silver thimble

Viva la Revolution

oops i saw this post and wrote a thing

not really written as a ship so ig platonic logince?

Roman and Logan were ten minutes into a chess game and Logan was about ready to explode.

No, he wasn’t losing, he was in fact winning by quite a large margin - if you played the game correctly. If you were playing the game like Roman, however, it seemed there was no feasible way for Logan to get through the game.

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A chatelaine is a decorative belt hook or clasp worn at the waist with a series of chains suspended from it. Each chain is mounted with a useful household appendage such as scissors, thimble, watch, key, vinaigrette, household seal, etc. They were very popular from the 1860’s until the end of the century.

The top photo is a cabinet card circa 1880 that shows a well-dressed woman wearing a needlework chatelaine, a rarity in posed photographs.

The bottom photo is a A sterling silver chatelaine complete with a whistle, folding buttonhook, coin purse, vinaigrette, and thimble bucket.

Браслет с кольцами и наперстком. Серебро, стекло, монеты; гравировка, чернь. Украшение замужней женщины. Конец 19-начало 20 века, Дагестан. 

Bracelet with rings and a thimble. Silver, glass, coins; engraving, black. Decoration of a married woman. Late 19th-early 20th century, Dagestan.

Arya Appreciation Week - Friday: Favorite Friendship (Arya x Lady Smallwood)

More often than not Queen Arya had wanted for nothing but her mother’s soothing presence and advice once she took her place in the court at King’s Landing.

Lord Tyrion had reassured her that a sect of ladies-in-waiting was not only her prerogative, but also something desirable to the royal couple. Eventually she agreed that it wouldn’t harm to have the company of wiser women around her. Women that knew things she didn’t and could do things she couldn’t, like sewing, singing and being a proper lady.

The process of choosing her ladies-in-waiting proved to be far more complex than she had anticipated. They had all to be from noble birth and preferably from different parts of the country so there would be no suspicions of favoritism, but the most important things was their loyalty to the new sovereigns.

In the end of the day Lord Tyrion had picked most of the candidates and some of them Arya had never meet in her life. There was one who had been chosen by the queen though.

Lady Ravella Smallwood from Acorn Hall had an obscure past of collaboration with the Brotherhood Without Banners among other things. Her presence in the Queen’s inner circle was a mystery to most of the ladies and a reason for Lord Tyrion to worry about the Queen’s good name.

King Jon knew little to nothing about that woman, but had seen no problems in indulging his wife’s wishes in this.

“I know better than to ask Arya about things she did during the war. Besides my wife has a talent for making the most unusual friends. If she wants Lady Smallwood as her lady-in-waiting, so be it.” That has been the King’s answer and Lord Tyrion finally agreed with the Queen’s decision.

Ravella arrived at the Red Keep without knowing why she had been summoned in the first place. Queen Arya received her in the royal family’s solar.

“When they told me the King had married Lord Stark’s sister I wondered if it was the same girl I received in my house years ago.” Ravella said with a gentle smile that brought up the lines around her eyes. “It is wonderful to see you again, child.”

“I thought you might not remember me.” Arya said shyly. “I have something for you, my lady.”

Ravella looked at her with a hint of surprise as Arya picked a wooden box decorated with acorns motif. “I sent you daughter a pair of dresses to replace the ones you gave me, but this is your. You’ll have silver needles, silver scissors, thimbles and everything you might need.”

“What for, Your Grace?” Lady Smallwood asked out of surprise.

“I remember you thought sewing to be relaxing and you liked it. I believe you’ll need it if you agree to my offer.” The Queen said carefully. “Would you be my lady-in-waiting?”

Ravella accepted the offer as it was expected and Arya never had reason to regret her decision or distrust the woman she came to respect and love as if she was her own mother.

It was in the occasion of Prince Aemon’s birth that Lady Smallwood proved her value not only to the Queen but also the entire royal family.

When the pain started both the King and Queen were terrified. Childbirth was a risky business and after a while trying to give the kingdom a prince there was a general fear surrounding the Queen’s health.

Queen Arya was unusually afraid when she was brought to her bed. Lady Smallwood called for the midwives and held her hand all the time, making her feel like a child again.

“I’m afraid.” The Queen said. “I wish…I wish my mother was her.” The pain was getting worst as she tried to keep calm.

Lady Smallwood kissed her hand and caressed her forehead as Lady Stark would have done.

“I know, my dear.” She said with a reassuring and understanding smile. “We all cry out for our mothers when it’s time for us to become mothers. Be brave, child. Show our prince the valiant mother that you are.”

