#Excellence Of Crafted Gold

[hoshifighting]

Stripper! Reader x Business Man! Lee Chan

— Synopsis: Workaholic Lee Chan's Friday night takes an unexpected turn when he joins friends at a strip club, only to find himself captivated by you, a dancer he can't seem to stay away from. Despite his reservations, Chan finds himself drawn to your company, booking time with you night after night. — WC: 8.8k — WARNINGS: Strangers to lovers, smut, mentions of alcohol, strip clubs, money throwing, booking, fluff, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), riding, g'spot stimulation, clit stimulation, male sensitivity.

Lee Chan held the weight of being the CEO of the imperium that his dad left at a very young age. Frat parties, hanging out, late-night talks? Nah, not for him. He had to take care of the company and honor the inheritance that fell into his lap. His co-workers could remember very well the times that Chan walked around and around his office, shoulders tense as if he carried the world on them.

His days started early and ended late, filled with back-to-back meetings, strategy sessions, and endless paperwork. The once carefree and spirited young man had transformed into a focused and driven leader, his every move calculated to ensure the success and stability of the company.

Chan's office was a testament to his dedication—shelves lined with business books, awards, and framed photos of his father, a constant reminder of the legacy he was determined to uphold. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, but Chan rarely had time to enjoy it. He was always too engrossed in his work, too preoccupied with the responsibilities that consumed his every waking moment.

Even though his life felt like being stuck in traffic on a rainy day, Chan couldn't deny that he loved the results of his hard work. He looked at the luxurious cars parked in his garage—sleek, powerful machines that represented the pinnacle of automotive engineering. 

His closet was a veritable treasure trove of sartorial excellence. Different types of watches, ties, suits, and shoes from every high-end brand imaginable filled the space, each piece carefully chosen to reflect his impeccable taste and status. The feel of finely crafted leather shoes, the weight of a bespoke suit on his shoulders, the precision of an intricate timepiece on his wrist—all these were constant reminders of what he had achieved.

Chan's wealth allowed him to indulge in the kind of extravagances most people could only dream of. He could spend an exaggerated amount of money in a matter of seconds on something completely futile, like a super shaver with a gold coating—exotic and utterly unnecessary.

The week was ending, and Chan listened to the fuss inside his friend group about hanging out this Friday. Jeonghan, seeing his colleagues leaving their desks, noticed Chan still at his desk, tapping his fingers on the glass table. With his bag slung over his shoulder, Jeonghan approached him.

"I know it's a stupid question, but will you come with us?" he asked. Chan was usually seen only at corporate events. Jeonghan couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a beer with his friend.

Chan looked up, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, the automatic refusal ready on his tongue, but something made him pause. He glanced around the office, now emptying out as people headed off to start their weekends. The thought of another solitary night of work made him feel a twinge of longing for something different.

"Come on, man," Jeonghan urged, sensing the hesitation. "Just one night. It’ll be fun. You need a break."

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jeonghan was right. The constant grind was wearing him down, and maybe, just maybe, a night out with friends was exactly what he needed.

"Alright," Chan finally said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll come."

Jeonghan's eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously?"

Chan nodded, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, let's do it."

Jeonghan grinned, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."

Before they left the building, Chan paused and asked, "Jeonghan?"

"Yes?" Jeonghan answered, turning to face him.

"Where are we going?" Chan inquired, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Jeonghan just smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You'll see," he said, leaving Chan to wonder what the night had in store for him.

[...]

"A strip club? You must be kidding me!" Chan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the half-dark establishment. Neon lights flickered and danced around the room, casting colorful glows on the walls. Music blasted from speakers, filling the air with a pulsating beat.

He could see several women with different curves, colors, and hairstyles, dressed in scanty outfits—or sometimes nothing at all. The atmosphere was electric, a stark contrast to the corporate environment he was used to.

Jeonghan laughed, clapping Chan on the back. "Come on, man, loosen up! It's just for fun."

Chan hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. He felt a mix of discomfort and curiosity. "I don't know, Jeonghan..."

"Relax," Jeonghan said, guiding him further inside. "We all need a break sometimes. Just enjoy the night. You deserve it."

Chan took a deep breath, deciding to go along with it. Maybe Jeonghan was right—maybe he did need this. As they found a spot to sit, Chan tried to shake off his reservations.

His friends immediately ordered bottles and bottles of soju, beer, whiskey—whatever the bar had. Chan downed his whiskey in a single gulp, exclaiming, "If my dad knew I was here..."

Chan's eyes widened in surprise. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Jeonghan replied, pouring more whiskey into Chan's glass. "He said every hardworking man deserves a break. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

Chan couldn't help but laugh at that. The thought of his father, the man he idolized for his strict work ethic, letting loose in a place like this was almost too surreal. 

As some of his friends disappeared one by one, Chan found himself alone on the couch they had booked. "Great," he muttered under his breath, feeling a twinge of discomfort at being left alone in such a place.

Just as he was about to sink further into the cushions, the little stage that he hadn't even noticed until now suddenly lit up. A tall pole stood in the middle, and Chan tilted his head in curiosity.

Then, a pair of really, really high heels appeared, and Chan's throat went dry. You emerged onto the stage, your skin shining under the purple light. The outfit you wore was scandalous, barely covering anything, and Chan couldn't help but notice the little glitters spread on your skin, catching the light as you moved.

You took hold of the pole and began to dance around it, moving with a grace and confidence that left Chan mesmerized. Your movements were fluid and controlled, every sway of your hips and arch of your back drawing him in deeper. It was as if you were performing just for him, and Chan felt like he could get lost in the rhythm of your dance forever.

As you held yourself up on the pole like a pro, Chan couldn't tear his eyes away. He felt like he was being swallowed by the couch, completely captivated by the sight before him. In that moment, nothing else mattered but you and the hypnotic spell you cast over him with your dance.

As you made eye contact with Chan, a devilish smile played on your lips. He looked like a new piece of meat, a pretty young man who had never been seen before in the club. You got down from the stage, the sway of your hips drawing all eyes to you as you walked towards him.

"First time here, sweetie?" you asked, laying your hands on his shoulders. Chan felt like he couldn't breathe with the view of your tits practically in his face.

"My eyes are up here," you said, chuckling as you caught him ogling your chest.

Chan blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "Uh, yeah," he stammered, tearing his gaze away from your cleavage. "First time."

You chuckled, running a hand through your hair as you leaned in closer. "Well, lucky for you, you've got me to show you the ropes," you said, your voice low and sultry.

"You're tense," you observe, noticing the stiffness in Chan's shoulders. Without waiting for a response, you step behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, your fingers working their magic as you knead the tension away.

Chan lets out a sigh of relief, his muscles melting under your skilled touch. "Yeah," he admits, his voice soft. "Work's been... stressful lately."

You nod in understanding, continuing to work out the knots in his shoulders. "I get it," you say, your voice soothing. "But you're here now, and tonight is all about letting go of that stress and just enjoying yourself."

Chan leans back into your touch, closing his eyes as he relaxes into the sensation. "I guess you're right," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You smile too, glad to see him starting to unwind. "That's better," you say, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Just focus on the here and now. Forget about everything else for a while."

Chan nods.

You walk around Chan again, swaying your hips seductively in front of him. His mind races, unsure of what to do next, but before he can even think, you're sitting on his lap, circling your hips against his.

Chan smiles shyly, feeling the heat from your body as you move against him. He can't help but notice the money tucked into the sides of your little shorts, a reminder of where he is and what's expected of him.

It's exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once, but there's something undeniably thrilling about having you so close, your body pressed against his.

As you continue to dance, Chan's hands hover uncertainly over your hips, unsure of where to touch or how to respond. He feels a flush of embarrassment at his own inexperience, but he's determined not to let it show. Instead, he focuses on the way your body moves against his.

And you smile knowingly, sensing his hesitation, and guide his hands to your waist, encouraging him.

Chan's hands move from your waist to your hips and then down to your thigh, his fingers grazing the soft skin as he explores the contours of your body. His pulse quickens as he feels the warmth of your thigh pressed against his pocket, and he can't resist the urge to reach into his wallet and retrieve a pouch of money.

With a mischievous grin, Chan brings his hand to the top of your head, letting the notes rain down on you like confetti. You laugh, delighted by the unexpected gesture, and give him a big smile.

"What's your name?" you ask, your voice playful.

"Chan," he replies, feeling a surge of confidence.

You lick your lips, your gaze lingering on his. "Nice to meet you, Channie," you purr, the nickname, and Chan blushes. 

[...]

The next Monday, Chan sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His mind raced with a million thoughts, his thoughts still consumed by the events of that night. He was lost in his own thoughts, replaying every moment, every touch, every glance.

A knock on his door startled him out of his trance, and he quickly tried to compose himself, pretending to be engrossed in some papers spread out on his desk.

"Come in," Chan called, his voice slightly shaky.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped inside, giving Chan a knowing smile. "Hey there, sleepyhead," he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Chan felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks. "Oh, hey Jeonghan," he replied, trying to sound casual.

Jeonghan chuckled, walking over to Chan's desk and leaning against it casually. "So, how was your night?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

Chan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a suitable response. "Um, it was... interesting," he finally managed, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Interesting, huh?" he said, his tone teasing. "Well, if you ever need any pointers on how to navigate the world of strip clubs, you know who to ask."

Chan's cheeks burned even hotter, and he couldn't help but laugh at Jeonghan's playful teasing. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass," he said, relieved to have the topic of conversation shifted away from his night of unexpected adventure.

Chan spent the entire weekend consumed by thoughts of you, unable to shake the memories of your encounter at the club. As Monday rolled around, he found himself itching to see you again, the usual routine of work feeling dull and uninspired.

Deciding that today was not the day for extra hours at the office, Chan made his way to the club, a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He arrived at the club, his eyes scanning the room eagerly in search of you.

As he looked around, a receptionist approached him, sensing his lost expression. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice polite and friendly.

Chan nodded, grateful for the assistance. "Yes, I'm looking for a girl with hair like this," he said, mimicking the length and curl of your hair with his hands.

The receptionist's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, you must be looking for Y/N," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Follow me, I'll take you to her."

There you were, dancing around the pole with a big smile on your face, as if you were truly enjoying every second of it. Chan watched from the corner of the room, his arms crossed and a big smile on his face as he observed you.

The club was crowded, with many people gathered around you, admiring your performance. Chan felt a pang of jealousy as he watched others vying for your attention, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

As the night wore on and people began to leave, Chan noticed you finally catching sight of him. Your eyes met his, and you gave him a playful wink, rolling your hips as you glanced at him over your shoulder.

Chan's heart skipped a beat at your playful gesture, and he couldn't help but grin back at you. Despite the crowd around you, it felt like you were dancing just for him, and in that moment, Chan felt a surge of warmth and connection unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

As you took a break from dancing, you bent down to pick up some notes from the stage floor. Before you could gather them all, Chan approached, leaning on the stage with a playful grin.

"Leave it on the ground," he said, extending a big wad of money towards you. "Take it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I didn't even have time for you today," you teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I ask?" Chan replied, his smile widening. "Take it."

You couldn't help but laugh at his playful response, taking the money from his hand. "You liked me that much, huh?" you asked, knowing full well the answer. You were well aware of the power you held.

"Hmm, I think I need to see more," Chan teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You giggled, enjoying the banter between you. "Well, if you want me all to yourself, you'll have to book," you replied with a playful wink.

Chan's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "Can I book all of your agenda?" he asked eagerly.

You stood up, giving him a coy smile. "Don't be greedy, Channie," you teased, enjoying the way he looked at you with eager anticipation.

You glanced down at the wad of money in your hand, barely able to fit into your shorts, and then looked back up at Chan with a playful smile.

"Well, I think I can spare some time for you," you said, glancing over at the clock on the wall. "But just a little while."

Chan's face lit up with excitement as he nodded eagerly. "That's all I need," he replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

[...]

As Chan began appearing almost every day, he became a familiar face at the club, a quiet yet eager client of yours. The receptionist would often give you a knowing look, silently conveying that Chan had arrived and had booked time with you once again.

Of course, there were other loyal clients who frequented the club, but none seemed to hold the same level of fascination for you as Chan did. There was a certain shine in his eyes whenever he entered the club, a distinct aura of anticipation and eagerness that set him apart from the other customers.

You couldn't help but wonder why you had let him know about the option to book time with you. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you with such genuine interest and excitement, or maybe it was the thrill of having someone so captivated by your presence. Whatever the reason, you found yourself looking forward to his visits, eager to see where each encounter would lead.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of surprise when Chan didn't show up for his usual visit. It was as if a small piece of the excitement and anticipation that had become a part of your routine was suddenly missing. Without even realizing it, you found yourself scanning the crowd, searching for his familiar face.

Then, just as you were starting to wonder where he was, you spotted him entering the club. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him make his way to his special seat, right in front of you. His genuine smile lit up his face, and you couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence washing over you like a wave.

With renewed energy and enthusiasm, you danced with even more passion and heart than before. You knew that Chan was watching, appreciating every move, every moment. 

Over the following weeks, Chan's visits became a cherished routine. Each time he arrived, you could sense the anticipation in his eyes, the unspoken hope that maybe tonight would be different.

One evening, as you were finishing your performance and making your way to his table, he finally mustered the courage to ask. "Hey, would you like to grab a drink with me sometime? Outside of here, I mean," he said, his voice full of genuine warmth and a hint of nervousness.

You smiled softly, appreciating his boldness but knowing you had to set boundaries. "I'm flattered, Chan, but I don't hang out with customers outside of work," you replied, your tone gentle yet firm.

A few nights later, he tried again, this time with a different approach. "There's this amazing new restaurant that just opened up downtown. I'd love to take you there," he offered, his eyes hopeful.

You shook your head slightly, maintaining your friendly demeanor. "I appreciate the invite, but I have a policy about not mixing my work life with my personal life," you explained, hoping he would understand.

Undeterred, Chan continued to ask, each time finding new ways to express his interest. "There's a gallery opening this weekend. I thought it might be fun to check it out together," he suggested one night, his enthusiasm palpable.

Once again, you gently declined. "That sounds lovely, but I really can't. I have to keep things professional with my clients," you said, feeling a pang of regret at having to turn him down yet again.

Each time he asked, you could see the slight disappointment in his eyes, but he always respected your boundaries. And despite your refusals, he never stopped coming back, never stopped watching you with that same genuine admiration and respect.

Tonight, you made sure every detail was perfect. Your hair cascaded in flawless waves, and you wore your best outfit, accentuating every curve just right. You were eager to dance for Chan, feeling a flutter of excitement as you anticipated his arrival. Sure enough, Chan appeared, booking the rest of the night with you as he had been doing lately.

When he approached, you greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that had become part of your interactions. "Hey, Channie," you said with a playful smile. "So, what’s it gonna be tonight? Shorts or no shorts?"

Chan smiled warmly, a bit of that usual nervous energy in his eyes. "Actually," he began, his tone softer than usual, "I just want to talk tonight. I want to spend time with you."

You blinked, taken aback. No customer had ever asked for just your company before. "You... you just want to talk?" you repeated, making sure you heard him right.

He nodded, a sincere expression on his face. "Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love watching you dance. But tonight, I just want to get to know you better. You know, beyond all this," he gestured vaguely around the club.

Still processing his request, you motioned to the couch. "Alright, let's sit then." You both settled onto the plush seats, the atmosphere suddenly feeling more intimate and less transactional.

"So, what do you want to know?" you asked, trying to mask your nervousness with a casual tone.

Chan leaned forward slightly, his eyes earnest. "Everything. What's your favorite color? What's your dream vacation? What do you do when you're not here?" He paused, then added with a chuckle, "I know it sounds silly, but I really want to know the real you."

You smiled, touched by his genuine curiosity. "Well, my favorite color is …" you began, feeling a bit shy. "As for a dream vacation, I've always wanted to visit Santorini. The pictures look so beautiful, like a place out of a fairytale."

Chan listened intently, his focus unwavering. "Santorini sounds amazing. I can picture you there."

You chuckled, the image of you in Santorini bringing a warm feeling to your chest. "And when I'm not here, I love to paint. It's my way of unwinding, letting my creativity flow."

His eyes lit up. "Painting? That's incredible. What kind of things do you paint?"

You shrugged lightly, feeling more comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Mostly landscapes and abstract pieces. It's like putting a piece of my soul onto the canvas."

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, both of you absorbing the depth of the conversation. Chan finally broke it, his voice soft. "You know, I've always admired how dedicated you are to what you do, I know it's now easy at all. But hearing about your passions and dreams, it makes me admire you even more."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself opening up more than you had with anyone in a long time. "Thank you, Chan. It means a lot to hear that."

He reached out, gently squeezing your hand. "Thank you for sharing with me. I know this isn’t what you usually do, but it means a lot to me."

Chan observed the small figurine on the table, curiosity lighting up his eyes. “Where do you get these?” he asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

You smiled, a bit shyly. “I make them myself,” you said, enjoying the surprise that flickered across his face.

“Really? That’s amazing,” he praised, his admiration evident. You shrugged modestly.

“It’s not that hard,” you replied, still smiling. “They’re always small.”

Chan chuckled, a warm sound that made you feel even more at ease. He started to remove his blazer, and before you knew it, he placed it gently around your shoulders, covering a good part of you. The gesture was so kind and considerate that it made you feel even more comfortable, despite usually feeling at ease in your usual skimpy outfits.

As you nestled into the blazer, you couldn’t help but notice how much more at ease you felt. Chan’s presence was different; it wasn’t just about the physical attraction or the lavish spending. There was a gentleness, a genuine care that made you feel safe and valued.

“I don’t usually do this,” you admitted, looking at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Chan smiled back, his eyes soft. “It’s my pleasure. You deserve to feel comfortable.”

The conversation flowed easily as Chan began to share bits and pieces of his life. He spoke about his responsibilities as CEO, the pressure of living up to his father’s legacy, and the sacrifices he had to make. His words were carefully chosen, mindful of not coming across as boastful despite his affluent lifestyle. You could tell he was trying to be as honest as possible while downplaying the extravagance.

“And that’s pretty much my life,” Chan concluded with a slight sigh. “It’s demanding, but it’s what I have to do.”

You admired his humility, realizing how grounded he remained despite his wealth. “It sounds like a lot to handle,” you said softly, your eyes reflecting your newfound respect for him. “But you do it so well. It’s impressive.”

Chan’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and weariness in his eyes. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but I try.”

“You’re more than just a pretty boy,” you teased lightly, wanting to lift the mood. “You’re a hardworking, humble man.”

He laughed, the sound filling the space between you with warmth. “And you’re not just a beautiful dancer. You’re talented and creative.”

[...]

The next morning, you were chatting with the girls—your coworkers—as they finished their hair for the night.

“And he just wanted to talk,” you said, a bit incredulously. “He even asked about my favorite color.”

The girls collectively let out a heartfelt “Awww,” their eyes wide with interest and affection.

“Seriously?” one of them, Mina, asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “That’s so sweet.”

“He seems different,” another added, giggling.

“Yeah,” you nodded, still a bit surprised yourself. “We just talked. It was...nice.”

