#Strip Winding Rewinding
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
kerosene. [R.R]
summary: the fire reaches a fever pitch.
wc: 5.7k
4,320 seconds.
180 days.
26 weeks.
Six months.
Pure, unequivocal radio silence.
You got the message, especially after your blue message spun green when you texted him the morning after that night at HEIDI’s. You got the message, especially when he subtly swerved your attempts at approaching him on two separate occasions with the intent of sincerely apologizing for your inebriated lapse of judgement face-to-face— your persistance a true testament of your developing appreciation of the budding friendship you two were cultivating in the bracket of time post-injury and pre-fallout, no matter how short lived it was.
A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.
4,320 seconds.
180 days.
26 weeks.
Six months.
In all honesty, you wanted to be buried where you laid. When you awoke with three flutters of your eyelids that morning, a shutter of film-burned memories of the night prior rolling on a reel that you played, paused, rewinded and repeated in your mind’s eye, you wanted to be buried where you laid. It was the type of regret and humiliation that drives you into nosediving beneath the cover of your duvet, hiding from the harsh realities and cruel, cruel consquences of casamigos.
He’s fucking married.
You groaned and moaned and pressed your knuckles into the corners of your closed eyeballs in frustration, berating yourself underneath the safety of the thick comforter where no one could find you.
4,320 seconds.
180 days.
26 weeks.
Six months.
You had heard it in passing. You were winding down for the night at the barren arena after a show in Chicago. Only a few people were left at the venue, comprising of staff and a handful of wrestlers who were scheduled to perform near the end of the show that night. You were stripped clean of your in-ring gear and settled for something far more comfortable; a tight angelic tank top with black sweatpants. A NIKE duffle bag hanging off of your shoulder as you cruised the hallway on your way out to the escalade that would then lead you to your hotel for the night when a murmured conversation you couldn't help but overhear as you passed an office peaked your interest.
“… Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all. I think that…”
It stopped you in your tracks.
You slowly leaned your body onto the cold cinderblock wall in the dimlit vacant hallway, a few safe feet away from the source of the voices. A deep fold etched between the natural arches of your brows as you stay within earshot of the conversation but also at secure enough distance to eavesdrop without arousing suspicion. Roman put you on Paul’s radar?
You don’t remember how long you stood hidden in that dark hall, quiet as a mouse with your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip and then your fingernails, a cycle that rotated as you skimmed through cold memories of how unwelcome you were made to feel upon your debut at his hands, which was bad enough. But he was a factor in the reason you were placed on the main roster in the first place?
It wasn’t until you heard shuffling of feet originating from the office that you hurriedly pushed yourself off the wall and made your way down the hall and out the building.
4,320 seconds.
180 days.
26 weeks.
Six months.
Part-timer.
It was a nickname he worked overtime to earn.
Since the fallout, he’d begun limiting his appearances on television— only showing face once every two to three weeks at best. A privilege that came with the termination of the storyline that included you two, coincidently.
The sudden decision to cut the cord on the narrative, which came only three weeks after that fateful night, snatched the rug right from beneath your feet. It cut your air time by a whopping seventy-five percent, infuriating loyal wrestling fans all around the world who made their voices heard.
Trending tweets. Cunning signs. Persistent chants.
The people wanted you so much that you were coined The People’s Princess.™
Paul’s demeanor as he delivered you the news indicated that there was nothing he could do. It was beyond him.
The biggest upset of it all, a sentiment that you felt deep within you and a sentiment that wrestling outlets and general fans all around the world who also had the capacity to recognize it echoed: this juggernaut of an opportunity to showcase your skill was seized from you before you could really prove yourself worthy. To the people, to yourself.
A corpse of a caterpillar before it could ever bloom into a butterfly.
And now, there’s a fire sparking in your gut.
Chocolate covered strawberries, extravagant flowers, trips out the country, frequent and random proclamations of love.
There wasn’t a stone Roman left unturned for Thea.
Overcompensation tends to be a symptom of gnawing guilt, after all.
His forehead gently falls against your knee at the same time his eyes flutter closed in surrender, like he knows what you’re thinking about. Like he’s thinking about it too. You spread your legs a tiny inch. A forbidden invitation paired with a whiny whimper; a desperate siren plea of his name.
After bolting out of your hotel room that night with the speed of lightning, he stayed encaged within the peace of his escalade for a long time before pulling off, tightening his jaw and flexing his fingers for any semblance of control. And he’ll never admit it if he was ever confronted, but he spun the block. He pulled back into the parking garage and contemplated it.
He thought about it.
But then he thought about Thea. Thea, who has never forsaken him. Thea, who has suffered through the loss of all three babies they’ve ever conceived before birth. Thea, who slept on uncomfortable chairs at the hospital during the trials and tribulations of his health battles. Thea, who left everything she’s ever known to facilitate his career aspirations.
So how could he? He couldn’t.
He did everything in his power to scrub your essence off of him: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He showered three times in succession. He blocked your phone number. Then, he made a couple phone calls to management with a request that carried no room for leeway this time around.
He dug through the cardboard boxes in the dark and dusty attic and stared at the crumpled up piece of vows with faded lead etched on it from all those years ago, reminding him why he chose Thea.
And that was it.
It’s been 4,320 seconds, 180 days, 26 weeks, six months since you last seen Roman.
Until now.
Now, as you sit atop a high stool at Naomi’s outdoor bar and lock eyes with him the second you toss your head over your shoulder— curious as to the influx of commotion at the backyard gate during her and Jimmy’s 4th of July cookout. You wish you didn’t feel it. The peace that you’ve made with the heat that blooms in your ribcage but spreads like wildfire. Your eyes dart to Naomi and she looks just as lost as you are when she inconspicuously slides her phone out her backpocket.
mimi ♡: He told us he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m so sorry
mimi ♡: U know I would’ve told u he was coming if I knew
2:21 PM.
You grip the spine of your mimosa a little tighter than you were two minutes ago,the sizzle of smoke, indistinct rowdy chatter, laughing children, and throwback jams wafting from the stereo of a hefty speaker overstimulating your senses now that you were far more distressed than you were two minutes ago.
There’s a lot of pressure on you right now. You’re in an uncomfortable situation, not only because you’re in the same vicinity as the man who is the direct source of every single issue you’ve faced in your professional career, but you’re on his turf. This is his family. You’re the outsider.
Unbeknownst to you, standing beside his brother at the grill, Jey is watching this all play out with the eye of an eagle. He watches Roman unlatch the backyard gate with one hand and carry a shiny package of TNT explosives under the other arm, Thea trailing in behind him as symphonies of greetings expel from family members scattered around the yard. He catches the silent interaction between you and his sister-in-law and sighs under his breath.
“Man, hold this, uce.”
He passes his seasoned pair of tongs to Jimmy and unties the knot of his apron behind his back as he makes his way to the backyard bar. An arched football slices through the blue sky when he slips the apron off and tosses it over his shoulder, sliding behind the bar before you see him.
