pinklunarprincess

[pinklunarprincess]

AAAAAA SO GOOD! Love this so much! 🫶🫶🫶

Scientific purposes

drabble

featuring. viktor x reader

warnings. suggestive, kissing in the council room

requested. @pinklunarprincess

In council chambers which were dimly lit, the last vestiges of daylight filtering through the tall, arched windows. The air carried the faint scent of ink and parchment, mingling with the lingering tension of earlier debates. You remained seated at the head of the long mahogany table, meticulously reviewing the day’s proposals when Viktor entered. He moved quietly, his mechanical brace clicking softly against the polished floor. His golden eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. This wasn’t his first visit today. He had come by twice already under the guise of needing your counsel. But this time, his intent seemed different, and the way he locked the door behind him sent a spark of anticipation down your spine.

“I see you’ve returned,” you remarked without looking up, your tone laced with playful exasperation. “What pressing matter is it this time, Viktor?”

He hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “There are… complexities in the hextech approval process. I thought it best to speak with you directly.” His voice was calm, measured, but the slight tremor betrayed him.

You tilted your head, finally meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was undeniable, and it ignited something within you. “Complexities, hmm? Are you sure this couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Not with you here,” he replied softly, his honesty catching you off guard.

Rising from your seat, you took a slow step toward him, watching as his confidence wavered under your scrutiny. “You seem rather insistent tonight,” you mused, the faintest of smirks tugging at your lips. “Tell me, are these complexities truly about hextech? Or is there something else on your mind?”

His breath hitched as you closed the distance between you. “I—” he began, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. His gaze flickered to your lips, and he took a small step back, his resolve clearly wavering. “It would be improper…”

“Improper?” you echoed, arching an eyebrow. “Since when has that stopped you from seeking what you want?”

Your words left him momentarily speechless, and you could see the war playing out behind his golden eyes. Finally, he drew in a sharp breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

You closed the remaining distance, your hands finding the lapels of his coat as you pulled him toward the chair at the center of the room. “Sit,” you commanded softly, your tone leaving no room for argument. He obeyed, his movements almost mechanical as he lowered himself into the chair.

Hovering above him, you placed one knee between his legs, your weight barely pressing against him. The intimacy of the position made him tense, his hands gripping the armrests tightly as if anchoring himself. Leaning forward, your lips ghosted over his, your breath mingling with his as you spoke. “You could’ve just said you wanted my attention, Viktor. All this talk of ‘complexities’ wasn’t necessary.”

“I…” He swallowed hard, his hands twitching as though resisting the urge to touch you. “I did not want to—overstep.”

A soft chuckle escaped you as your fingers trailed up his jaw, tilting his face to meet yours. “And yet here we are," you murmured, brushing your lips against his in the faintest of touches.

The kiss deepened quickly, his restraint crumbling as his hands finally moved to rest on your hips. The heat between you was palpable, your bodies pressing closer as the tension that had been building for weeks finally erupted. Viktor's lips were fervent against yours, his usual precision and control giving way to raw need.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your lips brushing against his ear. "You've been driving yourself mad over this, haven't you?"

"Yes," he admitted hoarsely, his voice heavy with desperation. "You... sure are intoxicating."

Your teeth grazed the shell of his ear, drawing a shiver from him as you whispered, "Then let me consume you."

His response was immediate, his hands tightening on your waist as though afraid you might disappear. You could feel his pulse racing beneath your fingertips as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. There was something beautiful about seeing him like this. Unguarded, vulnerable, and utterly at your mercy.

"You're trembling," you noted, your tone soft but teasing. "Are you nervous, Viktor?"

He managed a faint chuckle, though his voice betrayed him. "You have a way of... unbalancing me."

You smiled, your lips hovering just above his. "Good."

taglist. @xxblairslairxx @diffusebread @ekkosh @ash-84321 @luneariaa @minagrayson @aliives @mammonsleftring @gxrextxgaidk @anna1-1 @bl-0-ndi-3

banner. @anitalenia

[pinklunarprincess]

I’m losing my fucking mind over this series. Oh my god. Everything about it is just so perfect like W O W 🤯

After Hours: ViktorxFem!Reader Part 3

Summary: Standing on the freezing streets of Piltover, you’re having a hell of a shift trying to bring customers in to your club for drinks. You see a pair of Academy students headed your way��one is eager enough, but the other is much more of a challenge to win over, and you like a challenge.

Part One 

Part Two 

SFW (spicy in the next chapter I promise!!): After your date with Viktor, you return to work, hoping against all odds that you’ll see him again, that he’s different from the men you’ve known in the past. You are in for a surprise, in more ways that one. 

Sorry I’ve been gone so long bbys! I got diagnosed with several chronic health conditions and only just got a medication that works and allows me to sit upright for more than 20 minutes so we back!!!! 

Keep reading

[pinklunarprincess]

Oh this hits. If there is more, then I can't wait to see it!!

Coffee and Cigarettes: A Viktor x f!Reader Rehab AU

TWs: mentions of drug use (future, not this chapter) mentions of anorexia and bulimia, smoking, mental health issues

Summary: You didn’t exactly sign up to spend part of your time as a scholarship student at the elite Piltover Academy on medical leave at a co-Ed rehab for those who struggle with addiction, but you want to keep your academic standing, so here you are.

You also didn’t sign up for the cute theoretical physics major turned fellow patient with the golden eyes and irresistible accent, either

A/N: hi all I’m backkkkk it’s about damn time!!! I’m currently going through a very transient period in my life and all that, and I haven’t watched act 2 yet due to that but I do know Jinx and Vik meet, and ik he calls her Powder. I figure that he would call her Jinx here if she wanted it though. I may have made reader a cello player because my sweet golden retriever of a boyfriend plays the cello lmao

I’ll have 15 months clean + sober at the end of November, gd willing 🙏💜

—-

The ward smelt of antiseptic. Wait—no. This isn’t a ward. You’re bleary eyed and tired from the meds they’ve given you to detox; being shuffled from a more intensive unit to this co-Ed rehab just feels like a blurry stop on a long road.

Your belongings are in a plastic “patient belongings” bag and a single wheelie bag; you hadn’t planned on this. On any of this.

On the Disaster. On having to take a leave from the elite Piltover Academy, the university where you had gotten a scholarship as a music student. The Dean said your scholarship wasn’t in danger; that the department just wanted you well again.

You didn’t know what you wanted anymore.

The intake isn’t much of a change as before. Name. Vitals. A new hospital bracelet to replace the other. Answering the same questions over and over, as though they aren’t in your file. You want to crawl into bed and stay there forever.

The charge nurse, a no-nonsense woman whose name tag reads “Sevika” seems done with you before you even open your mouth.

As you sit there, in the hard plastic chair, drawing your knees up to your chin, a short, blue haired girl approaches the nurses’ station.

She’s thin. Too thin, her collar bones sticking out and her cheeks hollow. You know that look, the look of malnourishment, and envy burns worse than the stomach acid.

“Sevika—“ the girl starts, and Sevika holds up her hand in a “stop” motion.

“I’m busy. Intake.”

“You can’t just—“

“Jinx. Unless your arm is about to fall off or something, it can wait twenty minutes. Go talk to Lest.”

“Fuck you too.”

Sevika rolls her eyes, and turns her attention back to you. “Well, now I can say you’ve met your roommate.”

“My roommate?”

“You’ll be in Room 2 with Jinx. We’re gonna keep your luggage locked up here until after dinner when the night staff can search your belongings for contraband with you.”

You want to say that if you possibly had contraband it would have been taken at the detox; that Sevika surely would know that given your paperwork. But she doesn’t seem like the type you want to get into a pissing contest with, especially on your first day.

Finally, she lets you go with a gruff, “you can go into the community room now,” flagging down a lackey to lead you, still shell-shocked, down a hallway and through a pair of double doors.

The community room is a little rough around the edges, but you can forgive that, given you’re more than a little rough around the edges yourself.

There’s a few couches scattered here and there, a plain wooden table in the back with some chairs drilled into the floor. A series of cubbies along one wall, with personalized name tags clearly designed by one of the patients’ in blue and pink paints.

A bookshelf with a small lending library of books; if your mind wasn’t so fuzzy you would gravitate towards here immediately. If you weren’t busy with your cello, your head is always buried in some book or another. It didn’t exactly make you the most popular growing up.

Maybe that was why—

No. That was stupid.

You stand on the precipice, the stupid binder they’ve given you on entry held close to your chest, taking in the scene around you, of the other fuck ups in the cage, so to speak. There’s the blue-haired girl, the skinny one, that’s supposed to be your roommate. She’s sitting all wrong on one of the tall-backed armchairs, the kind that you used to see in the Academy library. In the matching armchair next to her is possibly the most attractive boy you’ve ever seen.

All lanky limbs and sharp angles, with bright golden eyes and thick brown hair you immediately want to run your hands through. His crutch is next to the chair, and he has an Academy pin on the lapel of his vest—his shirt underneath is rolled to the elbows and you keep thinking about his forearms for some reason.

Oh god, this is bad.

Your mouth goes dry, and it gets worse when you notice he has the most perfect mole by his mouth, begging to be caught by an errant kiss. Your heart is hammering in your chest and your realize that not only is this quite possibly the worst “first day of school” vibe ever, but you haven’t said anything for the past thirty seconds like some sort of startled creature afraid of her own shadow.

The blue-haired girl throws a wad of paper at the Beautiful Boy’s head. “Hey, Vitya!”

“I told you to stop throwing things at my head.”

Oh, his accent is enough to bring you to your knees, too.

“Fine. But look! We got a new one! And Sevika said she’s rooming with me!”

Vitya—if that’s his name—turns his attention to you, and you don’t know what to say or do.

Thankfully, you don’t have to. An effortlessly cool young woman takes control, sticking her hand out for you to shake, blocking your view of the boy.

“I’m so sorry they just left you like this. Lest. One of the floor counselors.”

“The only cool one,” Blue Hair drawls from the corner.

“Jinx—“ Lest doesn’t even pretend to be mad.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You shrug your shoulders, mutter your name. That’s enough, apparently, and you are about to go hide in a corner, but no such luck.

��Hey! New roomie!” Jinx waves you over.

“Hm?”

Jinx hangs off the chair. “I scared off the last roommate.”

“Jinx, you snuck contraband up your—“ Vitya points out in a matter of fact tone.

Jinx cuts him off with the wave of a hand. “Details, Viktor. Does it really matter?”

“Well, yes.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. Viktor has a wry sense of humor; you can see the twinkle in his eyes when he speaks, and it’s precisely the same type you enjoy. The sound seems to catch him off guard, and he looks at you up and down for a long moment; you find yourself wondering if you’re being studied, and it takes a lot of effort to keep your gaze level.

A click of a doorknob and heavy footsteps.

“Jinx, meds.” Sevika.

“Do I have to?”

“What do you think?”

“Ugh, fine.” Jinx gets up, blue braids trailing behind her, leaving just you and Vitya-Viktor. You’re still standing awkwardly, not sure if you’re bold enough to take her spot.

“She has a thing about the chair,” he says, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“I mean, I get it. If I had been here a while I would probably have a favorite too.”

You settle for the floor, drawing one knee up to your chest and circling it with your arm.

“It has been a while.”