Lady Smallwood’s words of encouragement and understanding had given the Queen a sense of security as she pushed her baby out of her womb. Ravella never let go of her hand and it felt like having her mother with her.

When Aemon came into the world kicking and screaming, covered in fluids and blood, it was Ravella who cut the cord and cleaned the Prince to place him within his mother’s arms.

Once the Queen recovered from labor and Prince Aemon got hungry, it was Lady Smallwood who taught the Queen how to give him the breast. Both women looked at the baby with pride, wonderment and joy.

Queen Arya held Ravella’s hand and smiled at her friend with gratitude.

“I remember when you told me you had a boy too. One who died at a young age.” Arya pointed carefully. Lady Smallwood lowered her gaze for a second. Arya understood that it would always be painful for a mother to talk about a lost child.

“Indeed I had.” Ravella agreed. “I remember how it felt to feed him for the first time. My darling boy…”

“You gave me his clothes when we parted years ago.” Arya said in a melancholic way. “I can only wonder how difficult it might have been for you to do that, but I’ll never be able to thank you enough for everything you did for me.”

“I did what was right. My queen was only a child back then.” Ravella said as she caressed Aemon’s head gently.

“I know nothing about taking care of a child.” Arya confessed. “Once you gave me clothes that were all that your son left behind and now…I’m about to put my own son under your care. Would it be too cruel if I asked you help me, Ravella? Will you teach me how to be a good mother?”

Ravella gave her the most radiant smile.

“You don’t need my lessons. You already are a good mother, my brave child. It would be my honor to help you.”

anonymous asked:

for the ficlet meme: akafuri, 10, F, ❤ or ★. i love your writing and i reread your Designation: Miracle fics like every day!! keep being amazing!!!!

There is a beast in the palace, as everyone knows.

Deep in the woods, where no one dares to go, there is a palace covered in thorns. Do not go into the woods alone, for you might not come out again. Beware of silence, for when the forest is silent you know you are close. The animals do not travel where the beast lives; the birds will not sing. There is a silence in the forest that only brings death.

Furihata Kouki walks in the woods alone.

It is silent. Ever so silent.


Clutched in his right hand is a silver thimble. It is the only silver his family owns anymore. They lost everything in a shipwreck. Now Furihata works as a tailor’s apprentice, trying to support his ailing father. The silver thimble had been a present from his mother, before she died.

“For good luck,” she said, because she died in prosperous times, and could not have known her son would one day have to mend clothes for a living. (His father, ailing, his brother, with no useful skills. He must support them both, meager as that income is). She only knew he liked to embroider (feminine habit though it was) and she wanted him to have something nice. “And to keep the demon’s away. Silver is the only thing that will ward away devils, Kouki. It is a shield in dark times. Keep it near you at all times.”

Furihata clutches the thimble and thinks about shields. Dark times came, and he was not protected then. He was not protected from the shipwreck that sank all his father’s goods, he was not protected from the fire that burned down their house, he was not protected from his master, the drunk who hit him when sales were slow. He was not protected from the rich lord’s son, who took offense at the way Furihata accidentally bumped up against him and demanded compensation.

“Either in gold or flesh,” the young lord sneered.

Furihata had no gold. He did not want to give himself to the young lord’s whims.

So now he is alone in the woods that are ever so silent, with only a thimble as a shield.


He finds the palace covered in thorns. He takes a deep breath and walks inside.

He is shaking all over. Jitters, his father used to tease, in happier times. “Jitters’ seems like such a friendly and wholly inadequate word now. Furihata is terrified out of his mind. He thinks he will go mad with fear. But still he walks forward into the palace, to find the beast that lives there.


“You must be a very stupid creature,” a voice says from the darkness. “To walk straight into my domain with such a tiny amount of silver to protect you.”

Furihata stops in his tracks and quakes. The voice is soft, rich, and utterly inhuman. The voice sounds regal, commanding, but also dangerous. It is a voice of shadows and dark promises.

“You don’t look like a hero,” the voice continues, “those fools who think they can slay a demon and make a name for themselves all at once. They come with silver swords and silver armor, not silver thimbles. They come for battle, without fear in their hearts. I eat them all the same.”

Furihata swallows. His heart beats so fast he thinks it might burst at any moment.

“No, you are certainly not a hero,” the voice assesses.