“Uh-uh, where you goin?” he interrupts you before you can slide off the stool.
“Um, to the restroom?”
He smacks his teeth, “with your purse?”
You look down to the bag clasped in your hand before sighing, sitting back on the stool and placing your purse onto the bartop.
He grabs your mimosa by the spine and tugs some liquor from beneath the bar before pouring it into the mimosa. You laugh, so he laughs.
“I can’t stay, Jey.”
“Ion know whatchu talkin bout.”
“Yes you do. That’s why you’re over here, right?”
He looks up at you from his concoction and then closes the cap on the liquor, returning it back to it’s place.
“I’m over here cause you look like a wallflower at my brothers get-together. And if there are any wallflowers, that means the kickback lame,” he looks away from you, “Aye Jimmy! Is this kickback lame?!” he yells out for his brother and you scramble to slap him on his chest to get him to lower his voice as to not any draw attention.
“Hell naw! Who said that?”
Jey shrugs, tossing a finger at you.
You hear grass crunching under shoes from behind you and suddenly Jimmy is sitting to the left of you but you can’t peel your eyes off of Jey, your hand incredulously cupping your mouth at his outburst.
“Say it ain’t so.” Jimmy states, looking between you and Jey.
Shaking your head, you explain to him what you were telling his brother. The conversation shifts gears when Naomi joins and persuades the group into playing a round of uno over at the outdoor sofa. One round crossfaded into three which crossfaded into numerous other card and board games until the sun set.
When you find yourself growing restless, you separate from the group with a stack of dirty dishes in your palms and stroll into the empty house to discard of the dishes.
As the faucet’s stream polishes the ceramics in your hand as you hold it under the water, you feel it.
Eyes.
It instills a deep sense of paranoia within you. Your eyes have scanned the expanse three separate times, lazily and then slowly and then very meticulously in hopes of pinpointing the source. You sweep the hazy vicinity once more but this time you lock eyes with the source.
You expel a tight sigh past your lips. You don’t even have to turn around. You know he’s there.
Something softly thuds against the kitchen island and you turn your head to see your wallet placed there before his herculean frame— almost a silhouette due to the luminated backdrop of the tangerine sunset past his build, in the backyard. You soundlessly return to softly scrubbing the plate clean.
A minute passes.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move either.
“Jimmy and Naomi put alot of effort into putting this together.”
“So.”
“So don’t make me fuck it up for them, Roman,” you tuck a loose strand behind your ear, “don’t make me fuck it up.”
With his bottom lip bitten between his teeth in ponder, he takes a second to digest the sentiment. He’s never really taken you for a brazen daredevil at the mouth with the singular exception of the moments following the time he unintentionally caused significant damage to your ankle and became the catalyst of the first and only blip on your professional tracksheet thus far. Even then, that independent situation unfurled after months and months and months of subtle transgressions— equivalent to having a long, less than ideal day and bursting into tears only after you arrive home and your belt loop gets latched on a door handle.
It seems to be a pattern with you two.
The ebb-and-flow. The long periods of piling tension rolled into motion due to his inability to communicate and behave with you the way he truly desires and then manifesting in frustration but delivered to your front door in the final form of misdirected ignorance.
It never fails.
That usual sensual liveliness about you that piqued his interest during that fateful NXT interview almost two years ago has been stunted. He knows it. Everyone knows it. Now, you’re self-aware enough to recognize that falling out with the thickest pillar supporting the operations of a male dominated, billion dollar business was a major oversight on your behalf which has almost boxed you into the placement of a social outcast. The slippery politics sucking you dry and leaving you for a pile of bones.
There’s a varnish of guilt that lines his features, perhaps due to the hazelnut sadness in your eyes. He’s heard indistinct whispers through the grapevine for a while during his attempts to keep his distance that can be traced via a paper trail back to your coworkers and peers, ridiculous enough that he refuses to breathe life into them, but it’s hard to refuse when you’re standing before him. As breathtaking as you’ve always been, yet absolutely depleted, “Isabel…”
And perhaps it’s what propelled him into swiping your wallet from your table after ensuring his wife was deeply engrossed in conversation with a family member, crushing Jey’s attempt of a heroic intervention beneath the sole of his shoe like he was a slimy cockroach with a low and stern Shut Up when he saw Roman take your belonings and roam into the house behind you.
Your hand, fatigued from holding the grudge, drops the ceramic plates with a reverbrating clank into the sink. You rush past the kitchen and through the halls with every intent of preserving yourself from digging yourself into a deeper hole, disoriented when your elbow is gripped and tugged into an empty bedroom and bookended with the silky click of a lock.
The speed in which you tug your arm away from his possessive grasp startles you both once in the solitude of the empty sanctuary, but him more so than you. An unsuccessful organ transplant where the body deems the foreign entity as a threat rather than an antidote— you have emotionally marinated in your resentment towards him for so long that your body’s natural response to his touch is immediete rejection, “don’t touch me.”
Gathering the courage to apply your body weight on your other foot as you stand, you immediately scurry to your feet, inhaling a tight gust of air and squeezing your eyes shut.
His eyes spring around your features in multiple, quick successions, “what the fuck do you want from me? Huh!”
Peace. Uproar. Honesty. Transparency.
Despite your own desire for a dose of his honesty, you’re hypocritically far too polished and noble to admit what it is you truly itch for from him. Too honorable and righteous to peel the rug back inch by glorious inch and reveal the tight-lipped accumulation of pink dirt you’ve swept beneath the surface for a very long time in the name of a carrying a clear conscious and straying away from ruffling any feathers. And, he simply does not deserve that from you. He doesn't deserve your secrets. He doesn't deserve your vulnerability. He doesn't deserve a fleeting glance at the cards tucked in your hands. So you keep them close to your chest, “I want absolutely nothing from you. I want nothing to do with you.” Snapshots flit through your mind at unruly speeds: your conversation with Paul, the faint bone-chilling sensation of fire running up your ankle, eating lunch in isolation in your dressing room as a rookie, the tight finger-snap of rejection pooling red-hot embarrassment in your stomach at the hotel, his suave and effortless manuevers and dodging your every feeble attempt at an apology. Weak and shaky, “you’re pathetic.”
A whistling wind rolls a tumbleweed across the sandy soil of a Nevada desert.
Despite his own desire for a dose of your honesty, he’s hypocritically far too dutiful to admit what it is he truly itches for to himself. Too obligated to promises he’s already made to indulge in the forbidden fruit that haunts him in his dreams and stirs him awake in the midst of stormy nights. His conscious torn into two, split evenly in the middle. Snapshots flit through his mind at unruly speeds: his heart nosediving into his stomach at the haunting sound of your scream piercing the air the night of your injury, his conversation with Paul, lingering glances despite your awareness, eyes pinned on you during your first night back at gorilla. But he’s too obligated to promises he’s already made. His jaw wired tightly shut in indignation, he stares at you in silence as tension rolls off the blades of his rigid shoulders.
