stone chimney. It's hazy, a place you're not meant to see from the outside, and yet it reminds you of a place you've never been before, a home you've only seen in pictures. When you open the front door the space is dark, cold, uninhabited for years, death drags its hands along the scarred floors, the scorches of flame have left their licks along the walls. It's not a place you want to stay, certainly nowhere like the warm light you'd seen outside would have prepared you for.

There are only four keys that open Ghost's door, closely guarded, heavy, and iron. Ghost, though, has no need for a key. It's his house, he can come and go as he pleases. In fact he doesn't even need to use the front door, any door will do. As long as he wills it Ghost only needs to twist the handle and pull, he'll open straight into his house. Ghost is a master at warping the world to suit his whims, practiced and grown from his need to control it. When he opens the door for you it's a completely different cabin. There's a fire burning in the fireplace, the lights flicker as shadows chase through them, the furniture is old and seems to have been reupholstered several times, but it's soft and you sink into the couch when you sit on it. Bookshelves line the walls, full of well worn spines and little trinkets. There's a little narrow staircase that takes you up to a bedroom. The bed, overflowing with quilts and pillows, is pressed close to the chimney for added warmth. The wood floors are covered in rugs, intricate and plush, and the whole place smells of smoke and pine.

You could spend weeks here, and never notice any time had passed. The world outside the windows is cold and frosty, perfect for curling up in bed. Ghost is a wonderful host. Why don't you stay a while? Sleep. Let him take your worries. What were you doing before this?

Oh right.

Price's home is my favorite. A giant oak in the middle of the forest, sturdy and fae. He tells you, proudly, that he grew it himself from an acorn. Inside the walls are round, the floors a neatly polished wood that you can count the rings of. Soft lamps dangle from the tall ceiling, with intricately soldered together glass, their light glows and dims with a wave of Price's hand. His kitchen curves along the wall, wooden of course, and yet he seems to have everything he could need. There's a large couch and television in the center of the room, an ashtray on the coffee table. Along one wall is a staircase leading to an upper floor.

When you follow it up you find a bedroom, you think it's a bedroom. There are window curving along the wall, bringing a soft twilight glow into the room, and casting shadows over the deep crater that sits back nearer the wall opposite the stairs. You go over to inspect it and find it full of pillows, blankets, a round pad you would almost call a mattress, there are steps leading up out of the nest-like bed. It looks perfectly comfortable, if a little hard to get out of. There are candles and books perched along the edge within easy reach. The stairs continue up, and under them are carved drawers, and doors, nooks and crannies for storage.

You go up another level to find the bathroom. Steamy and magical, you can't find piping for any of the taps but when you twist them on the water is perfectly warm. A large tub, an open shower, there's a small heart carved out of the steam on the mirror. You follow the stair up and out when you get too warm, and find yourself outside among the tree branches. You enjoy the crisp winter air just long enough to crave the house's warmth again. When you make your way back to the front door, Price twists the little dial next to the door and opens it on a different season.

You're booted into fall.

König's house is less of a house, and more of a den. The mouth of a cave greets you, the inside dark and cavernous. You hesitate outside until the monster slinks out to ask what you're doing. The trees of the forest bend down to listen to you explain that you're on a home tour. He shrugs and tells you to watch your head coming in as he ducks back inside. Despite the open entrance when you look back there's a warm wooden wall, and a large door with a shiny brass handle where the mouth of the cave should be. The door is curved along the top, mirroring the curve of the ceiling, impossibly tall as König rolls his shoulders back to stand at his full height. The inside of the cave is cozy, the stone walls covered in moss and furs, little glowing flowers and mushrooms shed a soft light over the room.

There are soft thick rugs along the floor, and pillows strewn about. There's no true furniture that you can see, everything is low to the ground but clearly made to comfortably accommodate König's size. There's a fire burning in a pit in the middle of the cave, the smoke filtering neatly out through a hole at the top of the ceiling. The whole room is warmed by it, the rock absorbing the heat so as not to chill your feet as you walk to inspect the a sort of room/nook carved into one of the walls. It's larger inside than the opening would suggest. A smaller cave carved into the bigger one, filled with furs and pillows, trinkets hang from the ceiling, and soft dancing fireflies float about. A sort of nest you could climb into and never climb out of.

You leave before König starts showing you the various bones and skulls he's collected.

Keegan's home is a clearing in the forest. The trees parted for the moon, the grass soft under your feet. Empty save for the spare wild flowers that push through the grass. He's not even there to show you around, he's at his angel's home with his family.

#ghoul speaks #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #keegan p russ #1fae1 #fae!ghost #fae!soap #fae!price #fae!gaz #fae!könig #fae!keegan

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readychilledwine · 7 months

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Azriel Appreciation Week Day 4 - Domestic Life - Daycation

Summary - Having a day off together was rare, and Azriel knew he had to make the most of it by taking Lyria to his favorite place. His mother's.

Warnings - none

A/n- happy day four of @azrielappreciationweek Noone can convince me Azriel isn't the biggest mommy's boy, and having her approval of his mate would mean the world to him.

Ps if you haven't met Lyria yet and want to read some smut, you can find her in the following fics, both have 2 parts 💙

Slow Hands - Fours Company

Lyria arched her back, stretching her arms and legs as the soft morning sun painted her room a golden hue.

Then, she rolled over, pulling the blanket back over her red curls and snuggled deeper into her pillow.

She had scheduled herself a weekend off. A full 48 hours to rest her hands, her mind, her Magic. 48 hours to lay in the plush oversized bed she had purchased since her relationship with Azriel began all by herself. She released enough Magic to kiss her sheets and blanket in warmth, cocooning her in this unmatched feeling of comfort and sighed in happiness.

But that all went to shit quickly as she heard her door open and a body threw itself on her.

"Good morning, mate." Azriel pulled her blanket down, forcing her to look at him and smiled at her soft glare. "Rhys gave me today off."

Lyria popped up, her whole mood having shifted with that simple sentence. "Really?" Her wide eyes were silver lined with joy. "A whole day we can spend together?"

He nodded, stroking her messy hair. "There's somewhere I want to take you. It's important to me. But I figured we'd start with breakfast."

Azriel held her hand as they walked up to a small home on the edge of Velaris and the Sindra. The chimney was slowly billowing out smoke and the soft scent hearth welcoming them. They had stopped at the market, grabbing a bouquet of flowers, some baked goods, and a few other random things.

Azriel didn't knock when they got there, quickly dropping her hand with a boyish grin and kicking his boots off as fast as he could. "Ah, you're finally here!" A soft feminine voice made Lyria pause as she was removing her own flats. "And you brought her!"

She caved looking over her shoulder and instantly stood straight. Azriel was approaching a beautiful illyrian female, her soft hazel eyes adorned with laughter lines, her long dark hair had begun to grey slightly. Lyria easily placed the age based off her own father's looks and knew immediately.

Her mate had brought her to his mother's house.

Azriel held her for a little while before handing her the flowers Lyria had picked. A mix bouquet of wild and beautiful things. "Hi momma."

"Hi baby," she touched Azriel's face gently. "Introduce me to your mate. You're being very rude, Azriel."

Lyria and Florence sat on the couch together, snuggled under a blanket while Azriel finished cooking dinner. She had spent the day gossiping with his mother over snacks and drinks while she put her son to work around the house causing him to throw playful glares their way every so often.

They were currently discussing Lyria's job, something the female had been very interested in when Azriel finally spoke. "She might be willing to work you into her schedule mom. I'll pay."

Lyria looked at him, a single brow raised. "Why would I require payment?"

"For your time," Azriel answered slowly.

"She's your mother?" Lyria turned back to Florence. "I have tomorrow off! We should go shopping and then I can give you a massage! You will love it." Adoration flooded the bond from Azriel, tickling her heart and making her cheeks flush slightly.

Florence looked to Az, "Someone does owe me a shopping trip. And you two are staying the night."

Azriel had looked up, pausing mid stir. "My checkbook hurts already. Foods done. I made your favorite, momma."

Azriel pulled Lyria closer to him in the bed, kissing her nose and forehead before forcing it into his shoulder and neck. She had fallen asleep hours ago, her cheeks flushed from the wine her and his mother had been drinking while the 3 of them played games.

He had to carry both her and his mother to bed, the two females both giggling at their turn and telling him how much they loved each other, and in turn him. Azriel smiled into his mate's wild hair, already a mess of flames and curls, and shut his eyes with a soft sigh, enjoying the way Lyria unknowingly heated their bed to the perfect temperature.

He had finally brought a female his momma approved of home to her, now all he had to do was survive a day shopping with both of them.

#acotar #azriel acotar #acotar x reader #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel x vanserra!oc #azrielappreciationweek2023 #azrielweek2023 #azriel shadowsinger

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leenukeath · 6 months

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Childhood treasure

It was such a little thing. A bunch of old fabrics sewn together and barely holding with singed threads, yet something in it made the still young Bounty Hunter kneel down and pick it up.

A burned house, a grisly sight that dated a few days ago, the embers had turned to coals and the ashes had already been scattered by the winds. Many footsteps in the burnt floorboards, people had been there after the act.

The old rabbit plush had been spared ironically by ending up in an old pot over the chimney, singed but still salvageable. The question now was if its owner was still around to lay claim to it. Tardif sighed, there was little chance a child could survive a house burning, and even if they had escaped these woods were too dangerous for anyone without strong survival instincts and knowledge, whoever this toy belonged to, they were probably gone by now.