Before the conversation could continue, the receptionist entered the room, a knowing smile on her face. “Ya! Y/N-nie! Your Channie is here,” she announced, her tone teasing.

It was unusual for any customer to visit on a Saturday morning, a time usually reserved for the staff to unwind and prepare for the week ahead. 

“It’s Saturday morning,” Mina whispered, nudging you playfully. “No customers come in unless they lost something.”

“Let him in,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual but feeling the flutter of anticipation.

As Chan walked in, he was met with a scene unlike the usual vibrant atmosphere of the club. The girls were dressed in comfortable clothes, some with bobs in their hair, others doing their nails or simply lounging around.

You were drying a glass behind the bar. He looked around, slightly surprised but smiling.

“Good morning, girls,” he greeted, his voice cheerful. "Good morning Y/N…" He says in a special and tender tone, just for you.

“Good morning,” the girls chimed back in unison, their eyes following his every move.

You put down the glass and walked over to him, a wide smile on your face. “Channie, what are you doing here?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I wanted to see you,” he replied, his gaze soft and sincere. He seemed a bit out of place in the relaxed environment, but his presence was a welcome one. You could feel the girls watching the exchange with rapt attention, like they were watching an opera unfold.

Chan noticed that you didn’t have bobs in your hair like some of the other girls. Gesturing toward your hair, he asked, “No bobs for you today?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s my day off. I’m not dancing today.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks, some stifling giggles. One of them, Lisa, leaned over and whispered loudly enough for you to hear, “Looks like someone’s here to see you even when you’re not performing.”

You blushed, glancing at Chan, who seemed equally flustered but amused by the comment. He recovered quickly, his smile returning.

Chan stood there, his eyes filled with hope and a hint of nervousness. "Would you like to spend the day with me?" he asked, his tone gentle and inviting.

You chuckled, a playful glint in your eye. "Hmm, I've already told you about hanging out with my customers," you teased, enjoying the banter.

Before Chan could respond, Mina chimed in from the background, her voice filled with encouragement. "Oh, come on! You should accept it!"

Chan seized the opportunity, smiling wider. "You’re not on your work schedule now, are you?"

That shut your mouth, leaving you momentarily speechless. The girls burst into giggles, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Well, when you put it that way…” you trailed off, pretending to think it over.

Chan’s smile grew, sensing victory. “So, is that a yes?”

You sighed theatrically, then grinned. “Fine, you win. I’ll spend the day with you.”

“Great!” Chan said, visibly relieved and excited. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

You nodded, your smile widening. “Let me just finish up here, and we can go.”

As you gathered your things, the girls couldn’t resist a few more teasing comments, but it was all in good fun, as Chan waited patiently.

As the day unfolded, Chan took you to places you hadn't had the time to visit in years. You sipped coffee at a cozy café, strolled through the park, and even caught a movie at the cinema. With each passing moment, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more, feeling a sense of freedom and joy you hadn't experienced in a long time.

"This has been the best day off ever," you exclaimed, unable to contain your excitement as you walked side by side with Chan.

His heart swelled with happiness at your words, his smile growing wider. He could have taken you to a luxurious restaurant or shopping for designer labels, but he sensed that wasn't what you wanted. Instead, he decided to let you choose how to spend the rest of the day.

Careful to open doors for you and ensure your comfort, Chan drove you around in his luxurious car, enjoying each other's company and the simplicity of the moment. As he glanced at you from the driver's seat, he couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over him.

"Where to next?" he asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

You playfully pretended to ponder your options, teasing him about having more surprises up his sleeve. Chan laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he drove. You noticed that you were nearing your apartment, and the idea popped into your head.

"How about we go to my place?" you suggested, surprising even yourself with the invitation.

Chan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a smile. "Your place? Are you sure?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of excitement building in your chest. "Yeah, why not? I'd love for you to see where I live."

Chan couldn't hide his delight at your invitation, his curiosity piqued. He parked the car and walked with you to your apartment building, taking in the surroundings with interest.

Chan's eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the details of your life that adorned the walls. He saw framed photographs capturing cherished memories – graduations, family gatherings, outings with friends. The images painted a picture of a life rich in experiences and relationships.

His gaze shifted to the plushies scattered across the couch, a playful and endearing touch that brought a smile to his face. It was clear to him that you had a warmth and sweetness that extended beyond the confines of the club where he first met you.

As you disappeared into the kitchen, Chan took a moment to soak in the atmosphere of your home. The tranquility of the space, combined with the personal touches that reflected your personality, made him feel strangely at ease.

In that moment, he realized that he was seeing a side of you that few others had the privilege of witnessing – the real you, beyond the glamorous facade of the club.

As you settled back onto the couch with snacks in hand, Chan joined you, his presence filling the space with warmth. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he began recounting his visit to the strip club earlier that day.

You listened intently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as he shared the details of his adventure. When he mentioned Jeonghan's involvement, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards your friend for unknowingly setting this day in motion.

"Looks like I owe Jeonghan a big thank you," you said, your voice muffled as you took a bite of your snack. 

Chan raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, Jeonghan is the reason we met, huh?" he teased, leaning closer to you.

You chuckled, feeling a playful energy between you. "Looks like it," you replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Chan's teasing grin widened at your response, and he leaned in closer, his playful demeanor evident. "Oh, so you're thanking Jeonghan, but not me?" he teased, raising an eyebrow in mock indignation.

With a soft smile, you turned to Chan, gratitude evident in your eyes. "Thank you, Channie," you said, your voice sincere as you expressed your appreciation.

Chan returned your smile, his gaze warm as he listened to your words. "For what?" he asked, though he already had a feeling of what you meant.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before replying. "For everything," you began, your tone heartfelt. "For the moments we've shared, the conversations we've had... Even on the nights you booked me, we talked more than danced," you admitted, a fondness evident in your voice.

Chan's smile widened at your words, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, I guess I'm just a talkative guy," he joked, though there was a hint of sincerity in his tone.

Chan's touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your lips with a mixture of hesitation and longing. You could feel the tension building between you, an unspoken desire hanging in the air.

When he spoke your name, you couldn't help but respond with a soft sound of acknowledgment, your heart fluttering with anticipation. His next words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice barely above a whisper as he confessed his thoughts.

"I know it's not allowed to kiss the dancers in the club," he began, his words laden with a sense of urgency, "but... we're not in the club right?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. In that moment, the boundaries that had separated you in the club seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, alone in the intimacy of your shared space.

You met Chan's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you considered his words. Despite the rules and restrictions that governed your interactions in the club, here, in this moment, you felt a freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With a hesitant smile, you leaned in closer to him, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, "No, we're not in the club." And in that simple acknowledgment, you gave voice to the unspoken truth that had been lingering between you all along.

Chan's hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips crashed into yours. His tongue explored your mouth with a fervent passion, and you found yourself breathing hard, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt to deepen the kiss.

The truth was, the more you refused Chan's invitations to dinner, the more you denied the gifts he insisted on giving you, the more you avoided his attempts to kiss you—his feelings for you only grew stronger. And now, seeing his insistence on simply having your company, and not just as the girl who would entertain him at night, made you feel all your girlhood feelings again.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you looked into his eyes, your breath mingling with his. "Chan..." you whispered "Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep trying so hard?"

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and tenderness. "Because you matter to me, Y/N. More than just a dancer, more than just a pretty face. I see you, the real you, and I want to know you better."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a rush of warmth and affection for this man who saw beyond the surface. "But I'm not used to this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not used to someone caring this much."

Chan's grip on your neck tightened slightly, a comforting reassurance. "Then let me show you how it feels. Let me show you that you deserve to be cared for, to be cherished."

"Show me," you whisper, your eyes locked on Chan's lips. He captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. You pull him closer, desperate to feel him, your hands sliding under his shirt to caress his warm skin.

His hands slide to your thighs, lifting you onto his lap, your breasts now level with his face. He glances at the pretty lace bra you’re wearing and lowers the cups, exposing your nipples. He kisses each one tenderly before sucking on one and pinching the other. You melt into him, your hips grinding against his automatically, drawing a groan from deep within his chest.

"Do you know how hard it was to control myself when you grinded on my cock like this?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

A wicked smile crosses your lips as you continue to grind against him, feeling his erection growing beneath you. "I could feel it, Chan," you purr, your voice dripping with seduction. "I could feel how much you wanted me. I wanted you just as badly."

His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as he presses you harder against him. "God, Y/N, you drive me crazy," he groans, his eyes darkening with lust.

You lean in, your breath hot against his ear. "I want to feel you inside me, Chan. I want you to lose control. Show me how much you want me."

His control snaps, and he flips you onto your back, his body pressing you into the couch. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he growls, his hand sliding down to unbutton your pants.

"I know exactly what I want," you whisper back, your eyes burning with the same desire. "I want you, all of you."

Chan's lips crash into yours again, more fiercely this time, as his hands work to remove the rest of your clothing.

In a blur of movement, clothes are discarded, and his skin is pressed against yours. He pauses to look into your eyes. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough with need.

"I want you, Chan," you breathe out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. 

Chan giggles softly, his breath hot against your skin. "Wait for me to prepare you," he whispers, his voice laced with anticipation. He opens your legs wide, his eyes dark with desire as he lowers himself between your thighs. His lips find your wet folds, kissing them gently before his tongue delves deeper.

The sensation sends shivers through your body, and you let out a soft moan. Chan's mouth works expertly, sucking on your clit while his tongue teases and explores. As you gasp his name, "Channie," he responds with a moan of his own, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

His hand slides up your thigh, and you feel the gentle pressure of his finger at your entrance. He slips it inside you slowly, his finger curling to find that perfect spot. Your back arches off the couch, your hands gripping the cushions as he continues to worship your body with his mouth and fingers.

"Oh, Chan," you breathe, your voice quivering with need. The way his tongue moves, the way his finger pumps in and out of you—it's all too much. Your hips begin to move on their own, seeking more of the intense pleasure he's giving you.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently, and your moans grow louder. His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue in a rhythm that drives you wild. You can feel your orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

Chan's free hand comes up to hold your hip, steadying you as you writhe beneath him. He looks up at you, his eyes full of lust and admiration, and the sight of him between your legs pushes you closer to the edge.

"Channie, I’m so close," you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent on your clit. The world fades away, and all you can focus on is the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

With a final, deep moan, you come undone. Your body trembles, your muscles clench around his fingers, and a powerful wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Chan doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you're completely spent, every nerve ending tingling with satisfaction.

Finally, he pulls away, his fingers and mouth glistening with your arousal. He looks up at you with a triumphant smile, his own need evident in his eyes. "You taste so good," he murmurs, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only fuels the fire between you.

"Now," he says, positioning himself at your entrance, "I think you're ready."

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and with one smooth thrust, he fills you completely. 

Your pussy was wet enough, spasming, welcoming him perfectly. Chan's eyes were closed, his face contorting as he tried to compose himself. You reached up and gently held his face, and he opened his eyes, scoffing softly, trying to pretend he didn't almost cum right then and there from the sensation of your sopping cunt wrapping so perfectly around him and the pornographic moan that just left your mouth.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. "You feel so good."

You smiled, your own arousal mirrored in his gaze. "Don't hold back, Channie," you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair. "I want all of you."

He groaned, his hips starting to move, slowly at first, savoring the way you clenched around him with each thrust. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips as he picked up the pace. "So perfect for me."

You bit your lip, your body responding to his every word, his every touch. "Chan," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he hit that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Don't stop."

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he rolled his hips, stopping momentarily before hitting your g'spot with a sharp thrust. He repeated this motion, each thrust more deliberate, and the most sinful moans left your mouth. "Yes, Channie," you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure, "fuck this pussy with that big fucking cock. Yes, yes!"

Chan groaned, the sound deep and guttural, spurred on by your words. "You like that? Hm?" he panted, his pace quickening as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. "God, yes, I love it. I love how you fuck me– ah! Channie."

"So wet... all for me."

Your body arched beneath him, your hips moving to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure that was building to an overwhelming peak. "Only for you," you whispered, your voice breaking with a whimper as he drove you closer to the edge. "No one else, just you, Channie."

He growled, the possessiveness in your words igniting something primal in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. "Say it again," he demanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours, Channie, only yours."

His hips snapped forward with even more intensity, and you could feel the coil tightening in your core, ready to snap. "Cum for me," he urged, his voice a low growl. "Cum all over my cock, baby."

Your pussy throbbed as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you, your eyes closing tightly, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You wrapped your legs around Chan's waist, locking him in place as you rode out every wave of pleasure. Chan hissed, his abdomen trembling, signaling that he was on the brink of release but unable to escape your grip.

You opened your eyes to find Chan watching you intently, taking in every reaction. "Sit," you commanded, your voice breathless yet authoritative.

"Hm?" Chan responded, his expression a mix of curiosity and lingering pleasure.

"Sit," you repeated, firmer this time. He complied, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"Are you going to dom me?" he teased, scoffing lightly.

Instead of answering, you simply lowered yourself onto his cock, making him flinch and let out a whiny moan in your ear, your legs trembling from the intensity of your recent orgasm.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. 

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "You like that, Channie? You like when I take control?"

"Yes," he gasped, his breath hitching as you began to move, rolling your hips slowly at first. "God, yes."

You smirked, picking up the pace, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through both of you. "You look so good like this," you whispered, your voice low and sultry. "So desperate, so needy. You want to cum, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whimper. "Please, let me cum."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, riding him harder. "Not yet," you commanded, enjoying the power you held over him. "Not until I say so."

Chan's eyes fluttered closed, his body trembling as he tried to hold back. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with need. "I can't... I can't hold on much longer."

"Look at me," you ordered, your tone firm. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "You’re going to cum when I tell you to, understand?"

"Yes," he panted, nodding eagerly. "Yes, I understand."

You imagined riding him since the moment he entered that club, young, hot, with his sleeves rolled up, the scent of masculine fragrance mingling with whiskey on his breath. Feeling this man, needy and sly, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, spilling all that pre-cum, and fighting his demons not to cum, made you so horny.

 You licked your fingers, circling your clit to help yourself climax, making you clench around him again. A strangled moan escaped his mouth, his eyes were rolling back.

You leaned in close, your voice husky with desire. "You're so close, Channie," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I can feel how badly you want to cum inside me. Do it, baby. Give it to me. Fill me up with your cum."

Chan's hips bucked against yours, his grip on your hips tightening. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. "I need to cum, please..."

You smirked, your fingers still working furiously on your clit. "You want to empty those balls for me, make me feel every drop of your cum inside me? Hm?"

Chan nodded frantically, his eyes glazed with lust. "Yes, god, yes. Please, let me cum. I can't hold on much longer."

With a wicked grin, you increased the pressure on your clit, feeling the tension building inside you. "Then cum for me, Channie," you urged, your voice a sultry whisper. "Cum deep inside my pussy."

Chan's entire body tensed, his breath hitching as he finally let go, his cum flooding you with warmth. You cried out in pleasure, feeling your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you rode out the ecstasy together.

As you collapsed against his chest, Chan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You could feel your legs trembling in soreness, his cum still dripping from your pussy, and both of your bodies slick with sweat. Despite the exhaustion, Chan's embrace felt comforting and secure.

He ran his hands soothingly over your back, his touch gentle yet firm, as if trying to convey all his affection through his fingertips. You raised your head to meet his gaze, finding him looking back at you with a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness in his eyes.

You pressed a series of soft kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his jawline, savoring the warmth and intimacy of the moment. Chan smiled in response, his own lips curved upwards in a contented –fucked out– expression.

You summoned the last vestiges of your strength just to tease Chan, circling your hips ever so slightly, just enough to elicit a reaction from his sensitive body. 

"Wait, wait," Chan gasped, his voice strained with sensitivity. "I can't... I can't take it."

He held you firmly against him, his grip almost desperate as he tried to steady himself. The sensation of your hips circling against his heightened his arousal to a point where he felt like he might lose control at any moment.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite the exhaustion and the intensity of your encounter, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"Sorry," you chuckled softly, the sound mingling with his labored breaths. "I couldn't resist teasing you a little."

Chan let out a breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain his composure. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment before he spoke again.

"You're... you're something else, you know that?" he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "I don't know how you do it."

You grinned up at him, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Despite the intense physical connection between you, there was an undeniable emotional bond that had formed, deepening your connection even further.

"I guess I just have a way with you," you replied playfully, winking at him before snuggling closer into his embrace.

[philcon-programming]

Philcon 2024!

Do you love Science Fiction, Fantasy, or Horror? Are you a Writer, a Gamer, a Costumer, or a Filker? Are you looking for a weekend of distraction in your life? If you’re in the vicinity of Philadelphia- or more specifically, Cherry Hill, New Jersey- there’s an event coming up on November 22 – 24, 2024 that we’d love for you to come check out. If you aren’t already familiar with PHILCON, here’s what you should know: * We started out as a literary-centric SF convention in 1936, but have grown to embrace all mediums of storytelling (movies, television, comics, podcasts, etc) as well as expanding to cover the Fantasy and Horror genres. Most of our participants are authors, and there will be Readings by them and Autograph sessions all throughout the weekend, in addition to their participation on discussion panels. * While many of our Literary panels are about SF, Fantasy, or Horror topics in general, we also have an emphasis on panels discussing the craft side and business sides of writing, for those looking to develop as authors. * One of our content tracks for the weekend is dedicated to Science & Technology itself, not just how it is used in fiction. * We will be screening several movies over the weekend, and Anime will also be shown in our Anime & Animation room at certain times. * There will be Workshops and Demos for Costuming (including "Fabric Manipulation", "How to Make Foam Armor", "Make-up for The Stage", and "A Pox on Patterns!") and Art (including "Using Alcohol Inks", "Block Printing With Your Own Designs", "How to Make A Controlled Color Palette", and "Making Wire-Wrapped Jewelry"), and if you’ve got an outfit you made that you’d like to show off on stage, we’ve got a yearly Costume Contest. * If you are a Filker- or just enjoy listening to other people sing and play music- Philcon has a room dedicated Filk room, and this year’s Musical Guest of Honor is Cecilia Eng. As Cecilia is not often on the east coast, if you’d like to see her play in person, now is an excellent change to do so without flying to the other side of the country. Lynn Gold, another west-coast Filker, will also be joining us this year. There are also Concerts scheduled for Sirens & Liars, Half a Slime Devil, Brenda and Chuck Shaffer-Shiring, and Sara Henya. * Since the Gaming track moved from an upstairs suite to the “Gallery” room on the first floor, it’s had the literal room to expand the number of games it can run, and we’ve got a bevy of them on the schedule for 2024, as well as a bank of games for you to choose from during Open Gaming hours. There's also a LARP Workshop Series being run by Spectacle INK. * Our Artist Guests of Honor for 2024 are Gina Matarazzo and Matthew Stewart. Each will be giving a presentation on our Main Stage on Saturday afternoon, as well as having their art displayed in our Art Show. * Our Principal Speaker for 2024 is MAX GLADSTONE, and we also have Nghi Vo as our Special Guest. Both will be doing Readings, Autograph Sessions, panels, and a main stage Q&A session. An interactive version of our schedule can be found HERE. While a simplified, static overview, organized by track, can be found HERE. Our LinkTree can be found HERE. We would especially value your support this year, as Philcon’s Covid-19 policy in previous years (which required both mandatory masking and proof of vaccination in an attempt to avoid becoming a super-spreader event as several other conventions had) has led to a slow but noticeable decline in attendance. While masking in public spaces is still heavily encouraged, neither proof of vaccination nor masking are required to attend the convention in 2024. We’d love your help in making this year a success, so that we’re in a good position to bring you all something really fantastic for our upcoming 90th anniversary. We’d also love to give you a great weekend right now, for reasons I doubt we need to explain. Here’s to surviving the next few years! ~ Lynati Head of Programming, Philcon 2024

[shruiee]

Ruie, my dear, I was re-reading "The Dragon and The Dancer" and if you are still writing/accepting requests can I get a prequel(before the events of "laut ke ajana") where she dances for Daemon (with some nsfw) please?

ugh first of all, I hope your pillow is always cold, your charger cords never break and may you find money on the streets just for funsises.

second of all!!! Saaiyan Hatto Jao would be such a fitting song, of Dancer seducing Daemon so let’s go!