You’re a hellcat on turbo with a dark tint and severed breaks when you get like this, “look at you. You know it too. You can never confront shit. Ever. All you do is run.” You pause and desperately rummage for something that will elicit a reaction from him even half as equivalent in intensity to the kinds that you’ve been grappling with, “like a bitch.”
And you get it.
His thumb and forefinger press into the plush flesh of your jaw with analytical precision and a tilting force just enough that you’re resorted to eyeing him down the slope of your nose before you even get the chance to blink. Your chest rises and falls in sharp cycles, your stomach tied in a tight knot as he furrows his brows while looking down at you, “oh yea? I’m a bitch?”
“Yeah.”
“And what else? Tell me.”
When it gets too intense, when his gaze starts to feel like he’s talking to you without saying a word, when it feels like you’ve known him forever and just met him all at once, when it feels like he’s a second away from unearthing your most depraved impulses, when you start to feel small at the foot of his scrutiny, you shove his hand off and watch the floor as he emits a low scoff beneath his breath.
His hunky frame inches away from yours, his arms across his chest, “gon ‘head. Tell me about myself since you know every-fucking-thing Isabel.”
In biology, the way in which we ensure immunization from foreign bacterias and virus’ is by taking it upon ourselves to insert those virus-causing organisms within us via vaccination with the intent of familiarizing our body enough to the organism to build the antibody to fight it— that way, the illness doesn't have a profound effect on our immune system should we ever contract the virus again, since we were proactive and already trained our body to combat it. In life, resistance to fear is built the same way. You have to be foreseeing enough to inject yourself with temporary toxins for the greater good despite it feeling like you’re nosediving into deep waters, swimming with blood-thirsty sharks as cinderblocks hang tied to your ankles, “no. I don’t know everything, but I do know one thing.” Your eyes latch with his like a lock and key, your voice small as a mouse, “I know you feel it too.”
All the air in the room has been sucked out.
You’re in the middle of the ocean, one blood-thirsty shark slowly circling you.
“It’s why you ripped me off of you like I was a venereal disease and almost shattered the foot I stand on. It’s why you haven’t been able to look me in the eye for the past six months, right?” You have to know. You have to. Because whether he knows it or not, the career you’ve sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears for hangs on the line tied by a thin thread. And apart from that, you don’t care about what else really hangs in the balance in the moment: not his wife, not his self perception, not even yours. If you know the why, then you’ll know just how to manuever this dillema so your career is in safe hands.
His chest puffs out once, a chuckle barren of humor entirely spills from his nostril— eyes ablaze. Deciding against dignifying you with a response, he turns and walks to the door.
“It’s why you put in a good word for me, isn’t it?”
Has a really good eye for talent. I mean Roman was the one who put Isabel on Paul’s radar when she was still over at NXT, after all.
Stillwater.
His back prevents the sight of his eyelids rolling shut as his fingers mold around the door handle.
His unresponsiveness feeds the fire of your spiel, “I’ll violate my contractual obligations. I’ll go elsewhere. Tell me I’m making this all up and it’s a coincidence. Tell me I just keep on stepping on your toes and that’s where it starts and ends. I’ll make all of our lives easier. Because I don’t want this. I don’t want my position in this organization to be dependent on the state of my relationship with you. I deserve better than that, Roman. So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.”
If regret was a color, it would be the film of deep navy blue that envelops the morning just a couple footsteps before dawn. Nostalgic and self-depricating. Something like the faint billow of Bobby Womack’s If You Think You’re Lonely Now wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of funnel cake at an amusement park does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melting on borrowed time.
Perhaps the worst part of regret is the alternative, the masochistic relish in marinating in another universe in which your decision is slightly or entirely different than the one you landed on, resulting in a completely different outcome. Is the grass greener on the other side? Or is it green where you water it? Was the grass doomed from the start, sprouting from contaminated soil with infected toxins?
Perhaps the grass is green under you and there is no contingency.
It’s nomansland. It’s quicksand except every single grain of sand is an alternate outcome, engulfing his lungs as the ground swallows him whole, belching, and spitting out nothing but his bones.
A thin tube of brown velvet lies nestled between your index finger and thumb, tracing the lining of your razor sharp cupid bow with your eyes glues to the compact mini mirror the size of your palm in the back of the black escalade. When the grandeur golden marquee of your hotel approaches into view, you place the liner back into your clutch and exit the vehicle, tossing a curt Thank You to the chauffeur.
Pure kismet, he spots you instantly.
Pure kismet, you spot him instantly.
It isn’t discernible to neither of you when his knee begins to bounce beneathe the guise of the hovering counter as you begin to approach, his head hung low as if there were something suddenly very interesting on the napkin under the foot of his whiskey.
The last conversation you two had two months ago marked the beginning of something else entirely for you. The response you were fishing for that night returned an empty hook, but there was something final in its essence. After all, there’s only so much water you can fit under the bridge before it overflows. As luck would have it, or just the natural cycle of good karma, you were offered a contract at AEW with benefits that chucked your current arrangement with WWE out of the frame, including complete creative control of your character and likeness. An iridescent, silky pearl discovered within the jaws of a grueling tough-as-shit clam, “you didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”
His glass meets his lips, his body facing forward entirely, “I did, actually.”
You have a newfound sense of calm within you. The type of peace that only the knowledge of what’s to come can ensure. The type of peace that envelops you when you see the sun yawn over the sky after a very dark night. Trusting what you can’t exactly see. Blind faith, “I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”
This draws him to you. He eyes you behind his drink. His hooded eyes take you in before the glass contacts the wooden counter with a clank. He rolls his lips into his mouth and looks away, “that’s not your color.”
“Excuse me?”
Silence.
You raise your hand in the air and point to his drink when the bartender catches your eye, signaling one for yourself, “whatever that means.” You watch him mindlessly roll the band on his finger before peeping out again, “what’s my color then?”
The color you were in the first day he saw you, “cherry red.”
You glance down at the minimalistic black silk clinging onto the skin of your frame, dipping and divoting along with the natural curve and pivot of you. You shrug, thinking nothing of it, “my date liked it.”
How do you mourn the loss of something you never really had? How do you bury something that never even lived? Perhaps the reason why the thought of you out with someone else is lighting his skin on fire is because he’s silently aware of where the fingers of fault should be pointed at and there’s nothing he can do to negate it. But hurt men are impossible men, “well you’re here with me so I take it he was a dud.”
The sound you emit is half a laugh and half a scoff. You thank the bartender with a curt nod and nurse the glass with your palm, “You’re unbelievable. Has anyone ever told you that?” he mindlessly shrugs, “anyways. i just wanted to stop by and… clear the air before I left. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but last night was my last ni—”
“—I was introduced to wrestling when I was in the Airforce.”