He should have thrown the thing away and gone back on his way but something stilled his hand, instead coaxing him to shove the sad burnt thing in his knapsack and take it with him. He figured maybe he would find a child who would want it later. A few days later when resting at an inn, he pulled it out again, examining the burn spots and pulling out his sewing kit. One of his old shirts that was too ragged to be used was cleanly cut to patch up the various holes making it look somewhat less miserable. A thorough wash in the bassin with some soap rinced away the soot and dark patches, leaving a somewhat less grimy looking but still lovingly used bunny. He hated to admit it but he was starting to get attached to it.

It never left his knapsack, Tardif would never be able to live with the shame of being caught with a plush toy in his possession but the rabbit in his bag had become a somewhat soothing presence in his life, a thing to hold and let witness his less dignified moments of weakness. For a lone fighter like him, the presence was welcome, even if it was only with eyes of threads.

It was in that damned estate that he thought he was finally going to break. His will thrown against the walls of horrors they were constantly being submitted to alongside the threat of death made the facade of strength harder to keep up with each day. His secret possession in his bag beneath his bunk felt more and more important to anchor himself to this reality.

Then one day Missandei mentionned the forest she used to live in, and the fire. When asked about it, she spoke about how she had to run away when she was barely eight, holding her father's crossbow that she had had to trade for her dear rabbit… He knew he had found her, that he should give her what was rightfully hers back, but it tore his heart as well. His precious companion taken away from him, who would he allow to see his tears now?

Yet the thought of a child forced to grow into a killer much too fast, faster than even he had to made him reconsider. And the next day he brought her a box containing their little treasure of fabric and stuffing. "You made her a little outfit?!" exclaimed Missandei when she picked it up, examining the cautiously sewn together pullover on the plush rabbit. Tardif nervously rubbed the back of his neck: "Well it was such a sad thing when I found it… figured I'd make it less miserable."

Missandei happily took her rabbit back, to Tardif's slight chagrin, but her genuine happiness in the following days was a slight ray of light in the darkness of this world. She made sure to spend as much time as she could with the usually reserved Bounty Hunter, to his reluctant appreciation, and sometimes came back to him asking for help with repairs and weapon maintenance. Tardif may have lost a dear trinket, but had gained a friend, the rarest reward he had ever been blessed with.

#darkest dungeon #bounty hunter #arbalest #my writing #Just a little short story I wrote a while ago and figured I could share #overly sweet but idgaf #let nice things happen for once

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larcenywrites · 1 year

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From Cali’ with Love

young!Tony Stark x Reader

Warnings: mild sexual references/scene | fluff | kinda sad at first?

Word Count: 4.5K

Summary: After his parents' passing, Tony leaves without a trace. Your only clues are a few doodled-on postcards from the Golden State that come in from time to time, but when an important day finally comes around that you'd once hoped to share with him, and no postcards or letters in sight, you have to wonder: did he finally forget?

Two years. Two years since your Tony ran away from all the shadows that haunted him here. So quick, he even left you behind. I can't stay here anymore, he'd said one night, barely able to even side-eye you. You could only nod, agreeing to go with him and as far as he needed. It haunted you when his only reply was turning away. Your family was here, your university was here, your friends were here-- he couldn't do that to you. No matter how willing you were. But you figured he wanted to run away from you, too. You'd seen too much. The tears that soaked his pillow and his snappish words when you tried to get him outside. You were as gentle with him as his mother was, and always by his side. You're pretty sure he just couldn't take the added pressure. And the only way to get it to stop was to just leave. Without telling you so that you couldn't argue with him or worry over him. Hopefully he knew what was best for him. So when the next few days were spent with an uncharacteristic amount of sorrys and the clinginess he'd lost had returned, you couldn't say you didn't know what was coming when you discovered he'd left.

Of course you grew worried. Where had he even gone? Tony was always a survivor, but he'd hardly learned how to cope. He couldn't even find escape through his new job. Not when he had to pick up right where his dad had left off. Not when you could practically hear Stane griping something along the lines of, "well, this is how your father did it!" Was he sleeping okay? He always had problems, but such a demanding job probably didn't help. He used to tell you that it helped when you were nearby. The thought of him alone in bed killed you as much as being alone in yours. Maybe he'd taken that fuzzy brown shark plush with him to keep him company. One of the sandbar sharks you got at the aquarium. Oftentimes you had to force yourself to stop thinking about it. After months of sorrow and suffering, you just knew it had to be him when your mom said you had unmarked mail. You'd pulled a small postcard from her hands, stiffly hurrying back to your room to investigate.

Join Us in Malibu was printed fancily and across a clear blue sky, and colorful houses dotted a California coast. Your eyes were drawn to the obvious break in the flat horizon, a rising cliffside right at the edge of the ongoing beach. But it was quite the reason you were drawn to it. A childlike doodle of a house sat on top of the hill, complete with a little chimney and a squiggly line of smoke. Even with tears in your eyes, you giggled. You knew for a fact he could draw a little better than that, but maybe he knew you'd find it more endearing. You stared at it for a little longer, wondering if that was, in fact, the home he drew this up in. Flipping it over, you were disappointed to see that there were no notes written between the blank lines. There wasn't even a return address. But the little stamp he'd chosen to put in the corner was enough when you finally read it. White borders surrounded a cartoonish yellow sun rising over a churning ocean, two words on top and two words on the bottom: From Cali' with Love.

For now, it was enough to know he was alive, and still thinking of you, hopefully as much as you thought of him. You anxiously waited for another one. Surely he'd send something else! Months went by again, and you swore you'd looked at that card every day. And with the start of the next semester came another! Big letters were filled with other images, but the bolder white outline spelled out a city you recognized much more this time. Los Angeles spelled out over its city skyline. Nothing popped out this time, but your heart raced when you turned it over. Halfway decent drawings of angelfish swam between the black lines, little lines of bubbles in the shapes of hearts came from their mouths. At the top was a shark, obviously drawn with a bit more care than the fish. And next to it was that same stamp. From Cali' with Love. You smiled, touching over the fish as if you could feel the hands that drew them. He must have found an aquarium he liked. You wondered if it had a cute cafe like the one here did. The one where you watched the light ripple shapes across his face as it filtered through churning water behind the glass and he'd always avoid getting seafood because he didn't want to offend the fish that swam by the glass. He joked about it, but you were pretty sure he legitimately felt bad. You could only hope to join him there one day, but hoping only made more tears fall, and you didn't want to smudge his cute drawings.

Another semester, another postcard. You hoped he kept up the tradition. Santa Monica read in fancy yellow letters against a dusky blue sky. Below it was the famous Santa Monica pier with its Ferris wheel and colorful restaurant roofs. Though you had something else to inspect on the front, you excitedly flipped it over, ecstatic that this one had writing!

It's not as fun as coney

island was with you :(

Your smile was bittersweet as you read his semi-neat handwriting. The letters were always so close together but the spacing between his words was always a little too far apart. You knew how that felt. Turning the card back over, you briefly studied the part on the Ferris wheel that you and Tony had been in when the ride got stuck that one time. There were no silly doodles there, but you had already noticed the red lines that encircled a part of the beach. The shoreline stretched away from the pier towards you, mostly empty aside front the silhouettes of two figures holding hands. A red sharpied heart was doodled around them, one side flatter than the other (he was never very good at drawing hearts). The sentiment was nice, but any romantic beach walks didn't last very long when he was more interested in finding seashells and kicking chilly water your way. But maybe that was what made it romantic, especially when he got so excited to find those smaller, cone-shaped shells and presented them out to you in his palm.

His next card was from Hollywood. You could make out the Walk Of Fame, which probably wasn't so empty of crowds in real life, surrounded by ornate buildings. Between them was a probably not geographically correct mountain side where the large white Hollywood sign sat. Nothing really stood out to you, so you flipped it over.

I haven't found my star

yet, but I did find you

You snorted, shaking your head as if he were in the room saying it. Always a flirt. Just like the others, it joined the pile on your nightstand, but not before making sure to read over your new favorite words: From Cali' with Love, to be reread and ogled until his next one came in.

But you hadn't gotten one this semester. Had he forgotten? Maybe he got busy, or maybe it got lost and he couldn't have known. Your dependency on a few little cards was pitiful, but it was all you had of him. He hadn't even called! He knew the house number. Then again, it was easier to hide behind handwriting than to actually speak and keep up a conversation. You couldn't blame him for that, especially after the way he left. He'd been so ashamed even when he first brought it up, and his eyes had held such deep sorrow when he'd asked if you knew that he loved you. You'd already forgiven him, but he didn't know that.

Two years and you still hadn't gotten over him. As far as you were aware, you weren't supposed to! He was coming back— he said so! Of all his flaws, he did keep his promises, even if they were kept as imperfectly as his hectic love. He tried his best. Besides, you were finally graduating soon! If anytime was great for another card, it was now. Hell, he had helped you through those first two years, and used to joke about all the ridiculous things he'd yell out when you finally walked across that stage, mostly when you were threatening to drop out or doubting the day would ever come. As if him embarrassing you was supposed to motivate you more. A creeping thought always ruined the memory of good times.

Had he found someone else out there?

You looked over at the pile by your bed, specifically the card on top. Two figures walked down along the shoreline below the pier, with an imperfect heart drawn around them. It hurt to think the feminine outline could be someone else, holding his hand while they walked the beachfront, with the fun-filled pier in the background. Just like Coney Island. You picked up the rest of the cards, only lit by lamplight, rereading them and studying them as if some revelation would hit you, but instead of some secret code telling you when he'd be back, all you got was pinching sadness in your heart. At least it looked like he was having fun out there. Maybe he'd found some peace. You'd done this many nights, staring down at the cardstock in your hands, as if doing so would make the waiting go by quicker. Maybe this time, it did.