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Wife!Reader

tw: exhibitionism? kinda misogynistic but bare with me pls 🤭 clit play, fivesome(kinda), breeding kink, humiliation, oral m and f receiving. mf(fff), mentions of underage stuff ekkk

main masterlist

In whatever capacity Daemon had within himself to restrain himself from his pretty wife was surely a bravery the Maesters ought to write in books. He had graced the courts of Lys multiple, multiple times. That's where he’d found Mysaria all those years ago. She was a whore, and dancer but a whore. He visited the city twice in his youth, in all his glory mounted open the ominous visage that was Caraxes yet not once was he esteemed enough to watch the infamous courtesans of Lys. Those women, wretched but entrancing women who invited the ones their hearts pleased, unlike any other establishment that would let in anyone with a coin to throw.

Imagine his surprise when an enticing swan from that very establishment had been under his nose this entire time, part of him cursed himself for not seeing it earlier. Something of such enchanting breeding couldn’t have simply come from the loins of Qoren Martell, and knowing your parentage was from Lys. If you weren’t already an insatiable spirit, Daemon pawed at your skirts even more now. He knew that the matter of you dancing was rather sensitive since your mother’s passing and he would never impose himself onto you otherwise.

Yet it couldn’t help taunt the perverse within him, such was the beauty of the Lysenees courtesans. To entice a man wild with just the melody of their voices and the ancient craft of their dance. Many a man with pockets deep enough to raise kingdoms lost their prospects at the doorsills of these bewitching girls.

You spoke of it at length with him once, sat in a warm bath overlooking the sunset, how esteemed of a pupil you were and come of age, your introductory performance had carriages lined for ten streets. Should the time have come, you might have even become the Madam of the establishment with age. The more you excelled in your art the more you feared of never leaving that place like your mother had wished for you. You not once loathed dancing, you hated the politics— you hated how wars began at the backs of courtesans partaking in spying against the very lords they once served to backstab and plot away at every chance they got for their survival. You rather missed the morning singing lessons and the sounds of your sister's anklets running up and down the halls.

“You keep such things from me,” Daemon muttered against your bare shoulder, peppering kisses up to your “You sing?”

You nodded, lifting your head to look at him with a sheepish smile.

It wouldn’t take a lunatic to envision your sweet voice singing away… singing just for him. He tried, he tried so very hard to not let his twitch cock at the thought of it, he was sure you felt it.

“What am I to do with you.” He groaned.

For a wish he had dreamt of since he was near seven and ten, no amount of gold named to the second Targaryen prince would get him inside that establishment, not after he had claimed Caraxes— a magnanimous beast that could burn all those witches in there all at once and not even after aiding the Free Cities with its odd brawls with one another.

And here the damned gods had blessed him with his wish, perched upon his lap. Eager to please him, vowed to obey and be with him till death do them part. Curious how the world worked.

You were no fool, like an animal in rut you had felt Daemon’s demeanour change since the day he discovered you were an untouched courtesan and caught you dancing in the Mirrored Palace alone. You were no stranger to the allure and aura that followed from being who you were, or who your performative personality is.

There is no harm done you thought, you had no joy in dancing for the men at court yet the sound of perhaps performing— truly performing for your lord husband seemed titillating.

It was the conditioning perhaps, to have a noble lord claim a courtesan all to himself, it showed one of two things. A lord with immensely fat pockets or a woman worth nearly a kingdom and its cavalry.

What were you worth? A fucking dragon-lord, a kingdom can’t be worth much if it’s ash. With your children most likely inheriting dragons too, you would by comparison must have outshone all your sisters back in Lys. Such fortune all for a pretty song and the swaying of one’s hips.

When Daemon had told you about is escapades in Essos, especially of how many times the poor prince had tried to gain an audience at your former court. You internally giggled at the picture of a young Daemon clamouring like the rest with gifts and praises to win the attention of your house Madam at the time. Even when he returned with a dragon he was barred, and it wasn’t unusual. Your Madam enjoyed playing with fire, toying with how far she could push men just to catch a glimpse of one of her girls.

Come to think of it, she might have been trying to grasp for an invitation to the Old King’s court, set up an establishment in King’s Landing. But one thing you’d learned from the stories Daemon told you about King’s Landing. Much of the courtesan's work would be polluted by the lack of affection for its craft.

You couldn't deprive him so, not when he paid you handsomely, ravishing your body each night like a silent prayer. Even having seen you, felt you and taught you things that would go beyond the means of a courtesan’s work. You saw the passion in his eyes when he’d find you fixing your ghungroos or humming under your breath as you worked on your needlepoint. The tests of a true Madam now laid at your feet, not only to devise an elaborate function for your dear husband but to be discreet and the most essential part of it all, for you to be perfection.

You’d pick the night of the coming full moon, you knew your father would have grumbled himself to his chambers rather early, the change in tides somehow always made him ill. Your sisters would all be abed, Daemon’s daughter’s too. The commendable part were your lady’s maids, pussyfooting away orders of flowers from Pentos, the special vials of rose oil from Qarth, at least a hundred candles to light up the arched viewpoint at the Watergardens. Daemon’s favourite foods to be prepared along with fine strong wines from the Old Palace cellars.

The intricacies of this function had been handled with such care and secrecy, that it made you consider moving into the manse your father had gifted you after your wedding for some privacy. Surely, a married— happily married couple engaging in salacious acts with one another shouldn't be unexpected. Lastly your lehenga, unlike the ones you usually wear, was truly a magnificent piece made by the dressmaker. A black velvet blouse with a dangerously low neckline and shoulder embroidered with dragons of red and gold threads, a lighter skirt of silk with heavy gold embroidery and embellishments and a chiffon embellished shawl that did nothing to hide your figure.

Another ruse was set up to hide your true schemes, a quaint supper with just you and Daemon being entertained by folk singers sent by Yi Ti.

The evening had been rather splendid, Daemon had no interest in listening to some fucks sing about in a tongue he understood not, but when his sweet wife insisted upon spending the evening together: he couldn't deny you.

He suspected that you were up to something, with supper being prepared, dishes lined up one after the other which were all those he shamelessly indulged in, the rather aged wine that you had been consuming a little too much of. He did not mind, either way, fucking his wife tonight sober or a sweet slobber mess— all was well in the world. After what seemed like a while, Daemon finally felt at ease, calm with a purpose that he belonged, with his daughters and you.

“Excuse me, dearest.” you whispered against his ear, smiling before pecking his cheek “I’ll be back.”

Daemon smiled back, watching you rise from the floored cushions that the both of you nested on, his eyes very shamelessly admiring your backside and the curves of your hips as you walked back into your quarters. He marvelled at the thought of ripping that very lovely maroon gown of your body. The colour change had been a sudden shock to him when you fluttered your way into the sparring wards in a Dornish gown painted in the dark crimson of his house’s colour. Rest assured the sparring continued later in the evening and the gown alas did not survive.

You had slipped out easily, just as the doors closed behind you, the lot of you bolted the opposite direction to your privy and down the hallways, skirts hiked up as you used your other hand to free your hair of the loose Westerosi braids they were in. Your maids ran with you, two of them already waiting by the Watergardens along with the the whore dancers you had acquired all outfitted in white and the esteemed musicians that played at every one of your events.

Hiding behind the thick shrubbery, your maids hastily stripped you off your gown and small clothes and replaced them with the ensemble made for tonight. You prayed to the gods while calming your breath from all that running, let it be perfect. The four girls would greet Daemon upon his arrival, even though they would be a finer treat than most men have had in this lifetime, you were another anthology entirely.

Daemon had been given his first clue after the Yi Ti performers had finally ended their never-ending song.

“The princess awaits you in the Watergardens, my prince.” the attendant had informed before scurrying away.

Whatever this was, Daemon was truly intrigued seemingly obeying his wife and heading straight out of the gardens without any delay. The show that greeted him there however had him taken aback for a moment, the garden pillars decorated in blossoms and twinkling candles scattered across the stairs leading to the arches. He could hear the mellow music and the serene sound of flute dancing along with the crashing waves.

Just like a dream come true, he was greeted by the sound of ghungroos— a sound he had grown accustomed to. Four girls rushed towards him, lifting their hands to their faces and bowing.

“Good evening, my prince.” one of them spoke.

“We have longed for your arrival, your grace.” said the other. Reaching forward for Daemon’s hand.

At any other time he might have pulled away, but this was surely orchestrated by his wayward wife. He could feel her around but couldn't see, and these girls— preening up at him like willing, wanting whores, they were no courtesans. He played along, letting them drag him along to the shore view where an elaborate arrangement awaited him. An old fire in him arose when his reputation had been so palpable at the many brothels across the Known World. Two of them pushed him onto the plush sete, giggling as one of them plops right next to him.

“Would you like some refreshments, my prince.” One of them said with a bunch of grapes in her hand, the other poured him a glass of wine. The third took her time feeling Daemon up, he thoroughly enjoyed this but longed for his wife— his courtesan. One of them began to unbutton the tops of his doublet, soft fingers trailing across his chest.

His sexual frustrations and anticipation began to pivot to a perverse ire, to find you hiding somewhere and reprimand you with your arse red for teasing him so.

That is when the sound of a heavier set of ghungroos echoed around the arches, there you were. Your glowing face against the moonlit sky and candles, you walked towards, body covered in a thick black shawl. The girls around him lifted their skirts and ran towards you, positioning themselves. Then came the music, a smirk so prominent settled itself on Daemon’s lips as his lifelong dream had now stood in fruition before him.

You seductively, inch by inch let the black shawl drop until it fell to the ground, looking at the shawl and suggestively looking up at your husband. You twirled thrice forward, ending right by Daemon’s legs and lowered yourself. He knew not of what you sang but it was as though a witch chanted spells to bind him to you.

The song you sang was one of innocence, a sweet girl begging her lover to let her return home— for the higher the moon rose in the sky her reputation hung by a thread. Ever so seductively telling him to stay away because she knew his true desires were so very impure.

Stay away my love, I know what you desire

You reached for the rose tucked in your blouse, reaching lower to gesture at your ghungroos, giving Daemona a rather exposed view of your bosom. You acted as if his looking had offended you and flicked the rose at him, you stood to continue your routine still singing without a note or beat missed. You knew within that you were perfection, it is what you were trained for from birth. This one performance should have costed half of Pentos, but look upon Daemon’s eyes was payment enough for you.

Night fades to dawn my love, please let me go home

You pulled your shawl of your head and down you your shoulder, toying with it around your cleavage. Eyebrows suggestively scrunched at Daemon, making him kiss the rose you gave him and throw it back at you which you caught with ease, letting the petal graze upon your cheek and then your lips lowering it further down the sides of your torso and tucking it this time at the lining of your skirt. You turn your back towards him swaying you hips as you walked away, turning once to wink at him and continuing to walk until the hardest part of the number began.

The percussion beats could never be missed by your feet, in a performative haze you smiled at the three dancers who also did an extraordinary job at keeping up with you. You turned one last time.

My mother and sister by law shall poke, where had I been, my love. I will die of embarrassment

You walked towards him this time, an exaggerated sway in your hip as you pulled your shawl out from your skirt lining and let it fall to the floor, you turned once more, performatively reaching for the back strings of your blouse and pulling them to mimic a sensual morning stretch. You turned towards your husband who had settled himself further into the cushion.

You kept singing as he reached his hand out, you took it letting him pull you onto his lap. Your soft finger held his face as you kept singing, leading his face towards your neck and he wasted no time in peppering kisses down your collarbone. You pushed him back there after which startled him, you could feel the hardened mound under his breeches— your payment.

Stay away my love, I know of what you desire.

Daemon had enough, still letting you finish your song, your eyes and eyebrows still expressing away your performative feelings as he reached for your Nath and removed it, a significant indication of deflowering a young courtesan.

Your song ended as you sat straddled upon Daemon’s lap, you gaze never left his— like you were another person entirely. Daemon relished in how he intimidated you, how shy and small you were around him, how receptive but innocent you remained even when he taught you to pleasure him and yourself in bed. Yet this woman sat atop him, you were someone else.

“Was it everything you ever dreamed of, my prince.” Your whispered, your hands caressing his face.

Daemon for a moment couldn’t find his words, that’s when you snapped from your performance growing anxious from the silence. You were about to pull away when Daemon abruptly spun you down onto the cushion so he lay towering over you, caging you under his broad build.

“How am I to pay you, my lady,” he said, wanting to rip the clothing off your body but he looked behind to still see the four girls standing.

“They are yours tonight my prince,” you nervously, your aura slipping back to the former “As am I.”

At that Daemon held no restraint and laid siege upon your body, he figured the lasses could still dance as Daemon would take you apart under the moonlit sky.

You held nothing back, arching your back onto the onslaught of Daemon’s lips. Letting your fingers feel the remaining buttons of his doublet and pushing them off his shoulder. This time you pushed back, the heat on your cheeks so apparent for you’d never thought to be so forthcoming in bed before, Daemon always held the reins, placing you in positions he liked, teaching you ways to pleasure yourself.

Daemon grunted for a moment, fighting against the push of your hands before giving in, letting you lay him back down once more. You straddled him once more, this time slipping back into the seductive performance you’d laid out for him. Smiling down at him as you slipped your blouse off, slowly— inch by inch before dropping it next to you.

Daemon’s lips parted in a gasp, though his cockiness would credit his lessons for confidence in this matter. He was further crazed by how much you appeared to be enjoying doing this. He couldn't help himself, reaching up to tweak at your left nipple. You began to roll your hips against the hardening of his breeches, your bare cunt under your skirt pressed at the girth giving you just a small burst of pleasure.

You did Daemon of his tunic, your fingers tracing his battle scars as you reached lower, letting your lips press against his warm skin— letting yourself inch lower and lower as you shuffled off him.

You both yearned greatly for one another, nearly four moons into your marriage and the passions you shared for one another only seemed to reach further heights with each passing day. A fire that Daemon had lit within you burned so bright for him every day. One might think you were born to be with him, obey him.

Daemon watched as you undid his pants, pulling them down his legs and not once leaving his eyes, you were an ethereal sight, bare-chested with his gifted jewels shining at your neck— so prepared to service him. You reached for his cock and that's when he stopped you.

His hands trailed to your head of wild hair, gently tugging at it. “You want my cock?” he said. Eyes wild and waiting for your response.

You meekly nodded, sticking your tongue out just as he taught you to. Wasting no time further he pushes your mouth onto his cock, letting your head bob and suction at his length. You worked your tongue around his cock, the taste of him so familiar in your mouth. You whimper as he pushes in further breaching the back of your mouth and making your eyes water.

“Who would have thought it hmm, the finest girl Lys could offer kneeled like a whore for me” his words falsely degrading you sending shockwaves straight to you your core.

You whimper, this time willingly taking him deeper feeling your throat want to constrict as you pull up for air— he however stops you briefly before giving you relief. A string of salvia lingering on your lips. He wiped at the tears polling around the corner of your eyes.

“Take the rest of it off girl,” he demanded, eyes ravenous and impatient.

You gathered your bearing before standing once more, pulling at the waist string of your skirts with no haste to tease him yet again. You let your skirt fall as you caught onto the rose still tucked at your waistline. You kissed it and threw it at him. Every look, every action towards you seemed to have been pooling your cunt wet.

Daemon grunted, yanking you back onto him. His lips smacked against yours once more as he took a harsh hold of your tit with one hand while the other held you here. His actions were voracious, seducing your soul rather than your body.

You took matters into your own hands, unable to keep up with this game any longer and reached for his cock— gently rubbing the tip at you folds before lowering yourself onto him.

Daemon groaned into your mouth as you gasped, having never felt him so deep, you held onto his shoulder fingernails digging in.

“You're so deep,” you whispered, your breath hitching as you adjusted to the intrusion.

His fingers dug into the flesh of your arse pulling you further down and full of him. You felt so close, so one with him. You began to grind your hip, your neck cranked as Daemon’s head dipped lower to kiss your shoulders and up your neck.

“Such a fine prize aren't you, tell me how do I pay you?” he said bucking his hips up into you making you sqwak.

“D-dragonseed… I want your babes.” you whispered, head hanging in a wanting shame.

Daemon smirked, he had forever hoped to make you swell of his children but he never knew your sweet mind craved to be bred.

“Go on then, take what you want.” he rested back on to his elbows, bucking his hips once more to coerce you to keep going.

You rested a hand on his torso using it as leverage to lift your hips to bounce into his cock. Your snug cunt milking him to fill you. Your smaller legs weren't enough to lift you that far off his cock, but you tried nonetheless. Daemon reached for your cunny, his thumb began to rub circles onto your clit sending you into a frenzy— riding him with far more determination.

It felt good, so very good.

“How does it feel darling? How does it feel riding a dragon.”

You let out a strained giggle at that, still unable to help your childish mind. You kept riding him, Daemon’s lips restraining a smile too at your ill-timed humour. Earning you a sharp smack on your left tit.

“It feels so good, so deep.”

Your hips found a steady rhythm against Daemon’s fingers at your bundle of nerves. Your each bounce ore eager than the one before. Your tits bobbing and calling for equal attention from Daemon.

“My prince!”

You moaned, feeling that pinnacle ever so close as you chased it.

“I’m all yours,” you said unprovoked “a courtesan trained just for you.”

Daemon nearly lost his bearings at that, pinching your nipple harder. Seven Hells— he knew you were made just for him.

“Say it again.”

“I was born to be your c- courtesan.” you cried, feeling so very close to completion.

Your thighs begin to shudder, he can feel them clenching— he lets go of your breast and grabs your hips in aid to feel you gush around him. A sudden pitched cry leaves your mouth as you tremble your bouncing coming to a halt as you fight to hold yourself up but Daemon’s fingers on your bundle of nerves don't stop.

He abruptly flips you over, readjusting you within a blink of an eye. Your bare body facing the dancers as Daemon’s solid wet-length rested on the curve of your ass.

“We could get your money’s worth,” he suggested nipping at your ear lobe, his demeanour shifted to the one of you loving husband. “We needn't—”

“I trust you.” you looked up at him, chest still heaving from your peak before and yet you always wanted more of him, more of his depravities.