When the inital slight surprise of the unexpected revelation wears off, a phantom thumbnail of a polished silver dogtag swinging on the neck of Roman’s olive green fitted tee— tucked underneath camo cargos comes alive in your minds eye. A location somewhere confidential. Somewhere top secret, but sandy and hot, his skin tanned and freckles indulgent. His hair unkempt and glossy with sweat as his upper body folds in situps when in the privacy of isolation.
He runs his fingers through his rough beard, still faced forward, “whenever any one of us had a bone to pick with one another over there, we’d handle it like men; with our fists. Cut our losses if we were defeated. First blood would end the fight. But it started getting messy. Rules were getting bent. Our men were getting hurt.” He takes a sip, “one time one of the boys stole one of the airmen’s breadrolls at lunch. The concussion put him on his back for a month. Our sergeant held our feet to the fire.”
You fill in the blank, “so they started wrestling instead.”
He lips purse in acknowledgement once.
The Airforce was the perfect solution to the troubled adolescent. There tends to be a haunting trail of overcompensation that’s left in the aftermath of trauma. Ghosts that whisper indistinctly in your ear, of which only your insecurities and weaknesses and fears are audible— telling you that you’re weak and that you won’t ever amount to shit and that you should just quit while you’re ahead. Or maybe not. Maybe that just applies to him, “there was something about the opportunity to discipline myself that drew me to enlisting. My pops was a piece of shit. No way around it. Used to beat on my mom. Used to belittle me, taunted me when I tried to help her.”
Roman tries to lower and sit on his haunches, looking immensely out of his element as this is the most concerned he’s ever been about you since meeting you, “hold o-,”
Perhaps the fuel to build his body came from the fire of helplessness that afflicted him as a doe-eyed child, hiccuping tears away as his father scoffed and laughed at his feeble attempt at intervention. Perhaps the opportunity to disipline himself was never that simple, but rather a way to become the man he’s always aspired to be; stronger, tougher, resilent. Because our past is never truly in the past.
And if you listen close enough, it sounds like there’s something he’s telling you without telling you.
He chuckles, but it’s absent of any humor, “I’ve spent my entire life wanting to believe I was nothing like him, that I was better than him, but shit, maybe I’m my fathers son after all.”
Half of a man, just like his father. Wandering eyes, just like his father. Except the circumstances are vastly different. Except the context is vastly different. Except he’d never dream of laying a hand on you with the intention of hurting you. Except his father never felt a damn thing for any of those women. Except nothing is the same at all.
“Why are you telling me this, Roman?”
So call me crazy, or be honest to the both of us.
“I don’t like to leave things unsaid. You should know that about me.”
The fact that he’s too little too late isn’t lost on him, the optimistic hurl of a basketball piercing through the air mere seconds after the game-ending buzzer. But the opposing team is already celebrating, bottles of champagne popped and confetti sprinkling from the sky.
“I don’t think that’s true at all. I think you’re the most conflicted man I’ve ever known, but you’ve never wavered. You face adversity in whichever form life decides for it to manifest that day yet you’ve never compromised your values. Your father sounds like a wet sock and I’m sure he’d be devastated to hear that you’re nothing like him despite what your mind tells you, Top Gun.”
A subtle tight-lipped smile sparks to life, warmth radiating in the ribcage of his chest.
And suddenly there is a lightness that settles between the two of you that can only be compared to the calm after the storm. The gradual sway of the trees to a slow halt after a particularly devastating hurricane, when the winds slack and the dark clouds part to make room for the sun. Because there are no more questions to ask, and you aren’t in the dark anymore.
The two of you spend the night immersed in the longest conversation you’ve ever shared under the soft lighting of The Belliago’s bar in the name of a bid farewell. He tells you tales about his time in the force that make you laugh and you fill him in on things he missed in the six month time span during the fallout. The bartender brings you two a bowl of macadamia nuts that he mindlessly shoves to the side because you’re allergic. He slyly mentions your dress again with the intent of you elaborating more on the man you just returned from a date with so he can dissect him and make him lesser of a man for his own pride but you don’t take the bait. You tell him how happy you are about the height this new endeavor is going to take your career. He can see the light in your eyes again.
When you excuse yourself and wander off to the ladies room, he blows a gust of air that’s been repressed in the deepest pit of his lungs all night and rubs his hand down his face. If regret was a color, it would be the forlorn warm lighting of a hotel bar somewhere in Nevada. Melancholic and self-loathing. Something like the faint billow of The Temptation’s My Girl wafting in the air of The Bellagio’s bar in the same fashion the scent of chlorine at a pool on a summer day does. Regret is the condensed glass on ice in his palm, melted.
And it dawns on him that you don’t plan on returning when he finally notices you took your clutch to the ladies room with you.
He watches in slow motion with baited breath as you exit the bathroom, toss him one last glance over your shoulder, and leave the bar for the lobby. Quicksand. The empty archway carved into the bar’s wall instead of doors facilitate the view of you entering the elavators when the stainless steel doors slide open. Quicksand. His eyes glued on you, he tosses a wad of cash onto the counter as his feet move on their own accord. Quicksand. All the air is sucked out of your lungs when you see him approaching with the prowess of a black panther with every intention of pouncing. Quicksand. His body barely slides inbetween the constricting steel plates before his mouth is latching onto yours so intensly that even a pack of hungry wolves couldn't rip him off. His palm wrapped around your throat, your back collides into the corner of the elevator as your fingers grasp onto his tee for dear life. A deep rumbling of I fucked up I fucked up tumbling past teeth, moaning lips, and writhing bodies.
sorry for the wait. school been turning me every way but loose i fear. but cimtfyk is back andddd it’s about to get uglier than vince mcmahon. thank u for reading <3
tags : @cyberdejos2 @annfg8 @looneyloser0 @joannasteez
#roman reigns#roman reigns fic#roman reigns fanfiction#roman reigns x reader#wwe#roman reigns one shot#wwe one shot#roman reigns x black reader#CIMTFYK 🧋
122 notes
·
View notes
Text
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/56d17a486ead415967fd55cdbaa3f1f5/70c1861d39493079-a6/s540x810/67ce34bacd9789398ca95070798160fa1039d90e.jpg)
A bard and a vampire wander into the local hags backyard-STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE Wilted Rose Productions proudly presents its newest release: STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE. Ofelia Montez (With Stars to Fill My Dreams) and Astarion Ancunín (Christian Woman, Hungry Like the Wolf) reunite to star in this tongue-in-cheek exploit that pens a love-letter to vampirism, and all that it’s bitten; which Fangoria hails: "unpredictable, ambitious, and aware; a frightfully amusing re-telling for all to sink their teeth into - no fangs required.” and that Bloody Disgusting calls: "A wild ride. These horror high jinks are the sort that could only exist for a duo the likes of Ofelia and Astarion, and it is only because of them that this story is pulled off." Sex, blood, and Rock ‘n’ Roll. Bring home the absurd story you think you know, told like never before. STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE, now on video cassette - rent it tonight! Runtime of 37K words. The media advertised has been rated R for strong sexual content, graphic depictions of violence, and crude humor. Restrictions apply. Under 18 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian. Please be kind and rewind!