Shit. If this is what Jinx looked like after a while in treatment, you probably didn’t want to see what the “before” was. You decide to change the subject.

“Vitya or Viktor?”

“An abrupt topic change.”

“I noticed you were called both. I was wondering what your name is.”

At this, you are gifted a rare smile from him, something you know you’ll be playing over and over again in your mind.

“It’s Viktor.”

——

[pinklunarprincess]

North | late blooms

| Gamekeeper Simon Riley x Virgin Fem!Reader |

Post WW1 1920s ish setting. Historical inaccuracy abounds. Gruff Simon Riley. Mentions of warfare, PTSD, gore, overbearing parents. Shameless dedication to the English countryside. Period misogyny and era specific class snobbery.

Big thank you to @cherrieswine my muse. And @godihatethiswebsite my historical consultant and @theorist-fox for being wonderful!

Endlessly the train rolls forward, the metallic clatter of tracks moving ceaselessly underneath the carriage, cleaving a way through the green landscape as it moves further into the countryside.

The compartment is quiet, thankfully no one in here but him. Faded fabric covering each seat, tired with use and worn thin in patches. Simon’s gaze fixes on the frayed threads of the carpet, unseeing as he jolts backwards and forwards, the patina of the lighter held fast in his fist occasionally catching the late light of the afternoon. Every once in a while he flicks it open, sparks the flint so a flame warms the calloused pad of his knuckle.

Simon isn’t really here. His mind still wanders the churned fields of Flanders, air heavy with the scent of death and decay, cloying mud knee deep and as treacherous as the bullets soaring across the top. His men lost to the turgid ground in no mans land, craters so big corpses float upon them like lily pads across a pond in the summer time, blood blooming over the surface of stagnant rain water.

In a perverse way he misses it, his reality for what feels like a lifetime, years of waiting for the order to march to certain death and facing it stiff backed every time. The camaraderie, that suffocating need for closeness with other humans in the wild upheaval of warfare. A tangible sense of belonging, before the conflict ended and they all were expected to get on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Like gore didn’t coat the seams of his gaiters, as if foul ruin wasn’t now laced under his eyelids each time he closes them to sleep.

In reality he supposes it’s not the trenches he pines for, but his friends. A family born from a determination to stay alive, one Simon felt a sense of belonging in that was as foreign as the soil beneath his boots. He didn’t leave the soft comforts of home for Europe like the others did, just a grim terrace in Manchester’s industrial district and a family torn apart by his monster of a father. Simon would rather have faced the enemy ten times over, then remain in that shell of a place much longer. Far from the cradle of his life, it felt like a burden. A thing to be escaped from and never glanced back at.

Still, John came through as he endlessly did on the front. Found the lads work, including Simon. He’s always been good at that, has connections in high places built from years of service before any of them joined up. John always managed to find them tinned fruit at Christmas time, fresh socks when the ones they were wearing became welded yarn to skin from the damp. Tinned stew heated on a gas burner while they each sat shoulder to shoulder, a small slice of heaven in the midst of purest hell. He couldn’t shield them from the suicidal orders from above though, or the fear that beat like a drum in their ears on a particularly risky mission into hostile territory.

The best of the best, Taskforce 141. All three of them had tea and medals after the war, but no homes for their service or gainful employment. Abandoned by the country they sacrificed it all for, relegated to a chapter in the history books, the brave Tommys that staked it out for four years in the greatest conflict. It makes Simon sick, the whole lot of it. Cheering and ribbons, pats on the back, the thank yous for your service. They have no idea what he’s seen, who he’s lost in the process.

The train rumbles on. A fresh start John said. Simon holds the reference written for him in the breast pocket of his smartest suit, the words on the page looked odd, praise for him to deliver to his new employer. Simon isn’t used to such things, tales of exceptional gallantry in the field, mentions in dispatches. More for something to do than because he wants one, he places a cigarette on his thin lips. The lighter in his palm flares, the air filled with greyish plumes of smoke. Simon’s head nods back into the headrest, the smell of nicotine exhaled from the fabric in a puff of dust.

His collar feels too tight, his tie knotted close against his neck. One large finger runs underneath the starched surface, loosening the constricting pressure. He can’t wait to be out in the open country, where unbuttoned shirts and good impressions don’t matter. Only himself and the grouse to contend with, foxes the one enemy to be shot at and thankfully they can’t return fire. Simon can wear open collars without fanfare while he’s stalking the land, he has the freedom to keep entirely to himself along with a small cottage of his own to boot.

He’s thankful for John’s support. This isn’t Simon’s first position as gamekeeper, but he hasn’t worked the fields since before the war and possibly is grossly under qualified for an estate of the size he’s heading to. It’s more than he could have hoped for, a role with lodgings where he gets endless peace and quiet. He craves it, a simple life away from the thrum of crowds or expectations of others. Freedom in the main, he just needs to keep his politest manner on for today, then get his head down into bringing the game up to scratch.

It’s not lost on him, the privilege he’ll be living on the outskirts of. Money he’s never seen before and grandeur Simon will never understand. The country outside is already changing, evolving into wild hills scattered with gorse, while the birds fight the slipstream of the steam engine. He’s heading further south now, closer to the coastline. It’s freeing in a way, to know he’ll be able to sleep in a bed to call his own tonight, after years spent catching rest wherever he can land it. If it wasn’t for John he’d probably be in a doorway somewhere, or still serving. Neither of those options seem particularly appealing when compared with a space of his choosing.

Simon pats the letter in his jacket again, reassuring himself it’s still there. Another toke spent on the cigarette before it’s put out under his boot. His big hands fold into his lap while the vibrations of the rails lull him into a doze. Maybe he’ll find a dog or two to help him keep the estate secured. Happily his mind leaves the torment of trench warfare for a while, imagining a jaunty spaniel at his side, bronze coloured and keen to explore.

•──⋅☾ ☽⋅────•

“For goodness sake stop feeding him. He’s had quite enough.”

You eye your mother, sat carefully on the low settee in the drawing room. She always looks so elegant, hair neatly coiled up with the latest fashion in mind. Her ankles are crossed lightly while she reads her ladies journal, the delicate saucer of tea on a side table sending a fine vapour cascading onto the polished mahogany wood.

The dog at your feet paws you, requesting the second piece of scone clutched tightly in your hand. He belongs to your father, a fat yellow Labrador named Apollo, with wide molten black eyes that water with anxiety over the food held hostage from him. Surreptitiously you snaffle him the remaining crumbs of sponge, tickling under his chin while he drools. A secret, yours and his.

“Don’t slouch. Honestly, why we spent money on finishing school for you to sit like a washerwoman I will never know.”

A roll of your orbs is barely suppressed, irritating as it is having her needle you, a falling out would be most uncomfortable. She would sulk for the rest of the day, dinner would be depressing and your father would only chew your ear off about it. Instead you busy yourself with smoothing the fabric of your dress, checking for flecks of saliva from Apollo the dog and removing any excess crumbs. Your own tea is abandoned half drunk somewhere nearby, cold with milk curdling within the amber fluid.

Dully, you get up to stretch your legs. The routine of your home life is slowly eating away at you, the energy expended on pointless tasks is tedious in the extreme. How many times can you stroll through the library, or paint the landscape around the manor without yawning at the predictability of it all. Each day you rise and complete a carousel of the same things. Dress for dinner smartly and take coffee with your mother in the parlour before lying awake in your bed for hours.

Longingly you consider sneaking back upstairs to finish the romance novel hidden beneath the loose floorboard near the wardrobe. A friend lent it to you on her last visit and steamy as it is, you don’t imagine your mother would be thrilled to catch it in your hands. It’s like poetry though, rugged lovers and ladies from far distant worlds who come together in a time of need, fusing their bodies with such tenderness it makes your heart pound hard in your throat.

How you long for change. Anything other than learning boring etiquette, feeding into the idea that women are only fit for marriage and childbirth. You had hoped the war might change things, volunteering at the local hospital gave you purpose. Seeing veterans clawing their way to recovery opened your eyes to a greater sense of self. They had changed their fates, taken the hand dealt to them and reshaped it into a future worth existing for. Why should you not have that very same power?

“The Baron will be visiting us in a few short weeks. Why don’t you go and practice your piano ready to entertain him?” The voice of your mother rings loudly through your thoughts. “Or brush up on your languages. I imagine his English is good, however it won’t hurt to impress him.”

Silently you pull a face at the window. Another one of your mother’s attempts to set you up with a wealthy husband. It’s no secret the estate needs money desperately, your sister married well enough to an American businessman, but the loss of your brother during the Somme left your father heirless. Keen to avoid selling the estate after his death, the patriarch of your family wants nothing more than your life and livelihood to be bartered away for security.

What a small price to pay. An unhappy marriage in return for land and title. In fairness, you don’t know that the Baron will be awful. However your mother’s other matches have proved boorish in the extreme. Your dear brother would be rolling in his grave at the thought, wherever he now rests. You always got on best with him, a trail of memories left hanging in his wake, vacated by the departure of his spirit from earth. You’d sobbed every tear you had to cry when that telegram was delivered and your mother still wears black everyday.

You asked the gardener to plant poppies for him under your window, hoping in some sentimental way you’d stay connected to him. It was futile though, you’re alone with the weight of expectation crushingly heavy to bear.

The estate looks cold. Dank, wet lawns sweeping up to the window while each late bloomed flower withers. A sad time of year, the last adieu of summer as the larks fly overhead, searching for seeds or worms to feast on in the damp soil. The sash panes of the glass are letting in a draft, but reluctant to leave the sanctuary of distraction you remain shivering there still.

A figure is making it’s way up the long, gravelled driveway, too far away to make out currently, but adding interest to the landscape all the same. You watch it draw closer still, trudging forwards with broad shoulders set firmly. It’s a man by all accounts, tall and wide, clad in a dark brown suit and heavy boots. A plain looking bag swings in his hand, the material tough and dour just like his countenance.

As he reaches the house, he slows to a stop, gaze cataloguing each crumbling facet as if he’s looking for a threat. The low peak of a cap perched on his head makes it impossible to truly acknowledge his features, but for a moment you feel his eyes on your window. You stare back, unsure if he can see you or just an opaque reflection. Without any reaction, he continues his grim march until he moves out of sight entirely, leaving you curiously peering at the place he’s vanished from.

“Are we to have a visitor today?”

Your mother snorts softly.

“Hardly a visitor worth naming darling. The new gamekeeper has arrived I imagine. Let your father deal with it.”

A gamekeeper, that explains the thick haversack he was carrying. A bell rings somewhere upstairs, likely one of the maids letting your father know there’s a person to see him. Flagrant boredom gets the better of you, making an excuse up on the spot you leave your mother sniffing over the greyscale pages on her lap and depart to investigate.

Cautiously you pad into the hallway, skirting the large oak staircase so you remain hidden in the shadows. Peeking around a pillar, you watch the man now waiting to be called up to your fathers study. Heavy tracks of mud lie behind his steps, shoes that have obviously walked all the way from the tiny station in the village, through the sodden fields and up to the house without much care for cleanliness.