So many fantasies, much to do.

He gestured them forward knowing they would take much time to shed their clothes, they were whores trained to dance.

All three of of them vulgarly bowed, giggling amongst themselves.

“My prince.” The chorus of their voice followed as they began their performance to reach for him.

He tutted— he’d die happy if he died tonight.

“Not me, her.” He ordered.

You looked back up at him, a curious flare in your eyes that was met with his top protruding at your sloppy opening once more.

The girls entirely shifted their attention onto you.

“Mhmm you have such lovely tits princess.”

“Such soft skin.”

“Such a fine figure, your grace.”

Daemon pushed into you once more, groaning and resting his head onto your shoulder. His palm curled around you neck pulling your back against his shoulder. He knew of the explosive pleasure you were about to discover, even more joy was that he would be the one giving it to you, a fine reward for my girl, the fruits of the lovely exhibition you'd put on for him.

He began fucking into you, small grunts and exhales lingered by your ear and what followed from there on had your mind scattered.

One whore settled on suckling your nipples, twisting and toying with the other. One muffled your moans with her lips upon yours. Your cunny was already sensitive but then you felt a sensation you never had before. The third girl kneeled by the nest and began to lick your bud.

“D— Daemon!”

The sensation so overwhelming you began to pull away, Daemon curled other arm firm around your torso to keep you in place as he continued rut into you.

“Feels good doesn’t it, my love?”

You could barely speak but you nodded, eyes shut feeling yourself so lost in every touch. One of the whores disappeared behind you, settling herself under Daemon to service his heavy stones.

He watched as the whores played with your tits, he too reach further up to tweak a pebble harshly between his fingers. You gasped at the burn of pain. The whore sucking at your teat came to your defence.

“Gentle my prince, breaking a thing so pretty isn’t fair”

“Not this one, her cunt is squelching around me.” he groans.

“Its true!” the girl by your cunt giggles.

Your cheeks burned in shame, they spoke of you like you weren't around. The whore licking your bud pushed at your folds to leave it exposed as she suckled and licked and rubbed away. Daemon’s cock fucked you raw from within and you felt it once more, hurtling towards.

“Go on, wet my cock my love.” he grunted fucking you harder.

His peak chased after as you broke first, gushing around his cock as you screamed his name. Legs and arms shuddering as Daemon grunted to completion himself, ropes of his spent coated your walls. You could feel the warmth within, nearly forfeited by your sensations. He held your body so close, recovering himself as he shooed the whores away.

Letting you collapse in the nest first and then himself. Laying soft kisses at your shoulder, still firmly holding your hand to ground you.

“Well done, my love.”

You lazily smiled at him, dazed in euphoria as you rubbed your feet against his calves.

“What have I done for fortune.” He whispered against your temple.

You shrugged at him, leaning forward to kiss him once more. “I hope you are pleased with my performance?”

Daemon shook his head, begging mesmerized by you. He let his hand rest at your belly.

“If giving you all this love,” he kissed your cheek. “My dragonseed,” he pressed onto you belly. “Isn’t indication of how very pleased I am sweet girl.”

Then you heard a high pitched squeal from the skies, clicks and then the rustle of trees around you. “Then perhaps I should show you what being a dragon feels like.”

Caraxes burst through the horizon behind your circling the skies as he lowered himself onto the white beach. You looked at Daemon puzzled, as he pulled you up to dress you.

“What are you doing?” You huffed putting your blouse back on.

“You want to have my children, it might be time that you grew accustomed to Caraxes.”

You kept dressing yourself to mask the fear that was coursing through your veins. I dance for him and he plans to kill me. You could barely muster the courage to be even ten feet around Moondancer and that beast was a babe. Caraxes is a behemoth, he protects your husband— he told you how the two of them were two halves of whole. It never made sense to you.

“Don’t be scared, halves of a whole remember?” he said as he bent down to lift you up by you back and legs once you finished dressing.

You’d rid yourself of your ghungroos just to not startle the beast.

“I love you, care for you. Therefore he does too.”

You weren’t sure about how sure he was about said theory. Yet you let him carry you to the beaches below where Caraxes sat waiting, when you saw him it almost appeared as though he was playing with sand. Shaking his snout it the sand to bury it and then exhaling to have sand fly everywhere, followed by loud clicks.

“Is he— is he playing?” You asked your husband.

“Told you, he’s harmless.”

That beast also burned dozens of Dornish men but alright.

Just as Caraxes felt Daemon’s presence he chirped up even more, his long neck swaying in the wind. However it only took a moment for his demeanour to flip when he realized there was another. You froze in Daemon’s arms at the low grumble Caraxes let out.

“Dohaeras Caraxes!” Daemon lowly warned the beast.

Caraxes still look unsure but Daemon kept walking.

He put you down a few feet from the beast, don’t run— don’t run. You watched as Daemon walked towards Caraxes without a care in the world that his wife might get fried tonight.

“Konir sagon ñuha ābrazȳrys, ao gīmigon zirȳla syt izula hūra, keligon issare quba.” That is my wife, you have know about her for four moons. I told you.

Daemon sounded like he was scolding the dragon.

He turned to you “Come my love.”

You obeyed, talking small steps towards him. Towards his outstretched hand. Everything would be fine, you trusted him. Entirely— wholeheartedly, with your life.

Just until Caraxes turned his long neck and his snout just with a feet from you. You froze entirely once more, Daemon still petting Caraxes.

“Dohaeras,” he whispered, almost as if he spoke to a child.

Caraxes’s big nostrils flared, sniffing you a couple of time before chirping. Daemon chuckled, you relaxed for a moment until Caraxes gently used his snout to trip you backwards before once more burying his snout in the sand and deeply exhaling, burying you in a thick sheet of sand. Daemon couldn’t help but break into a fit of laughter

“Daemon!”

You were going to great friends he knew it.

eeee I had so much fun writing this. I totally imagine Caraxes kinda being like jealous Lilly from modern family lol

[e-hibiscus]

Pairing: Demon!Ningguang x reader

Authors Note: Happy Hallows eve 👻

As part of @edgeray ’s Halloween Event, I’ve written you all a fic for the spooky season‼️‼️

Warnings: Nsfw, suggestive UTC

As a hobby you enjoy sifting through old estate sales. It’s always an entertaining thing to see objects that people hold onto. Each thing is tied together with a story from the past. Anytime you see a sign posted about a garage or estate sale, you always go to take a look because there’s always a hidden gem in the sea of “junk”.

Stepping out of your car, you see a man out by the garage, organizing an assortment of toys, books, clothes, and other nicknacks. The crunching of gravel lets the man know of your arrival, and after some small talk you're sifting through the mountains of mementoes. Looking through faded pictures and books for anything of interest.

While looking through some old posters, something catches your eye. An old book in excellent condition despite how dusty it is on the surface. In some odd way… you’re compelled to take it with you, so you buy it along with a few other things , like a beautiful hairpin and intricately designed pipe.

Standing before your small haul of items, the book falls to the wayside. The worn and dirty gold hairpin is the first thing you decide to restore and you’re glad you did because after cleaning the damn thing it was simply beautiful. Feeling the pattern underneath your fingertips, it’s clear this was a masterpiece in its own right. You decide to keep it on your vanity incase you ever want to use it. The pipe too, is a very similar line of event. Restoration and then ultimately you display it in your collection with your other bits and bobs.

It was only months later that you get around to the weird book you’ve picked from that estate sale. A few times you’ve found yourself staring at the cover while it sits on your shelf. You bring the worn book in your hands, being careful not to cause anymore damage to its delicate body. Despite its clearly aged appearance, your able to read the characters written in the pages.

Only some seem familiar to you, but there was much more you didn’t understand about it. It was clear that this was a ritual of sorts, that much was clear if the images and diagrams were anything to go off of. Tracing over the characters, you decide that you’re going to try and summon whatever this thing is. Everything is confusing though… so you brush up on your researching skills for the sake of finding out more about this ritual. Your curiosity got the best of you, so you began pouring in hours of research in your free time.

After years of on and off research and deciphering of the characters you’ve finally figured it out.

You couldn’t get in any faster than you already were. The frantic jingling of your keys was the only thing you can hear other than your labored breath. Your eyes continue to dart between each key and the time on your watch until you finally get the door open and shut behind you.

In your living room, mostly everything had been cleared out so you could make space for all the things necessary. You spent hours the day before crafting the sigils, referencing your notes so things would be absolutely perfect. You didn’t come this far to half-ass this, right? You couldn’t help but cover your eyes when the characters light up brightly, and you miss how Ningguang’s pulled from her slumber. The demon manifests from the smoke, to see her new “master” and when she sees you the demon only raises a brow.

Slowly, you crack your eyes open to see not an ugly scary demon… but an older woman who eyes your body almost as if she’s picking jewelry instead of looking at a person. Even under the scrutinizing gaze of the demon before you, a small “Woah…” escapes under your breath because Ningguang’s beautiful.

••

The ruby eyes take in the room around her. It’s bland for her taste. There’s only a few things amongst all the “junk” Ningguang could appreciate however the succubus can’t help but be disappointed by your taste in decor.

“Well,” Ningguang’s voice draws out smoothly. It’s not often a woman summons her, and a rather cute one at that. “What do we have here?”

The way you averted your gaze from her immediately when it became clear you’re reserved and inexperienced. With a firm grip on your face, Ningguang forces your attention into her face. A chill ran down your spine as her pertent gaze bore into you. The sharp manicured nails leave light crescents on your cheeks before her thumb gently runs over the markings with faux care. She drinks in you slightly panicked expression.

She doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches as her thin tail snakes its way around your thigh. The desire in your core grows from the sweet scent filling the air and you only grow more sensitive to everything. From the fabric of your shirt to your panties your body is getting worked up in the presence of such a power succubus. You remain still as she turns your head, a pleased hum escaping her lips before she lets go satisfied by your obedience. Ningguang’s praise sounds smooth like honey. “What an obedient little master.” Her delicate fingers swipe over your lips, before she plants an indulgent kiss to rile you up some more.

Your hand reaches out to grab her wait, however Ningguang grabs hold of your wrist. “Have patience, little master. You’ll get a taste soon enough.” Her words ghosting the shell of your ear. Ningguang leans in to steal a kiss with an indulgent chuckle before setting her smoke aside.

Soon enough you’re laid in the sheets presenting your pretty little pussy for her. Already the thin fabric of your thong is soaked through with your arousal, pupils blow wide as you stare up at her figure leaning over with nothing but grace and elegance.

The way her nails scrape against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. You should be embarrassed that a simple swipe over your clothed sex has you rolling your hips against Ningguang’s hand. The needy feeling aches from the lack of stimulation.

“All you have to do is say yes,” Her words break through your clouded mind with a tempting offer. “and offer your body to me?”

[virtchandmoir]

Performance Under Pressure: Unlocking Potential and Sustaining Excellence with Tessa Virtue

May 8, 2025

The most decorated figure skater in Olympic history, Tessa Virtue spent 20 years pushing the boundaries of her sport, collecting five Olympic medals — including three golds — alongside her on-ice partner, Scott Moir. Now, as an executive advisor at Deloitte, with an MBA and a Master’s in Applied Positive Psychology, she translates the lessons learned from her experience as an elite athlete into actionable strategies to help leaders and their teams unlock and empower high performance.

Tessa was the closing speaker at Showcase 2025 — Speakers Spotlight’s annual, client-exclusive, TED-style event. This year’s theme was “Meeting the Moment” with each featured expert offering clarity and guidance to better navigate the challenges ahead on a national, organizational, leadership, and individual level.

In her captivating presentation, Tessa took us on an intimate journey through her Olympic experience, sharing her tried and tested strategies for sustaining individual excellence and performance under intense pressure.

The Vancouver Era: Naïve Ambition

Breaking down her presentation into three chapters, representing each of her Olympic games, Tessa defined her Vancouver era as a period of “naïve ambition”.

After narrowly missing the 2006 Torino Games, Tessa and Scott vowed to never be on the cusp of qualifying again. They were pushing for gold at the 2010 Olympic Games despite daunting odds — no North American team had ever won, no team had ever won at such young ages, and no team had won without first winning a World Championship or attending an Olympic Games, Tessa said.

They doubled down on training, often spending 12-14 hours at the rink. While this “more is more” approach earned praise from their coaches, it also earned Tessa a debilitating injury requiring surgery just one year before the 2010 Games.

Tessa spent her first Olympics in a massage chair, receiving eight hours of physiotherapy every day. Surrounded by the best athletes in the world, she felt ashamed as she counted the 282 steps to the cafeteria knowing if she took that journey, she wouldn’t be able to practice that day.

During competition, something came over them. “We took the ice at the coliseum and squeezed each other’s hands; we were just 7 and 9 years old again… We found flow together for the first time ever,” Tessa said. While we earned gold, we were not yet masters of our craft, she continued.

The Sochi Era: Win at All Costs

Ten months later, Tessa underwent surgery again. No longer the underdogs, they were reigning champions, and it was a heavy weight to carry. Anything less than gold at Sochi felt like failure, Tessa said. They lost themselves trying to meet others’ expectation while simultaneously losing faith in their coaches.

Before a crucial practice at Sochi that would determine their medal colour, Tessa told her coach exactly what she needed to hear to perform her best. When they announce our names, she said, tell me to focus on Scott. Instead, her coach pointed to the stands and said, “see every single one of those people out there, every judge, every official, every spectator, they are just waiting for you to make a mistake.”

Tessa and Scott left those games with two silver medals and completely disillusioned. With nothing left to give and completely void of joy, they decided to retire.

Pyeongchang Era: Excellence Over Perfection

Post-Olympics, Tessa and Scott toured the world, performing their routines. It didn’t take long for them to miss the competition though. To miss the energy of waking up with a clear purpose every day, Tessa said. They started asking, what if? What if we skated with coaches who believed in us? What if we tried a different style of skating? What if we could do things differently?

That list of “what ifs” was so compelling, we had to try again, Tessa said. With the mandate to do things differently, they relocated to Montreal and assembled a team of 20-25 experts across disciplines. They positioned themselves as “CEOs of their business,” rallying these specialists around a shared vision.

The Winning Formula: Three Mindset Shifts That Changed Everything

In that comeback period, Tessa and Scott made three key mindset shifts:

Excellence over perfection: They stopped chasing perfection and instead pursued excellence. Excellence felt doable and sustainable. We could be 8/10 every day, Tessa said. This is what wins medals.

Recovery as competitive advantage: Their greatest edge was being more rested than their competitors. We skated three hours a day, Tessa said, and worked harder than we ever had before.

Getting comfortable with discomfort: For two years, Tessa and Scott meticulously simulated Olympic conditions — playing crowd noise, skating on rough ice, and deliberately practicing falls to neutralize their greatest fear. In turn, they gained more confidence in their ability to perform under pressure.

“I hated skating for 18 years,” Tessa said. “Those last two years ahead of the Pyeongchang Olympics, I loved every single second.”

What changed was her sense of agency, autonomy, and purpose. During their final Olympic performance, when the music ended, Tessa realized nine judges wouldn’t determine her worth or success. It was that moment that mattered — not because the skate was technically perfect, but because they found joy in the process.

The Power of Purpose: Elevate Your Performance

As Tessa ended her powerful story of transformation, she asked two questions: “Are you finding moments of meaning in your everyday that connect to your purpose, your why?” and “Are you chasing perfection or excellence?” These questions lie at the heart of sustainable high performance, whether on the world stage or in a corporate boardroom.

Bring this Olympic mindset to your organization. As a keynote speaker, Tessa shares her performance strategies, combining her elite athletic and professional experience with her academic background. Her insights help organizations build resilience, harness purpose, and maintain excellence under pressure.

—Speakers Spotlight

[saturnville]

Patron de la Scène | The Untimely Arrival

Pairing: Joseph de la Scène (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) x Black Fem Oc (Adama Ndiyae) Warnings: Mentions of slavery/enslavement, sexual situations, angst (I will add more if they come up). Reference: Chevalier (2023) AN: So, as a Black woman who loves Black Excellence (and also has a history degree), this movie was right up my alley and provided a perfect opportunity to tap into the historical fiction genre. Hope you enjoy!

Wandering hands woke him up that Tuesday morning. Wandering hands, two (or three) pairs of dry lips against his neck, and sweet nothings whispered in his ear pulled him from a quiet, short-lived slumber that ended much sooner than he preferred. Straight teeth grazed his skin, pulling a child-like wince from him.  Sagging eyelids opened one at a time, struggling to adjust to the light that poured between the heavy artisan-crafted curtains. To his left, a woman. To his right, yet another. Both were as bare as the day they were born. Both gazed at him with hunger in their blue eyes--he was a gazelle, and they were seductive lionesses, waiting for an opportunity for their prey to stand still and allow them to pounce. 

One hand, tucked beneath a featherlight body, twisted and turned for release. The other rested against a pale breast, grazed one, two, three times, his ears perking at the soft, wanton sigh before retreating. A low voice passed through a constricted and dry throat: "It's been fun, ladies. The maîtresse de maison will escort you out." 

Quiet moans of distaste and sounds of discontent poured out of their mouths, to which he cooed half-sympathies and false promises in response, insisting they'd come together again one day. It took fifteen minutes to pry their hands off his body so he could wash the desperation and remnants of the evening's events off his body. They gathered their belongings with slow, deliberate movements as though delaying the inevitable. He didn’t watch them leave; he didn’t need to.

Once the door clicked shut, he exhaled heavily, the weight of the room settling over him. For all their softness and warmth, they left no mark, no impression, nothing lasting. He couldn’t quite explain the following ache, but he knew it had little to do with them.

His nose turned up as if he was in the presence of animals and was the sole competent being in the room. "Can we get a candle lit in here?" His voice fleshed out in the atmosphere, speaking to no one in particular but expecting it to land on listening ears. Soon, he heard a muffled pitter-patter coming down the hallway. A quiet, shaking hand slid through the space the door and its hinges created, gently placing a brightly lit candle on the table beside the entryway. A muffled, Good morning, Patron, came from the subject, which he acknowledged with a gruff “Bonjour."

Long fingers curled around a meticulously crafted dressing gown and yanked it off the chair to his in-room desk. One arm through each opening, he slid the heavy fabric on carefully, adjusting it to stay seated on his broad shoulders and comfortably around his slim waist. Blunt fingernails scratched at the braids that were usually covered. Matted and in desperate need of a wash, they were. He'd have to send for someone who knew what they were doing; he'd end up bald if he allowed yet another uneducated woman to get her fingers caught in his thick tresses. He couldn't take any more pulls and tugs, at least not in that manner. 

He prepared for the day; the Lord knew he needed it. He soaked sore arms and tired legs in a gold basin filled with hot water, oils, and various soaps from neighboring countries. His ears caught birds chirping, the bees buzzing, and the soft knock against the door. The urge to outwardly grow sat on his lips like a pigeon on a branch. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Come in." Throwing his arms over the basin, he craned his head to the right, acknowledging whoever had entered. He recognized her--Eloise. A young woman hired by his father to tend to his needs. He had no interest in the young woman, and whether she had an interest in him was a care he'd kicked like a ball into the sunset. 