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the faint tapping that came from your window, a rhythmic sound that you'd far from forgotten. You still hesitated, however, silently creeping toward the drawn curtains and peeking between them. The male figure, slightly below you due to your window being a bit high off the ground, was turned away from you, keeping a lookout. You couldn't discern any recognizable features in the dark, but who else would have fought their way through rose bushes just to stand patiently under your window?

You slid the curtain to the side, letting warm light illuminate the dark figure on the other side of the glass that quickly turned around. You hardly recognized him, but the big brown eyes that shined up at you could only belong to one person. You drew in a breath you didn't know you were holding, staring down like he were a ghost. Was he? You weren't sure. You spent two years waiting for this day, and all you were able to do was stand and stare? Making quick work of the latches on either side of the window, you lifted the squeaky panes as quietly as you could. A rush of cool air drifted into your room.

"Tony?" Your tone was soft with emotion, but you weren't even sure which one. You flipped through them like every color of the rainbow, but you were pretty sure you were somewhere between red and yellow.

"Hi," he readily responded, smooth voice somehow deeper, but still honeyed enough to make you weak. Or maybe you still weren't breathing enough. Those baby cheeks you used to kiss were more lean, and partially covered with dark facial hair that you could remember him shaving every other day. Two years was more than enough time to change, after all, but puppy eyes still looked just as soft as the tousled curls that still fell over his forehead, and neither seemed quite as tired as they used to. You had to wonder if he was thinking something similar with those studying eyes.

He leaned forward against the wall of your house and rested his arms over the windowsill. As cool as he always tried to be, his wide grin had always given him away as the affectionate dork only you got to see.

"I was just thinking about you," you joked nervously, falling into old banter.

"What a coincidence," he bounced back, glancing over your body as if to make a point. You bit your lip, thumbing at the wooden panels on either side.

"I was waiting for another postcard," you teased with a disappointed tone. He gave you a brief laugh before held up an arm to reveal the blush-colored rose he'd been concealing in his hand, between himself and the wall. "Will this work instead?" He asked a bit bashfully, glancing at the flower between his fingers as if to study it with you. You were pretty sure it was one of the same roses that dotted the bushes that ran the walls on this side of your house, but you gratefully accepted it regardless. Well, you could help but tease him about it. Just a little.

"Did you just pick this?" You twirled the flower between your fingers, lowering to sit on the floor to finally be eye-level with him.

"No," he started matter-of-factly, a trace of your favorite pout on his lips. "I picked it ten minutes ago so I could cut off the thorns."

"You've been out here for ten minutes?" You looked over at him, forgetting to keep your voice low. He hummed thoughtfully, glancing down for a moment.

"Maybe closer to thirty," he murmured, smiling awkwardly at your bewilderment. "I was a bit scared, okay?"

You laughed at his defeated confession, turning back to your rose in hand and carefully playing with the soft petals. "What made you come back?" Your question sounded bittersweet. It wasn't that you were afraid of the answer, but if he came, then eventually he'd have to go, too.

"You, obviously," he replied with his always loving sarcasm. His smile faded a little when your eyes were more serious. It really hurt when he left, and as much as you'd love to go back to normal again, you weren't quite there yet. Playtime was over for now. "I, um," he stuttered, "I heard you were graduating." Your eyes met his, so much more bright and hopeful than the ones that had left you. "So I thought I'd stop by." You smiled at him again.

"You're a few days early," you chuckled, "It's not until Friday." Not that it was a bad thing. Now he was stuck here, right?

"Maybe I thought we could," he trailed off, licking his lips, "do something," he shrugged. "Like old times, you know?"

Your heart swelled at the thought. "It's been pretty boring without you around," you whispered. His next smile looked relieved. Maybe he was afraid you'd found someone else to have fun with, too. You leaned into your side of the wall, bringing your face a little closer to the eyes that couldn't help but flick to your lips.

"What have you been up to?" You asked suddenly, not so much out of curiosity for the sake of keeping conversation, and to distract those wandering eyes from getting you worked up.

"Ah, you know," he shrugged and looked down, "building shit, pissing people off," he rattled off half-heartedly. His lips were still parted as if to continue. He played with his hands, nervous. "Drinking," he admitted sheepishly, a familiar look was back behind his eyes when they glanced back up to you. "What I usually do." He tried to smile, but his mood had been dampened. You panicked, instinctively reaching out to take his hand in yours. His skin had been a little calloused, but the fingers that curled around you seemed rougher. You searched for anything to make it better.

"You know I've kept your postcards by my bed since I got them," you said suddenly, flashing an encouraging smile that widened his again. "What's it like out there?" That spark came back.

"Beautiful," he said dreamily. Something about the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice had you looking away with a toothy grin and warming cheeks. You're pretty sure he wasn't entirely talking about the other side of the country. You waited for one of his flirty lines that never came. "Got a house right on the ocean," he continued instead, playing with your entwined fingers, "like we used to talk about."

You smiled at the memory, nights spent talking about a home by the water. "Is it big?"

"Have you ever known anything about me to be small?"

You rolled your eyes with a small shake of your head. You couldn't hide the smile on your face, especially when you felt a scruffy kiss on the back of your hand. He smiled into your skin when you looked back at him. You gently tore your hand from his, swooping your fingers through those stray curls and brushing over his cheeks. He seemed to lean into your touch, eyes never leaving yours. "This is new."

"Thought it would make me look more business-y," he said flauntingly with a raise in his brow. "Do you like it?"

"It's growing on me," you chimed. His face was scratchier, but you had to admit that he looked a little more handsome. You sat in silence for a few moments, simply basking in one another's presence. You almost had to keep yourself from throwing your arms around his neck the longer you held him in your hand and searched his eyes.

"May I come in?" His honeyed voice sang to you. You bit your lip and glanced back into your room, studying the door as if you'd suddenly hear your parents on the other side. The coast was clear, for now. "Can you behave?"

"I always behave for you," he hummed a little too seductively, turning to plant another kiss to your palm. You pretended to hum in thought, side-eyeing him. "Please?" He reversed his antic, pouting into his crossed arms and fluttering his lashes. "It's cold out here," he pleaded dramatically. Somehow it still managed to pull on your heart.

"Fine," you easily gave in with a laugh, "just try to be quiet." The triumph in his grin wasn't lost on you. Just as confident as it used to be. You rose from your spot by the window, reluctantly pulling your hand away and feeling that chill he was talking about. You watched him slide his way over the sill, not as graceful as he once was, landing facedown on the floor. You giggled. Affectionately, of course. "Nice to see you haven't been climbing through anyone else's windows," you teased down at him. He awkwardly got to his feet, standing tall in front of you. You were sure he had a witty comeback behind that soft smile, but the usual mischief behind those eyes was nothing but love. You had to give in, breaking the obvious pining that you'd both let go on for too long already.

You nearly tackled him, wrapping your arms around him and shamelessly burying your face into his chest. You squeezed even tighter when familiar arms hugged back, keeping him as close as you could so that he couldn't disappear again. He smelled of fine leather and vanilla, not exactly as you remembered it, but at this point, everything new and everything old was all just as comforting when his hand was petting over your hair. Even after two years, it felt like nothing had changed. You could almost cry, probably trembling with the effort not to with every lingering kiss in your hair and to your temple.

"This has got to be better than a postcard," he quietly joked, once again breaking the shared silence. You snorted, lifting your face and barely backing away to get a better look at him. He stole another scruffy kiss to your forehead, but he must have noticed the plea behind your eyes. He leaned ever so slow, nose barely bumping yours before you eagerly closed the gap, lips gladly greeting his once more. Somehow you swear it felt even better than your first kiss. He barely even moved against you, instead letting you both lose oxygen to nothing more than a hard-pressed liplock while you found your way to the soft hairs on the back of his neck.

You finally had to pull away, tilting your head down to keep him from chasing you. You gripped at his shirt while you caught your breath. Tony nosed his way back, forcing your kiss back to his. You chuckled against his mouth before going in for another round, one that pushed you back against the bed and parted your lips. You hadn't even noticed the nice button-up he was wearing until you'd already worked down the line of buttons, nor the lighter colored dress pants until they were hitting the floor.

Tony lied. He never behaved.

You were back in the warmth and safety of his embrace, hands locked together as he loved you in the only way he really knew how. You muffled his whimpers of apologies into your neck, and he silenced your sweet sounds with his shushing kiss. You said his name like it would be the last time he'd get to hear it from you, and carved all the pain you'd felt for the last two years into his back. Those stray curls clung to his face, and rested against your forehead when he leaned down to you. One of the most powerful men in business right now, and you had him limp in your arms.

His beard tickled the sensitive skin of your neck and down your chest when he nuzzled his way into the space beneath your chin, making himself comfortable in his spot on top of you. You raked your fingers through his hair, pulling back those damp curls. Back in the warmth and forgiveness of your arms, at least you didn't have to worry about him getting any sleep. Yeah, this was much better than a postcard.