[Banner credit]
PART 2 OF 2
Ofelia opened her eyes to a bleating sun, harsh to an almost painful degree. Digging into her sensitive sclera in her effort to blink the rays more tolerable.
Her arms screamed. Bent back and hoisted above her head, she peered up through a squint to her wrists rubbed raw from the nylon cord that tied her to metal cross-bar of the cars open top frame.
"My my, what have we here?"
A familiar drawl licked along the shell of her ear, throaty with amusement to see her trussed and bothered. The flimsy, floral top struggling to keep her breasts from spilling over with how they heaved. The sight of her vanilla ice-cream decadent and sweet, melted and drizzling down the side of the cone in the heat.
Astarion leaned against the the Jeep by his forearm, bared by the rolled sleeve of a blue button-up, a wad of gauze wrapped tight around his elbow. Forcing her eyes to focus through the sting, she looked at the brown vest that hung from his shoulders. A necklace dangled from his neck, to what of his chest was exposed from loosened buttons.
She didn't recognize him, not right away. Astarion continued to stare her down, though his crooked grin remained.
"Oh dear, that is certainly not the look of remembrance."
"Working on it." She huffed with a wince. Her once soaring, full-bodied timbre was stripped and parched, as if she were losing it completely. "Uh... you run into anyone yet? See anything that might give me a hint?"
"A fellow wearing darkened glasses called me 'Montoya', barking some such nonsense about a 'hive' before disappearing inside that building, there." Using the sharp cut of his chin, he jut in the direction of one broken down, unassuming building of many.
Montoya. Hive.
"Ohhh," Ofelia rolled her head back with a groan.
More so at the squirm of a psychic link throbbing in her head, and not from the parasite. One in there was bad enough, now the warring presences threatened to gnaw away at her brain, piece by piece, until there were room enough for them both.
Even still, her brain presented to her the answer she sought. Buzzed and blurred as it was. "God I barely remember this one."
"Haven't you even a clue to where we are now? The peril we may yet face?"
A winded explanation grumbled from her. "I watched it, like, one time back in my sophomore year of high school, it was on AMC at 2 am, I was cramming before a chem test - I just know that you're a vampire hunter, a mortal one."
He nodded as if he understand perfectly well the gibberish she just spouted.
"That explains why I'm still standing." He regarded the sun as it all but baked the two of them, before dropping his head to flit his gaze along her thighs. A generous amount of which displayed by her tight black miniskirt, in danger of hiking up to even more indecency as she writhed in the passenger seat. He purred through a smirk. "And you're my prey, are you?"
He was having far too much fun with the reversal of their roles.
Her dilated eyes glazed blasé, her upper lip peeled back in a half-hearted, sarcastic hiss that revealed to him the fangs beginning to bud. Not fully turned but well on her way, the little pincers as capable of tearing out a throat as the blunt canines that replaced his own.
They were, however, adorable.
"Oh." Clutching his beating heart with a wicked smirk, he cooed at her sickeningly sweet, fawning like she were a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked cherub. "How precious."
A grunt rumbled from the back of her throat that more earnestly wanted to be a growl.
Her body buzzed with a restless prickling beneath her clammy flesh, a presence not all her own, burrowed just below her surface. One both not too far away, and not near enough. It had her teetering on some unforeseen edge, one razor fine, yet she couldn't topple to one side or the other. Forced to balance. Suspended in the discomfort as it festered. Like an wound. Like a disease.
"Could you just untie me so we can find our way out of here?"
Producing a knife from his hip, he closed in an overwhelming aroma of brandy and his natural musk. Strengthened by the sheen of perspiration bleeding through his shirt, to the behest of the Mexican sun.
He teased her with a lackadaisical smirk complimentary to his movements, as he twirled the knife before her. "This goes against my better judgment."
Steadying her by the forearm, he finessed the bite through her bindings. Nylon shredding beneath the weight of his blade as if little more than frayed string.
Rubbing the soreness from the angry red rings around the joints, Astarion helped her out onto her feet, before the two slipped through the empty, dusty streets of San Miguel.
They searched through the desertion of the town whilst evading a Priest, and the man Astarion had run into first thing. A man Ofelia confirmed as Crow from the vague description he gave. No more, no less, as that was all she could remember.
Taking off on foot, they distanced themselves between the husk of the town through the main thoroughfare. Away from a site that posed as the hive for a veritable colony of vampires, all of which would soon pour out from their holes, hungry and threatened, with the coming of sun down.
Their journey thus far had turned up the mirror in places they'd least expect, but when it was needed most. Traveling the outskirts of an abandoned outpost was bound to turn it up somewhere along the way.
Though truth be told, he was really just following Ofelia's lead. Tenuous, as her memory of that world in particular was vague, though they had little else to guide them.
He kept close watch to her, the way her steps began to stagger. Her breaths choppy and wheezing as they pushed through a body that sought to cage them. Her skin dulled from it's honeyed saturated, her eyes hollowed by dark hues splotched around the sockets.
The passage of time in these worlds were as surreal as they were nonsensical.
Dusk didn't wilt to night in a way that was natural. The dusky lavender, soft and dreamlike, stained tar. Murky and starless in but a blink of the eye, the moon a fuzzy sliver of luminescence confined by a passing strip of clouds.
In that same blink she crumbled from bad to dire. It wasn't until she was clinging to his shirt and vest, wobbling alongside him on legs that buckled unreliable, did Astarion suspect what was wrong.
Her wheezing blanched to hisses, he stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of the walk they traversed.
"You need to feed, my little darling."
"I'm f-fine." She coughed, shivering as if from a violent fever ravaging her from the inside out. "We- h-have to keep-,"
"Neither of us will benefit if you become compromised." He insisted, a wistful smile he was trying to hide with droll humor. "I'm far from familiar with this realms rules, but I know starvation when I see it."
He held out his hand to her, guiding her to a large, sturdy oak jutting from the side of the highway. Still trying to fight him, insisting well-being that only withered the more of her energy she wasted on professing to the contrary.
Settling his back against the bark, he slid down until he hit the ground, cradling her in his hold that eased her down into his lap once seated. She was weak with hunger, limp and shaking in his arms.
"This seems... risky... I c-can't," she gulped, her tone rasping through a tight throat, strangling every word that fought it's way out. "can't... control-"
"Hush, love." His fingers scruffed her by the nape with impossibly gentle pressure. With his free hand, he pulled his collar looser, and craned his neck. Incentivizing her indulgence with the throb branching along his jugular. "All the more reason for me to take care of you."
"Star..." she groaned, her fingers knotting in his vest.