She was professional. She kept her head down and did as requested. A primary reason why she found favor in his sight. His eyes softened a bit. "Yes, Eloise?" 

"The carriage will arrive shortly. The guest quarters are prepared for her arrival, Monsieur." At her words, his eyes shifted forward. The day had arrived. His lips parted and then closed. Time seemed to move faster than he knew it to. He nodded twice. "Your attire is in your quarters. May I be of any additional assistance?"

"No." His reply was quick. No room to interject. Eloise toyed with her fingers, waiting for her dismissal. There were only so many places her eyes could roam to keep them from landing on his broad chest, damp with condensation and kissed by heated droplets of water. The clock in the corner was lovely, she noted. So was the painting near the window. She swallowed stiffly. Finally, he said, "Merci," and sent her on her way. 

The sighs they released seemed in sync as she scurried out of the bathing room and he dunked his body further into the water. 

Self-consciousness was not something he felt often. It was quite the opposite. However, when he received word that she'd arrive within a few moments, he found himself patting what he assumed to be stray hairs back into place, pulling his jacket down as if it had the ability to touch his knees and rolling the letter she'd sent in his hands like a toy. He was nervous. He couldn't remember the last time he was nervous. It was a foreign feeling. He hated it. 

Whatever the next step after nervousness was, he felt it. It crashed into him like the waves that almost rocked his boat overboard when he traveled from France to Portugal. Horseshoes kissed the pavement with loud smacks, warning him of her impending arrival. Muffled voices of horse tamers ricocheted off the columns. He swallowed thickly. 

His brown stayed trained on the carriage. It rocked side to side like an unsteady man after a night of indulging in spirits and white powders. A well-dressed man pulled the door open. A petite body was assisted down, and tiny feet covered in old shoes hit the floor. His heart was a drum in his chest. It couldn't be. 

One suitcase was placed by her feet. He saw her side profile as she thanked the attendant with a smile. Her smile was small, almost forced. Much of her features were unseen from his angle. He strained to keep his throat from closing. It couldn't be. She didn't move for many moments, instead opting to stare at the French sunlight. He was like her, unable to move until another body joined her. "Who..." They knew each other; he could tell by how they smiled at each other. 

Suddenly, the glue had been removed, and his feet carried him out of his home and to the front, where the women stood side by side, chattering lowly. His heart drummed louder with each step closer, the world quieting around him. She was a shadow of the woman he once knew, yet so damn familiar. Time had not been kind, but her presence alone shook the foundations of his composed façade.

At the sound of his footsteps, they turned. One over her left shoulder, the older over her right. His lips parted to make room for a shuddered breath. It was so. His shoulders dropped, and his grip loosened on the letters in his grasp, falling to the concrete with a soft scrape. His eyes dropped to her lips, full like his but dark from dehydration, lack of moisture, and faded bruises from countless times he'd seen her head get whipped left and right. His heart ached. It was her. 

He couldn't find the words. He'd imagined this moment many a time. Over and over, it played like his favorite Shakespearean play. He'd lay in her arms like he did as a boy before she was pulled out of his arms, forced into exile. A twenty-year exile that haunted his spirit and traumatized his soul. The anger that had developed over the years seemed to dissipate the longer his brown eyes shared her gaze. He could hardly make out her face behind the tears. 

His eyes traced the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone that once held a necklace but now housed a long scar, jagged and never able to fully heal—an ever-present reminder of a despicable history they shared. The skin was not as taut as he remembered, now looser with age and trauma. Her skin was still as rich and beautiful as it was when he was a boy. Time had carved lines into her face, and her experiences should have forced her shoulders to cave in, but still, he saw the regal woman who held herself high despite being humbled to that of a servant, the woman that men would fawn after. The beautiful Fatou. His mother. His dear mother.

He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice. Almost. He was born when she was young, nothing but a girl herself. Her voice was soft and airy, like an early morning in June. Back then, she had only been with his father briefly, and her accent hovered over her words like dew over the sea. When she taught him his name, it was in quiet moments by the window of their small room, her lips curling around the syllables as though tasting each one for the first time. 

“Jo…seph,” she’d say, her brow furrowing as she pressed a warm hand against his chest. “This you, my son. Joseph.”

As a boy, he giggled at her careful pronunciation, his tiny hands clapping together in delight. “Jo-seph!” He’d echo, his tone triumphant and proud.

 Now, hearing her say “my son” after all these years, his chest tightened. Her hand, warm and hard from years of work, touched his cheek. His eyes closed softly as he winced from her touch. Not that he didn’t want it; it was unfamiliar. A mother’s touch was foreign, like the land she came from. 

“I…” she became choked. Her handle trembled against his face, and her tears gathered quicker than ants at a dirt hill the longer she looked at him. “I’m sorry.” Sorry. Sorry. Sorry for the years she spent running through the woods to find a way to get to him. Sorry for the beatings she endured to keep him unscathed. Sorry that she had no choice but to leave him in the hands of a man who’d brainwashed him into believing he was God’s gift to humanity for giving her son the life he deserved. Sorry that he was robbed of the opportunity to have a mother. 

He tried to smile, but it came out wobbly like a pirate’s parade on land. “Let us not dwell on the past, yeah?” He couldn’t take any more of it. It was too much for his heart to handle and too small to expand—he wouldn’t allow it. 

The shifting of a neighboring body was the perfect scapegoat for the emotionally charged interaction with his mother. Fatou’s hand fell from his face to grab his hand. Her grip was so tight he thought he’d lose it—she was afraid to let him go as if he’d flee from her or he’d be snatched from her arms again.

As the air shifted, as the atmosphere seemed to thicken, Joseph felt the subtle presence of another. He tensed, his gaze turning toward the movement. There, standing a mere three feet from him, was Adama. Adama Ndiaye…Indy. 

Adama stood there, holding herself with a quiet, reserved confidence that Joseph couldn’t quite place. This woman in front of him, this unknown version of someone he knew what seemed to be eons ago, was foreign. Despite her place in society, her presence commanded the room the way of a queen. Europe’s monarchs would tremble in her presence.

She was no longer the scruffy child he played with behind the quarters until the sun dropped and they blended with the night. She had shed that form, leaving only a striking image before him—a woman. A woman who, unlike what he’s seen in France. Skin rich like the mahogany beams that supported his home, eyes deep like the wine he’d guzzled last night before bedding two women while he awaited his mother’s untimely arrival. Her breasts, round and succulent, peaked from the breast line of the dress that he’d only guessed her mother sewed for her by hand. 

Her hair, once braided with escape routes threaded between the strands—routes to freedom and rice, evidence of a life lived in stealth—was now hidden beneath a headscarf. Though absent from view, the braids still carried the weight of history. A history embedded in every fold of the fabric, the weight of survival, resilience, and a shared past that Joseph had long since tried to forget.

He could see this transformation now, though. He was no longer a child, no longer the girl he had once shared fleeting moments of joy with. This was a woman. And for the first time, he saw her beauty with the clarity of someone who had only known blindness until now. He swallowed, feeling something stir deep within him—desire, fear, shame, and something more he couldn’t name.

"Petit Jo?" she said, the name slipping from her lips like an unexpected breeze.

Joseph froze. His hand clenched his mother’s, who peered at him. His jaw clenched, and his throat bobbed. That nickname was the one he hadn’t heard in years. The one that brought him back to the fields, to the moments before he became Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène—before he had built his life from the pieces of his past.

His mind scrambled, stirred like wet and dry ingredients. It took everything he had not to let his composure slip entirely. "What did you call me?" Joseph asked, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. Adama’s lips twitched, but there was no smile—not yet. She studied him for a long moment, almost as if savoring her words' effect on him.

The corner of her lips lifted. She cleared her throat. His fell on her chest as she inhaled deeply and exhaled sharply like she’d exasperated herself on an exhaustive run. She stood before him, relaxed as though she was his equal. 

“Pardonnez-moi,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm now, the distance between them suddenly charged with something more. "I didn’t realize I had the honor of addressing Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène." She leaned slightly to one side, her eyes never leaving his. "I suppose you prefer that now, don’t you?"

Joseph’s stomach twisted at how she said it—like it was something to be discarded, a name too far removed from the boy she had once known. She wasn’t finished. Her jaw ticked like the hands on a clock, and whatever emotion had taken over had wound her up. “It seems Petit Jo has grown up.” Her words landed like a slap, and Joseph felt the burn of them deep inside him. She had always known how to wound him, to remind him of the boy he had tried so hard to forget.

Joseph’s nose jumped as he cleared his throat once more. His eyelids lowered, and her figure suddenly seemed small behind his lowered eyes. With a renounced sense of control from counting the leaves on the trees behind her head, he mustered the strength to ask, ”Why are you here?" his voice low, though there was no genuine warmth.

Adama didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. She held his eyes for a moment, then flicked her eyes toward Fatou almost imperceptibly.

Joseph followed her glance, and the unspoken words hung between them like thick smoke. Fatou failed to meet his eyes, looking like a child who’d been told to grab a thin branch from a tree to prepare for their punishment. She squeezed his hand once more, the hand that seemed to loosen its grip on hers the more realization suffocated him.

Adama’s voice softened just enough to be heard but still sharp with meaning. "Perhaps the better question," she said, her gaze still lingering on his mother, "is why you’ve become someone who has to ask it."

Tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax @kumkaniudaku @becauseimswagman1

[storkmuffin]

Yunho's Way of the Live #2

I went on a time travel journey recently with the TokToq Pop (the maker of this content, Yunho of Ateez, calls it Yunho Pop) starting with the March 2025 content and going as far back as January 2024.

Yunho's way of coping with the tedium, boredom and exhaustion of doing Lives is a useful illustrative example of a very socially skilled, intelligent person handling an onerous aspect of his job excellently. The highest priority he seems to have for Lives is to not waste his own time. It's a chore and a drudgery, but he's going to both fulfill the clear expectations of both his employer and his audience and he will try to make the time count as well.

He seems to have set the challenge for himself to create a library of the Most Standard Adherent Livechats among the members (at least the ones I've seen), which also getting some of his own business done. This is about his way of getting his own agenda fulfilled.

The Standard

The Gold Standard for how a boy Idol is supposed to behave on a Pop/ Live Chat seem to be as follows:

(a) Speaks nicely in a sweet voice. Yunho has announced, I will never be upset with you. I will never use anything other than pretty language and a kind approach. In other words, I am safe, I am safe, I am safety itself. Because, you know, the world isn't safe, especially not for women, and tbh, the extent to which you have have netted yourself a monster and not a man is usually only visible when it's just the two of you, and nobody can come to your rescue if you scream. It's nice to have a known entity.

(b) Stay away from any topic that might be controversial in any way. This actually requires the Idol to be super hyper alert at all times, because it's difficult to just ramble for an hour without making an error of this kind. The difficulty of doing this is noted, possibly unconsciously by his fandom, because they notice that Yunho suddenly brightens and becomes very animated when he talks about food. Part of it is probably because he's always on some sort of diet and a bit hungry, but I really think it's because talking about how much he likes a particular food has the least amount of risk for something going wrong in the course of the chat. He can relax.

(c) Related to a + b - Present a consistent, reliable persona. Do not have a sudden mask off moment that will reveal the artifice to have been a complete fabrication. One of the ways of hedging this risk is of course to incorporate some significant portion of your real persona into the artifice, of course. But the way to get an A+ in this category is to still be a bit of a fantasy boyfriend.

Yunho does all of the above really, exceptionally well, and then he does something extra, which makes the Yunho Pops interesting to examine.

*(Wooyoung, the most ambitious and also tbh, Most Likely to Succeed, deliberately flouts these rules in favor of going viral, and has gone successfully viral more than once.)

The Tao of the Yunho Pop

Deliberately distancing language choices

Yunho does a very curious thing when he talks about himself on these Pops. He refers to himself in the third person, by name, as Yunho. Utterances like, "'더 멋있는 윤호 기대 많이 해 주시고" (Please keep an eye out for an ever improved Yunho"), or 윤호는 어른입니다 (Yunho is a grown up - 2024.11.08) or 윤호의 취향을 잘 아시네요 ( You know Yunho's likes really well!). He keeps reminding you that what you (the fan) and what he (the person who is also an Idol as a job) are doing is crafting a third thing, the persona of Yunho The Idol. I wonder if it has the effect of protecting him from some of the chaos that happens on the other's Lives.

He also objectifies and unifies the fandom into an amorphous whole that at first sounds friendly and inclusive but is actually also very distancing. Everyone on a Yunho Pop is either an 우리 에이티니 (our Atiny) or a member of 우리 호떡스 (our hotteoks). This is polar opposite from Wooyoung, who will make a sort of symbolic 'eye contact' with the sender of a particularly witty or sharp message (You! - 당신!!) or search for them (Which one of you said that?? - 누구야??) and really find them and then address them directly. San has also read out log on names sometimes. Yunho never addresses the person who says something that catches his eye as an individual. Whatever any one of them says is attributed to We The Atiny, like all of the fandom are the Borg with one unified consciousness.

This is definitely protective, since anything you say is likely to be attributed to the entire group, and if it's out of bounds, it will get the other Our Atiny on the chat at the same time to disavow you, and attack you, and he doesn't have to do the policing himself.

Clever boy.

A formal sign off that is consistently applied every single time:

The ending 'ceremony' to a Yunho Pop is also very clear and very consistent. He will announce that it is time to wrap up, give people time to adjust, and then give the cue for the ceremony, which is to pick a cute little made-up name to say at the end, as a sort of benediction (Does he know his Catholicism is showing?). He and the fandom call these 하튜 (heart-you? maybe?). One of these was Don't Be Sick Wooyoung Heart-U (우영이 아프지마 하튜 (2025.01.08)) at the end of a chat in which Wooyoung missing out on a preplanned event because he was too ill to attend was discussed.

Training his fandom to say what he wants to hear

Seonghwa gentle parents his fans, even the crazy ones. Wooyoung will use a very old fashioned Korean manly-man way of enforcing boundaries - he goes along with good, indulgent humor most of the time, until you choose to step on a landmine that was marked with a sign you should've known about already if you had any sense, and blows it up. San will give you a little lecture, sometimes even tap tap tapping the screen with his finger in a forehead poking gesture, when you're being foolish.

Yunho isn't really interested in educating people or engaging in any sort of discussion that's a form of telling off because it's too off-piste from the Ideal. Tones of aggression have no role to play in the Live Chat experience he wants to gift his followers. Instead, Yunho tries to accentuate the positive. When someone does or says something he does like, he will say so.

Specifically, you're supposed to tell the Handsome Ateez Star Yunho that you find him handsome, as much as possible. When an Atiny tells him he's handsome or good looking, he will act shy, and then very clearly and directly say I feel so encouraged when I am told that. It's almost a gimmick, because he will do this, Gosh you think so? [Shy shy ... recover immediately] Say it more thing every time. It's a little reward he gives for specifically this compliment. Otherwise, for all topics, he will redirect any individual's question to attribute it to the Our Atiny. Someone can ask, Is the sky blue where you are? and his initial response is likely to be, Oh so Our Atiny are curious about the state of the sky in Cologne? and thereby denuding all individuality from the asker. But tell him he's good looking and Yunho will thank you directly.

He will also frame the more direct or sexually explicit approaches as something he needs to be protected from. He also gives these instructions really clearly as well: 지켜줘 (protect me), with the object from which he needs protection from conveniently not having to be stated because of the vagaries of the Korean language. For example, when the Atiny ask to see the inside of his luggage, he says, "Gasp! No, I can't. Protect me. [pause] You're still curious? You want to see? But if I don't want to? [more pause] There's underwear and stuff. No no." Having been taught this language of 'protecting' Yunho from (one's own?) sexual interest, his fans just took it from there and consistently use this language of 'protecting' him and eventually, Yeosang.

Clever boy, again.

Deliberate Market Research

In the middle of what feel like just extemporaneous chats, Yunho often stays on business task, consistently conducting market research about what the Atiny want from him, what the Yunho Ults wants from him, and also figuring out whether what he wants to do will be accepted or tolerated by his fandom.

Yunho has asked, What have you been curious about me, any questions you have for me, about my work? to the "Our Atiny" outright, and then patiently read whatever was submitted. (2024.11.24). I haven't seen the others do this, where they conduct the conversation and guide the dialogue to where they want to take it. (I mean, Wooyoung simply can't, because Wommys aren't here for that, but still).

Yunho once tried to gauge whether people can distinguish his voice from the others of his 'line' of singers - Seonghwa, Yeosang and he often sound very similar, and I think are must be intentionally directed to sound similar. So for Golden Hour, (2024.11.24 broadcast) he discusses exactly which parts of the songs are his. That's my voice, he says, about a particular section, adding, I liked my part. Then he says, further, "Our Atiny all liked that part." He understands that "Man on Fire" was an immediate fan favorite (because it's FIRE), and he points out that he "won" a lot of the parts he really wanted out of that song. And that everyone liked it. (Unfortunately, the real stand out was Mingi for that particular song, but then, he writes his own parts so perhaps that's an advantage Mingi will always have.)

He also changed his hair for that album (forehead reveal, with the hair all swept back), and he asked, Which hair is better? Which did the Atiny and the Yunho Ults devoted enough to be on the chat prefer? Yunho really wanted to know. (I have no idea what was said in response, because I watch these on youtube).

Immaculate Self Promotion / Advertising

Very casually, Yunho will drop interesting tidbits, that didn't strike me as self promotion so much as just information at the time I heard them. In the 24.11.24 broadcast he says that he's been an MC at basically every TV studio that has a music program in Korea. He says this in response to someone asking if he has MCing scheduled at all. He doesn't even answer that question. He just takes the topic, and uses the opportunity to say what he wants to say.

After the release of one of his solo songs, (2024.10.3 broadcast), he described it as follows: 선물이니까요. 깜짝 놀랐을 거 같아서. 가끔씩 좀 힘들 때, 내 목소리 듣고 싶을때 편하게 들어줬으면 좋겠고. The song was a gift to you. I turned on the Pop because I thought you might be taken aback. My wish is that you'd listen to it every now and then, when you're having a little bit of a hard time, maybe, or maybe when you want to hear my voice. I'd like for you to put it on and listen without worries. Granted, he didn't write the song, Yunho just covered it, but compare contrast to Mingi going very dark (he's just kind of dark, isn't he, Mingi?) and very heartfelt, saying, in essence, I'm Sorry I'm Not Yet The Artist I Want To Be But I Made This Song So I Hope You Like It Even Though I'm Sorry For Taking Up Your Attention Even Though I Want You To Listen To It. Polar opposites.

I was impressed with Yunho's confidence in both setting out this goal of being someone's comfort song in times of distress, as well as the artistic self belief that someone would want to hear his voice in particular. (I mean of course, the stats bear him out - he has millions of instagram followers and people like me fight each other to the death to see him live). I felt like it gave me an additional insight into how he managed to look so comfortable during his first big stadium concert in Seoul.