His features are scarred, skin pale and face guarded with a stern expression that makes you glad he can’t see your concealed position. A thin white line dissects his tight mouth, while several slashes mark his cheeks. The curve of his nose suggests a break or two in times gone by, offset by high cheekbones and thick blonde lashes. His gaze is impenetrable, eyes darker than charcoal and reserved with tension. He looks entirely mean, storm clouds fit to burst might as well be circling him in a halo of poorly concealed indifference to his surroundings.

The planes of his body are heavily set, someone used to hard physical labour and exercise. His arms strain at the coarse fabric of his jacket, material barely concealing lines of muscle and fat. One hand rests in a pocket, the other toying with something shiny. He’s nervous perhaps, definitely not used to his current location, or maybe your brain is just desperately craving stimulation and filling in the cracks around his mysterious arrival. It does soften him though, the repeating motions of his fingers, a habit built up via life’s pressures. Loosening the lid on a tightly sealed jar just a little, so you get insight into the emotions locked within.

A floorboard creaks loudly as you shift and the man looks up at once. Dark, rich eyes meet your own and you feel the embarrassment of it immediately stir. Stomach flipping and chest tightening, you cringe slightly.

“S’rude to stare.” His deep, rasping voice makes you jump. “…My lady.”

You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic with that additional statement tacked on to his words, the tone so dry it feels almost grating. No one has ever spoken to you so directly, clearly he isn’t concerned about being blunt.

Warily you observe him from a distance, but step out from your hiding spot. He is right, it is rude to peer at someone unashamedly and you’ve been caught in the act.

“I apologise.” Uncharacteristically shy suddenly, you struggle to meet that weighted, black gaze, toying with the details of your dress. “Mr…?”

“Riley. My lady.” He pauses, taking in your form, pupils narrowing slightly. Riley’s head tilts, his tongue running across the surface of his teeth briefly.

“Nice to meet you Mr Riley. Apologies again, I’ll leave you to your business with my father.”

“Ya father? Not the Mrs of the house then?” A blonde brow almost disappears under his cap, but you barely notice it, more flustered by his unabashed question than the idea he thinks your father has taken a young bride. A knot in your gut forms, some unfamiliar feeling that you’re missing an inflection in his words.

“Just a daughter, I’m afraid.” You reply softly.

He seems entirely disinterested in you and feeling thoroughly awkward, you make to sidle back into the drawing room, desperately trying not to trip over your own feet or the hem of your gown.

“Not married then yet?” With the same aura of deadpan calmness, his eyes are back on your face as you turn with a gentle movement of fabric at your calves. “S’pect tha’s on the cards tho innit… my lady.”

The statement is dripping with low sarcasm and you feel your stare widening at it. Internally you’re so shocked by his sheer nerve, that you’re sure your face must show it.

With a grinding of gears you rearrange your expression to one of pleasant cordiality. It’s actually painful, but you do so with the practice of someone used to barbs across a dinner party.

“I don’t imagine that’s any of your concern, Mr Riley.”

His lip quirks like something’s amused him. Things change subtly when that happens, long forgotten humour lightens all of his dour features.

“Quite right.” Mr Riley grunts in response, finally looking away from you and around the lofty entry hall. “You enjoy your tea yeah, hope the days exploits aren’t too tiresome.”

You gawp at him, utterly taken aback and lost for anything to reply with. He doesn’t say another word and silently your fury reaches new heights. It’s not lost on you that society expects someone of your age to at least be engaged, but to have a total stranger call that out so boldly is a new level of torment. The retort dies on your tongue though, an unwillingness to give him any acknowledgment overpowers it.

Shutting your mouth with a pop, you stalk back towards the drawing room, just as Mr Riley gets called upstairs by a footman.

“Why do you look so scandalised?” Your mother sighs, finally putting the journal down and allowing a maid to pour her a fresh cup of tea with the air of someone enduring a great trial. Evidently none of the new fashions were to her liking and she’s in a sour mood because of that.

“No reason.”

You keep your response careful, keen to avoid further questions. You’re so irked by him, that you barely find it within yourself to complain when your mother insists you remain with her for the rest of the afternoon.

Why should the bluntness of such a man disturb you. After all, that’s all he is, a man. One evidently of poor disposition and without manners.

@cutiecusp @murder-hobo @misshugs @pxssygxblin @frudoo @lilynotdilly @wizzdot @blush-haze

Masterlist

[pinklunarprincess]

some terzitos for the soul. 🖤💜

[pinklunarprincess]

Konig despises eggplant. He won't go near the stuff. No matter how you cook it, he'll shiver and grimace every time you offer him a bite.

He goes with you everywhere - and I mean everywhere. Sits at the empty table next to you while you get your nails done. Walks down the path from your front door to the mailbox at the crack of dawn, his hands shoved in his pajama pants. Clingy, though he'll never admit it.

Loves a bar of 70% cocoa as a snack. Doesn't need water or milk to wash it down, but he won't turn down a glass of cold, whole milk if it's offered to him (it never is. He grabs it himself).

He'll yell at you to turn the water temperature down when you shower together. Corners himself as far away from the stream as he can, acting like you're threatening him with a scalding fire poke.

When he comes home after missions, he doesn't always drag you to the bedroom to do the devil's tango. Sometimes, he hugs you tightly and begs you to make an actual meal, something to replenish him after weeks of boiled chicken and canned beans from wherever he was shipped off to. He wants you to sit at the table with him and just talk, please just distract him from his own thoughts.

If you hand him something, he'll hold it. He won't even pause what he's doing, whether that's talking about Spartan phalanx formations, or listening to you babble about your day. And he won't let whatever it is go until you tell him what to do with it. You'll turn around, seeing him holding the half stick of butter you handed him well over five minutes ago. "König, baby, you can put that back in the fridge."

He holds your breasts in his sleep in a non-sexual way - but damn, his grip can be fucking tight sometimes. He's got his head resting on your soft stomach, snoring against your skin as his fingers dig and squeeze at your tits. It takes a few minutes of your whining and shoving at his head before he finally relents, wrapping his arms around your waist instead.

He's happy to go to Home Goods with you and spend an hour just sniffing the different candles. He tends to lean towards the apple, cinnamon, pumpkin, or any warm, holiday scents. He can't stand the ones like "tropical waves", or "fresh linen".

He has eaten an entire wheel of brie cheese in one sitting. Multiple times. With nothing else to compliment it. And he will do it again. You can't stop him.

[pinklunarprincess]

To the men who voted for Donald Trump today:

When your girlfriend gets pregnant, and you’re not ready to become a father, and you’re forced into a position that cripples you emotionally, financially and irreversibly, remember: you did this.

When your sister’s pregnancy turns out to be ectopic, and she can’t get the life-saving medical care she needs and dies a completely pointless, preventable death, remember: you did this.

When your 12-year-old daughter is raped by her soccer coach — after he’s legally allowed to strip off her pants and peep at her genitals, because the existence of trans kids terrifies you — and she steals your shotgun and kills herself in your garage, remember, first and foremost: you did this.

Hundreds of thousands of people are going to die because of the decision you made today.

You did that.

[pinklunarprincess]

This whole fic is just a MASTERPIECE.

Love in Verses (XXIII)

Chapter 23 : ‘Even the dearest that I loved the best are strange – nay, rather, stranger than the rest’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! One of my favs, to be honest, it’s one of the first chapters I wrote for this fic, so it had a special place in my heart.

Also, Saoirse and Sean are back! I’m also making a reference to a documentary in this chapter, I was thinking about Brainwashed directed by Nina Menkes, you can check it out if you’d like!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3694

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

I am

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

John Clare

Andrew was fucking panicking.

Bloody panicking.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and it had to be useful at one point to have an older brother… right?

Andrew would never admit that he needed reassurance, that he needed guidance, a protective figure to pat him on the back and tell him what to do next, and that it was the reason why he had driven to his brother’s on that Monday night. Of course not. Jon was his brother after all. Andrew would never admit any of that out loud, even if it were true.

The hike had happened the day before, that moment he had realised he was falling in love with you. That he was in love with you.

Bloody hell…

“So, let me get this clear…” Jon spoke with his elbows resting on his knees, bent over and leaning towards Andrew, struggling to gather his thoughts. “You thought you were still in love with Sam. Who left you for your colleague’s ex. And you thought ‘hey, what dumb idea could I bring to the table today’ and it led you to try to get back with the woman who cheated on you…”

“She didn’t cheat on me, she left me before she got with Frank.”

“How do you know that? Did you ask her?”

“Frank told Y/N he broke up with her before anything happened with Sam.”

“And she dumped you two weeks after he dumped her. You don’t know what happened.”

Andrew felt a lump creeping up his throat again, and he averted his gaze, rubbing roughly at his collarbone.

“Anyway, let’s move on…” Jon brushed the argument away with a quick gesture of the hand. “You tried to get back with Sam and to help Y/N get back with Frank… and then you fell in love with Y/N. Your colleague. Whom you share an office with.”

“I mean… yeah, kind of… I guess…”

Jon buried his face in his hands.

“I swear to God, Andy… it looks like you purposefully want to ruin your own life.”

“I can’t control the way I feel, Jon!”

“This is madness! She’s in love with her ex!”

“I know!”

Andrew’s voice was shaking more than he wanted it to. Jon looked up at him, reading him like an open book, and Andrew hated it.

“I know, okay?!” Andrew went on, voice still shaking while his throat tightened. “I know! I know I’ve fucked up everything with Sam! I know she got better than me! I know I’ve never stood a chance at getting her back! And I know Y/N is too good for me! I know we’re colleagues and that would complicate everything! And I know, I fuck… fucking know that she’s in love with someone else! I know! I know but I don’t know how to fix this! So can you, for once, be useful and tell me what to do now? Cause… I… I don’t know… Jon, I don’t know…”

God, Andrew hated himself for breaking in front of his brother, for letting the tears escape, but he couldn’t help it. This was too much. He simply couldn’t handle this…

Before he could add anything, Jon had stood up from his armchair and was sitting next to his brother on his couch. He didn’t say a word as he pulled him into a hug.

“Come on, Andy… it’s gonna be fine. You’ll be just fine.”

“Christ… I’m so fucking lost… I don’t know what to do Jon…”

“Do you truly love her? Y/N? Or is she just a rebound.”

“I don’t know…”

He was lying. Of course, Andrew was lying, because he couldn’t say it out loud, how could he? He couldn’t say it to himself… he couldn’t feel like that again…

“Say it. Say it out loud.”

Jon would get it out of him, and Andrew knew that he needed to let it out, to embrace the feeling, but it was so painful… pulling on a knife stuck in a bleeding wound…

“Andy… say it. Answer me.”

Andrew closed his eyes, resting his cheek on his brother’s shoulder, looking across the room. There were posters in black and white of old movies on each wall, and across from Andrew, James Dean was staring at him, a cigarette in his mouth. And Andrew stared at those eyes in black and white, and they stared back. Unwavering. Immortalised on paper and ink. Young, free, rebellious, without a cause…

“I love her,” Andrew whispered. “I love her, Jon. I’m falling more and more every time I see her.”

“Is it serious? Or just a crush?”

Andrew shrugged.

“I’m in love. I feel… like I could love her more than I’ve ever loved Sam… How can I feel like that? I thought Sam was the one! I thought we would stay together, I… I thought about marrying her at one point!”

“She wasn’t good for you, Andy.”

“You sound like mom. And dad.”

“When were they ever wrong? About anything?”