Furihata shakes his head, agreeing. He is not a hero. This is not the tale of the brave little tailor, who went into the woods with a thimble and slew a beast and married a princess at the end. That sort of tale is not the kind of thing that Furihata could ever belong in.

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers around the silver thimble and carefully puts it on the ground. Then he rolls the thimble away, watching it disappear into the darkness.

“I’m not here to kill you,” Furihata says. “I’m here to die.”


“There are easier forms of suicide,” the voice says, sounding intrigued in the dark.

“I—I heard you make b-bargains sometimes,” Furihata says, his voice finally breaking as his last bit of courage flees him.

“I do,” the voice acknowledges. “Although, I think you will find that those who make bargains with me usually live to regret it.”

“I won’t,” Furihata says.

“Regret it?”

“Live,” Furihata says. “I want—I w-want gold. For my father and my brother to live. In return, you can e-eat me, or whatever.”

There is a long pause, where Furihata is alone, shivering in the dark.

“Are you so filial? Does your life mean nothing?”

“I angered a rich man’s son. I’m not going to live anyway. I thought—if I was going to die, I’d rather it be for a good reason. To help my family, and well—to help you, I guess.”

“Me?” the voice says, in baffled arrogance. Who is Furihata to dare think that he could help such a creature?

“If you’re hungry,” Furihata rushes in with, “I would rather feed wild beasts with my death than die for a rich man’s pleasure. If not you, perhaps I would find wolves.”

“I see. And what is your name?”

“Furihata Kouki,” he replies, feeling bold. “Do we have a bargain?”

“Kouki,” the voice purrs.

And then the beast steps out of the darkness.


He is a surprisingly human looking beast. He has pale skin, and cherry red hair, and one gold eye and one red eye, but other than that he is a very human looking demon. Furihata is a bit disappointed. He expected wings and claws, at the very least.

“I do think we can bargain,” the beast says, stepping forward. “I am Akashi Seijuurou. But you can call me ‘Master,’ if you’d prefer.”

He keeps walking, so that he ends up very close to Furihata. Furihata backs up instinctively and ends up against a wall. The beast keeps moving until he has one arm around Furihata’s waist and he’s pulling him forward. He looks very much like he’s about to devour a feast.

Furihata braces himself to be eaten. “You’ll pay my family? You’ll make sure they’re safe?”

“Yes, Kouki. I can do that,” the beast says.

“OK.” Furihata closes his eyes and readies himself. “Please do it quickly, so it won’t hurt.”

But instead of being eaten, he is kissed instead. His eyes fly open and he pulls back.

“You—you’re supposed to eat me!” Furihata exclaims.

The beast lets Furihata go and smiles smugly. “Your exact words, I believe, were ‘you can eat me, or whatever.’ I choose the ‘whatever.’ I need a servant. This palace gets very dusty.”

Furihata blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what just happened.

“Oh,” he says. “OK then. I can do that.”

“Good. I will show you to your room. You will live here from now on.”

Furihata trails after the beast, wondering if demons sealed bargains with kisses. That had never come up in any of the books he’d read.

A/N: Thank you so much, Anon, both for your prompt and your kind words! I am so happy you enjoy my stories!! The words here were “palace, jitters, thimble or shield” so I, naturally, landed on Fairy Tale AU. Yet another thing I might have to make longer someday.

London : the labor of ambiguity/ dartboard city/ fawn-skinned  lace/ urchin slang/ a quid, a pause, a paperweight/ tandoori nights/ alien teeth/ nautical smog/ a half-tucked lily in his sidepocket/ the mezzanine of arctic/ chess-jive/ rentals dangling like a beehive/ tomato hued buses/ baked fish the size of both my fists/ the cherry hem of half lit cigarette/ fishbelly white/ nights of illegal liquor/ the dust of tobacco/ factory fur/ i, swallowed bait /– bubble blower’s silver thimble/ a key with no lock/

Madrid : monarch of museums/ the gutted ground of bullfight/ mornings sweeter than crabmeat/ the last-minute tango with Goya’s ghost/ spindrift butter/ scorching the skillet of yr body/ tejas and barquillos/ siempre mañana. mañana. mañana./an anatomist of astronomy/ taurus-leather and sheepskin sundowns/ oolong & croissants/ sacré-cœur/ yr face - a collage of wildflowers/ a boy with a heart like a haversack of hardened honey/ the synagogue in the old man’s pocketwatch/ my hair- a storm of blackbirds/ yr hands - telling stories of shipwrecks/ he is the summary of -/