Very interestingly, during the 2025.1.8 Live, Yunho fantasized about doing a performance on his birthday (this turned out to be prophetic, because the Encore Finale of the tour fell on his actual birthday), and he expanded the concept to fantasize about performing the entire concert solo. He lit up like he does only when he talks about food usually, at the thought of being a solo performer of a concert, having it be all about him and also doing everything the way he wants to do it. Then his Idol Cover comes back, and he says, "But I will always want the members with me." But I think that there's lots of elements to dancing as part of a unit, and taking the positions he takes, where he has to focus on things (like, perhaps, what is Mingi going to do next) that aren't his performance, and I can see someone who is coming into his power as a stadium performer wanting to see what that's like when he's by himself.

Telling the Company What He Wants

Yunho also uses the Pop chats in order to tell the Company what he wants, and to do a sort of pre-launch research on his audience.

This is how Yunho defined the 'concept' for his look and demeanor in the IOMT video: Noir, Dandy, Sexy, Refined (2024.11.24 broadcast). He felt that those words and that look suit him well. These things are his aspirational values - in the same way that Yeosang wants to be a Doberman, Yunho wants to be a Sexy Refined Dandy. He liked dressing like that, he said. He enjoyed dressing up, with all the trimmings, a lot. (Of course you do, Altar Boy). He loves formal clothing, and he thinks they suit him well. Yunho is not saying this to his fans - he's telling the company, and in a way, collecting signatures from his fans who agree with him that he has market support for this persona.

During an earlier broadcast (2024.9.4), Yunho declared that he really wanted to show people his Volorant game play. He said, he was "growing in the game, bit by bit. LIke Ateez." That was not being addressed to the Our Atiny, you know? He was making a pitch to the content team at KQ. He was quite determined, saying "One day, I shall show you all!" And of course, it look a while, but he did actually get sign off to do a whole Valorant gameplay during March of 2025.

Practicing the Things He Wants to Practice

More than any other member's Live I've seen, Yunho uses the time on his Pops to practice. He develops his persona. He burst into snippets of song. He will reproduce a special singing tone that he developed for a particular song on demand. He'll do accents and characters and voices. Yunho was a theater kid and he loves doing 'bits' like this, and can't be suppressed even with the persona he wants to keep. When Our Atiny tell him he can look a little intimidating when he's sitting with a blank expression, he will perk up and try out various different kinds of 'scary' and 'intimidating' expressions, asking each time, Is this more frightening than the last one? What about this one? Without much prompting, he will reveal how much of an observant dance master he actually is, and how aware he is of what the others do to engage in their self marketing, by expertly mimicking each of their most typical selfie poses. It's an odd combination to watch sometimes - like a little brother in theater club teaching you this neat 'stage falling trick' he learned just to show off and be entertaining, a genuine fan meeting where the star is trying out things in front of a very forgiving and indulging audience, and a budding performer (which is so weird, because he's a huge international star to me but ok) trying to create footage to put into an audition tape. It's a productive use of his time, but it's also very endearing.

This Is A Performance, and He Admits as Much

During two Pops in August of 2024, Yunho said several things about himself and his 'energy. First, that he's actually tougher and more forceful than he appears. What he literally said was 생각보다 기가 쎄요 - My Chi is stronger than you'd think or The power of my chi might take you aback. This is probably his direct thought, because then he immediately downplayed it, which he often does to his initial thoughts. 기가 적당히 쎄요. Literally: My Chi is appropriately forceful, just right. Then he added, 외유내강. This is a four-syllable Chinese character aphorism which means A Person Who Seems Mild and Soft on the Outside Yet Is Powerful and Forceful On the Inside. Basically what the fortune teller told him, about his face being a lie. LOL. His conclusion was 난 뭐든지 적당히 - I am the spirit of temperance, appropriate in all things.

So that's the aspiration - temperate, serene, strong on the inside, looks gentle and approachable on the outside.

But of course, when you give a persona to the fandom, the fandom will lock you into it. By the 2024.8.31 broadcast, even Yunho had to admit, 텐션 많이 죽이고 살아요. I suppress a lot of my natural liveliness.

[nicnak20]

The patient; Charlie Mayhew:

*Dr. Mayhew doesn't expect to meet a beauty when he does his usual rounds.*

Dr. Charlie Mayhew was a beacon of warmth in the sterile, often cold, environment of City General Hospital. His dark brown hair was always neatly slicked back, framing a face that was kind and intelligent. Brown eyes, the color of rich, dark chocolate, held a gentle compassion that radiated towards everyone he encountered.

He was known throughout the hospital for his blend of unwavering professionalism and genuine care, a rare and cherished combination. Nurses whispered about his charm, patients lauded his patience, and even the most hardened surgeons respected his sharp mind. Dr. Mayhew was, in every sense, a good man and an excellent physician, completely devoted to his calling.

One Tuesday morning, as he conducted his routine rounds, chart in hand, a new name caught his attention: ‘Yn’. The patient was in room 312, admitted overnight with injuries from a domestic accident. His heart sank slightly at the term ‘domestic accident’; he’d seen too much pain and heartbreak associated with those words. He prepared himself for the usual grim reality, a practiced mask of professional empathy settling onto his features.

He knocked softly on the door of room 312 and entered, his usual cheerful greeting on his lips. But the words caught in his throat. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. And there, in the centre of it all, was Yn.

Even amidst the bandages that wrapped her left arm and the delicate cuts visible on her cheek and forehead, her beauty was undeniable. Her eyes, wide and luminous, were the first thing he noticed. They were a vibrant, captivating shade of hazel, flecked with gold, and they held a surprising warmth despite the circumstances. Her lips, though slightly swollen, curved into a soft, hesitant smile as she met his gaze. He felt an almost physical jolt, an unexpected, unfamiliar sensation that sent a ripple of warmth through him.

“Good morning, Ms. Yn,” he managed, his voice betraying a slight huskiness that he quickly tried to smooth out. “I’m Dr. Mayhew. I’m here to check on you.”

“Good morning, Doctor,” she replied, her voice soft and melodious, like the chime of distant bells. “Please, call me Yn.”

He approached her bedside, his professional demeanour reasserting itself, yet the initial impact of her presence lingered. He gently reviewed her chart, noting the details: glass bottle explosion during a kitchen mishap, lacerations, thankfully no deep tissue damage.

“I understand you had a bit of an accident in the kitchen,” he said, his tone laced with concern. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“A bit sore,” she admitted, her smile faltering slightly. “But I’m alright. Thank you for asking.” Her gaze was direct, open, and it held a genuine appreciation for his concern that warmed him from the inside out.

As he examined her injuries, his touch was inherently gentle, his questions careful and considerate. He explained the treatment plan, the need for regular dressing changes, and the importance of keeping the wounds clean. Yn listened attentively, her intelligent eyes absorbing every word. She asked thoughtful questions, not with anxiety, but with a desire to understand and cooperate with her recovery.

He found himself lingering longer than necessary, drawn to her quiet strength and the gentle way she carried herself despite her pain. She exuded a warmth that filled the room, a serene calmness that was incredibly appealing. He learned she was a baker, her hands, now bandaged, usually kneading dough and crafting delicate pastries. They talked about her love for baking, her dreams of opening her own little café, her passion for creating things that brought joy to others.

With each passing day, Charlie found himself inexplicably drawn to Yn’s room during his rounds. Officially, he needed to monitor her healing progress, but truthfully, he craved the quiet moments he shared with her.

He’d find excuses to stay a few minutes longer, asking about her day, her dreams, anything to keep the conversation flowing. He told her about his day too, about the complexities of hospital life, the small victories and the inevitable losses. He found himself confiding in her in a way he hadn’t with anyone else in a long time.

Yn, for her part, looked forward to his visits. His presence was like a ray of sunshine in her otherwise monotonous days confined to the hospital room. She admired his unwavering kindness, his genuine concern, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She noticed the small details: the way he always made sure she was comfortable before starting his examination, the reassuring tone of his voice, the way he listened intently when she spoke, as if her words truly mattered to him.

She saw beyond the doctor’s coat, glimpsing the man beneath: kind, sweet, gentle, and genuinely caring. She found herself anticipating his arrival, her heart quickening a little whenever she heard his soft knock on the door. His visits became the highlight of her day, a gentle balm to her physical and emotional wounds.

Their conversations deepened, moving beyond superficial pleasantries to shared hopes and dreams. They discovered a mutual love for old movies, a similar taste in music, and a shared appreciation for quiet evenings with a good book. Charlie found himself laughing more easily, feeling lighter and more alive in Yn’s presence. He realised, with a startling clarity, that he was falling in love. He, Dr. Charlie Mayhew, the embodiment of professional detachment, was completely captivated by his patient, Yn.

The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. She was his patient. Boundaries existed for a reason, lines that shouldn't be crossed. Yet, the pull he felt towards her was undeniable, a force as powerful as a tidal wave. He wrestled with his conscience, the professional ethics ingrained in him battling with the burgeoning feelings in his heart.

From Yn’s perspective, the feelings were mutual, albeit unspoken. She recognized the unspoken language in his eyes, the way his hand lingered a moment longer when he checked her pulse, the warmth in his smile that seemed reserved just for her. She felt a deep connection with him, a sense of understanding and comfort she hadn’t experienced before. She knew he was a doctor, she understood the professional distance, but her heart couldn’t help but respond to his kindness and the obvious care he showed her.

As Yn’s wounds healed, the inevitable day of her discharge approached. A bittersweet feeling settled over them both. For Charlie, the thought of Yn leaving the hospital, out of his daily orbit, was like a looming shadow. He knew he couldn't let her go without knowing if there was a chance for something more, something beyond the patient-doctor relationship.

On her last day, as he completed her final check-up, the atmosphere in the room was thick with unspoken words. Yn was dressed in her own clothes, looking radiant, the bandages gone, revealing the delicate healing of her injuries. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and something he dared to hope was longing.

“Thank you, Dr. Mayhew,” she said softly, her voice slightly trembling. “For everything. You’ve been… incredibly kind.”

He met her gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he had to say something, to break the professional barrier, even if it risked everything.

“Yn,” he began, his voice low and sincere. “Please, call me Charlie. And… and thank you, for being you. For being so… bright, even in here.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “You’ve made my rounds… significantly more enjoyable.” He managed a nervous chuckle.

She smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. “You’ve made my stay here… bearable, Charlie. More than bearable, actually.”

A silence fell between them, charged with unspoken emotion. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage.

“Yn,” he said again, his voice firmer this time. “I know… this is probably inappropriate, and I’m your doctor, and there are protocols, and… and everything. But… I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. And I… I would really like to get to know you better. Outside of… all of this.” He gestured to the hospital room.

Her eyes widened slightly, then softened with understanding. A blush crept up her cheeks, adding to her radiant glow. “I… I would like that very much, Charlie.”

Relief washed over him, so profound it made him dizzy. He hadn’t realized how much he had been holding his breath. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out instinctively, stopping just short of touching hers.

“How about,” he suggested, his voice laced with hope, “after you’re settled back home, and everything… perhaps we could… have coffee? Or dinner? Whenever you’re feeling up to it.”

“I would love that,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, but filled with warmth and sincerity. “Really, I would.”

He smiled, a genuine, heart-felt smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. “Then, maybe… if it’s okay… can I have your number? So we can… arrange it?”

She readily gave him her number, her fingers brushing his as they exchanged phones, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity through him.

As Yn left the hospital that day, she carried more than just discharge instructions. She carried the promise of a new beginning, the thrill of a budding romance, and the warmth of a connection that had blossomed in the most unexpected of places.

Charlie watched her go, a hopeful smile playing on his lips. He knew the path ahead wouldn't be without its challenges. They would have to navigate the transition from doctor-patient to something more, and there would be questions and perhaps raised eyebrows from colleagues. But looking at her receding figure, her graceful walk filled with newfound freedom, he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that it would all be worth it.

He had found her, in the sterile halls of the hospital, a beacon of light and warmth. And he was determined to hold onto that light, to nurture it, to let their connection blossom into something beautiful and enduring. For in Yn, he had found not just a patient, but a love that had unexpectedly captured him, a love that felt true and destined, a love that promised to illuminate his life in ways he never thought possible.

[rurumas]

ironsmith!higuruma x ??!fem!reader

ironsmith!higuruma who has been living in a small village that supposedly borders with the underworld, acherontia.

ironsmith!higuruma who one day on his way to the shop saw a woman in a cloak looking around his shop. he ignores her, but there’s a feeling that he may know her from somewhere.

ironsmith!higuruma who hears the bell of his shop ring, only to find the same woman on the other side of the counter.

“I was told that you craft the best swords around here” he looks at her, an unreadable expression on her face “I would like some to get commissioned. Is a 500 gold coins enough?”

ironsmith!higuruma who looks at the woman, a questioning look adorning his ever so serious face “I think that quantity is too much m’lady, a 100 is more than enough for a good sword” she looks at him, her eyes locking his “I don’t want something good, I want excellence. Will you be able to meet my requirements?”

ironsmith!higuruma who feels a slight pang on his ego at the woman’s words “Yes m’lady. I shall have it in no more than a week. Is that okay for you?” the woman now looks at him with a smile “Excellent. Then the deal is closed” she extends her ungloved hand.

“I don’t think the lady would like to touch hand such as mine” higuruma looks down at the small notebook to register her information “I just need the lady’s name and surname or the house” he looks up, she still has her right hand extended at him, waiting for him to close the deal.

with a sigh higuruma wipes out a little bit of coal that’s stained on his left hand and shakes the woman’s hand. she smiles “my name is y/n from Lady Mortuorums’ house. See you in a week Higuruma”.

Higuruma writes down her information after she leaves the shop. But before he can go to the back part of the shop higuruma stop on his tracks. A chill runs down to his spine before the realizes.

“I never told her my name”

[morganas-pendragons]

holly | celebrimbor

3 pieces in one weekend is alot for me lol

tag: @celebrimbormylove @erebusbabylon @pentaghasm @thesolarangel @celebrimborsapron

prompt: gifts from the forge

You have been wondering about how to ask this again for weeks. You've had desires to learn more about the forge since your earliest days in Eregion, and Celebrimbor always seems to have an excuse to prevent it.

Your inherently stubborn nature is what prompts you to ask him again, this time with the other Gwaith-I-Mírdain present. Mirdania gives you two thumbs up from behind her station as you approach.

"Lord Celebrimbor?" You call over the ringing of hammers against anvils. "Might I have a moment?"

Celebrimbor looks up from his sketches and smiles. You're so taken with him already, but particularly when he's like this, and even more so when there's lead smudged all over his hands from his sketches.

"I did not see you arrive. What are you up to today, dearest?" He asks.

"I'm coming to ask you a question.." You hesitate. "I would really like to learn how to forge. I have an idea, if you're willing to help me craft it."

Celebrimbor's smile wavers slightly. His main reasoning is that he simply does not wish to see you hurt, but all of his smiths have started in your position. The hopeful smile and the way your eyes shine with curiosity...

He sighs. "Very well. Only under my watch, and you must do as I say. Understood?"

You nod eagerly. Finally.

"Absolutely. You have my word. When do we start?"

"Let's start with you telling me more about your idea."

You are many, many things. Subtle? Not one of them. Mirdania snorts as you lean impossibly closer to Celebrimbr, eagerly talking on about your idea of crafting two holly pins.

It had been her input that had given you the courage.

"A holly leaf??" Celebrimbor asks. "That's an excellent project for a beginner! As it happens, there's gold being prepared for another project and I'm sure there's enough to spare. Come."

You follow Celebrimbor throughout the forge as you both gather the necessary components for crafting these leaves. You allow him to talk most of the way, explaining the mechanics of the forge and how he will be guiding your hands.

You wink at Mirdania as you catch her eye. Perfect. This is what you want.

By the time all of the supplies are gathered and ready, it is only the three of you left in the forge. The others have returned home for the evening. Mirdania bids you both a good evening and mouths, ''good luck!" before she too disappears.

After she departs, Celebrimbor peers over his shoulder at his last remaining companion. "I would understand if you want to continue this in the morning," He begins. "I don't want to keep you from something important."

You flash a pointed, though playful look. "You are important to me, you insufferable elf," You tease. "For you, I have all the time in the world." You stand just in front of him and, after throwing on a smith's apron and gloves, reach for the hammer you know is used to shape the metals. "My hands are yours."

Celebrimbor smiles and steps into your space, chest pressed to your back.

"First you must place the mold.."

"Mhm." You keep your eyes solely focused on his hands. If you get too distracted by how this is the closest he's been to you thus far, you're going to embarrass yourself. "Like that?"

"Carefully," He chides. "I don't want you to burn yourself." You can tell he's been doing this for centuries, as his movements are all slow and precise. "And now to pour the gold..."

He's so warm. So warm, and strong, and safe. You don't recall anyone else who has ever made you feel like this.

You surrender yourself to his guidance, absorbing what little time you will have to feel him like this before he shies away again. You'd let Celebrimbor imprint himself on your soul if he asked it.

Once poured, he guides you to move to the mold so the two of you can watch the metal cool. He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You are so trusting, so pliant, so soft.

Two holly pins are starting to take shape beneath them. They're meant to be worn across cloaks, as was your intention because you're aware that's the only way you can get him to wear it.

You lean into his arms around you as the metal cools. It really is quite a fascinating thing to witness.

Celebrimbor presses his chin into your shoulder. "Do you wish to add any detailing or color?" He asks quietly, relishing the feeling of your body so close to his.

"Green," You whisper, desperately trying not to close your eyes because he's now gotten closer and you can feel all of him. "For Eregion."

Celebrimbor smiles as though he already knows your answer. His affections for you have bloomed, budding from a timid bulb into a flowering plant that continues to bloom under your careful cultivation. He knows he loves you. He knows you: your weaknesses and fears and desires and aches.

He is still trying to allow you to know him. He wants to, yes, but it proves difficult. This may be a start.

"If I didn't know better," Celebrimbor teases lowly in your ear. The rasp in his voice is enough to make you shiver. 'I'd say you were trying to flatter the Lord of Eregion."

"You gave me a home," You reply simply. It is the easiest answer you've ever given. "Two of them. You, as the person, and Eregion as the place." Scarlet dusts his cheeks as he hides his face in your shoulder. "Of course, I am trying to flatter you, you ridiculous smith."

You peer at him through your peripheral and wink.

Oh, I am done for.

It is only then in the glow of the forge that Celebrimbor is struck by how beautiful you are.

"May I kiss you, dear?" He whispers in your ear.

It is not often that you are caught off guard. This time you are. You turn around in his embrace and wrap your arms around your neck as you nod. "I would love nothing more, meleth nin." You reply.

Without giving himself the opportunity to second guess this decision, Celebrimbor takes this risk and presses his lips to yours, one hand deftly cradling the back of your neck while the other rests at the small of your back.

All coherent thoughts go flying out the window as you curl your fingers against his chest. This is what you've wanted for weeks now, for Celebrimbor to realize that you want him to touch you as much as you touch him. You want him to let him know you the way you know him. There's already been so much vulnerability, so many nights of whispered confessions hidden in the dark and tears wiped away with the pads of your thumbs, yet he still hesitates to take that final leap.

Until now.

When you pull away, a whimper breaks at the back of your throat, and your fingers have moved to tangle in a mess of dark blonde curls.

Letting you pull away is one of the hardest things Celebrimbor has ever done. All he wishes to do now that he's taken that leap is to pull you back and cover you in his kisses, to worship you like the being of divinity you are, to sweep you off your feet with the heart of the hopeless romantic he knows he is.