Andrew sniffed, knowing damn well the answer, refusing to admit it.

“She was nice enough,” Jon conceded. “She was smart, beautiful, successful… but she didn’t care enough, Andy. She didn’t care enough about you. She was selfish, in her way of loving you. You deserve better than that.”

Andrew pondered these words, wanted to believe them, couldn’t…

“What do I do now? It’s a mess…”

“Yeah, it’s messy… But you’ll be fine. You need to do whatever makes you happy.”

“What a shitty answer. Did you find it in a bloody fortune cookie or something?”

“Do you still want to be with Sam?”

Andrew took a moment to think.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so… I don’t know…”

“Do you want to be with Y/N?”

“She doesn’t want that…”

“That was not my question.”

Andrew struggled to swallow, but nodded.

“Yeah… yeah, I want her.”

“Then, love her. Maybe, with a bit of time, she’ll love you too.”

“What do I do to make her love me?”

But Jon chuckled.

“I’m single, remember? How am I supposed to know that?”

Valid point. But Andrew reckoned that he could at least try. He could find the things you didn’t like, he could change… maybe… be better for you…

There was silence for a moment, Andrew sniffed, looking at James Dean still. It was raining outside, as per usual. On the windowpane close to the poster, raindrops formed lines that turned the world into a blur. Dublin was but rough shapes and patches of brown, grey and white.

“How did you realise?”

“What?” Andrew croaked.

“That you love Y/N.”

“I won’t tell you. You’re gonna laugh at me.”

“I won’t laugh. You’re crying.”

“Like that has ever stopped you before!”

“Come on, I know you’re truly upset, I won’t take the piss. Tell me.”

Andrew heaved a sigh.

“We went hiking yesterday. And the day was so great, she was so funny… and then we took a break and she had brought snacks, and… she had all my favourites. Like… it was so fucking sweet…”

Jon started chuckling.

“She brought you snacks, and you fell for her?”

“You don’t understand.”

Andrew broke their hold, got up in a jolt. He was rubbing at his collarbone again.

“She… she did that for me. And she… she knows me… like… she knew what I liked. That’s… I don’t know how to explain it. I felt so… understood… like… Like I wasn’t on my own for a moment, you know? Like there was actually someone who cared enough about me to go through all the trouble of learning what I like and showing it… just to make me happy. Like…”

Andrew heaved a sigh.

“Anyway… I knew you’d laugh at me.”

“If I give you a cracker, will you declare your undying love for me?”

“Fuck off!”

Before he could tell his brother another insult, Jon was throwing a cushion at his head, making Andrew huff as he lost his balance for a second.

He was laughing again as he picked up the cushion and threw it back.

But that didn’t answer his question.

What would Andrew do now?

When he eventually got home, he wasn’t sleepy at all. Instead of going to bed, he scrolled aimlessly on his phone, wasting his time on social media. Once he had enough of it, he decided to organise his photos on his phone. He put them into files, kept some messily saved without any home.

And then he reached the pictures he had taken the previous day, of your hike. Landscape, trees, clouds, and you… you standing on top of that hill, while the world laid at you feet. Your red scarf, Elwood sitting by your feet. Your beanie, your warm coat. You were a silhouette on this picture, and yet he loved it, loved that feeling that you were towering over the world. His world.

He pressed his thumb on his screen a few times, and then admired his work. When he unlocked his phone again, instead of seeing Sam’s smiling face, he was seeing your frame among the Wicklow Hills.

He heaved a sigh.

What would Andrew do now?

Saoirse was fucking panicking.

Bloody panicking.

Essays were piling up and it was a bloody nightmare. A FUCKING NIGHTMARE.

She was going to fail. She was going to fail all of her exams, and especially the one about 20th century literature, because… who the fuck was mad enough to make a class about the fucking modernist avant-garde, huh?

Professor Hozier-Byrne was, of course. Of bloody course. It had to be the nicest of them too, and the hottest, and the one who actually gave two fucks about his students… which meant that she couldn’t even be mad at him and curse at him for the suffering she was enduring as she struggled with this James Joyce novel… For Christ’s sake…

She heaved a painful sigh, hitting repeatedly her head against her table. Sean merely laughed at her.

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“It is that bad. It is worse. It is DEATH! I don’t understand a bloody thing about that fucking novel.”

“It could be worse, we could be studying Ulysses, it’s only The portrait.”

“Yes, and I could catch the plague and meet my certain death, but I can still die if I catch pneumonia.”

“You’re exaggerating. Wait until we switch to Beckett. And apparently we’re gonna study The Third Policeman as well…”

She let out a long moan, faking a sob, her forehead pressed to the table, where her notes and books were scattered. She looked up at her computer screen.

“As if Woolfe was not enough already… Please… kill me… death will be a sweeter fate than this torture…”

She didn’t notice the way Sean smiled, with something tender tugging at his lips. But he did. He did, because warmth was spreading across his chest at her antiques, and he thought about how adorable she looked like this, being silly while studying and being ten times smarter than him.

“I’ll help you with that essay if you give me a hand with Y/L/N’s… Oscar Wilde is kicking my arse.”

“Ha! That I understand!” she sat up, happy again, and speaking a little too loudly in the busy but quiet library.

She mouthed a silent sorry as a couple of students glared at her.

“Y/L/N’s class is so much easier to me,” she went on. “I can’t with this bloody… stream of consciousness and whatnot.”

Sean was about to answer when he noticed that Saoirse wasn’t listening anymore, looking over his shoulder.

“What…?” he made a movement to turn around, but the girl stopped him with a hiss, reaching across the table to grab his forearm, and the contact dazzled him too much to allow him to move again.

“H-B and Y/L/N are right behind you.”

“And?”

“And… I want to listen on their conversation, obviously. Don’t you want to know the tea?”

He rolled his eyes, but focused to catch their words too anyway.

“Mr. Darcy? The Jane Austen character? Really?” Andrew said in a whisper, clearly unimpressed. “You’re saying that the perfect man, the fictional character that sets unreachable standards… is a guy from the 19th century? That’s not very modern of you…”

You turned around, eyeing him up and down in a judgemental way.

He was following you across the library, the book he wanted to borrow tucked under his arm. He didn’t need to go through the 19th century section, he wasn’t working on that. But you did. So, Andrew followed you around, just to keep you close for a moment, just to keep talking to you for a little longer than your impromptu encounter in the hall of the library about fifteen minutes ago, when you entered and he was about to reach the counter to borrow his book. You didn’t know that though. He had pretended that he had another book to look for but had asked for help. You had believed him, of course, why wouldn’t you?

And now you were giving him a lecture on the female gaze in literature, apparently…

“Mr. Darcy is the perfect example of the use of the female gaze, as opposed to the male gaze.”

“I mean… he’s kind of a jerk at the beginning. He fixes his mistakes, but he started as a gobshite.”

But you shook your head, scanning the shelf while you kept on talking.

“But that’s the point. He fixes his mistakes thinking it will change nothing. He doesn’t improve and changes because he thinks it’s going to lead to Elizabeth loving him. He changes because she makes him see how much of a jerk he can be, how he acted from only his point of view, without taking her into account. And her rejection makes him reevaluate his decisions. He fixes things because he realises he hurt her and those she loved, but his intention is not bound to have what he wants, only to stop her suffering. Female gaze, versus male gaze. And that is, obviously, without mentioning the treatment of female characters in Austen’s novels. Characters with minds, and feelings, and wants, and wills… who make mistakes, and take decisions. Instead of a passive vessel under a male gaze, either to project a want, a longing, lust, love, fear, morals… ”

You were expecting Andrew to argue, because men always did. No matter your degree, and your expertise on the female gaze, on this very question, they always did.

Female gaze versus male gaze. Bloody misogyny…

But Andrew merely stared at you, and you could see in his slight frown that his brain was working at full speed. And when he spoke, it was to ask a new question, not contradict you.

“So… the fact that Darcy acts in a self-sacrificing way is what defines the female take on a character of his type?”

There was no judgement in his question, you were surprised by it.

“You can put it like that. It’s more… the fact that after being rejected for good, he steps back. Yes, you can see it as something like sacrifice, or genuine altruism or compassion. He still loves her, but he understands that she doesn’t, and instead of showing off and trying to make her change her mind, he steps back, accepts it, and reassesses his choices accordingly, without the occasion of winning her heart by doing so. He fixes his mistakes and keeps on protecting her because he loves her, not because he can get her back that way.”

Slowly, Andrew nodded.

“I think I get it. And that’s… unreachable for any real man for you?”

His tone was less serious again, drawing the conversation towards something less theoretical. You scoffed.

“Well, I haven’t found a counter-example yet.”

Andrew seemed to hesitate before speaking again, but he couldn’t hold back his question.

“Do you think Frank would have failed that test? That he would have disappointed you in that situation?”

You scoffed again.

“Like he hasn’t already disappointed me…”

You heaved a sigh, picking up a book and checking the summary on the back.

“Anyway, it’s alright. That’s why Mr. Darcy is fictional.”

Andrew gave you a smile, nodding and deciding to stir the conversation away from Frank again. It was making his heart ache a little too much…

“I saw yesterday that there is a documentary on TV on Sunday afternoon, about the male gaze in cinema. It seems very interesting. Would you like to watch it with me? I could cook us lunch too.”

You looked at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah, I… I saw that but… you want to watch that?”

He frowned a little, tilting his head, puzzled by your surprise.

“Yeah, totally. It seems to be very interesting. And… I mean… you’re literally an expert on the subject, even if you’re specialised in literature rather than cinema… So, it would be nice to have your input on that.”

You blinked, still surprised.

“I… yeah… yeah, that would be great.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Andrew chuckled to hide his burning cheeks. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No! That’s… surprising, that’s all.”

“How so?”

“You… never mind.”

“No, tell me. How is it surprising? I think your research is very interesting, and very much needed. I… I genuinely want to hear your take on this.”

“That’s…” you heaved a sigh, but gave him an earnest answer. “It’s just that… coming from a man, it’s pretty surprising.”

His face fell.

“Oh… I see.”

“Misogyny in the academic world is more common than feminism…”

“Yeah… yeah, I understand. I get it.”

“It’s just… usually men try to pretend that they are the expert on the subject I study for a living. So… that was impressive enough to hear you recognise that I’m the expert here. But then you’re even curious about women’s point of view… yeah, surprising, to say the least. I shouldn’t react like that though. I know you’re a feminist, I’m sorry. It’s just… a biased reflex.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through that. What a band of fucking pricks…”

You raised a surprised eyebrow again.

“Wow… he can curse like an actual sailor!”

Andrew rolled his eyes at your teasing, an amused smile on his lips still forming.

“Right… so, are you coming over on Sunday? Or am I making you work extra-hours and you’d rather just sleep and eat your weight in ice-cream?”

“I’ll come. And if you’re nice to me, I’ll even bring dessert.”

“Deal. Can’t wait.”

You opened your mouth to speak again, your eyes glimmering happily, but Andrew shut you down.

“No, you can’t buy a new toy for Elwood! My dog will end up loving you more than he loves me.”

“That has been my devilish plan from the beginning.”

You tucked the book you had been looking at under your arm.

“Okay, I’m all set.”

But Andrew had one more question, another one that he hesitated to ask, but he took the risk anyway, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck as he spoke again.