You were starting to think you'd never get to see the way the stars seemed to reflect in his eyes, or watch them become wide with wonder when he reached out to touch the stingrays in the exhibit (and then practically have to force him to wash his hands right after). You thought you'd never get another cheesy, film-like kiss on top of the Ferris wheel, or help him keep an eye out for shark teeth even though it was supposed to be a romantic walk down the beach, and he'd readily let go of your hand when he thought he saw something. Postcard by postcard, you followed the same trail he'd taken alone, this time going with him on the dates he wanted to do with you again. Somehow it felt like falling in love all over again. He came all the way from the other side of the country with more love than when he'd left, and with a new excitement to be out of his cage.

Something about it had you dreading what would happen after you finally walked across the stage. Tony had to go back at some point. He actually had work now. He was important now. He'd always been important to you, but now he was bigger than whatever you currently were with him. Was he this happy when he was alone out there? Was he alone? You sure had been. Lost in your thoughts, you didn't even have the courage to join the peers you hardly knew in celebration, too busy frantically searching for Tony as if you were on a timer. For all you knew, you were, but luckily he found you first. You were probably more excited to see him than the degree in your hand. You eagerly threw your arms around his neck, cap in hand pushing him closer into the kiss he greeted you with. You still weren't entirely used to the prickle of facial hair.

"You did it," he quietly cheered, a praise just for you. Your free hand came around to cup his face.

"No thanks to you," you hummed playfully, pressing your thumb to his lips before he could close the gap he made. He frowned, eyes flicking up and down. "I didn't have anyone to help me with my homework anymore," you pouted pitifully. An apologetic smile spread across his cheeks, the same one that used to smile encouragingly when you couldn't quite get a problem right, and those same eyes looked at you with that sympathy.

"But you still did it," he murmured, softly kissing the pad of your thumb.

"But I still did it," you echoed, smiling back. You brushed your thumb over his cheeks instead, studying the features of his face as if it were the first time you'd seen him in years. You would have loved to stare up at him for hours more, and feel his hand on your back, but the crowd rushing by and their loud laughter was ushering you to move on. He wasn't leaving just yet. "Come on." You started to back away, but not without taking his hand in yours first. "My parents might wanna see me," you explained, feeling a bit bad for breaking up the moment so suddenly. "Maybe they'll even take us to dinner," you playfully chimed, turning to lead him away, but he didn't budge.

"Wait," he stopped you, unintentionally pulling you back with the way he didn't move. Your heart sank for the worst, turning back to a nervous stare. It looked too much like one you'd seen before. His jaw tightened with his grip. "I didn't really come prepared, but," he started, nervously licking his lips and searching the ground for his words. He took a breath that mostly left as a laugh. "Would it be crazy if I asked you to marry me?"

You were probably looking at him as if he were, glancing him up and down to make sure he was real and lips parted in an answer that could come to mind. In the short absence of your voice, he nervously continued.

"You could go back with me, and- and," he started to stutter, "I know you just got that degree you worked really hard for, but you don't even have to work if you don't want to." He knew you were still listening when you smiled amusedly at that, his tone implying that that would be the cherry on top. "I mean, I know it's been… a while, but," he kept rambling desperately, "I never stopped loving you." Wide eyes begged for approval, and blushing cheeks probably regretted it. Maybe it was simply the tall rollercoaster of emotions you'd both had over these last few days--even years, but you really couldn't think of a reason to say no. This time you weren't going to let him leave alone, especially not when he needed you this time. If your words couldn't come out, then your mouth could relay the message better against his, you decided. You ignored the crowd around you, bringing your Tony down by his collar for a kiss deeper than the Pacific and longer than the 3,000 miles you'd always been willing to travel for him. You finally tore away, hiding in his neck. A hand drifted up your spine.

"Is that a yes?"

You just had to pull back to look at him, his wide eyes dazed and confused, and blush almost matching the red in his lips. You nearly scoffed. Affectionately, of course.

"Yes, you goof!"

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sleepystawbie · 11 months

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Poll results said add my work here, so here we go with a test post- an older fic of mine chosen for wordcount and because I still love how it turned out.

Negotiations For Successful Nightmare Resolutions

Characters - John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: Happy ever after, only a little hurts and everything is beautiful. Simon has a nightmare, John is all he needs to feel better.

Words: 474

Warnings/Tags: sickly sweet - Fluff - Cuddling & Snuggling - Dreams and Nightmares - Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley - Post-Canon - Happy Ending

Series: Excerpts From Ghost's Handbook: Warfare For Dummies

Published: 12-12-2022 on ao3

In the dark of a moonless night, on a stone cottage that creaked and groaned with its settling wooden boards and clicking, cooling chimney flue – the shadow of a bird sat on the lee of a slate tile roof. Flicking its wings and turning its head to and fro. It watched as the soft, rolling wind tickled the copse of trees across the way. Inside, through a door painted a welcoming shade of blue, the fat ginger cat that called the house its kingdom stalked the living room. Hunting for dust and forgotten embroidery threads to hone its hunting prowess. Up the wooden stairs, steps curved with the grooves of countless pairs of marching feet going up and down, was a bedroom.

In the bedroom, sprawled out on a large bed perfectly made up with crisp sheets, warm blankets and plush pillows, lay two men. One slept soundly. The other, fretfully. He tossed and he turned, long legs twitching as if in flight, eyes squeezed tight in his disturbed slumber. He woke with a shudder, breath caught in his throat.

In a room too dark to see in, the man slowly untangled his mind from the creeping vines of his nightmares and realised he was safe. The shadows of his nightmares had not followed him into the waking world. No threats crouched in dim corners. All was calm and secure. The dreams were memories and while memories could hurt, they could not kill.

Reason was hard to come by when swimming in the dregs of sleep. However, the familiar sounds of a house settling around him, the cat padding its thick paws around on the tiled floor downstairs, and the occasional hoot of an owl were so far removed from the sounds of sirens and gunfire and screams that Simon could only conclude he was in his own home.

He slid a scarred hand over the wool blanket to find the other occupant. Comfort was in order. His companion snorted a breath, not waking, and moved his head where it lay on a pile of pillows. Thick, dark lashes twitched over strong cheekbones, his mouth pouted for a second, then relaxed. A face easy with rest turned towards the sleepless one, who smiled a fond smile at the content features and the gentle shift of expression.

With slow, smooth movements, he shifted across the gulf of empty mattress. Laying on his side, Simon curled his long body around the warm length of his husband. John snuffled lightly, but sleep kept him in her warm embrace. Another arm joined the caress. Tattooed and scarred and muscled, familiar. Soothing. John had no reason to wake under such pleasant circumstances. Simon settled in with a sigh, felt the rise and fall of breath in the chest he pressed against, closed his eyes and returned to his dreams.

#💤🍓writes #fanfic #strawbin’#simon ghost riley #ghoap #john soap mactavish #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #ghost soap #soap and ghost #soap ghost #ghost/soap #ghostsoap #soap/ghost #soapghost

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quill-pen · 11 months

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A Father's Regret

Based on one of the many, many, many impromptu RPs/character convos @rom-e-o and I get wrapped up in.😅 Honey, I've RPed more in half a year with you than I have my entire life of fandom. I suppose there's no stopping now.

Warnings: Depression mostly, I guess; nudity and implied sex, but nothing at all graphic. Um... hauntings maybe?

Summary: Marley returns to the Scrooge household to deliver a very important message.

Theme:

youtube

Jacob Marley was a damned soul, doomed to wander the ends of the earth for all eternity; no rest, no peace. A soul riddled with regret for things he hadn't done, things he had done, and things he was now unable to do as he traversed the world and witnessed its many horrors and hardships.

Not among the least of these regrets were the ones he had in terms of his attempts at being a husband and a father--i.e. attempts he hadn't made. And for his folly, the pain and suffering in the world had only grown and claimed yet another innocent victim; that victim being his own daughter. If he possessed any right to call her that or think of her in such way; he'd abandoned her after all.

Perhaps that was why the ghost had decided to return to London, yet again, on this stormy, August night; making his way through the gloomy, rainy streets of the old city to the familiar, three-story, brick house on Craven Street, his chains and safes rattling and clanking behind him.

Scrooge Manor, as it was called now, was a thriving and bustling home compared to what it had been the first time Marley had ever seen it and the first time he'd visited old Scrooge on that fateful Christmas Eve just a few years ago. The roof was repaired and leakless, perfect for this dreary, stormy night; the windows were all replaced and unboarded with new, freshly painted shutters; the chimneys, one now spewing out a lazy curl of gray smoke, had been torn down and built back up with new brickwork; old crumbling places of the walls of the house had been rebricked as well. And the front flowerbeds, though looking dull at the current moment, were chocked full of a variety of flowers and growing shrubbery. The building actually looked like a place someone might actually want to live in from the outside.

When Marley glided ethereally through the front door, leaving an icy impression of his visage around the doorknocker as he did so, he found the inside to be even more homey than the outside. Floorboards had been replaced and were polished to a sheen; new wallpaper had been put up; the railings and staircases had been repaired and polished; the chandelier above looked cared for and regularly used--extinguished but slightly melted candles adorned it now; a large, plush, round, timelessly stylish carpet graced the floor Marley hovered above. Not only did the house look like a place someone might want to live in--it looked like a place somebody did live in. Or rather somebodies.