"You are ethereal," Celebrimbor breathes against your lips as he rests his forehead against your own. "Unlike anyone I have ever known. I am sorry it has taken me so long to communicate that."

You could say so many things to him in that moment about how much you love him. About how Celebrimbor has become your sole reason for continued breathing, about how his passions and desires and yearning for life have given you a renewed purpose.

You do neither. Not yet.

"Help me finish our pins," You say softly, lightly tugging on his hair as you continue to play with it. He suppresses the groan rumbling in his chest as heavy-lidded hazel eyes meet yours. "And then I will allow myself to echo that same sentimentality to you."

Rationality overcomes him once again. Celebrimbor clears his throat, cheeks reddening. "Right." He coughs into his arm, scratching at the back of his neck as you part just enough to turn back around in his embrace. "The pins. Let us place the adornments."

"I promise they have a purpose. Help me finish them, and then we can talk."

You remain back to chest as two gold holly leaf pins begin to take shape beneath you - adorned with green embellishments that spiral and shatter against gold jewels carefully placed along the length of each pin.

When they cool, you grab the first with careful fingers and turn around, his fingers drumming absently against your hips as you fasten it against his robes. Celebrimbor stares down at the pin in amazement. “You intended this to be for me?” He asks softly.

You press your fingertips against your lips before reaching for your own and reaching out to lay it in his hand. “Will you pin this into my hair?” You ask. He nods, pulling you closer to carefully tuck the holly pin into the hair you have that remains tied up. Celebrimbor exhales softly as his fingers drag against the expanse of your neck. You are so soft. “I told you I’d talk after we concluded. Here’s what I have to say to you.”

You take both of his hands and press them against your hips firmly. Your own fingers drag across his cheeks, tracing the lines of the crows feet around his eyes and the reddening skin that blooms under your touch.

His breathing hitches when you reach his lips. Against the light of the fire, Celebrimbor is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’s always so open, so wanting, always quietly craving more of a thing he thinks he can’t have. He has such a deeply personal connection to the world around him and appreciates even the smallest of things that most people would look over and ignore.

You lean inward to kiss him. He responds in kind, a long and slow kiss that slowly grows into one that has you pressed against Mirdania’s work station and his hands on either side of you to cage you in. Celebrimbor has gradually grown more confident in this area, and it often shows when he physically responds to the little sounds you make in response to the depths of his kisses.

You whine softly as he parts for just long enough to venture down your neck, right to your pulse of your right shoulder. “You are my peace,” You whisper, eyes fluttering as you flex your hands in the fabric of his robes. “My hearts safe keeping, my home, my desires and wants and everything I have ever wished for. You are everything good I have sought for so long, Celebrimbor. I wish you’d see it.”

You shiver as his tongue works against the muscle of your shoulder where a red mark blooms, and he only stops when he realizes that there is a tattoo on your skin just beneath your collarbone.

It is a holly leaf.

Celebrimbor has never seen skin markings on anyone, let alone an Elf. It is highly irregular. Nevertheless, he nuzzles your collarbone before laying a featherlight kiss thereupon.

“Where did this come from?” He asks, fascinated by the intricacies of the design and how it stands out against your skin. “It is identical to the pins, and to the holly leaf that is associated with Eregion.”

“I’ve had it all my life.” You remark. “It only gained its color when I met you. No one else knows about it.”

Celebrimbor has no idea what that means, but he is grateful to be knowledgeable of your secret as he pulls away to look at you properly. Your eyes are wide, lips swollen and hair nearly untucked from the pin he’s placed within it. You’re beautiful.

He wants you forever.

I’m going to marry you one day.

"I am going to get better at this," The words are out before he can take them back, and you stare up at him starstruck as his hands again find your face. "Better at communicating the depths of my affection for you. I no longer wish to hide it for fear of insecurities or old haunts coming back to taunt me. These things that say I am not good enough for you," You open your mouth to argue, but Celebrimbor simply places his fingers upon your lips and blushes when you kiss his fingertips. "You have shown me a different truth amidst all of the turmoil and deception that has plagued my life. If I am to keep to any oath, it will be an oath to you, melda."

Tears burn your eyes as you nod and allow him to pull you into a hug. The hour is late, and you are tired, which prompts you to ask the one question you never thought he'd say yes to.

"I do not wish to return home," You say quietly. "May I stay in your chambers with you tonight?"

He does not answer, just simply takes your hand and leads you through the hallways you have rarely stepped into since the tower was completed. You watch each door pass you by before he stops in front of the last one, which is the furthest away and out of sight of curious eyes. Then, he opens the door and allows you inside.

While you take in the sight of Celebrimbor's bedroom - and how nervous it should make you to be in it - he steps away to find something comfortable for you to wear and comes up with a dark-colored shift he'd had made for you months prior that was intended to be a gift.

"Here, darling. This should do it." Celebrimbor calls, turning toward you, only to find that you are already lying in his bed with your body turned toward the door and your hand tucked under your cheek. The comfort you find in him knows no bounds. "Sweet, sweet girl."

He changes his own robes into his nightclothes and slips into bed, wrapping his arm around your waist before pulling you closer to him so he can bury his face in your hair.

Rest, Celebrimbor. Allow yourself this. Be peaceful.

Sleep claims him with ease.

The next morning, Mirdania finds the two of you again in the Forge, but this time you are both wearing intricately holly pins proudly on display against your chosen clothes for the day.

She grins to herself and continues to tend to her work.

[calicomccoy]

Okay, I've played the game through once, did a romance and ALL the quests and even got the good ending...but I gotta be that guy

VEILGUARD is AWFUL

If you LOVED Dragon Age and still haven't played it, save yourself the grief and just DONT. It is not worth it. It was obviously directed and led by people who couldn't give a crap about the characters and world building and the craft of writing in general.

We waited a DECADE for a turd wrapped in a little gold foil. The gameplay, the actual fighting, was the best of any dragon age game, but it came at the cost of the story. I would rather play a clunky game with excellent writing (i.e. all the other DA games) than a smooth game with no story or pacing. 

Bioware, EA could give a crap about their established audience and the craftsmenship of their artists and writers. Guess what, it really f*ckin shows. AND their apathy is f*ckin insulting. Thanks Bioware for wasting at least 80 hours of my life while simultaneously ruining one of my favorite games series ever. I hope you slip on the turd you gave me.

[aahanna]

"Masterpiece of Indian craftsmanship!"

The Peacock dress of Lady Curzon is a gown made of gold and silver thread embroidered by the Workshop of Kishan Chand (India)

The Peacock Dress of Lady Curzon is a iconic masterpiece of Indian craftsmanship and design. Created by Indian artisans and designers, this exquisite gown was worn by Lady Curzon, the wife of the Viceroy of India, to the Delhi Durbar in 1903. The dress is a stunning example of Indian craftsmanship, adorned with intricate peacock motifs, precious stones, and metallic threads, showcasing the excellence of Indian design and artistry.

"Peacock Dress of Lady Curzon: A resplendent masterpiece of Indian design and craftsmanship, this gown is a testament to the country's rich textile heritage. Intricate peacock motifs, crafted with precision and flair, adorn the dress, showcasing the exceptional skill of Indian artisans. A true masterpiece of Indian fashion and design."

Incredible craftsmanship of Indian designer:

"The Peacock Dress is a shining example of Indian designers' exceptional skill and creativity. Every thread, every stone, and every motif is a testament to their mastery of the craft. This dress is not just a piece of clothing, but a work of art that has stood the test of time, showcasing the brilliance of Indian design to the world."

EMBROIDERY DETAILS

"Peacock Dress of Lady Curzon: A resplendent masterpiece of Indian design and craftsmanship, this gown is a testament to the country's rich textile heritage. Intricate peacock motifs, crafted with precision and flair, adorn the dress, showcasing the exceptional skill of Indian artisans. The embroidery work is a marvel, with delicate silk threads, precious stones, and metallic wires used to create intricate patterns, including:

- Intricate peacock feather designs, with delicate eye and wing details

- Floral motifs, with intricate stem and leaf work

- Geometric patterns, with precision-cut mirrors and beads

The embroidery is a masterclass in Indian craftsmanship, with techniques like zardozi, zari, and chikan work used to create a truly regal and awe-inspiring piece. Every thread, every stone, and every motif is a testament to the mastery of Indian designers and artisans."

[rubykgrant]

I made some adjustments to the colors/added a few more details, so here they are again! My Super Hero kids, that I first came up with a LONG time ago with my best friend, way back in middle school. I started with 5 characters... which turned into 7, and because I kept on going, that turned into two teams of 7 characters! A lot has changed over the years, but the "core" concept of the characters was always there. The things I've updated genuinely feel RIGHT, like this is who the characters were always supposed to be. (I also added descriptions to the images)

From left to right-

Casual; Lisa West, Bobby Gold, Ella Noble, Deke Garden, Rodney Bright, Cloe Chance, Min Shirabe

Heroes; SuperNova, Sunburst, Ferris, Rosewood, Vivid, Spellbound, Lyric

The basic plot of their story is two groups of kids begin developing super powers, and naturally want to start being heroes and villains about it (though, the "villain" kids aren't "evil", just little jerks/brats/punks who have some angst to work through). In the larger scheme of things, there is a lot of insidious background problems the kids slowly become aware of, and they all start working together to deal with it (a slow realization that the world they live in, while seemingly "normal", is actually recovered from some kind of post-apocalyptic event, and the concept that "heroes" have been used as tools or weapons in the past becomes clear. it is an unfair responsibility, but the kids are determined to change the system that the adults around them use to destroy each other... also, they have plenty of fun shenanigans, too. these are kids with super powers after all~)

Lisa/SuperNova's powers are enhanced strength/durability, flight, and the ability to control/conjure flames (she can also concentrate fire into intense heat-blasts). Personality traits; compassionate and courageous, sarcastic sense of humor, casually rebellious attitude. She is 16 (sophomore, held-back 1 year in 6th grade), her best subjects are history and art (crafting/woodwork), but she struggles in math. Lisa plays on her school's soccer team, and has taken several martial arts classes. She also enjoys cooking/baking, and horror movies. Lisa is autistic. Background; Native American Hopi/Norwegian/Columbian (dad's side), Inuk and Irish (mom's side). Gender/sexuality; nonbinary (she/her), bisexual, demisexual

Bobby/Sunburst initially thinks he only has powers after stopping an experiment that was trying to recreate what SuperNova can do, thus giving him similar abilities (his REAL power is being able to absorb energy, and that lets him copy/combine/enhance other powers), less of a strength-boost, but he can also conjure/create fire, and is eventually able to fly. Personality traits; conscientious and ambitious, modest, eager to help, curious. He is 12, a child prodigy (placed in 7th grade, but takes a few advanced classes) who excels at science/chemistry/physics. He's also just a kid who enjoys playing video games/tabletop RPGs, skateboarding, and collecting comics. Bobby is autistic. Background; he is Black, Kenyan and Greek (mom's side), Dominican and German (dad's side). Gender/sexuality; cis (he/him), heterosexual

Ella/Ferris can control metal, moving it, liquefying and reshaping it, and manipulating magnetic fields. Personality traits; talkative, insightful, calm and clever, witty and off-beat humor. Ella is 14 (skipped ahead to be a sophomore), a genius with electronics/machines (likes to collect vintage/out-dated devices and up-grade them), doesn't seem like she takes things seriously but is totally reliable, and is a big fan of sci-fi literature. She is always good for a philosophical conversation. While she isn't interested in being the center of attention, she isn't shy either. Ella is autistic. Background; she is Black, South African/Italian (dad's side), Ethiopian/Spanish/French (mom's side). Gender/exuality; transgender girl (she/her), heterosexual

Deke/Rosewood has nature powers, connected to plants and flowers (making them move or rapidly grow to great sizes), also able to decay/regenerate plant life. Personality traits; likes to make people laugh, mellow and easy-going, quietly sensitive. Deke is 15, a sophomore in school. Deke's interests are earth sciences, including botany and ecology, and cares a lot about the environment (they're family has a small farm and ranch). Sometimes seems like a daydreamer in class, but is actually very smart. Deke also likes to collect different scented candles/incense, and keeps a first-aid kit handy for emergencies. Deke was injured as a child, resulting in an amputation below the left knee (has a prosthetic leg, and also uses other mobility aids when needed). Deke is dyslexic. Background; Irish (dad's side), Jewish Ashkenazi/Romani (mom's side). Gender/sexuality; nonbinary (he/they), bisexual

Rodney/Vivid creates solid forms of colorful glowing light, using it as shields for defense, or an energy blast as an attack (he can also turn himself/other people/objects invisible by reflecting light, but have to stay still), and as solid surfaces for movement. Personality traits; soft-spoken, kind and clever, a little socially awkward. Rodney is 14, and a sophomore in school (previously went to a private school that was too competitive and harsh). Rodney is good in most academic subjects, and also a very creative person, with an interest in surreal/abstract art (both whimsical and horror), working with different mediums (painting/sculpture). He's somebody who likes to have lots of little snacks (and is happy to share). Rodney has anxiety. Background; Rodney is Native American Lakota, Ogala (mom's side), Sicangu (dad's side). Gender/sexuality; cis (he/him), gay

Cloe/Spellbound is a witch with magical powers (associated with darkness/night and the moon), but she is also capable of telepathy/telekinesis. Personality traits; withdrawn and cynical, determined, thoughtful. Cloe is 15, a sophomore (previously doing independent study after leaving a school where she was bullied). Cloe has spent a lot of time alone, and struggles to be comfortable around others, but slowly opens up (despite being argumentative, she's also very sympathetic toward other people). She likes fantasy/sci-fi/horror books, and enjoys reading about the history of folklore/mythology. Cloe is a little afraid of deep water (generally doesn't like to swim without something to float with), and isn't comfortable with touching/contact with anybody outside of her family/friend group. Craves extra sour candy. Cloe is autistic. Background; Cloe is adopted, raised in London. Both her adoptive and biological family are English, Scottish/Welsh (biological dad's side), Romanian/Polish (biological mom's side). Gender/sexuality; cis (she/her), asexual

Min/Lyric has music/sound themed abilities, she can let out a scream so loud it creates a sonic-boom, identify/mimic any sound or voice, and uses "magical musical energy" to make solid objects (usually in the form of musical instruments, for emphasis). Personality traits; self-assured, welcoming and friendly, loyal, optimistic and energetic. Min is 14, a freshman at school. Her talents are music and fashion, but she also takes gymnastics and ballet. She has studied classical music (with a broad interest in different genres, and contemporary music), and participates in a lot of talent shows/chorus groups/plays. Min is outwardly a social-butterfly, but isn't worried about fickle/fleeting popularity. Min is plural (DID), and has synesthesia. Background; Min's family is Asian American, Japanese (dad's side), Chinese (mom's side). Gender/Sexuality; cis (she/her), pansexual, asexual, polyamorous

[0-n-1-x]

Carmy x Gymnast!reader Headcanons

link to my masterlist <33

-I'm gonna start this off on a real note, yall are definitely like Simone Biles and Mr. Simone Biles

-Both of you have a strong drive for excellence—yours in gymnastics and his in the culinary world. You bond over your shared commitment to perfecting your craft. Carmen admires your dedication and discipline, often drawing parallels between the precision required in gymnastics and the meticulous attention to detail needed in fine dining.

-he's definitely the type to almost get in a fight with a judge after you get a point off for slight mistakes

-and you can't tell me this guy wouldn't take care of your meal prep and such so you don't have to worry about it <33 (he wouldn't let anyone else be your dietitian and he'd be soo protective about it)

-I feel like you guys wouldnt have the problem most of carmy x readers have (him being at the restaurant too much) because when he's at the restaurant you're at the gym

-As you prepare for the Olympics, Carmen is your biggest cheerleader. He attends your competitions whenever possible, proudly sporting your team’s colors and cheering you on from the stands. He’s impressed by your performances and the sheer level of skill you demonstrate on the world stage. If he can't make to Paris, best believe he's breaking the no phone rule and is watching you 24/7

-Despite your busy schedules, you both make time for quiet moments together. Whether it’s a late-night dinner after your training sessions or a cozy evening in where Carmy cooks for you and you share stories from your day, these moments are precious and help you both relax and recharge.

-And do not think that if the USA wins gold, he wouldn't have a whole thing at the restaurant (golden cake slices, mocktails, and your routine songs on loop)

-Carm is incredibly proud of you and often shows it in not-so-subtle ways. He 100% brags about your achievements to friends and family, if you have a competition during a family event, he is not listening to anyone and is taking over the tv no matter how much yelling it causes.

-He’ll also create a special space in his restaurant dedicated to celebrating your gymnastics milestones, showcasing photos and mementos from your journey, right alongside his own and the restaurant staff's.

-When you inevitably face setbacks or injuries, Carmy is a rock for you. He provides comfort and encouragement, helping you stay positive and focused on your recovery.

-in total Carmen is definitely your number one fan, even when you were just beginning <33

[more-sonorous]

sneak peek at my next big piece!! (javey)

i've decided on my next big undertaking, once i'll paint you shades of blue and red is done!

this idea, once again, came from the lovely @jackmkelly . we've been yapping about it nonstop and we're creating a pretty lovely storyline that's full of themes of love, loss, grief, acceptance-- there are cute kids, cute daveys, and lots and lots of family.

of course, because it's me, there's gonna be romance-- but there's also going to be a lot of discussion of healing and dealing with grief. i hope you guys are excited because I AM!!!!

.....

The carriage seemed to rock beneath them as the dirt road stretched onward beneath the wheels, jostling softly to the rhythm of the trotting horses up ahead. David swayed back and forth, bumping every time the wheels rumbled over a rock or divot in the path. He’d never ridden in a carriage like this before– the seats were cushioned and covered with silky smooth fabric, and the walls were painted with lovely flowering details of gold and pale pink. Curtains hung over the windows and lamps flickered above the heads of the two lone passengers– David Jacobs and one Medda Larkin, facing each other.

How he’d ended up riding in the carriage of one of the most successful women in New York City was honestly beyond his own understanding, but there she was, as real as the cool glass of the elaborately paneled windows to his left and right. Miss Medda was a beautiful woman with dark skin and elegantly styled black hair, curled into careful loops and pinned against her head in the fashionable style of the day. She was wearing a lovely S-shaped gown made of rich, coral-colored fabric that might’ve been worth more than David’s family’s entire apartment. Even her shoes seemed expensive. David could see the tips of her elaborately crafted flats from beneath her petticoats, and he wondered how someone could ever come upon such wealth.

“David, darling, I can’t thank you enough for taking this job.” She began, offering him the warmest of smiles and extending a careful hand to him. 

He took it with slight hesitance, nervous heart running like a racehorse within his chest. David’s mind was still lingering on anxious minutiae– was he underdressed? What if he didn’t impress her? What if his father’s shabby old coat and faded waistcoat and trousers were unpleasant to the eye? Was his tie crooked, or his shoes too obviously spit-shined? Perhaps his curls were a mess or he’d accidentally let the star of David hidden beneath his clothing show through. He was an anxious wreck as she squeezed his hand softly and leaned in.