“Y/N?”

You turned to him again, silently inviting him to continue.

“If you were Elizabeth, and Frank was Mr. Darcy, what would you ask him to change for you?”

You blinked, surprised at his question, and you pondered on his words for a moment. But your answer was still earnest.

“Not breaking my heart.”

“Fair enough,” he smiled.

“And just… I don’t know… to…”

You hesitated, but answered anyway.

“To ask me about my day. I would have really liked it if he had asked about my days when we were together.”

You exchanged a sad smile. And Andrew spoke his next question the final one, the most important one too, the one that made him truly scared of your answer.

“And if you were Elizabeth, and I was Mr. Darcy… what would I need to change?”

You frowned at his question, and opened your mouth to answer, before closing it again.

“I… I don’t know. Honestly, I… I don’t know. I can’t really think about anything. I mean… you were never a jerk to begin with, so…” you added with a warm smile.

And at first, he smiled back, but then you turned around and he clenched his jaw. He tightened his hold on his book as you moved along the shelf. He couldn’t help the longing in his eyes.

Despite that answer, despite having nothing to change in him at first sight… you still wanted Frank, instead of him… God, he wished you could have told him what was wrong with him. What had made him unworthy of Samantha, but most importantly… what made him unworthy of you.

Andrew heaved a sigh, followed you with his head and shoulders bent, and he tried to hide his feelings when you turned around again, stirring up a new topic of conversation while you exited the room.

Meanwhile, Saoirse and Sean had listened to the conversation. When she focused on him again, Saoirse grabbed both of his arms and energetically shook him, shouting in a whisper.

“OH. MY. GOD!” she whispered, her voice made raspy by the cry she was refraining. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

“Huh… yeah, they… were… talking…”

“Talking? TALKING?! Sean! THEY ARE IN FUCKING LOVE! H-B is at least. HEAD OVER HEELS! Did you not see that longing in his eyes when she answered? AND THAT FUCKING QUESTION?! WHO ASKS QUESTIONS LIKE THAT?! WHO IS READY TO CHANGE FOR THE WOMAN HE IS FUCKING PINNING OVER?!”

“God’s sake, stop shaking me!”

She let go of him, out of breath.

“Oh my God, they are so CUTE! Do you think they will end up together? I hope so, they seem so cute! They would be so cute! And they’re both so nice, they totally would make each other happy! I hope he’ll make her change her mind, cause the girl seems fucking oblivious…”

“Don’t you think that you’re… overreacting? Overreading into this?”

She rolled her eyes, slapping her palm against her forehead.

“Men are so fucking stupid,” she complained.

Truer words were rarely spoken…

[pinklunarprincess]

Birth of Venus 🩵✨

One of the rare instances a school assignment actually turns out good

[pinklunarprincess]

Anyways, I love you Band Ghost fanfic authors regardless of what you write. I love you Band Ghost artists, both traditional and digital. I love you people who are enthusiastic about analyzing lyrics. I love you Band Ghost fans who don’t care for “lore” and simply enjoy the music.

Despite the negatives you have all shaped my understanding of self love, going against the grain of religious dogma, and understanding my own sexual liberation (despite being on the ace spectrum tee hee).

Keep the positivity going in the tags 🫶🏽💕

[pinklunarprincess]

[pinklunarprincess]

Part 4 of Men at Work!

Just a note, I know I mix phonetic and Cyrillic spellings of Russian in this. Mostly it's so that people can easily translate the more complex words directly.

Content: Masturbation, very mild protective/possessive behavior

It’s becoming a problem.

You think this from the overstuffed daybed recently purchased for the explicit purpose of feeding into aforementioned problem. Not that the porch is the problem, heavens no. If so much as a nail came loose, there’s a trio of men across the street all too eager to lend their hammers and bulging, glistening muscles to fix it.

Which, conveniently, is the problem.

Their muscles, that is. And how magnanimous they are with them.

Your house is nice. New. It took them three days to fix all the issues you’d been putting off for a day you were non-reclusive enough to schedule a handyman.

Your house is too nice and too new.

You’re feeding a Vegas buffet’s worth of appetites raised on old world sensibilities with no outlet for them to be expressed. There aren’t enough squeaky hinges, crooked cabinets, stuck windows, or leaky faucets in your two-bedroom for all that… chivalry. (Or whatever Krueger has that passes for chivalry’s surly cousin.)

They’ve taken to invading earlier in the evening for busy work before dinner. Cutting vegetables, tenderizing meat, cleaning dishes, setting the goddamn table.

Like, sirs, you’re a single woman with three cats and a sham of a personal life – the last time you saw a centerpiece on a domestic dining table was Christmas at your nana’s.

Until Konig shuffled in with a fistful of sunflowers and zinnias, promising that he double-checked that they’re non-toxic to cats. You didn’t have a vase, so you had to make do with an empty mason jar you were keeping for ostensible aesthetic reasons.

Now you’ve got an ongoing bouquet, kitschy salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like lemons that no one ever uses (as if your seasoning decisions are as good as god) and are contemplating cloth napkins like some kind of… of…

“Socialite?” you muse aloud. You glance at Rasputin. He blinks slowly. “Hostess? Woman of the night?”

You’re pretty sure Agatha didn’t mean that as a compliment when you overheard her gossiping to Margot yesterday. (She should really remember that if she can eavesdrop on you from her backyard, the same is true the other way around.)

You’re toying with an idea for a new series with your last one wrapping up and your solo-novel due for release come fall. Something about a rich young woman with a wild streak and her fantastically wealthy gentlemen callers…

“Scarlet woman,” you murmur aloud, eyes on the reason for your recent porch décor purchase.

Krueger is on the roof, cloth around his head to stave off the summer heat. Doing… something with shingles and a nail gun. Your face flushes with each flex of hard muscle, jump of thick tendons. The grip he has on that thing…

As inspiring as your neighbors are, they are also a huge (in many, many ways) distraction. Hence, they are a Problem.

And not just for you. On your right, you catch the flutter of curtains from your peripheral. Lisa taking another peek – to be properly scandalized, probably. (You’re not really sure what the neighborhood biddies tell themselves when they decide something is Simply Not Proper.)

“We’ll have to start charging admission,” you muse, sipping a strawberry mojito.

Curled up far too close for the weather, Little Guy chuffs and stretches. You smooth a fingertip up his little nose, between his eyes, and over the crest of his empty head.

“Jezebel,” you mumble. He yawns, tongue curling and pearly fangs gleaming. “Trollop.”

An annoyed grunt pulls your eyes forward again. Nikto is standing halfway up the porch, one foot planted on the last step like a sexy Russian Captain Morgan. His thighs stretch his workpants oh-so-nicely. There’s a smear of white paste across the material – caulking, maybe?

(You could do with a caulking too.)

“Has someone called you these?” he asks. “Who?”

You laugh. What would he even do if someone had?

“No – well, not to my face, anyway.”

He snorts, shoots a withering scowl at Agatha’s property anyway. You spin your pen around your fingers and try not to bite your lip at the way his shirt is clinging from sweat.

“Aren’t you hot?” you fuss. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Nyet, we have been in worse,” he replies, finishing the short journey up the porch. He pauses in front of you, taking in the sight of you and your cats. What does he think, seeing you lounging about all day while he and his friends(?) are working so hard? If it’s something negative, he’s never let on.

“Still,” you insist, “have you been hydrating?”

“Da, the water runs.”

You blink, put together pieces to assume he and the others are chugging tap water (probably right from the faucet) when necessary. Well, that just won’t do now, will it?

“No, no. Hold on. Rasputin, hold him hostage.”

And like the little angel he is, Ras gets up, stretches out, and begins rubbing his face all over Nikto’s pants. With him distracted, you hop to your feet and scurry inside. The house is almost uncomfortably cool after most of your morning spent outside, but you’ll only be a moment.

There’s a large ruby pitcher waiting in the fridge from last night, complete with various berries floating at the top. You use two hands to heft it out, set it on the counter, then flit to your cabinets for the travel cups you invested in for on-the-go wine sipping. Nice and insulated.

You pour a cup for each of them, stow the pitcher away again, and carry all three in triangle-formation back outside. (Maybe you should get a tray? The antique store in town probably has something pretty and lemon-themed to match the salt and pepper shakers…)

Nikto hurries to help as soon as he sees you, plucking the extra cup from your hands.

“I saw this recipe and wanted to try it since it’s been getting hotter.”

He blinks at you, then the juice.

“You don’t have to try it now, I just thought—”

Your voice abandons you as Nikto tugs his filtration mask down. The skin beneath is warped and scarred, discolored in some places. When he raises the edge of the cup to his mouth, the skin of one cheek stretches distressingly thin. You can see the individual indents of his back molars pressing against the flesh as he drinks.

You understand why he’s been hesitant to show you; it’s not easy to look at. Which makes you all the more determined to flick your eyes back to his and ask, eagerly, “What do you think? Too sweet?”

As he swallows, throat clicking, you think you hear him grunt something.

“Hm?”

“Nyet. Not too sweet. Is good, пчела.”

You grin even though you’re not sure what it means. All three of them have some nickname in their mother tongue that you can only hope is complimentary and not because they forgot your actual name.

“Good, then I can bring some to K and K while you help me with lunch. That’s why you came by, right?”

He nods. “Nearly noon.”

“That late already!” you say. Wow, staring at hot, sweaty men really makes time fly. “Alright, I was going to make chicken wraps and latkes. Could you start peeling potatoes? You know where everything is, da?”

“Da.” He clicks his tongue, luring Rasputin in and stirring Guy awake. “Come, малышу, before we leave you out here for vultures.”

“Nikto!” you scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

“I do not threaten. It is what will happen.”

You swat at his arm, but at least Little Guy has been lured into Nikto’s reach – if by nothing else than a hand has been offered and cats are helpless to resist a good sniff. Nikto scoops him up while you turn to flounce down the stairs.

“Make sure Susan doesn’t get out!” you call over your shoulder.

She was roused by your quick turnaround to get the juice cups and will certainly be stalking the door now.

Sure enough, you faintly hear him cursing in Russian as you reach the end of the yard. Luckily, you see him closing the door with all three of your demons inside, so you continue across the street.

Krueger hasn’t noticed your approach, his back to you, so you stop at the edge of the property to watch for a moment. Yep, just as good this close, too.

“Krueger!” you call. He doesn’t turn. You huff and try again. Nothing. Christ, you’re starting to think he’s ignoring you on purpose. “Sebastian!”

His head whips around alarmingly fast and finds you right there on the ground. No need to look around at all – sometimes they remind you of their profession in the oddest ways.

“Ja, ja, no need to shout,” he replies.

You open your mouth to do just that, but he’s already scaling down from the roof. You’re stunned into silence as he slides down to the edge of the roof, catches the edge, and swings down to the ground. Lands with barely more noise than one of your footsteps. It’s quick yet so graceful.

You stare (gawk, more accurately) as he saunters up, pants sinfully low on his narrow hips.

“What did you need, bienchen?” he asks. “It is too early for lunch.”

You stutter for a second before your brain reboots.

“What was that?!” you demand, a little shriller than necessary. If you don’t shriek about this, you’re going to shriek about that gorgeous chest and the tattoos and the everything else, and you absolutely cannot do that. “That was so dangerous! You’re going to break a leg!”