Jacob slowly floated up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall. His chains softly clinking, the ghost slowly swept down the hall, gazing about him at countless more changes and repairs that had been made since he was last there, everything bearing a soft and lovely feminine touch. The biggest change of all was that a number of the rooms were now occupied. As he poked his head through a wall or door in investigation of the snoring he heard on the other sides of them, Marley found children in each room, boys and girls of varying ages. They were all soundly asleep, snuggled into big, warm beds under cozy quilts, most of them smiling happily as if right in the middle of wonderful dreams. The littlest girl cuddled a soft, stuffed toy as she slumbered. All of their faces were scrubbed clean, the girls' hair braided neatly back for the night, their sheets looked tidy, their pillows fluffy: They all appeared well looked after and tenderly cared for. Even in his dismal state of existence, it was enough to bring a little smile to the specter's ghoulish face. When he found good, old Prudence deeply asleep at the end of the youngest boy's bed, his smile broadened. The sheer amount of love and affection in this house was palpable, tingling through Marley's phantom body and warming it ever so slightly.

The spook moved on down the hall, past pictures new and old to the next set of stairs. He came out on the top floor. He paused for a moment, gazing at the large, mahogany door in front of him, listening intently both for sounds and to the energy in the air. There was just a hint of electricity lingering in the air that had nothing to do with the storm outside. But overwhelmingly the energy was steady, smooth, warm, mellow, happy, and deeply ensconced in sensations of love and devotion. Ah, that meant to proceed with caution. Marley slipped silently through the door and, for the first time, found himself in the master bedroom of the home, the master and mistress of the manor asleep in their large, impressive, rosewood, four-poster canopy just feet away.

The pair laid tangled together, Bess almost directly beneath Ebenezer as his large, lanky frame curled over and around her smaller, stouter one. Her bare back was flush against his furred chest as the man's long right arm curled about her waist and held her close, Bess's own curling up against her belly to hold his hand on her ribcage. The woman's freckled face was burrowed against the feather pillows, while her man's face was nuzzled into the crevice of her neck, his long silvery locks mingling with the sea of her coal black waves. Their left hands were woven together at the fingers among the tangle of sheets and blankets, their matching wedding rings and Bess' moonstone ring glinting in the strobing flashes of lightning that managed to come through the breaks in the curtains. While the storm raged outside, the couple slept, completely undisturbed and as peacefully as their wards downstairs. Small little smiles creased their faces as well.

Marley couldn't help but notice how perfectly the pair fit together, as if they'd be crafted precisely for each other. Nor did it escape his attention how happy they looked. Terribly, terribly happy.

Though they were quite covered by the swirls of their sheets and each other, it was obvious the happy couple was in the nude, and Marley suddenly felt quite awkward. It seemed seeing one's daughter naked in bed with a man was just as awkward for an absentee father as any other. In all rights, he probably should have left, but he couldn't quite manage to pull himself away from the scene. It was... beautiful; his daughter and the man he'd considered to be a son and a friend, wrapped up together in pure, sweet bliss having finally found much-needed happiness and love in each other's arms. After his actions had helped to sow bitterness and pain in their lives, of course. Particularly Bess'.

The guilt and woe that beleaguered Marley every moment of his forsaken afterlife swelled up in the ghost and made him want to wail out his shame and sorrow, but he held it in. Such a peaceful, happy, and love-filled space as this was no place for such despairing cries, even if that was how he felt. This room, in this moment, deserved to be treated with as much reverence as a cathedral.

What had he done? Much more than damn himself to this misery for all eternity, what had he done to his own child? His selfishness and ignorance had spawned bitter hatred and hardship for the girl her entire life. Of course, much of that blame could also be shared with her mother--not even Marley was woeful and blind enough in his guilt to believe the blame lied solely upon his shackled shoulders; but there was no denying his actions had set the ball rolling down the path.

If only he'd snapped to his senses and realized what a blessing he'd had in Beatrice--a beautiful, young wife who had, beyond all accounts, honestly loved him and wanted to make him happy--and what a blessing he'd had in his daughter--now a clever, lovely, compassionate, strong woman who seemed quite capable of taking the very world by storm--things would have been so very different for all of them. He might never have been in these blasted shackles; Bess would never have grown up to be so scarred, both mentally and physically, and bearing pain no person should ever have had to bear; and Beatrice... she would never have taken that razor to her wrists or been doomed to her long-desired legacy of being a good mother being forever tarnished by her own daughter.

Yes, things would have been very different. Better. But even in his guilt, something told Jacob that a better ending would not have been the best ending for his daughter. And she deserved the best. Looking at her curled up so snuggly and happily in the embrace of her beloved, Jacob was sure this was the best for Bess.

Consequently, it was the best for Ebenezer, too, and he deserved it just as much after working hard to turn around years of ruin and earn his redemption. A redemption he perhaps might never have needed if it weren't for Marley, as well. Yes, many of Ebenezer's past hardships were all of his own doing, but, again, there was little argument Jacob had given that ball a significant push as well.

The chains around the spectre tugged, warning him it was drawing time to be moving on. There was no denying the chains; they commanded all. So, with the urging of the shackles, Marley did what he'd come here to do. It would not lessen his burden or change much of anything, but it was something that needed done regardless.

Moving down, closer to the bed so that he was just hovering above the sleeping couple, the ghost reached out his bony, clammy hand and stroked it ever so gently over the woman's dark crown. A few, faint ice crystals formed on the coal-black strands of her hair, creating a hauntingly beautiful effect: A tiara for the daughter of a ghoul. Then Jacob brought his hand down to just barely caress the backs of his fingers against Bess' cheek. If phantoms had been capable of shedding tears, Marley would have shed them as the regret welled up ever more greatly inside him.

"I'm so sorry," he declared in a ghostly whisper. "I am so sorry, Bess, my most blessed child. I know an apology from beyond the grave from a fool you never knew and have no reason to hold any regard for will mean little to you, but I am most heartily and humbly sorry for the heartache I've helped bring upon you, my girl. If it is any consolation at all, know that abandoning you and your mother is my greatest regret. There is nothing but regret in me--regret and sorrow and shame."

He bowed his head closer to kiss the woman's temple, leaving more frost on her hair. "But also know," he rasped right into her ear, "that, in the brief moments between regret, sorrow, and shame, is nothing but the most brilliant pride for you, my daughter. Pride for the woman you've become; pride for how you haven't allowed the world to corrupt you as it has so many others; pride for the strides you have taken and those I know you will take in making this harsh globe a better one. You've already made a decent start--keep going and, for the fear of rattling chains, never let the momentum stop."

He kissed her once more. "Goodbye, my Bess. I doubt you shall ever see me again, but I shall see you. And I shall be filled with greater pride each occasion I do."

With that, Jacob turned his attention to the sleeping man wrapped almost double around his daughter. "You've done well, Scrooge, old boy," he said. "Very well done indeed. I see no chains. For the sake of everything good and decent, keep that weight off."

Jacob's gaze fell back to his daughter, and he thought of all those precious little souls asleep downstairs. "Take care of them, Ebenezer," he murmured. "Take care of them and cherish them forever. Take it from a regretful old fool: You never know what you have until it's gone."

The chains jerked, pulling Jacob away from the bed and to the windows. The phantom let them take him and wailed for misery as he passed through the curtains and glass back out into the torrential night.

At a particularly loud crack of thunder, Bess stirred and cracked open her eyes with a moan. The vague impression of a ghostly voice whispered through her sleep-addled mind as she slowly rose up onto an elbow and blearily gazed around the darkened bedroom. She saw nothing. Could it have been nothing more than a dream? Perhaps mixed with the sounds of the storm? Possible. However, Bess had never experienced any such dream before.

The sensation of cold--bitter cold--finally registered in Bess' mind as it came more into the present and out of the warm darkness of slumber. She reached up and touched the side of her face where the sensation seemed to emanate. It, in fact did emanate; her cheek was frozen and numb to the touch, as if she'd been standing out in a blizzard in the dead of winter. But it was only isolated to the left half of her face--the rest of her was snug and toasty, tucked into the cocoon of her sleeping hubby.

Peculiar. It all got even more peculiar when Bess felt ice crystals in her hair as she brushed her finger through it. Frost? In August? And just on her hair in a couple different spots?

She had to be dreaming. Surely she had to be dreaming! This had to be some sort of lucid dream-state where she only thought she was awake but was actually still sound asleep. Yes, that was it--lucid dreaming.

Her sleepy brain satisfied with that explanation, and with Ebenezer sleepily tightening his grip around her to draw her back in again, Bess rolled over and lay back down. Snaking her arms about her man, she snuggled as close as possible into his broad chest and closed her eyes as she nuzzled into his chest hair. A deep sigh of contentment left her as her lungs filled with his scent. She lazily pressed kisses to the man's sternum, her mouth curving slightly into a soft smile again. By the time Ebenezer had enclosed his arms around her again, Bess was already slipping off to Dreamland to rejoin him. But even as she did, in the back of her mind was the voice she could have sworn she'd heard, whispering great regrets, but also great praises in equal measure. And, somehow, that made her feel even warmer and more content than ever before.

Taglist: @luvreadingfics @amazingassash @beascrooge @themostanonymousscribbler @b4bynikii @sparklesphobia @christmasgaybusinessmen @tenodai @girlbosseveyhammond @witchypandamonium @purgratoriat @neonshoe @orangewierdo @mirthadra @the-enchanted-rose @simp2537 @pandora-native-ayatei @youngsongnerd @skyvstheworldsince1996 @crimson-phantom-designs @cila-17 @ry-ichi1 @artist-anon08 @alittlebitbethany @crowwritesthings @hyerizz @crowbones13 @rom-e-o @softmullet @cheesethegodfather @the-house-of-auditore-frye @thephantomofzaun @littlethief78 @oldmanlusting

#Youtube #scrooge 2022 #netflix scrooge #scrooge: a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #bess scrooge #scrooge x oc #ebenezer x bess #ebeness #jacob marley #jacob marley daughter

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3gremlins · 3 months

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So as I've mentioned previously, my nibling loves baba yaga/her hut, so I wanted to make him some baba yaga stuff! I did the paintings but I wanted to do something more tangible, so I decided to make him a plush version!

this is my original sketch to compare (it initially had a few more features but i nixed them for this version. currently working on a slightly more complex version too)

I used choly knight's square sheba plush pattern as a base to just figure out the cube (and having something already measured/sized as a base was really helpful/time saving) and did the rest of the patterning myself. I wanted it to be pretty simple since it was for a younger kid (i also made it out of baby safe and hypoallergenic materials).