"Go on," he urged, nudging her closer with both palms cupping the back of her head, and neck. "The more you fight, it the worse it'll get."
She sank in with a ferocity that took him off guard.
Wincing as a shuddering breath groaned through grit teeth, he fisted her hair. In part as a reflex against the pressure of her jaw clamped down, and in part to keep her own hair out of her way.
She didn't just feed, she ravaged his neck. Ripping into the flesh down into the very muscle tensed beneath, like a feral hound at last graced with a nice juicy bone. Her pulls, her rhythm, were the complete opposite during her first time, when she was a Death Dealer. She was rough with desperation, and driven by an almost painful voracity that writhed in the pit of her stomach like an angry, lashing viper.
Blood, so much of his blood. Sprayed against her heaving cleavage, soaking the thin fabric of her blouse until it clung, wet and stained, like a second skin. A geyser of red bubbled down from the source of his bite, now mangled and wet pulp, and blossomed over his collar.
He didn't think he had enough blood left in him to spare, though he was proven wrong by the tightening in his crotch.
She continued to suckle at his throat, claws digging into his arm and chest as she demanded purchase. He felt weightless, despite the heft of his groin. Un-tethered to the moment, in danger of slipping away if he didn't hold to mindfulness.
Gaze glassy and unfocused, it floated beyond her shoulder, several feet away to the sight of something that twinkled on the horizon.
Propped up on the top of a dirt ridge amongst the brush, gold and beguiling, was the mirror.
Astarion snickered. "Huh."
Raphael just stares off into the distance with a heavy, disappointed sigh.
His mouth dry, his limbs heavy and numbed, he knew it was high time that she slow down. But she wasn't, not even close.
"Darling," coughed with a weak chuckle, he pet her hair, "F-Felia, love, the wells run dry."
She didn't listen, or at least, she didn't hear. Couldn't hear.
With a wince, and every last bit of strength remaining, he yanked her by the curls and pried her off his gnashed throat like leech. His growls of pain were as wet as the gurgling from his neck, glistening and pink from what of his muscle was exposed through his the tears.
She eyed him, dazed and disconnected.
He was unfamiliar with the rules in this plane, but if he were to hazard a guess - the soulless pigment that stripped hers away, how she hunkered in a squat, eyeing him and poised to take the chunk out of the other side of his neck - he was no longer negotiating with Ofelia, but the wild fledgling that ripped it's way to her surface.
Yet Astarion was trained for this.
Not unlike how the red mist sings it's siren song, and beckons her to acts of monstrous brutality, this lure was too another puppeteer of her delicate strings. One hungry, it bestowed it's hunger upon her. It's demand for blood irresistible.
One such betrothal Astarion well knew.
Holding his neck to stamp the bleeding, he pushed to his knees, before raising to a halved height. Keeping lowered with her, bent nonthreatening, with shoulders bowed. Slow, and steady, his hand outstretched in order to preserve his trustworthiness. To gesture her near, appealing to the rabid animal borrowing her skin.
Clearing his throat soothing, and kind, it still hitched with a sickening spurt from the perforations to his skin and sinew. "Darling, won't you come with me?"
She lifted from her haunches, tensed either to lunge forward, or dash off into the trees. His blood dripped from her lips and splattered down her chest, almost too vibrant to have come from the inside of his body.
She didn't accept his hand, nor did she look at it. Her eyes, wild and gleaming, bore into his, searching for the harm she was certain he meant her. Feeling it in the way her hackles raised. The sickly-sweet iron that soaked her cheeks, inside and out. She growled, holding herself to a vigilant posture.
Astarion eyed the length of her fangs, and how they drooled crimson in the moon light. Now elongated to their proper length, the points glinted predatory. "Ohhhh just look at you. I feel rather like a proud father." Astarion pushed his hand out to her a little further, cooing to her like he was trying to coax a frightened newborn kitten to his leg.
An alarming tingle began to prick from the sight of his wound, like a toxin, or venom, coursing through his veins. Pushing at the walls of them, forcing out his blood to make room for something else. A needled pressure, low and dull, pulsed from his occiput. Reminiscent of the tadpole in the way it swelled and tugged with intention, this new sensation wormed its way through his skull with a force and persuasion all its own.
He was fading. The mirror on the horizon of the ridge blurring and distorting to no more than an indecipherable spec of gold, marring his line of sight.
Despite it all, he ironed his tone smooth like silk. The corner of his lips lifted in a stab of seduction, despite the fact that blood-loss had both her, and her translucent duplicate warp and pitch much sharper than mere moments prior. "Come now... I know Ofelia's still in there."
His seduction, it seemed, was perceived as a threat. He supposed he couldn't blame her, given his track record. She lunged in place with a snarl rippling her lips, baring to him the impressive length of razors just dying to bite another chunk out of him.
Still eye-level, he didn't budge to her lashing. A warning for no sudden movements, or closer proximity.
"Naughty girl." He chuckled, the swelling pressure at the back of his head strangling his breath to grunts.
It was then that it occurred to him. A long shot, but it was all he had left to attempt. His mortal strength, in this state especially, would not be able to subdue her physically.
She'd rip him to shreds if he tried.
"Forgive me, darling, you've left me no other choice." He sighed, his intonation that of a father about to spank an unruly brat.
Holding his eyes to hers, he focused on the tadpole, boring down against it as it thrashed and writhed behind his eye.
He pressed harder, willing it to latch onto Ofelia's signature.
He couldn't speak to her, he couldn't talk her down, or guide her back out through the dark. But it was clear; whatever had it's hold on her was forced to share the space with her Illithid friend. If their parasite could dominant the intruder, then perhaps he could pull her back out.
His gaze on her intent, he waited for any signs that it was working, blinking and winching as his worm squirmed.
He could then feel her, Ofelia. Feel her trapped and wriggling against his mental prodding. With a little more insistence, her savagery began to ebb. She dropped her head into her hands and whined. Cowering as she shook on crooked, wobbling knees.
Astarion closed in as he continued, arms spread and at the ready to catch her if she tipped.
The foreign presence that infiltrated her being fought him tooth and nail, unwilling to retract it's claws.
"Ofelia," he called out to her through grit teeth, stern and direct, "darling, you've got to be stronger for me, now."
She didn't pitch one way or the other, but dropped square to her knees, her whimpering muffled through fingers still hiding her face.
By the time he lowered himself to join her, he released a breath as he heard his name wrapped around the satin of her lilting. Tattered and raw, but melodic, and hers.
"S-star-,"
"You're alright." Interjected like a gasp, as if said more to reassure himself, than her. Astarion stroked her shoulder, tilting his head with an encouraging smile, as she revealed her face an inch at a time.
"What... happened..." Exhaustion hanging beneath her eyes, she wiped at her mouth with the back of her wrist, grimacing at the metallic taste and the mess of her mouth. Astarion chuckled.