“You worry,” he scoffs. He shakes his head, but there’s a wicked, knowing grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes are far too bright. “That was a little jump.”

“It was not!”

“It only seemed big because you are so little, but it was nothing for me.”

“You’re not that much taller!”

“It is sweet to worry,” he coos, “but it is too hot for it, yes?”

You scrunch your nose at him, not sure if you’re annoyed or turned on or both. (Probably both. It’s annoying how hot he is. And how hot he knows he is.)

“If it’s so hot, then here.”

You all but shove the cup at him. He takes it with a flicker of genuine surprise, sniffs at the liquid, then takes a sip. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest, raises the temperature another few degrees.

“My mother used to make something like this,” he muses, expression softening. You blink, lean in automatically for a peck to your cheek. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte,” you mumble, mouth drier than Reggie’s garden.

His eyes crinkle, mouth hidden by the edge of the cup as he proceeds to chug the rest of it. A droplet slips down his jaw and skips down to his collarbone. You force your eyes away before you’re driven to do something irreparable by thirst.

“Is Konig inside?” you ask. “I have a cup for him, too.”

He grunts confirmation, tongue curling around a blueberry to coax it into his mouth.

Yep, alright, that’s about as much as you can take.

“Scooch, before the punch goes warm.”

“Punch?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow at you.

“That’s what it’s called in English. Punch.”

“That seems like it would cause misunderstanding.” Except he’s grinning as he says it, like he cherishes the idea of someone confusing the two words and starting a fight. Considering how often you catch him and Konig smacking at each other, that’s probably not a stretch.

“Just please don’t swing on anyone, yeah?”

“Only because you ask so nicely,” he croons.

You click your tongue at him. “Wipe off before going in, I don’t want Shithead to stink after crawling on you.”

He barks out his usual sharp laugh and tugs the cloth – his own t-shirt – off his head to mop up his sweat. You make a mental note to tease him about sunburn later as you slip past him.

You can hear Konig singing off-key upstairs when you open the door. The house is sweltering, only mildly cooler than outside with none of the fresh air. You grimace as you pause at the bottom of the stairs; the boys have warned you that it’s dangerous up there and it’s best not to go wandering.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like he’s using power tools at the moment.

“Konig!” you call.

“Is that you, biene?” he calls back.

You grin. “Who else would it be, huh?”

You hear his footsteps right over your head, track his gait until the first heavy boot on the stairs. He meets you at the bottom with his usual ventilator on, but he tugs it down when he sees the cup in your hand.

“Is this for me?” he asks eagerly.

“Yep! Tell me what you think!”

With none of Nikto or Kreuger’s hesitation, he knocks back a big mouthful. Licks his full lips as he lowers it, eyes bright as they land on yours.

“This is perfect,” he chirps, “so refreshing! Thank you, biene!”

You beam right back, flushed with pride that all three of them liked the recipe you “happened to find” when you saw the temperature projections for today.

“There’s more back home,” you offer, “come out of the heat.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “I will wipe off first.”

You hum agreeably, watching him slip back upstairs with great enthusiasm. Konig in a tank top and those tight cargos… summer really is delivering this year.

That evening, you sigh as you recline across your huge bed, naked and cooling off with the night breeze rolling through your window. Ras and Shithead are happily distracted wrestling each other in your forgotten towel, and Little Guy is snoozing on his personal pillow.

You stretch out, feeling a bit decadent and indulgent with moonlight spilling over your body, and let your hands wander. It’s not the high-efficiency sleep-oriented wank you usually rush through, not this time.

You unspool memories of the day with each brush of your fingertips over moisturized skin. You hum as your skin tingles, imagining Konig’s calloused palms in place of yours. He’d be so surprisingly gentle, you’re sure. Big, strong hands but he’d play with you like a precious toy. Plucking your nipples and scratching his blunt nails over the plush of your hips.

As your breathing picks up, you see Krueger’s broad shoulders flexing behind your eyelids. Imagine them bullying between your thighs, hooking your knees over. That bright glint in his eye as he smirks against your cunt. Can practically feel the curl of his tongue around your clit, eating you out messy and mean.

You’re already halfway there when you curl two fingers into your pussy. You’re so wet that your fingers slip and slide, squelch lewdly as you rock your hips, trying to find just the right angle.

You imagine Nikto clicking his tongue at your struggle. Almost hear his low, hoarse voice chiding you for doing his job while he takes over. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, you have to press a third in just to maintain the fantasy.

You want to lean back against his broad chest while he strokes your walls, listen to him and Krueger and Konig talk about you like you’re not even there, debating if you should come. Ignore you as you beg and whimper, big hands pinning you down while they draw it out.

Please, please, please…

You clap a hand over your mouth just in time, hips jerking so hard that it makes your wrist ache.

Whoops.

Well, you doubt anyone heard. It’s pretty late, and you’re on the second story anyway.

Already sleepy, you’re too lazy to close the window after a pre-bed stop in the restroom. It’s such a nice night, after all.

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[pinklunarprincess]

‘My kink is Karma’ by Chappell Roan has been stuck in my head for the past three days, and honestly… I dedicate it to one bitch I cut out of my life 🥰😤

I’ve genuinely never been happier in life and with myself

[pinklunarprincess]

The moon is friend for the lonesome to talk to.

- Carl Sandburg

[pinklunarprincess]

Bartender Simon, who cuts of a drunk costumer. The costumer is angry and begins insulting Simon, particularly his looks. It doesn't bother Simon but how does Waitress!Reader react?

Alas... the much-awaited ktih

Warnings: making out, groping, dry-humping

It was only seven pm, and Cole was already drunk. Simon knew this would happen - it usually does, at least every Friday night. He comes in, drinks for a solid two hours, until Simon finally has to cut him off and steer him in the direction of his apartment. The man at least lets him add twenty percent auto gratuity if he has to be sent home like that - and, more often than not, it's every week.

Today, however, is a different story.

Cole had come in at four, right when the pub opened. He gave you his usual, tight-lipped smile, making his way to the seat he took every Friday evening. Simon was already pouring his beer by the time he removed his coat. The conversation continues (mostly one-sided on Cole's part), as does the night, and he never ceases to tip the beers back - rattling on about how much money he makes, only getting louder when a group of women walks by.

Around nine at night is when he began to get drunk enough that the numbers on his tab begin to blend together. "A'aight- 'nother one for good fortune." He smacks his empty glass against the bartop, making you jump slightly as you did your tips at the end of the.

"Not tonight." Simon says, hovering over the POS and punching buttons on the screen. "You got 'nuff for good fortune. You can pick it back up next week."

"Bahhh, c'mon - I'll pay double." Cole slurs, leaning over the bar.

"What's your wife's name?" Simon asks, turning back around and leaning against the liquor shelf.

"... Sharon."

"Ya not even married, Cole."

He laughs, eyes glassy as he smacks the bartop and wheezes. "Tha's good! Real good- ya got me. Can't keep a woman 'f I tried."

Simon doesn't comment. He slides Cole's receipt across the bar, before promptly turning back and grabbing a glass.

Cole sighs, crumpling the receipt in his fist. "Y' don't want business?"

"Don't want you gettin' lost findin' your Uber." Simon replies, polishing a glass.

"Y'know..." Cole leans back in his seat, very adamantly refusing to leave, "I know you're strugglin' t' bring in the money with... whatever ya got goin' on behind the mask."

Maybe when he was a lieutenant, constantly dealing with jabs and stabs towards his ego, it would have gotten to him. But Simon just huffs in annoyance. "This what you resort to when you can't get a beer?"

"Defensive much?" Cole bites back. "You could use the money to fix y'r fuckin' face. Should stop bein' such a cunt n' worryin' 'bout me like you're my mum."

"Hardly - your mom probably wishes she'd swallowed you instead."

Simon nearly drops the glass - it takes him a moment to realize that you had spoken, and another one to process just what exactly you had said. He turns around to find you, staring Cole down with the most disgusted, angry expression he's ever seen you display. He's speechless - mostly because he didn't know you had an arsenal of insults, ready to fire off like this.

Cole chuckles drunkenly, turning in his seat to face you from down the bar. "Don' like it when I insult y'r bank account, do ya?"

"Aren't you supposed to be dumpster diving or something?" You snap, getting up out of your seat - Simon's never seen such a look in your eyes, and he quickly steps out from behind the bar to jog over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, but you don't back down.

"You realize who you're talkin' to, little girl?"

"Draco Malfoy if he'd gone into British Parliament."

"Oi-" Simon snaps, fingers digging into your shoulder - surprisingly, you swat his hand away. You're fuming at this overgrown cabbage, running his mouth like he actually means something to anyone in this pub.

Cole purses his lips; your insults are getting to him. "You gonna do somethin' with this chick?" he asks Simon - who nearly blows a cap, but you beat him to it.

"Y'know, maybe you should spend your money on fixing those fucking teeth - because I see they're still social distancing - instead of wasting our time here, you grey, fucking sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake-"

"Hey- stairwell. Go." Simon gives you a gentle shove towards the stairs, and you throw your hands up and storm off. He stares after you, wide-eyed and tense, watching as you disappear behind the stairwell door. He's quickly growing hard, concerningly, after witnessing you fire off at Cole with a loaded gun full of wit and anger - it was quite possibly the most attractive thing he's seen you do.

Cole huffs, breaking Simon's focus. "Women - sticking their noses where they don't belong." he looks at him, expecting the bartender to agree.

Simon's holding back the urge to drive his fist into the man's skull. He grabs Cole's jacket from the back of the chair and shoves it into his chest so hard he nearly falls from his seat. "If you're not gone in the next ten minutes, Soap 'n I will make you leave, you understand?" he doesn't even wait for a reply, turning on his heel and stalking towards the stairwell, boots thudding heavily against the ground.

He's got bigger priorities at the moment.

You're standing in the stairwell, chewing the edge of your sweater as you stare at the dustpan and broom. Simon can surely fight his own battles - he didn't seem irritated in the slightest by Cole, why did you step in? Simon isn't yours (unfortunately), you don't need to defend him. You don't have the right to defend him other than the fact that he's your coworker. Manager. And you were definitely doing it based on other, unspoken reasons. It was obvious. Is it obvious to him? Forget possibly losing your job, is he going to be mad that you lost your shit like that? That you put your foot where it doesn't belong? That-

The door to the stairwell swings open, and you stop your pacing. His eyes are lidded. Angry? You can't tell. He looks rather intimidating, tall and tense as the door swings shut behind him, mask bunched into his fist as he shoves it into his back pocket.

You think he's about to let you have it, to chew you out for your outburst. "Simon, I'm-"

His rough hands are around your face before you know it - right as you open your mouth to yelp in shock, he leans down and kisses you.

Your eyes force themselves shut. You don't have a chance to pull away, not with his hand cradling the back of your head. He won't let you; you don't want to. His breath fans across your face, fingers calloused yet gentle as they relax around you, and you sigh into his touch, tilting your head to let him get closer. Your arms rest against his shoulders, squeezing the muscle as you feel months of worry and anticipation melt away-

And then, as quickly as it had begun, Simon has the audacity to stop and pull his head back.