The legs/feet took the most time to pattern, i went through a bunch of different iterations before i came up with a version that was both simple and "chicken-y" enough. I decided on floppy legs b/c you can't put anything hard like wire in kids toys, plus engineering for standing stuff is a lot more annoying lol. The bottom of the house is reinforced with canvas to support the legs a little better (all the seams are reinforced a bit in case of heavy playing)

The legs are floppy and can either dangle or sit straight out and all the applique is wool felt (i get my wool felt from this shop and can't rec them enough). I don't have an embroidery machine, so i used a satin stitch with my regular sewing machine to applique the eye pieces together for the highlights (and then to attach it to the minky).

any way this was a super fun project to do! as mentioned, i think i'm going to make a slightly more complex version (maybe with a chimney/3d wings) but i honestly also really like the simple version so i might make another just to have lol (maybe experiment with different colors or eye/window shapes idk)

i still have a ton of materials left over, so i could def make a few more (tho i once again have the "make plushes" bug i get every few years and might work on something else for a bit). if you're interested in more in depth wips, you can see them over on my patreon

#my art #plushes #plushies #plush toy #baba yaga #baba yaga's hut #russian folklore #q #folklore #the hut with chicken legs

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ruknowhere · 2 years

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I Like the Wind By Robert Wrigley

We are at or near that approximate line where a stiff breeze becomes or lapses from a considerable wind, and I like it here, the chimney smokes right-angled from west to east but still for brief intact stretches the plush animal tails of their fires. I like how the stiffness rouses the birds right up until what’s considerable sends them to shelter. I like how the morning’s rain, having wakened the soil’s raw materials, sends a root smell into the air around us, which the pine trees sway stately within. I like how the sun strains not to go down, how the horizon tugs gently at it, and how the distant grain elevator’s shadow ripples over the stubble of the field. I like the bird feeder’s slant and the dribble of its seeds. I like the cat’s sleepiness as the breeze then the wind then the breeze keeps combing her fur. I like the body of the mouse at her feet. I like the way the apple core I tossed away has browned so quickly. It is much to be admired, as is the way the doe extends her elegant neck in its direction, and the workings of her black nostrils, too. I like the sound of the southbound truck blowing by headed east. I like the fact that the dog is not barking. I like the ark of the house afloat on the sea of March, and the swells of the crop hills bedizened with cedillas of old snow. I like old snow. I like my lungs and their conversions to the gospel of spring. I like the wing of the magpie outheld as he probes beneath it for fleas or lice. That’s especially nice, the last sun pinkening his underfeathers as it also pinks the dark when I close my eyes, which I like to do, in the face of it, this stiff breeze that was, when I closed them, a considerable wind.

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keeper-of-all-the-random-things · 1 year

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Healing Dream

For @amonthofwhump March Trope-a-thon Day 5.

You are traveling in the woods when you stumble upon a strange abode. As you approach, you see the house is built of so many tissue boxes. Brightly colored, multi-patterned boxes like painted bricks.

Curious, you walk around.

The doorway and windows are covered with thick blankets. Tissue paper peeks out from the cardboard chimney, a white flame.

A tabby cat relaxes by the side of the building.

Around the back, an old woman stokes a fire under a large black cauldron. She beckons you over to sit in one of the plush chairs ringing the fire. Once she’s satisfied with your comfort, she passes you a bowl of clear liquid from the cauldron. It tastes of salt and herbs and sends a revitalizing warmth through you.

The cat emerges and lays by your feet.

You drift off into a peaceful sleep.

---

When you wake, you are bundled deep in the comforter of your bed. The cat rolls over where it sleeps in your lap. A near empty box of Kleenex rests by your head.

You stretch out and inhale deeply.

The scent of warming chicken broth wafts in from downstairs. You’ll get up soon, but for now, you bask in warm afternoon sun and good feelings.

#amow tropeathon 2023 #sickfic #it's more of a suggestion of being sick...#comfort #blankets and a hot drink

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unusual-raccoon · 2 years

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Afterparty, Chapter 3 by Unusual_Raccoon

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Karen Jones/Arthur Morgan

Additional Tags: Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook, Explicit Sexual Content, Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, Breast Worship, Dry Humping, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Female Ejaculation, Dirty Talk, Banter, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, Infidelities, Canon-Typical Violence, Mutual Pining, Gags, Vaginal Sex, Dom/Sub Undertones

Work Count: 3k+

Ao3 Link

Summary: After getting stuck in a storm on their way back to camp, Karen and Arthur are forced to confront some feelings and pass the time the only way they know how.

A/N: won’t lie after the lack of traction on chapter 2 my morale took a bit of a nosedive, but I am pretty happy with how this last chapter turned out. I struggled with the ending, it was supposed to be WAY more of angsty ending, buttttt, I decided against it.

Still don’t own any characters, just ideas. Also don’t mind any errors.

Arthur spotted a tucked away little homestead, clicking his tongue to urge Lead Storm up the beaten path winding up toward the house.

The cabin was secluded beneath some tall pines, a veritable paradise in the thick downpour.

Karen was fast on his heels, bouncing in her saddle on the trek.

“Stay put,” Arthur grunted, saddle pants dense enough to keep him somewhat dry as he slid off of Storm’s back.

His boots sank into the drenched dirt as he plodded up the path, pulling his revolver from the holster on his hip in an effortless motion.

He shouldered the front door open with a firm shove, wood splintered as he forced his way inside, still burly enough to be of use. Oil lamp in one hand, sidearm in the other as he searched the property.

He thumbed back the hammer of his revolver thoughtlessly, it was an instinct that couldn’t be unlearned. Too many years being the gang’s guard dog.

The house wasn’t particularly large and he explored most every inch to ensure the spot was safe enough for he and Karen to ride out the storm; ‘course he’d done it mostly for her, wouldn’t suit him having a lady riding in that rain. Far be it for him to share the information with Karen, she’d start bellyaching about being treated just the same as one a’the men. He weren’t particularly concerned if any of the fellers were cold…he’d care if she was cold.

The wood in the fireplace weren’t beyond saving, a little kindling would coax some heat out of it, at least enough to chase off the chill in their bones; though he certainly had a few ideas for alternative methods.

Stomping back out into the rain, he found Karen toting a plain carbine in one hand, Old Belle’s reins in the other.

“They got a barn, dry enough for the horses.”

Arthur nodded, ushering her inside.

“Go on, get a fire goin’, I’ll get ‘em in the barn.”

She gave him a longing look with those big eyes before heading into the house, taking her rifle with her.

Both mares seemed pleased to be gettin’ out of the rain. He removed the tack from the pair of them, saddle blankets dry enough to warrant keeping them on.

The barn was plush with enough hay to feed them plenty until the rain passed.

Arthur made a point of giving each horse a brief brush down before securing the barn doors and jogging back to the house.

He had his bedroll tucked under one arm, a thick pelt he’d recently gotten off a grizzly and stored behind Lead Storm’s saddle, tucked under the other. He returned to the house to find Karen knelt before the fireplace, blouse sheer and adhering to her buxom body. Blonde curls damp and clinging to wet, flushed freckled cheeks, she looked like a shapely little forest nymph washed down the chimney.

“Horses should be fine,” Arthur said, setting down the supplies he brought in to shake some rain water off.

Wedging a chair beneath the door knob, he set off in the direction of the fledgling fire and the woman sat before it; course Karen snapped her fingers at him after a single step.

“Don’t be trackin’ no mud in.” She warned and Arthur warily held up both large hands in eager surrender, a wide wolfish smile on his face. Felt downright domestic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he grunted, toeing off his boots and wrestling out of his coat before venturing to the fire.

He shook out his bedroll and the pelt by the fire, both could use a little drying.

“You sound like Grimshaw,” he teased, taking off his hat just as an unlit match bounced petulantly off of his chest. He spied Karen’s little frown.

“Don’t compare me to that shrew,” Karen groused, using a bent fire poker to coax some more spark outta the unenthused flames.

“Easy now, didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” He chuckled, pulling a half-drunk bottle of gin from his satchel. ‘Course he always loved to rile folks a bit, get under their skin, see a bit of the devil in their eyes and when he twisted the knife just right.

He swallowed a brief swig, her recompense for his comment was relieving him of the only thing that distracted him from how goddamn beautiful she looked sitting by the fire. Karen shuffled over on her knees, skirts dragging across the floor as she snatched the drink from him. She wobbled a little too close, teetering like she’d topple onto him, and his fingers itched with the urge to brace around her hips. ‘Course she found just enough balance to crawl back to her previous spot.

“Coulda just asked,” Arthur murmured, transfixed by the sight of her polishing off the contents of the bottle with little effort.

“Ain’t in the mood to ask for nothin’ right now, Arthur,” she slurred back, setting the empty bottle down.