"As it happens, this world seems to turn it's initiate vamplings quite predacious in the early stages of affliction." She eyed him with suspicion, loathing, or both. So he thought to assuage her one of the only ways he knew how. "Would it be uncouth to volunteer what a horrendous turn-on that was?"
Ofelia's gaze drifted to the muddled tissue and strings of muscle that used to be his neck, her fog parting to allow the horror to surge in. Drowning the beginnings of a what could have been a giggle, even one weak, into a bleat. "O-oh my... Oh m-my-,"
Her words were bitten off by a cry, one shaky, it would have warbled to a scream if her throat was up for the task. Tears stinging her eyes, she reached for him with shaking hands, unable to look away from what she had done.
Astarion halted their path, clasping them in both of his own. He began to stroke over her frayed nerves by thumb-swipes to her knuckles.
"Oh, no no, darling." He hushed her, his irises alight and tender. His state worsening by the moment, he didn't fill it pertinent to divulge that detail. "Don't you dare. I won't have such a pretty face sullied by tears."
Through her sniffles, a small titter, hoarse and quivering, shattered what was almost a fit of hysterics, her throat clotted and cold. She shook her head as she looked down at herself.
As if tears would put a dent in the crazed, bloodied state she was in.
"Can you stand?" His voice, soft with it's pragmatism, drew her face back up.
She scoffed, weak, though without derision. "I should be asking you that."
Astarion waved her off as he pushed, with no small sum of effort, back to his feet. A low grunt rippling from him with every foot he erected.
He held his hand back out to her, and this time, Ofelia accepted it.
"Now, before I bleed to death." He teased, gesturing across the road, and up the knoll. "Our mirror awaits."
Cold, firm metal sheared like ice through the sliver of naked flesh exposed at her backside. Ofelia tried blinking the away the residual, grainy illusory palinopsia, still burning beneath her eyelids from her last trip through the mirror.
A sheet, starchy and thin, settled over her face, as well as the rest of her body. It was then that she was aware, vaguely, of the cushioned head block that held the back of her neck still.
Sitting up right with a wince of one who had been laid out on the slab for an indeterminable length of time, she yanked the sheet down to her lap. Crinkling the hospital gown that covered her nakedness tissue-paper thin.
A blur to her left revealed Astarion, mortal eyes shimmering gold and bewildered.
His white curls were feathered across his forehead and lengthened to hit the top of his collared sport coat, moss corduroy with patches at the elbow. A dark button-up clung to him in a tapered fit underneath, opened at the chest and tucked into light-wash bell-bottoms. The pair of denims so tight they squeezed out any shred of what might have been left for imagination of what hung below. Ofelia's breath caught in appreciation nonetheless.
He eyed her hair with honey-tinted weariness.
"Are we in the 1980's again?"
His typical velvet croon snagged over the anachronism of his statement, lips mouthing the suggestion with the uncertainty of a new concept he was only just beginning to grasp. Ofelia beamed around her protracted fangs.
"Close! The very late 70's."
Her locks as long as Isabelle Adjani's, and as wavy and fly-away as Jamie Gertz's, she could feel the exaggerated, sharp protrusion dig a little into her lower lip as she tried to lick away the dryness.
"What is it with your kinds insistence on using the largest, clumsiest fangs imaginable?" Displeasure pinched his face. "The impracticality of it all. Not to mention how hideous."
"Mm, because it's spookier?" Ofelia shrugged with the creep of a wry grin, as close to a grin as said egregious fang-length permitted. "Cooler, perhaps?"
His hands fell to his hips with a tsk.
A similar parched discomfort veined around her eye, as she tried to work moisture into them with every squint. They glowed such a brilliant chartreuse they almost shone through from behind the back of her lids.
She looked ghastly - but in a fun, cute kind of way.
"Ofelia," he began, all business once more. He lifted his hand before her in emphasis, and with it, the object he was clutching. "What the hells is this?"
In Astarion's hand was a cross fashioned from tongue depressors, and surgical tape. She couldn't help but snort.
"Oh man, the Popsicle stick crucifix. Classic." Unable to appreciate the threat it posed to her specifically, through a rush of girlish excitement.
Pushing the sheet to bunch at her hip, she swung her bare legs over the side of the autopsy table and hopped down to her feet. "Come on. Let's go before Bill comes back."
The static and hissing, and all it's disorientation, withdrew from Ofelia slow and abiding, like waves pulling from a shore.
Fingertips, slight and cool, traced down her forehead to free something from around her eyes.
Shaking lose the recesses of a dream, she came to into movement of her body, though not of her own accord.
The veil lifted, but not removed.
The hands trailed down the side of her face to cup her by the nape, drawing her in closer to the body of which the hand belonged. The other splayed the small of her back to connect their middles. A careful pressure to pin her still, as if she could wriggle free and traipse away.
As if she'd want to, even if she could.
Her eyelids twitched, too heavy to pry open. She didn't want to wake - not fully, not yet. Suspended in the hazy tenderness, the lull of the in-between. She felt weightless, safe in the arms that swayed her to and fro. Forward and back. Twirled outward, before the hand that anchored her to reality tugged her to float back into that very embrace.
She wanted to stay. Until lips, those lips. His lips. Brushed hers, coy and teasing, breath hitting her gaped pout as her jaw pulled down, wanting to invite that breath in. Breathe in his strength, so as to leave the tingling cocoon of being at his mercy.
The tip of his tongue followed, dragging light and nimble against her lower lip before inviting himself inside. To swipe along her bottom row of teeth, drawing her tongue to explore him in kind, as he sucked the mewl out from her throat and ingested it.
"Come to me, darling." He murmured, prying lose a single tangle that knotted her in his spell; his breath a mist, and tone assured. Confident. Coaxing her to more stable consciousness, despite her willpower as distant and vague as a dream upon waking.
Breathless, no matter how deeply she breathed, she couldn't rid herself of the sensation. Though he had roused her cognizance with that kiss, desperate and needy, her motions - her body - still belonged to him. A marionette poised to amuse.
Only when the kiss was broken, did her gaze shift into focus. She saw Astarion before her, as well as the ballroom around them.
Bombastic grandeur surged her from every angle, a flood of macabre elegance. Awash with the grand orchestral melody, as it echoed the operatic trill of a woman, a harmony haunting in its lamentation.
Gold and ivory marble work as far as the eye could stretch. Ornateness glinting and sparkling within the haze of soft, amber light. A sea of glittering candles in every direction with the two caught in it's center; as masked pairs in elaborate costumes spun across the tile in synchronicity.
Jesters fastened with bells, and acrobats patterned in diamonds delighted by whipping ribbons of silk into aerial spirals, and ripples of rich saturation. Jugglers, contortionists and fire-breathers posted around the room, while looming figures on stilts, and rolling-globes, wove their way around the crowd to enchant. The grunts of trapeze artists and tight-rope walkers reverberated around the vaulted ceiling overhead.
A love-letter to a bygone era, an homage to indulged, theatrical extravagance.