Paris : vinyl afternoons/ the dirty kiss of dusk/ barge lights  buskers twinkling like homeless comets/ avoirdupois - milk-weight voids/ the stone-ballast of yr fist/ a hunger breaking bread in yr eyes/ sorbonne’s sleep-whispered study halls/ yr teeth caught in chandelier earrings like plum grapes/ empty ice-trays/ frozen arias/ dew snailing up vines/ dregs of laughter peeling wallpaper/diesel cauterized clouds/ cold-water grottoes/ moroccan belvedere/ knees - buzzing with bottlebees/ forehead crests, dents/ time is a tree in the train window / in backward motion/

New York : a map’s origami/ the stolen lightning of my anklets/ baby boy, yr rabbit-breath/ telegram-gaze/ promises pinned to pendants/ tranströmer’s oath/ “open not empty”/ the ache of an written letter/ the letter of an unwritten ache/ arrival’s lounge/ ………….

Scherezade Siobhan©

anonymous asked:

Prompt: monopoly

“You must think you’re sitting nice and pretty, don’t you?” Carol murmured, sitting across the dining room table. “I’ve fought for everything I have, but you…ugh…You were just in the right place at the right time…Don’t sit there and pretend that you’re better than me because of dumb luck.”

The light in the ceiling fan burned above the quiet battle, though the blades didn’t turn, didn’t cut through the thickness of the air. The others hadn’t lasted long…They couldn’t handle it. Even Daryl had retreated after a bad turn of events, heading out onto the front porch to smoke. It was just Carol now…She was all they had left.

Across the table, in the other trench of this battleground, Eric did look like he thought he was sitting nice and pretty. He hadn’t broken a sweat since they started…hours ago…God, night had fallen outside…The sun had been up when this war began.

His team hadn’t lasted any longer than hers had…They’d all gone home…no sense of pride in them. Aaron was curled up on the couch in the living room, trying to be supportive but too exhausted to stay the distance.

“Big talk,” Eric spoke around a cigar that Carol didn’t remember him lighting. “Make your move.”

Carol sighed, wiping the sweat from her temple as she took stock of her situation. He had all the ammunition; the board in front of them was littered with little red blocks, boasting his dominance. The pile of money in the center of the board was just sitting there…waiting…drawing her in…

She needed that cache in order to survive. She wouldn’t make it another round, not with these odds stacked against her.

Eric watched her pick up the two red-colored dice. She rolled them around in her fingers, feeling the dimpled surfaces of the cubes. She blew gently on them, hoping to impart any remaining good fortune that she had left…and it wasn’t much. She had gone into this battle feeling like any other veteran geared up for war…She hadn’t been prepared for Eric to come flying out of the gate like a horse at the derby, gunning her teammates down with a ruthlessness that only came from an extensive and bloody history with this game.

Nine. She needed that nine. Every one of those nine steps between her little silver thimble and that corner square was a step toward life…to continuing to fight this fight against Eric’s iron fist.

Breathing slowly, she glanced toward the window onto the porch, where she saw Daryl, exhaling smoke and holding the cigarette at his lips, watching them. He nodded slowly, trying to give her strength.

She cast the dice across the board. The first die fell still at the corner of the board: three. Together, they watched the second die roll to a stop at…five.

They both exhaled. Carol in horror, hanging her head and closing her eyes as the truth crashed over her. Eric in triumph, making a fist and biting his lip to stifle a hurrah.

Never let it be said that Carol did not meet her end with grace and dignity.

Taking hold of her thimble, she painfully stepped the piece those final eight steps, coming to a stop just shy of salvation…landing on the orange slate of New York Avenue, where one of Eric’s red hotels waited.

With only $150 to her name, Carol folded.

She looked dangerously across to Eric, who sat back in his seat with a shit-eating grin.

“Monopoly,” he chimed, smugly sticking the cigar between his teeth again.

Aaron groaned from the couch without opening his eyes. “You don’t have to say the name every time you win, Eric.”

Carol put her elbows on the table and her hands against her face. All those hours…all that time and effort…She knew that Glenn wouldn’t be speaking to her tomorrow after how heated things had gotten…maybe not Rosita either…

Daryl’s hands touched her shoulders, rubbing her gently. “C’mon,” he whispered. “You fought bravely, but it’s time to go home, sweetheart.”

Carol let him steer her to her feet, and she cast a dark look in Eric’s direction. “This isn’t over. I’ll be back.”

Eric watched her go, tipping his invisible hat. “I’ll be waiting.”