She shrugged off her coat, setting it down by the fire to dry. His gaze instantly drew towards the glow of the dim fire catching the sheen of rainwater sitting in the deep crease of her cleavage. His throat felt a little tight, trousers too.

“Y’know,” Arthur drawled, trying and failing to pull his gaze from the glossy sight of her full bosom, rising and falling with every breath, “you still ain’t told me what you’re doing out here.”

“What’re you talking about? I already said-“

“That Hosea sent ya? Yeah, I remember. I ain’t quite sure I believe it though.”

“Believe whatever you want, Arthur,” Karen huffed, staring straight at the fire, prodding at it with the bent poker. Something was bothering her, that much was clear.

“I plan to,” Arthur hummed. He watched and waited, knowing that temper of hers was just boiling. He pulled out the last bit of booze he had in his satchel, an unopened bottle of rum. Cracked the seal open with his thumb and pulled out the cork as Karen turned her fiery gaze toward him.

She let out a sigh, “y’know, you ain’t even said more than two goddamn words to me since…” her fury slowed and her blush darkened, her thighs pressed together a bit, “well, since we did what we did.”

“Lord, is that it?” Arthur guffawed, taking a long pull from the bottle of rum, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Whatchu want from me, Karen, to hold yer hand, follow you around camp like that little Irish terrier does? You needed a hand and I lent you one.

‘Sides I ain’t that kinda animal, sweetheart.”

One look at him and Arthur knew there was no mistaking him for something domesticated, he was long-limbed, sharp in the teeth, and wild in the eyes.

Karen scoffed and shook her head, bitter eyes turned back to the fire.

“If you came all this way for an apology, you’re gonna be disappointed,” Arthur added.

They didn’t say nothing for a long while, the crackling of the fire and the heavy patter of the rain outside rounded out the silence.

“I ain’t lookin’ for no apology,” Karen spat eventually, seeming a little wounded by the insinuation.

“Whatchu lookin’ for then?” He goaded, not allowing that temper of hers to simmer, if she was gonna go off, he wanted her to pop like dynamite.

“You goddamnit!” Karen said finally, exasperated, outta breath.

Rain was comin’ down hard, no signs of slowing, nowhere for them to go. No escape from one another in sight. Maybe he was a lit match and she was a fuse.

Arthur licked his lips, tasted the astringent tang of gin, faded but still warring with the rum on his tongue. She’d rode out after him alone for a reason. He wouldn’t hold her hand in camp or gush after her like Sean did, but he could do this, he could please her like no other feller could…

“Well, here I am, darlin’…”

—

The corner of the grizzly pelt was damp, rum-soaked, the scent curled thick in the back of her throat. The bottle had spilled and neither one of ‘em mourned the loss of the liquor, too drunk on each other to care.

Arthur tore at her blouse, big brutish hands that only knew violence fumbled to free her breasts without leaving the fine linen in shreds.

Thick calluses skirted along her cheek and Karen moaned his name, slurred it out. His tongue dove deep, drinking up the mix of rainwater and faint salt of her skin hidden between the valley of her cleavage.

Weren’t no camp to overhear them, she cried his name higher toward the ceiling of the cabin, fingers tangled in his hair.

He sucked a hungry purpling mark along the pliant flesh of one breast, descending upon the stiff nipple thereafter. Sucking roughly, until her whole body seemed to arch closer into the gravity, the pull of his mouth, a cry dripping from her lips. Thick, scarred knuckles nudged between her tender thighs.

“Arthur, please-“ Karen panted, tugging vainly at his hair.

He was over her in an instant, broad body pinning her to the rum-soaked pelt, firm, unyielding muscle bearing down on her. Savage blue eyes studying her, drinking in her flushed face and open mouth.

“Don’t you rush me, woman,” he growled, large hand groping the wet weight of one breast that knew the ardor of his mouth, “been dreamin’ ‘bout these beauties.”

Something terribly warm curled in her belly, twisting up like a diamondback at the admission that he’d been thinkin’ on her. She bucked her hips fiercely, lord she needed him inside her; needed it worse than she did a week ago.

He dipped his head back down, pleasure spiked hot in her belly as his mouth latched around her untouched breast. Lathing the pale, creamy flesh in long strokes of his tongue.

“Oh, Arthur,” she hiccuped, the soft girlish sounds didn’t belong in Karen’s own mouth, but she cried them out, for him, she would.

Arthur’s head bobbed back into her glossy vision, climbing a bit higher so she could see his face, lips wet and eyes ablaze.

“Now, if you can’t keep quiet, I’ll keep ya quiet, understand?”

Arthur Morgan quieted most folk with a hard punch or a bullet, but Karen still nodded. She clawed at his back and rutted her hips up hard as he kept his attention localized to her chest, to her chafed and aching nipples, until she was swimming in her own mess, slippery between the thighs.

Eventually he sat back on his knees, unknotting his neckerchief from around his neck with a dark sort of glee in his eyes.

“Warned ya, didn’t I?” There was a feigned sympathy in his voice as he forced fabric between her full lips. He cinched it with a little knot around the back of her head, the fabric sat thick and musky between her lips, tasting dizzyingly of his sweat and skin. When he cruelly tweaked a plump, wet nipple between thick fingers, her wet cry was soaked up by the fabric.

“There, cry as much as you want now.” Karen wouldn’t dare admit how soothing it was knowing Arthur had a way of keeping her quiet when she herself couldn’t manage it.

He gave her hip a pat, broad hands following the generous curves leading to her shapely rear, giving the flesh a supple squeeze before settling back down to his fancy.

They managed to lose clothes, scattered to the ground as time passed by the fire. Her first release came shuddering, neglected sex pulsing as he trailed a wet, coarse tongue from an abused, overstimulated nipple up to the hollow of her throat, sucking fiendishly there. The blinding rush of pleasure existed in a bizarre chasm of too much touching, and not enough.

Her body writhed beneath his, one leg draped over his firm lower back, toes curling.

Spots danced behind the flutter of her closed eyes, the feeling left her boneless, shivering beside the fire.

“Did you just-“ Arthur paused as Karen babbled around the neckerchief in her mouth. The syllables of his name were garbled with the fabric, but it seemed he understood her nonetheless. His expression turned full of awe and lust.

A broad palm dipping between her slick, ample thighs, drawing free another squeal as he brushed her soaked sex.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” He chuckled, giving her left nipple, puffy and rosy, a firm tug that made her swollen bud twitch.

“Ain’t you full of surprises, Miss Jones,” He rumbled, eyes dark as he dipped a finger into her heat.

Arthur looked her over, a ravenous gleam in his eyes, his finger worked in a slow, unhurried rhythm.

“Shoulda brought some rope,” He lamented, more to himself than to Karen, his free hand giving her limp wrist a squeeze, like a firm enough touch might materialize bindings there. He could truss her up like a hog if he so desired; she just wanted him. His teeth bared in a dagger-sharp smile as her walls flexed around his finger.

“Dirty girl,” He chuckled, “like that idea, do ya?”

A second finger joined the first, his thumb stroked at her bud, pleasure sheared hot in her belly. Her heel thumped against his lower back, desperately trying to keep him close.

His mouth lowered to a darkening bruise on her neck, pressing on skin that ached just right. Her vision waned beneath the heavy flutter of her lids.

His lips skimmed across her cheek, burning a path close to her mouth but not quite, her lower lip jutted out from the gag he had put in place. He ran his tongue over the supple pink flesh, sucking it between his teeth as he curled his fingers suddenly, quick and hard.

Letting her lower lip free, she squealed into the neckerchief, hips undulating as his fingers grew still, keeping her on the brink of another sloppy release.

“Maybe next time, hmm?” He gave her a condescending pat between the legs with fingers drenched in her mess.

Karen was dizzy as Arthur ushered her into a sitting position, his large figure painted in the faint glow of the fire, broad chest and stern muscle pockmarked with faded scars; she was tempted to kiss each one, supposed his neckerchief in her mouth saved her the embarrassment.

“You ready for the main course, darlin’?” Arthur drawled, voice deep and rolling over her like thunder in a storm.

If it weren’t for the neckerchief in her mouth Karen woulda been liable to scream how goddamn ready she was. Instead she just nodded, a shaking hand settling over the thick jut of his cock straining against his trousers.

Her eyes met his, her cheeks damp and chest heaving, dragging her palm over the imposing weight of his erection.

She was ready alright.

Arthur laid her belly down, hiking her rear up, her cheek pressed to the rum-soaked patch of the grizzly pelt.

The scent stung and sedated in a delightful way. A broad callused hand stroked down her back, over lush curves, catching at her hip as the blunt tip of him rocked against her heat.

Her gag stayed firmly in place, muffling her long moan as the bloated head of his cock eased to her flushed cunt. Her walls hugging him as Arthur steadied himself, a hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Her cheek and chest pressed unforgivingly to the pelt.

Aching nipples scratched against the thick fur of the pelt, stirring more dreaded heat in her belly as Arthur groaned a low, animalistic sound towards the ceiling.

“Christ,” he hissed, delivering a fond slap to her rear, before sinking in deeper. The scent of the rum and taste of his sweat stole off his neckerchief soaked into her palate accompanied the stretch of him filling her up. Her mind entered a hazy reality that she’d only ever known to follow whiskey.

A hand tangled in her blonde curls, tugging until her eyes watered and toes curled while Arthur seated himself inside her fully, stuck down to the hilt.

“There it is,” He panted, voice a low rumble that filled her empty skull. He kept her there awhile, stretched over his cock. No, nothin’ ‘junior’ about it in the slightest.