His eyes find yours, still cupping your face in his hands. He looks breathless - good. At least you know he's just as riled up as you are, now. There's a hint of pink on his cheeks, and a need for reassurance in his hazy stare. He needs to know he was right, despite the months of flirting and the little chase you've been leading him in; now that he's finally caught up, caught you in his grasp, he needs you to tell him you want this. Though he doesn't know how he'll survive if you don't.

"You ok?" He pants, brow creased with uncertainty.

You let out a noise of frustration - threading your fingers behind his neck, you pull him back down, sealing your lips against his once again.

He exhales through his nose in relief. His hands find your waist as you part your lips, letting him slip inside and explore your mouth. Your fingernails dig crescents into his skin - he lets out a rather needy-sounding groan, backing you up until you hit the wall. You whine; your tongue flicking across his lower lip sends a shiver down his spine, heat building and twisting and tangling in his gut until you break away for a moment, nipping your teeth into his lip.

His mind short-circuits; he grunts, all the blood in his head rushing south to his cock, where it's getting uncomfortably warm and tight. He grabs you underneath your ass and hoists you up, and you squeak, instinctively locking your legs around his hips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he kisses you feverishly, desire brewing in your stomach as he presses you into the wall, tongues and teeth clashing, the both of you unable to satisfy the ever-growing blaze. It threatens to burn up the stairwell until there's nothing left but a sweaty, naked mess.

Simon breaks away to latch onto your neck, taking the thin flesh and rolling it between his teeth You bite back a whimper, carding your fingers through his hair; he bucks his hips in response, albeit involuntarily. You can sense the knot in your pelvis tightening, underwear growing slick as you feel the size of his erection with each thrust. Even through his clothes, you can tell it would be a challenge, but you've never been one to back down.

Fingers slide under his shirt, feeling the solid wall of muscle and fat beneath - his retracts a hand and drags it up your stomach, kneading and groping your tit through your shirt, silencing your moan with another searing, wet kiss. He's grinding into you now, hips rolling, cock twitching through his pants as you lock your ankles behind his back, and fuck he's ready to strip you bare right here and fuck you against the wall, ready to get back at you for teasing him for so long, ready to listen to your cries as you take each and every rung of his piercing-

He catches himself, lips moving away from yours to kiss along your chin, all the way up to your jaw. He sighs as he stills his hips, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he leans his weight into you. You feel him relaxing, wondering if he's worried about you again, but you so desperately want this to continue where it's heading.

"I'm alright, I'm alright-"

"I know..." he mumbles, his hand sliding back to your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, fingers barely slipping past the hem of your shorts. He wants to go further, to feel the hem of your panties snap against his fingers, but he forces back the urge.

"What's wrong?" you pant, craning your neck to the side to look at him.

"'M not..." he huffs, pulling his head back and gazing down at you. "Not fuckin' you in the stairwell, dove. 'S filthy back here."

Your face heats up even more - the fact that he had to hold himself back from disheveling you right now is an unspoken compliment. "Can we take it upstairs?"

He chuckles and gently sets you down, much to your disdain. "No. Got a bar to run." He says, preening at the way you pout at that. "And I'm takin' you out, first."

"Out?"

"Yea, for lunch."

"Wh- where?"

"You decide. Monday."

Monday - that's deep-clean day. "Don't we have to be here at noon?"

He chuckles. Always worrying about losing your job. "I'll make an exception. Won't fire ya for goin' on a date with me."

Date. God, you could scream. "But what if Price-"

"If that man ever threatens your position at this pub," Simon leans down, gently grabbing your chin between his fingers, "you come to me, n' I'll knock some sense into 'im. Sound good?"

You're too starstruck to register half of what he's said. Simon Riley's just kissed you. AND admitted to wanting to fuck you. Now, he's taking you on a date on Monday. Did you have any plans? Doesn't matter. If you do, they're cancelled.

"Uh huh..." you say, absentmindedly leaning into his touch.

Looking down at you: you, you... god, can he call you his? Is that too soon? The stars in your eyes while you're staring at him, the struggle within himself to avoid both adoration and getting hard(er)... He takes another deep breath, thumb running down the blossoming hickey on your neck.

"Right." he taps your cheek softly, then goes to tuck his shirt back in from where you'd torn it from the waistband. "Go ahead n' take a minute. Come to the bar 'fore you leave."

He grabs the handle to leave, hesitating only for a moment. Both of you seem to have the same idea, sharing a hive mind with each other. You quickly move forward and he leans down as you both kiss again, slower, trying to savor this one. Honey drips from your brain into your chest, every cell in your body screaming in relief, satisfaction, and pure joy...

He breaks away again, laying a kiss to the crown of your head. You sit down on the stairs as he walks back onto the pub floor. He's still hard, and it's plain as day - but he could care less right now. He's got you just as much as you've had him. There's a lightness in his shoulders, a voice in his head that you've finally plucked free and thrown into the abyss, only to be replaced by your own being.

You're still sitting on the stairs, massaging your tits through your shirt as you try to smooth your nipples out. Your mind is racing a million miles a minute. What should I wear? Will Price be upset? Should we try to hide this? Will anyone care? Should I wear perfume or just body spray? Is work going to be weird now? He's not going to treat me differently, is he?

You sigh, biting your lip and trudging up the stairs. Your fingers run over the hickey on your neck. I need to find a whisk.

[pinklunarprincess]

“Through the Cold, I’ll Find my Way Back to You”

Chapter 3 - “I Have Never Known Peace Like the Damp Grass That Yields to Me”

Characters: Púca! Andrew Hoziee-Byrne x Original Female Character (Maisie Quinn)

Summary - Maisie Quinn, after inheriting a home in Ireland from her late grandmother, slowly learns a dark past about the land in which it was built on.

Word Count - 3,181

Warnings - None except violence against Andy :( and always mentions of dead animals

A/N - I wanted to focus on Andrew a bit here

Sorry I died… Mental health and work stuff ruin you.

PLEASE leave thoughts!

“Maisie, hi!” I hear Lydia, Elsie’s wife’s voice, over the phone. “Sorry, Elsie’s showering…is something up?”

A small smile arises on my face hearing her voice, wishing I called her instead. “Lydia! Hi! Everything’s alright…just calling to say hi.”

“Isn’t it a bit…late? The other woman laughed on the other line.

“Yeah, almost 3 am…” Considering how late the fox had been coming, it was interfering with my sleep schedule. Tonight, I was specifically struggling to sleep.

Hearing her chuckle over the line, I prepared for the scrutiny. “May, you’ve got to take care of yourself.”

“I know…” I paused, looking out into the moonlight outside my window. “Is it too late to say I’m still adjusting?”

“I think you’ll be adjusting for a while…I mean, that’s a really big move…Don’t feel like you need to justify anything to me.”

“I guess I just really miss you two and everyone else; I haven’t really made any friends yet.”

“Take your time, you’ll meet people quicker than you think. Bad advice, but... really put yourself out there.”

“Thanks, Lydia. What’s the situation with you two coming up…?” All I wanted was for them to come over, to remind me what it was like to be around people my own age. I thought back to Andrew, no, absolutely not. He must be some kind of hermit with how awkward he was.

I knew the answer already, depending on the client, I usually had lots of free time other than my more traditionally employed friends.

“I..I don’t think so, Elsie might be taking on a big case, and I don’t think I can get someone to cover sessions for me.” I nodded, holding my phone tighter. “Elsie did mention we’re planning to come over for our anniversary, right?”

“She did.”

“I know that’s farther away, but, at least it will be a little less cold during the summer.”

“I guess.” Pausing, I feel the urge to bring up my paranoia. “Can I tell you about something?” I figured the best person to reach out to would be a psychiatrist.

“Of course, what’s up?”

“I mean, the house, is wonderful, no issues in general, but outside my home, something doesn’t feel right.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know…Every time I go outside, I just feel watched, and then, the animals are weird too…They keep leaving dead animals around my property…”

“What animals?

“Foxes…and shrikes…?”

“Predators?”

Oh. I hadn’t even thought of that. “…Yeah..”

“Maisie, I’m not trying to dismiss your feelings, I promise, but, you’re in a tough situation, obviously you’re going to be a bit wary, and considering your anxiety, on edge. Have you gotten out recently? Into the city?”

“Not really,” I wanted to push, tell her about how the bodies weren’t eaten, the states they were in. “I’m having some people come over later this week to take a look at my flooring.”

“Perfect! You should try and put yourself out there, which I know isn’t easy…but there’s apps for that. When I first moved to Seattle, it wasn’t easy, but just that first friend is what led to other friends and then meeting my wife…You never know what’ll happen.”

——————————————————

1623

The chirps of crickets would be heard throughout the area, marram grass swayed gently in the wind as the ocean sang. Within the grass, a creature lay, undisturbed. It had remained undisturbed for a while, hidden within the rural areas of eastern Ireland.

It was morbid-looking, with pointy black ears, thin, brown curly hairs along its bony body. It’s eyes glowed a bright green, and its teeth were sharp and white. Claws grew from the paws connected to its scrawny, long arms and legs. A thick, bushy tail grew from its behind, everything about it was revolting, nothing of its likeness existed.

Its existence was simple, days spent of hunting prey and eating blackberries from bushes, its skin resistant to its thorns. There was no need for fear or protection, no wolf, fox, or badger would dare challenge it.

As it slept, it had no worries, just a deep, unwakeable slumber. Its warm body is cushioned by the ground. Bathing in the moonlight, it stayed unaware of the horrors approaching, the horrors happening throughout the land.

In late January, all Roman Catholics had been ordered to leave Ireland. A family decides to hide instead.

Near the shore, there are no inhabitants, only land, it’s isolated and beautiful. The family consists of four members, a father, mother and two sons. One cart, two horses, and their arms. The land was perfect to settle in, enough space to build a house and grow crops. The area was surrounded with lush forests and streams, water to bathe and cook with, trees for lumber in order to build the home, and firewood.

As weeks passed, the father and sons worked hard to build the home, and as time passed, the creature observed the work.

It wasn’t bothered, it shared the space it occupied with hundreds of living things, things that built nests, burrows, and dens across the landscape. It was just what happened, learning to coexist.

Progress was made fast, the effort put in was impressive, as time passed, the mother began to grow a round stomach, pregnant with a third child. It’s walls were clay with a thatched roof. It was small and cozy, hidden away.

The family lived happily on their own, the sons and father would hunt as the mother would stay home. The creature never saw them as a threat, they only took what was needed to live, although it had no clue of why they settled in its home, it had no intentions or pushing them out.

Time passed, and although there had been trees cut and many animals killed, the creature still stayed peaceful, yet curious. Hundreds of animals killed hundreds of other animals, but there was still a balance, Trees fell, but they also grew back. It seemed like they were becoming a disruption.

The family had even started to farm, creating small areas to plow and grow food and vegetables of their own. The more they progressed, the more it began to feel more like it was the family's land than all of the other living things. The creature felt more and more pushed out of the forest.

It was wary of humans, it didn’t have a specific hatred towards them, but it knew that they had more resources, more ways to cause harm. But as the months went by, it became increasingly harder to avoid them, the sons were getting older, more adventurous.