“Now, I know this is going to be somewhat of a challenge, but I know your sister and I adore your family, and I know you’re a resilient bunch.” He could see some sort of trepidation trying to creep through her anxious expression, but Medda Larkin was an excellent actress, and any trace of nervousness was gone before he could catalogue it. “You’re overqualified, after all. A degree in education, years of piano lessons, excellent track record in school– I don’t think the children could ask for a better tutor, truly.”

“Thank you, Miss Medda.” He answered truthfully, though he was sure his anxiety was obvious.

David was currently riding out to the beautiful New York countryside to serve as a live-in tutor to the three Kelly children. It wasn’t the sort of job he’d dreamed of– when he attended Columbia university, he hoped to work his way up the ladder and eventually earn enough degrees to become a professor of literature. Then he’d pull his family from poverty and drop them into a comfortable middle class life– but he soon realized that his dreams were a bit too unrealistic. He’d need a bit more money because there weren’t enough scholarships in the world to pull him through a second degree. 

Sometime during his desperate job search, his elder sister Sarah must’ve mentioned his plight to her boss– she worked as a costume designer for Miss Medda, always sewing clothes and sketching elaborate dresses for the shows playing at the theatre– and when Medda found out that David was young, unmarried and university educated? She reached out immediately.

David was going to move in with the Kelly’s and act as not only a tutor but a nanny as well. The job paid well and he received free room and board, meals included, so he shouldered the rather embarrassing burden of childcare and took the job as a male nanny. Working here for two years would earn him enough money to finish school with his scholarships. Then he’d be set for life. 

Didn’t make it any less strange or nerve-wracking. If he did a bad job, that would make Sarah look bad, too. 

“Now,” Medda pursed her lips and carefully took David’s other hand. “I’ve got to be honest with you, honey. My son’s wife died two years ago. It… it hasn’t been easy for this little family, and they’ve been through about… well– it’s been twenty or so nannies since she passed.”

He felt his own eyes widening as his heart dropped to his stomach. So much for the two year plan. “Twenty? Are– are the children rather challenging?”

“The children? Oh, no.” She chuckled warmly, shaking her head. “Those babies are angels, David, I assure you. Three of the sweetest little souls you’ll ever meet. It’s– to put it delicately, it’s Jack. My son. He’s… selective? But before you panic, I’ve got a good feeling about you! You’re young! You’ve got lots of energy, lots of intelligence, siblings of your own– and you’re the first nanny that hasn’t been hired through an agency. My own personal choice.” 

David felt it wasn’t appropriate to mention that such a statement wasn’t refreshing at all. In fact, it only made the load upon his shoulders feel even heavier. Now he was going to make Medda herself look bad if he made a mistake. “I… I’ll try not to let you down.”

“I have a feeling you won’t.” She smiled, with an incredibly optimistic tone, and carefully squeezed David’s hands in her own before dropping them. “Here’s the trick– you win those kids over, you win their daddy over, too. I’ll give you some insider information. Francis is the youngest, and she’s two. Precious little thing, but she’s a real clinger. Luna’s five. She’s incredibly bright, adores singing and dancing, dressing up– it’ll be easy for you to connect with her, too. Micheal’s the oldest, and he’s eleven and a half. He’s a such a lovely kid, but he’s real prickly when you get to know him. You’ve got a little brother that age, though, don’t you? Leshem?”

“He’s just turned thirteen.” David confirmed, growing more nervous by the second. 

“You’ll be good with Micheal, then. He loves riding horseback, despises arithmetic… but he’s very interested in history, so you might use that to your advantage.” She shot David a playful wink and drew back the curtains on her side of the carriage, thoughtfully looking out the window. 

At some point, the grayscale cityscape had blossomed into a forest, bathed in the landscape of early spring. Blades of green grass pushed their way through the underbrush and green, budding leaves were beginning to appear. Even with branches mostly bare from winter, the road they were traveling was lovely. David could only imagine how it looked in full bloom, or drenched in the warm colors of autumn. Maybe even coated in a thick blanket of snow. It would be nice to live out of the city for once, too. Once in a life he could scarcely remember, David had lived in a little Polish village with his family. They’d left when he was only four, though, so all he could remember was their tiny Baxter Street department, deep in the slums of New York City. Such a getaway was usually a luxury only the rich could afford, and though he’d be working, he knew he’d still enjoy himself.

He peered out the window as well, trying to conceal his own nerves. David was a horrible blabbermouth when he got like this, and he couldn’t stop himself from trying to spark up an awkward conversation. “So… is the house a family property?”

“Not my family.” Medda laughed a warm, full type of laugh that seemed to fill the air around them with mirth. “No, certainly not mine. It’s been passed down through Jack’s wife’s family for generations. Used to be a vacation home, but Katherine’s father… graciously gave it to them as a sort of wedding present.”

A house as a wedding present. Wealthy people fascinated David. “That’s very kind of him.”

She huffed the sort of huff that a person did when they found something funny in a sarcastic manner, usually because of some hidden context. David cringed and decided not to push the matter any further, pulling away from the window and shrinking back into his seat. Medda carefully examined her flawless nails as David’s rigid posture jostled about in the bumpy carriage. 

Oh, he was very nervous with the added context. A father who was picky with his nannies and three different children to impress– plus the levels of learning were incredibly different. He’d need to teach the two year old basic speech and developmental skills, the four year old basic things like the alphabet and numbers, and the eleven year old would be well into his schooling and need at least four core subjects. It would be a balancing act between naptimes and meals and other activities to bring the children joy– maybe he’d teach them piano or take them on walks. The sort of things he would’ve liked as a child, or maybe the sort of things Les would’ve liked.

David tapped his fingers over his knee as he resisted the urge to bite his nails, staring fixedly out the window. Every once in a while, a massive country manor rolled past. He couldn’t believe that he was going from his family’s tiny apartment to one of these almost-palaces. It was like something out of a dream.

When the carriage took a sudden right turn, Medda cleared her throat. “David, I think you’re really what the family needs. My son, too. He’s got to be pulled out of his head. No one should live like he’s been living since Katherine passed.”

“I… I’ll do my best, Miss Larkin.” His knee bounced almost uncontrollably, and his stomach was caught in nervous knots. 

“I know you will. If anyone can do this, it’s one of you Jacobs siblings. Born to the breed.” She winked again, playful and charismatic, and even earned a small smile from the anxious man. He wished he could work for Miss Medda again under more pleasant circumstances– like the few times he’d assisted her stage managers for productions at her theatre during his University days.

Now he was facing the most daunting task of his life, and he could scarcely breathe from being so nervous. 

They rolled into a massive gravel drive, the carriage rattling around them as the loveliest gardens David had ever seen appeared. Fountains and hedges laid out in pretty symmetry stared back at him, begging him to stick around and see them in bloom. He could just imagine the front lawn bursting with flowers, green and lovely and smelling sweetly of springtime. Strolls down this lane would be positively unmatched, and his fingers itched for a good book. 

The house itself was even grander than the gardens, almost imposing in its ancient beauty. David guessed, based on the perfect symmetry and minimal detailing, that this manor had been built sometime in the beginning of the last century. He knew tall, reaching Neoclassical pillars when he saw them, and this lovely house with its creeping ivy was an enlightenment thinker’s dream. It stood starkly against the pale blue sky, wisps of pulled-cotton clouds curling outwards behind it. David had never seen such grandeur up close. 

Soon (possibly too soon) their carriage rumbled to a halt and Medda sent him an encouraging smile. David did his absolute best to conceal his nerves and returned the gesture, climbing out of the safety of the carriage once an attendant opened the door.

Before him, the entire household staff stood in lines leading to the door. Men on one side, women on the other. Now David really and truly wanted to throw up, but he focused on the warmth of Miss Medda’s hand as he helped her out of the carriage. He really was far too shabby for this, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed her towards the front door. Tall and made of wood, they seemed to walk in slow motion towards it, and David had never been so nervous in his entire life. Before Medda could even reach the door, it was thrown open to reveal a little burst of tiny human energy– a small girl with a round face and flushed cheeks running through to fling her arms around Medda.

“Gammy!” She cried, squeezing her eyes shut happily as Medda lifted her into an embrace.

“Oh, if it isn’t my Luna-bug!” Medda cooed with all the adoration of an enamored grandparent, “You’re so much taller than the last time I saw you!”

Luna laughed loud, like Les used to laugh when he was that tiny, and David got a good look at her face as she cupped Medda’s cheeks in those tiny little hands. She was positively, heart-wrenchingly adorable, with the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, and short brown hair cut just beneath her chin. Well-kept bangs swept across her forehead and a green ribbon tied half of her hair out of her face, skin tan and cheeks chubby with well-fed youth. She was a tiny thing but she was positively doll-like. “I miss you!”

“I missed you too, baby girl.” Medda pressed a kiss to Luna’s cheek and earned another precious giggle, just as someone else rushed out the front door.

A boy, definitely the eleven-year-old Micheal, followed by two others. Micheal winced and carefully extracted Luna from the older woman’s arms. With all the practiced ease of an adult parent, this eleven-year-old boy settled his little sister on his hip. David was instantly reminded of himself and Les. “I’m sorry, Gram. She wouldn’t sit still.” 

“‘S no problem at all. She’s just excited to meet Mr. David, here.” Medda carefully beckoned him forward, a gentle hand resting on his back. 

He awkwardly stumbled forward and got a good look at the tiny family in front of him, four sets of eyes staring him down, and– 

Oh, he thought, breath stuttering in his chest, they’re just perfect. 

The whole family. From little Luna and her big, brown eyes to the man that was obviously her father, and happened to be the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous man David Jacobs had ever laid eyes upon. God, was he gorgeous. Black hair, dark as silk, seemed to fall in two perfect, wavy curtains over his forehead. His hair swept back and formed little curls at the back of his head, framing his face perfectly. Sharp, furious brown eyes stared David down, set just beneath perfectly shaped brows and thick, black lashes. His jaw was wide and sharp and his bone structure was breathtakingly gorgeous, from his wide nose to his cheekbones to the slope of his brow. A dusting of stubble covered his chin, like a shadow over the bottom of his face. He looked angry, yes, but he looked like a furiously beautiful God plucked straight from Grecian mythology, with his honey-brown eyes and perfectly full lips. His skin was deeply tanned, the color of coffee with just a splash or two of cream. Pretty.

Of course, a man this beautiful was bound to have precious children. Little Luna was held by Micheal, who very well could’ve just been an eleven-year-old version of his father. He had the same black hair, styled a bit differently with the part above his right eye instead of the middle, and the same deeply tanned skin. David saw the same nose and lips and eyebrows, down to the shape of his eyes and ears. Though his eyes were a darker coffee-colored brown, little Micheal was his father’s young twin.

And then Francis, only-two but smiling at David like she knew him already. She had the same round face as her sister with impossibly chubby cheeks and incredibly curly orange hair pulled up in pigtails, one of the most strikingly ginger children David had ever seen. Her eyelashes were long and blonde and her cheeks and tiny nose were pink, and she clung to the fabric of her father’s shirt with grabby hands. She had big, brown eyes too, just like the rest of her family. He knew he was going to have trouble denying these kids anything.

They were a lovely family. All dressed well, all well fed. It would’ve been a perfect picture had Micheal and Jack not been sending him twin glares. 

“It’s lovely to meet you all–” He began, but was cut off immediately by Luna leaping out of her brother’s arms and racing towards him. She latched around his leg and smiled up at him, her cheeks dimpling. Ohmygod she has dimples? He was really in for it now, he was never going to be able to do any discipline. “Well, hello there, Luna–”

“You’re gonna be our new nanny!” She stated matter-of-factly, and then held her hands up in the universal child’s wordless question of ‘pick me up’? David couldn’t help but oblige and carefully lifted her, settling her against his hip. It was remarkable how easy the motions were returning to him, giving him flashbacks of his own twelve-year-old self holding Les at this age. 

“Yes, I am. I hope that’s alright with you?” He asked, very seriously, and raised his eyebrows. 

She giggled and raised her hands to cover her mouth, eyes getting big. “Your eyes are my favorite color!”

He glanced at the green ribbon in her hair and smiled. “I take it that’s a yes?” 

Luna was very suddenly removed by his arms from her father, who was a good three or four inches shorter than David. He looked just about as furious as David had ever seen anyone look as he settled Luna on his other hip. “No climbing the tutor, Lune, you barely know this man.” He ignored her pout and started speaking as he beckoned his son over. “I’m Jack Kelly.”

“David Jacobs.”

He held out his hand for a shake and then realized Jack was holding two children. Awkwardly, he tucked it back into his pockets and tried to ignore the huff of a laugh Jack directed his way. “I know. These are my kids. You’ve met Luna. This is Francis, and this is my son, Micheal. I can assure you that they ain’t gonna need a tutor, but since my Ma insisted–”

“Jack, play nice.” Medda raised her eyebrows at him and crossed her arms. “Surely I don’t need to list off David’s credentials again…”

He muttered something that sounded an awful lot like ‘credentials don’t mean shit’ before abruptly turning his back and heading inside. David tried not to be surprised by the thickness of his Upper Manhattan accent, because it certainly didn’t match the clothes he was wearing. He had on nice trousers and suspenders and a pale-blue button up, waistcoat hanging unbuttoned beneath the girls he carried. His collar was unbuttoned and his clothes were obviously expensive, but he wore them far too casually for David to understand.

Mr. Kelly started speaking as if he just expected David to listen and follow, and maybe he did expect that, so David quickly jogged to catch up. Medda rolled her eyes and trailed along more slowly, but David listened raptly to every word this man said. “This is my house. I’m pretty sure you’ll have everything you need to teach my kids, but if you don’t, don’t ask me about it. Find Charles and ask him. You can teach your lessons in the library. Your bedroom is in the West Hall– that's where the kids sleep, too— and there’s a washroom at the end of the hall for you to use. Breakfast is at nine, dinner at one and supper at six. That’s pretty much it.”

Jack paused in the middle of the entryway, a room so grand that David’s head was practically spinning. A gorgeous rug on the floor, a paneled ceiling painted with a gorgeous mural, a chandelier and a beautiful staircase made of polished wood– the shorter man gave him a long, disdainful once-over and raised his eyebrows judgmentally, eyes narrowed as he looked back up. He covered Luna’s ears. “You know this ain’t some job you can half-ass in favor of going out and fucking around with your college friends, correct?”

David glanced at the eleven-year-old, who didn’t even flinch at his father’s improper language. Luna was scrabbling to get his hands off, thankfully unaware. Didn’t Jack know that his two-year-old could easily pick up such foul language? She was probably already talking. Thankfully Francis just continued to stare at David like she was trying to figure him out. He bit his tongue and resisted the urge to correct that he didn’t actually have any friends from University and nodded instead. “Yessir.”

“And it ain’t just teaching. You have to be able to care for the kids as well.”

“Yes, Miss Larkin told me as much.” He added on, drawing into the depths of his patience. He’d only just entered the house and this unfairly beautiful man had already decided on his incompetence, without even giving him a chance.

Jack huffed darkly, shifting the girls in his arms. Francis dropped her head onto his shoulder and Luna reached for David, but Jack angled himself away. “Yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Jesus. You’re just a kid.” Jack laughed, shaking his head in disapproval. He drew in a deep breath and pressed his lips together, giving David another long look before those honey-brown eyes narrowed and he tilted his chin almost defiantly. “Well, you start tomorrow. I ain’t holding my breath, though. Ma– you stayin’ for dinner?”

“Sure. I’ll also give Mr. David here a proper tour of the house.” Medda leveled Jack with an almost challenging glare as she linked their arms. “And, you know, actually introduce him to your majordomo and head housemaid.”

He fixed her with a sarcastic grin that was unfairly pretty. David realized where Luna got her dimples, too. Jack’s teeth were imperfect, only further pushing David to wonder how he’d come across ownership of this obvious wealth. “Better you than me.”

With that, he started up the stairs. Micheal, who’d remained entirely silent the whole time, gave David a long once-over (reminding David very much of his father) and then continued up the stairs as well. Mr. Kelly’s strength wasn’t exactly lost on David– he was carrying two toddlers up a staircase and he didn’t even seem to be struggling. Strong and attractive as he was, he was awfully prickly.

He’d just lost his wife. Two years? The wound was still fresh. David decided then and there to give this man some grace. He’d prove him wrong and he’d do it gently and carefully, too. 

“Bye, Mr. David!” Luna called, frantically waving at him from over her father’s shoulder. Francis turned around and mimicked her sister with a bright little smile. “Bye-bye!” 

He waved half-heartedly. At least the girls seemed to like him a little bit. 

A glance back at Medda showed him that she was looking at him in an ‘I-told-you-so’ type of manner, and that did nothing to quell his growing nerves.. It seemed that after a bit of math, Jack had a habit of firing a nanny almost every month. Maybe one or two had lasted a bit longer and brought the average up, but the fact remained– David needed to act fast if he wanted to stick around, and he did. The pay was excellent, the children were cute, and something about the mysterious and gorgeous Mr. Kelly had David intrigued. 

With sudden determination, he turned to Miss Medda and drew his hands from his pockets. “I’d like to meet the staff.”

She grinned. “Attaboy.”

[breelandwalker]

(Spawned by this post and done separately bc I didn't want to derail.)

Folk magic traditions and folk medicine, historically speaking, tend to rely heavily on regionally-available resources. Whatever was growing in their particular biome was what got used. So we see many many plants with overlapping usages or correspondence. And it may SEEM repetitive in an age where we can source pretty much whatever we want or need from the internet or from local stores that import herbs and spices.

White sage and palo santo are excellent examples, but we can also look at things that are closer to home. Consider, for instance, the humble peppercorn.

Native to the India, black pepper is one of the oldest known spices in the world, with usage records going back over 5000 years, and is a staple ingredient in most household spice cabinets. Even the blandest, most white-bread kitchens will at least have salt and pepper on hand, and pepper has a plethora of magical uses from protection to cleansing to fertility to warding off bad luck and malefic magic.

AND YET. Black pepper used to be the most expensive spice in the western world. Literally worth its' weight in gold in the ancient, classical, and medieval periods. It was used by physicians to treat a variety of digestive complaints and was believed to reverse the effects of certain poisons. It was so valuable, people used to pay their rent with it, much in the way that Roman soldiers once received salt as part of their wages. It wasn't until the Renaissance that black pepper started to be affordable for an average household as trade expanded and other substances like coffee, cocoa, and saffron gained in popularity.

So we might easily reach for a courtesy pepper packet for a quick banishing or protection ritual today, but that's not something the average medieval English peasant looking to ward off bad luck or keep evil spirits out of their house would have access to. But what they DID have was rowan trees. And we see many references in the folk magic of the British Isles to rowan boughs or rowan berries being using for protection, fertility, cleansing, and the warding-off of misfortune and magical harm.

So instead of going right for the white sage or palo santo, why not try smoke-cleansing with rosemary and bay leaf? They have the same magical properties and are much more affordable and readily available, plus that added bonus of, yanno, avoiding culturally appropriative or overharvested plants.

Anyway, point is, widespread availability is all well and good, but you'd be surprised just how much you can find in your own backyard and how useful it can be in your craft.