She howled his name into the security of his neckerchief, clutched at the pelt with one hand, while he wrestled one of her arms behind her back, broad palm locked tight around her wrist. Weren’t no rope, but Karen figured he got the same thrill outta throwin’ his weight around.

He found a rhythm, a steady canter of his hips that built into something brutal, something merciless.

Drool frothed out of the corners of her mouth, escaping past the barrier of her gag.

“That pussy’s squeezin’ me like a noose, darlin’,” Arthur rasped, hips hammering hard, fucking her into a babbling, boneless heap.

Karen felt her body clench tight, full to the point of bursting when flexed taut around him. Her cheek pressed firmly to the pelt, forcing one eye shut at the position. Despite the relative discomfort, otherwise degraded, Karen found herself dissolving into the deliciously detached feeling brewing in her brain. Better’n any booze she’d ever had was the feeling of him inside her.

He angled his hips knowingly, pressin’ on that spot what had her making a mess last time. Heat skittered down her spine, glowing down to the tips of her toes.

A pleasure so vibrant it had her arching back into his every thrust. The wet sound of their skin meeting, every thunderous clap of his hips colliding with her rear filled the cabin.

She was writhing and bucking wildly, but the large hand pinning her arm back kept her from straying too far.

Karen could feel that heat pitched low in her belly, coiling tighter. A wave of dizziness rushed to her head as Arthur drilled into her sopping sex, hips angled upon every stroke made her grunt the ugliest sounds into the gag. Her toes curled and she was clenching down with every slick glide of him.

She clawed at the pelt beneath her with her free hand, groaned Arthur’s name as the building pressure became too much to bear.

Her second orgasm wasn’t so surprising as her first, this one was labored over, earned. Weren’t until he pulled out, reminding her of the big hole he’d left in her middle that she felt liquid gush from her, muscles pulled tight, heat spilling between her thighs. A firm hand, thick callused fingers rubbed at her bud a few quick times, earning moans that sounded equal parts agonized and blissful as a few weaker spurts of her release painted the pelt.

Arthur dug his teeth into the meat of her shoulder, ravenous like some wild animal as he came against her inner thigh, mixing his spend with hers.

A few fingers tugged the gag from between her teeth, the fabric sagged wetly around her throat.

Karen wanted nothing more than to melt down onto the soiled bearskin and sleep beside a dying fire. But Arthur’s hands held her firm, kept her upright. One cupped her jaw, shook her a little to keep her eyes open.

“I hurt you?” He asked, voice thick and labored, but stern and rather serious as well. Weren’t no teasing in his voice, simple, rare concern.

“I look hurt to you?” Karen slurred back, squinting through heavy lids to see the charge light up the blue of his eyes.

“Karen,” He growled, sound pitched low in his chest. Heat danced in her belly.

“No, you didn’t hurt me, old man. Fucked me real good…” a whine stirred in her throat, “too good.”

Arthur let out a chuckle, a heavy weathered palm gave her rear a pat.

“Bed’s in the corner, go on,”

Karen groaned, digging her fingers into whatever parts of him she could reach with dwindling reserves of energy. She caught the meat of a bulging tricep and lean sinew of his hip.

“Can’t get rid a’me that easily,” she slurred voice thick with sleep, spiraling deeper into that pleasant void with big, tender hands in her hair.

Arthur laughed again, terribly fond, fingers tracing the contour of her jaw, “Me? Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Jones.”

Her hand mirrored his touch, skating trembling fingers over the close crop of his facial hair across the hard line of his jaw. Saw her own dreamy expression reflected in his eyes. He weren’t hard to love at all.

They listened to the rain slow at some point in the night , her body tangled up with his. His lips lingered softly over the rough mark he’d bit on her back.

Maybe they’d take their time gettin’ home…

#my writing #my fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #arthur morgan #karen jones #arthur morgan x karen jones

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tisiphonewolfe · 1 year

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In honour of Dracula Daily coming back, I present to you all this snippet from Bound by Stone and Blood, where Almyra is exploring the Vismoores' castle:

She took to counting doors, running her fingers along the rough stone walls and marking them - she hoped, not noticeably - with a dent as she went, showers of dust piling on the ancient green velvet that was rumpled along the floors. When she rattled their bronze handles, she found most locked. There seemed to be three staircases; one central spiral, and two that crept around the sides of the building in tandem. Some areas had been roped off, with hastily-scrawled signs hanging from them; “Go no further! Dangerous ground beyond!” Growing fed up of going in circles, Almyra had at one point scrambled over the rope to find rotten, hole-addled floorboards, fallen walls, and leaking ceilings. Wrinkling her nose at the overpowering stench of mould, she turned back. Finding herself back in a more lived-in part of the place, she began to discover unlocked doors and the trappings of a regularly-used great house. There was a library, squares of dimly-lit shelves surrounding a comfortable nook filled with plush well-worn armchairs. Books were sprawled open in stacks on lacquered tables, and a pair of reading glasses was carelessly perched on the arm of one chair. The chairs sat facing a wood-burning stove, the chimney of which stretched far towards the distant ceiling. Almyra could tell as she picked up a book, that even though they were not dusty, they were ancient. The dry smell told her that the paper was yellowed before she even opened one. A neatly-written journal, bookmarked at a page which began; ‘There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me.’ Almyra snorted. “You don’t say.”

#Writeblr #writing snippet #Bound by Stone and Blood #BBS&B #The Tectomancy Saga #Dracula Daily

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theodoradove · 10 months

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"The parlour of the Feathers is the only room in the house that is generally uninhabited. For the usual patrons, the private tap is the common room. The parlour is across the side passage and opposite the public tap-room. It overlooks Ottercombe Steps, and beneath its windows are the roofs of the Fish Lane houses. It has a secret and deserted life of its own. Victoria's Jubilee and Edward the Seventh's Wedding face each other across a small desert of linoleum and plush. Above the mantelpiece hangs a picture of two cylindrical and slug-like kittens. Upon the mantelpiece are three large shells. A rag-rug, lying in front of the fireplace, suggests that in a more romantic age Harlequin visited the Feathers and sloughed his skin before taking a leap up the chimney."

--Ngaio Marsh, Death at the Bar (1940)

#ngaio marsh #death at the bar #victoriana

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illumiera · 1 year

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I have this silly little headcanon about Ellie: I have imagined her home to look somewhat modest on the outside, like a small, cute cottage. But this is just an illusion. Because as a very talented mage and even active Archmage of the College of Winterhold, she had enchanted it on the inside, so when someone enters it, they are dazzled to witness a much larger house out of a fairytale - equivalent to a royal palace with a high dome-shaped canopy filled with bright candlelights, corners loaded with fragrant, colorful flowers, huge and well-preserved bookshelves made of oak - you get the picture! Her house is by far from minimalistic in my headcanon, but since she is a humble person she doesn't want this to show. She just wants to enjoy it alone. 🥺💖💖

tell me a headcanon you have for one of my characters and I'll rate how accurate it is!

this is pretty much canon, so I'm giving this a 10! 🥰✨

you're completely right! on the outside, her home looks exactly like what would come to your mind if I said "cute, storybook cottage"—think a winding path lined in sweet-smelling lavender, trellises of roses and ivy climbing up the walls, a smoking chimney, a waterfall rushing away nearby. but when you walk inside, you start to think, "how did she fit all of this in here?"

there's beautiful furniture and plush rugs and a roaring hearth in more or less every room, paintings and sketches and flowering vines and tiny magelights climbing up the walls, a library tower with a perfect view to stargaze or look out at the garden, a large basement with an underground grotto, and that's not even mentioning the bedrooms! there's two, one for her and one for a guest, and not only are they outfitted with luxurious canopied beds, but the bathrooms attached to each have sunken baths (heated with Dwemer plumbing) so big they could pass for hot tubs. her home is the one place where she's less "the Dragonborn" and more "Elentari", so she wants it to be her dearest sanctuary... and since she's such a skilled mage, if she were to want to expand it for any reason, she could simply get all the required materials together and... cast it into being, no tools required!

#asks #ask game #oc: elentari #i think people are surprised to see that she lives in what looks like such an ordinary house...#of course some of them are then surprised to learn that it very much ISN'T!

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just-a-cup-of-anxietea · 1 year

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i’d say my internal landscape would probably change? but for now i’d say: it’s cold and your cheeks are pink. there is a field of tall dark green grass on a cliff by the sea. the sea is dark midnight blue and grey and the waves are lashing at the rocky shoreline. the sky is overcast with big moody clouds and it’s very blustery. it’s late afternoon. in the distance is a forest of trees turning autumn reds, oranges, and browns. the trees bend and the grass ripples in the wind. between the forest and the sea is a house made of grey stone, covered in ivy and lilac bushes. the chimney smokes and the multitude of windows glow with warm light. stepping through the door of the house brings you to a library bursting with books, plush armchairs and couches with plaid wool blankets, a roaring fire, and a big cozy kitchen with the kettle already steaming for a pot of tea and a slice of cake. someone is playing a soft melody on a violin, or maybe a cello, and the house smells of vanilla and warm spices

THIS. IS. SUCH. A PRETTY. VISUAL. I L O V E.

IS IT SOMETHING LIKE THIS??

#deirdredoodle #mutuals #friends #asks #answered #Internal Landscapes #not me making a whole Pinterest board and spending half an hour finding images for this #I LOVE THIS VIBE

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suryavilasluxuryresortandspa · 30 days

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