It had been successful, not interacting with them, but it wasn’t lasting as the forced proximity became smaller and smaller. Sometimes, it would wait around the home, feeling the warmth of the fire inside, the family was happy, free where they were. It would hear them laugh together, sing together inside. It had never heard music before, but as it did, its ears twitched. It’s head would turn, invested in the sounds that it had never come across before, the plucking of the harp, the sweet sounds of the mother’s voice. It wasn’t sure of the song, nor the words, but the lack of awareness of the knowledge did not stop it from being moved by the emotion of the way she sang, the way she articulated the words so sweetly.

Every now or so, it would sneak close to the cottage in hopes it could hear her sing again, sometimes it would try and follow along, it only coming out as a moan or grumble, a monstrous sound that would alert the family, causing them to stop. The creature chose to sing along a bit more quietly after that.

It was only hunting, searching for mice. Chasing one across the forest ground, it scurried towards the home. Hungry, the creature ran after it still, following it.

It was early in the morning, they were unawake to the world as the sun began to rise over the horizon, the warmth of the orb coloring the earth a deep orange. Follwing it’s scent and the small squeaks it produced, the creature chased it along side the home. There was a small garden, protected by wire.

Slipping under, the small rodent was able to make its way into the gaurded area. Frustrated, the creature paced around the gate, occasionally stopping to jump up, clawing at the material. After a few minutes, it looked down to the small holes that other, smaller animals would make to crawl under.

Digging at the ground, it tried to dig something large enough it could fit under. Eventually, pleased with its work, it tried to fit its body below the wire, underestimating its size, the wire dug into its body, the iron material burning it. Letting out a loud, painful shreak, its hind legs kicked a the ground, trying to push its body through as the metal sizzled and scorched its skin.

Alerting the mother, she awoke. Startled by the screaming outside, the pregnant woman made her way to the backdoor of the home. Slowly opening it, she let out a scream of her own, staring at the wilted creature, panting and growling, trying to smell for the mouse, which was hidden away amongst the vegetation.

Catching her eyes, it stared at her, though it would not harm her, its ugly appearance and injuries made it all the more intimidating. Unsure what to do, the woman looked around, aware of what the creature was. “Tá sé a púca!” She exclaimed, rushing back inside.

Unsure what to do, the creature stayed still, it didn’t speak the language, it didn’t speak any language. Coming back, the woman had equipped a fire fork. Still yelling at it in a language it couldn’t grasp, it ran off, afraid of being burned again. It barely reacted to the agonizing pain of the wire as it slipped back out, scurrying into the forest.

Confused, it retreated, it hadn’t harmed the crops, the woman, or her baby, it almost felt guilty scaring her. It didn’t come back to listen to the music that night, or any nights after.

It stayed deep in the forest, away from any life other than what it originally knew, it continued its life normally. Naturally, it was more weary, afraid of how humans would act if it was found. Would they run? Attack? It wasn’t sure. It didn’t want to know.

Time continued to pass, though the family had grown, the sons were almost adults, the baby was born, and the creature stayed the same.

Searching for a meal, it scoured the forest. Meals were becoming harder to find, small prey were targeted by more predators as deer were slang for meat, and mice would choose to live near the home where food grew and was easy to access. It had become thin and weak. Most of the time, it took the form of a fox so it could hide from the sons when they would hunt.

As it chased a rabbit, it heard the sharp cries of a girl. Looking back in its own fear, a small child stood behind a boy, who was in shock as well. As if it were to assure them it wasn’t going to harm them, the creature let out a low gurgle of some kind. The boy’s face contorted with fear. The message wasn’t received, but it had no other way to try.

Reaching into his back pocket, he held out a spur as if it were a crucifix being held to a demon. Cowering, the creature steps back, its body letting out a low, wanring grumble. It could feel what the iron was capable of just by staring at it. The boy gripped it tighter, his eyes dark and mean as the girl clutched his trouser leg.

Not retaliating, they stared at each other. As the creature moved again, the boy struck it with the spur, the sharp spike puncturing, burning its thin skin. Screeching, it tried to escape, but the boy continued to whip its back with the object until it could finally get away, eyes watering from the blistering pain of its injuries.

Transforming into a small, brown fox, the wounds stayed, but it knew from that moment, it wasn't as safe as it was. Humans were scared of it, but are now away from it. They wanted to kill it. But, the creature didn’t want to die, didn’t want to be isolated. It needed to adapt.

Primarily choosing to be the fox, slowly, it’s original form changed, it’s body became more man than what it was. It grew genitals, thicker, white skin, a fatter body. He was forced to become one of them, it took decades to look human enough to start to walk amongst them, he even had to fight and kill a drunken man for clothing. But once it had to learn their language, it was surprising to find they no longer spoke the language he knew them to speak.

Taking notice of a name in the Bible, a tool he used to learn. He decided to call himself Andrew.

——————————————————

I bundled my coat to me as I walked down the cozy street, hot coffee in hand. The men who were supposed to help change the floorboards were taking a look at my house, so I decided to make a day out of it.

Dublin was beautiful, I was mesmerized with all of the old buildings, historical sites, I was a bit jealous that people were born here and I wasn’t. Catching my attention, I look to a building with clear windows in the front, I could see people walking inside looking at paintings. Happy to discover it was a local art exhibit, I look around myself.

Stopping, I admire a piece of a field of flowers labeled just Tuscany. My eyes trail over the intricate paint strokes along the yellow petals as a voice takes me out of my trance.

"Oh, that’s mine!” Turning around, I see a woman standing behind me. She had dark ebony skin and beautifully braided hair that was black and a gentle lilac.

I smile to her, finally happy to speak to someone within my age range. “Really? It’s gorgeous…” Looking back to the painting, I admire it again, the width the flowers spread out, the hills in the back. I wonder how a human was capable of this. “Did you visit Tuscany then?”

“I lived there for a bit, it’s probably one of the most magnificent places I’ve been.” I nod in agreement.

“Yeah, I mean, Italy is just so uniquely itself.” Pausing, I reach to shake her hand. “Sorry, hi, I’m Maisie!”

“Katie, it’s nice to meet you. Have you been in Ireland long?”

I was about to question her, but then I remembered my strikingly American accent. “Oh, yes, I moved here just a bit ago, still settling in.”

“Aye, settling in well then?”

“No, I mean, yes, I love it here!” I was a bit awkward, not knowing how to ask for a friend without being absolutely desperate. “I just haven’t…made many connections yet.”

Her mouth tightened, obviously feeling bad. “I get it, I’ve been a bit all over the continent. Say…I was going to get lunch soon anyway, want to come with me?”

I tried to stifle how absolutely excited I was to be asked that. “Really? Of course! I would love to.”

——————————————————

Over lunch, we both realize how much we have in common, both being artists. It was so nice, so human, to have someone who really gets what it’s like to be you right in front of you. It was a bit like exposure therapy, having to get to know someone new.

“Honestly though, my home is so weird! The whole area is!” I explain while chuckling as I discuss my floors.

“How?” Katie raised her brow, sipping her drink.

I shrug, poking my salad. “I don’t know how to explain, it’s just odd. There’s like an abundance of dead animals around my property…but they aren’t eaten, just killed. And it’s like every night or whenever they get placed there. And there’s also a fox who just won’t leave me alone! I mean… I feed it, but when I don’t, it just won’t go, and it would stress my dog out! And..god, I am about to sound insane…”

“Go on…”

“There’s this like…myth? Legend? Of this monster called a Púca, and they’re shapeshifting monsters who like to play tricks on humans and stuff….”

Her face clearly is unmoved but affectionate. “And who told you about this…’Púca’?”

“An older woman who knew my grandma…why?”

“I think they’re just trying to scare you, Maisie, I once walked into a faerie ring by accident, and well, I’m still here!”

I was a little embarrassed about how much I cared about the whole situation, I knew it was all my brain, but I was still anxious about it.

After paying our separate checks, we exchanged numbers and a promise that she would introduce me to people.

——————————————————

Staring at the wooden ceiling of the home he had attempted to build for himself, Andrew laid on the bed he would change every few decades with the small amounts of money he had. All he needed was the bed; he had a whole world he could freely use the restroom and hunt in as a fox.

He thought back to her. Her…Ma…May? …Maze?…Maisie….Maisie. He wasn’t sure. She seemed friendly to him in either form, but he couldn’t shake it, this family wouldn’t leave him alone.

He had nothing against Ireland, he couldn't blame them at all for escaping prosecution, but the treatment he faced lives on within him.

It seemed like for the past centuries, they just had to make sure that home stayed private property. It was a bit petty of him to hold on so long to it, but he didn’t have much in life except making people uncomfortable. That’s what he wanted to do—perhaps be the weird neighbor, scare her back to wherever she came from.

It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to ever make her feel welcome as a human, well, the most human he could be. He just didn’t care to socialize enough to know how. It was apart of him at this point.

He missed those months of bliss where he was alone, able to just play guitar on the steps of the house that no one lived in. The house that he hoped no one would ever live in again, not after this.

——————————————————————

I sigh, scooping food that Mary had brought for me into a bowl. While I appreciated the gesture, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that roast was not very vegetarian.

Humming to myself, I brought it back to the waiting fox, who sat politely at my door, it’s green eyes flashing again.

As it begins to eat, I sigh, Lenny lying down at my side. I knew it was wrong to feed it, that it would never leave, but it was pretty cute. As its neck was bent down, I frowned a bit at the scars along the back of the fox, burnt skin showing where fur once was. I wondered what type of sicko would hurt something this tame. Maybe it was hurt?

Either way, I’ve been looking forward to seeing it every night.

NOTE- SO EXCITED FOR THIS!! I will try to be consistent and write interesting chapters, we will get a real introduction to Andrew in the next chapter, I just wanted to introduce Maisie first and the setting. Please leave thoughts!

If you don’t know, a púca is a monster across European mythology that tends to be a shapeshifter, commonly taking form as a horse, goat, dog, cat, ect. They also take forms of humans which tend to have animalistic traits. They are known to play tricks on humans but never truly harm them. There’s a lot on them, so if you’re interested, I recommend looking into it. I am pretty consistent with the traditional idea of them but I will add my own elements as well. I will also explain any important information or facts if I feel is needed, feel free to ask as well! I am also not a historian or expert on Irish history so please correct me on anything, also there will be a consistent theme of anti-colonization but were all hozier fans here so that shouldn’t matter.

Tag list- @wolfe-houler @soft-dark-vintage-blog @no-one-anon @celery-grac @pinklunarprincess @l1nd3n

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[pinklunarprincess]

bully!Soap who never insults your looks, you were his pretty little cry baby. he craved seeing you whimper and whine, he loved the thrill of you fighting back with tears on your cheeks

he however hates seeing those pretty eyes pained. when the two of you were 10 years old is when he made the grave mistake of mocking your teeth for the first time, he was experimenting at the time and he q u i c k l y learned that is not what he wants, not at all, after watching tears of genuine hurt pool at the corner of your eyes, not meeting his eye as you cover your mouth with your hand and fleeing

you didn’t smile for weeks and everyone avoided the boy, who stared at you, willing you to l o o k at him

the first time he ever heard a boy a grade higher than the two of you utter the word “fat” in your direction, he blacked out, only coming back when two teachers were hauling him off the boy, knuckles busted and dripping blood, and the boys face was a proper mess

when they were dragging Johnny towards the office, he caught sight of you, staring at him, hands clutching his book bag and cheeks glistening in the afternoon sun, eyes wide and curious