And then there was Astarion.
Long mane of alabaster tied to a ponytail behind his head. A heavy bronze cape draped his shoulders, fixed in place by jewel-encrusted clasps to a high collar around his neck. His entire, erected person all jet black beneath the gold, embroidered in celebration of the shadow he commanded. The darkness he inhabited.
Ofelia didn't need to look down at herself to know who she was, or where they were.
All she could do was groan. A quivering exhale of resignation, her attempted refusal of such pitiful, as it was futile. "Oh..."
"Oh?" He parroted, a smirk of delight widening to her rueful dawning of realization. "You know exactly where we are, I trust?"
He was going to have a field day if he caught even the slightest hint of this worlds affect on her infatuation with vampires.
The light of his eyes sparking their golden crystalline, while they raked her over, she knew just how doomed she was indeed. She sighed, an admittance wrought with defeat, and all she gave by way of a response.
I'm fucked.
"Whoever I am here, I seem to be of some importance." A wicked grin curling his mouth at both corners, his gaze plunged with the bust of her dress, open and propping her assets in a way he could only interpret as invitation. One which he accepted without hesitation or shame.
The haughty glint in his leer almost rendered her undone before his tongue got the chance, parting his lips to swipe them over. "Are we in grave danger at this very moment in the story?"
"Uhm... we could...," her head swam in an aureate blur as they continued their waltz, "s-spare some time."
His cheshire grin returned, full as it was pompous.
Anywhere else. She thought to herself. Any other movie, any other character - I'd ring his neck. I'd throttle him.
No, you wouldn't.
Ofelia pouted. Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't.
Her struggle made plain on her face, he then purred at her. Liquid smoke tonality, chest deep and lethal. "Care to enlighten me on this new identity?"
"You're a... vampire lord." She began. "The lord of vampire lords. Top dog. And these are all - I guess you'd call them your court?"
"Ohh..." his gaze tore away from her with great effort to conduct a more thorough sweep of the chamber. "We're all vampires, then?"
Before Ofelia could answer, something caught his eye from beyond her shoulder. When next he spoke, it was several octaves lower, the rumbling baritone slithered through her in a flush of heat that dusted her amber complexion roseate. "Well, all but one."
Spinning her around in his arms, she was then face to face with a large mirror stood along the far wall. More staggering than its sheer size, and the scope of its elegance, was to see herself, and nothing else.
Just as it had happened in the movie. Her arms draped shoulders the mirror didn't reveal. Shoulders belonging to one whose twin yet denied.
Unlike the nightclub, whose stifling intimacy hid the sole vampire in the crowd, Ofelia was the interloper in a crowd of severed reflections, overwhelming and unflinching in it's grandiosity.
For all of the times Ofelia had seen Van Helsing, and for all the times this very scene made her heart race, nothing in the world could have prepared her for what it would be like to live it.
"My love, who am I here? Exactly?" He cooed. All of his incredulity from the worlds prior, and his awkwardness against such alien backdrops dispelled. This was a role suited to him, a character who fit the pale elf like a glove. "And who are you to me?"
"Count Vladislaus Dracula." Whispered, as she trembled in his arms. "You're-he-has been trying to turn m-Anna-but she fights it." Astarion clicked his tongue in playful disapproval, though remained otherwise silent. "He wants her for his bride."
"I see." He nodded. "And in the end, does she ultimately... resist?"
"Y-yes." Her gaze glossy and lips parted. Agape, in invitation. Astarion's ignorance to the unfamiliar alias morphed into impish satisfaction in but a blink. "They're interrupted, just as he's about to... bite her."
He lifted the regret in her quivering tone like a drop of blood misting the air, as if one shared. Though the character of Anna was separate from this version of her.
One to which this version of Count Dracula, his version, had already laid claim. Her air of disappointment for naught.
"Are we quite fond of this one?"
She swallowed her whine. "W-we are."
Dipped low in a flourish of red and gold ruffles of her skirts, he darted to her breasts, heaving, and all but spilled out from her neckline. Tongue pressed to her hot skin, he trailed a wet path; between the peaks of rounded rosy flesh, all the way up her chest, over the dip of her clavicle, along her neck and to stop at her jaw. Pressing a kiss into the ridge of bone, after tugging her bronzed flesh in nip.
He whispered into her temple as he dragged his lips upwards from her mandible. "I must say, of all the iterations we've experienced, I do quite like it best when you're a mortal, and I've yet to lure you to the dark."
"A bomb gets detonated by Van Helsing, and this place - along with everyone in it - will disintegrate." Left her in a rush of dwindling breath, his presence imposing both before her, and settled deep within, to puppet her as per his whims.
"A grim fate to befall such resplendent luxury." He surveyed his surroundings as far as each shoulder with a pensive hum. "I thought you said we needn't hurry?"
"It only goes off once he gets her back." Ofelia explained, holding tight to him as he swept her along, a blossom of blood red unfurling from her waist in a fan as they danced. Though her grip was superfluous, as he wouldn't soon to let her go. "I-If he gets me back, then yeah, that's a concern."
"Ah, he's to be my foil, then?" A single palm at the base of her spine, he lowered her back down. Angling his sight over the irresistibility of her cleavage, chilled finger-tips ran along the groove between. Up over the rapid flutter of her heart, tracing the sinews of her extended neck.
The frantic patter of her pulse thrumming beneath his touch pulled his lips apart in a lascivious grin. Stretching across his face as gradual and steady as a shadow reaching along the ground, nipping at her heel. "In that case, I've no choice but to keep you from being found, as I do so loathe the idea of that interruption."
"I-Interruption?" Ofelia could still feel the pull of his will woven throughout her fragile being.
His control thick and pulsing, forcing her autonomy out from the inside to make room for his own. She felt too hot, too tight within the very skin of her body. Like an infection set, one that left her weak and malleable in his hold. Suggestible in the sweetest surrender she'd ever known. If that tie were to be severed that instant, she'd retreat deeper into his grasp, mewling for his dominance once more.
Senseless and besotted, she never wanted to leave that warmth, that flush of full-body infestation.
She yearned to stay on the end of his string, so long as he continued to choreograph.
"Yes, my darling." Lifting her back against his chest, his lips curved around the dart of his tongue to wet them. His eyes an amber luster, with but a blink, his lids raised to reveal a vibrant red glow that almost hurt to gaze upon. Wicked. Bright and frenzied, the vigor of his purpose renewed.
Earth humans, it seemed, were enamored with the vampires torment.
To dangle their salvation in whatever form it embodied, before snatching it away with a rap to their knuckles.
They never get their loves in the end. They seldom won their brides.
A correction that Astarion was determined to enact.
"This is one story in desperate need of revision."
He released his imperceptible hold, dropping her into his waiting arms. Sagged against his chest, the fog inside her skull had blurred the crispness, and dulled the fine details. The opulence around her burst to life in a dizzying harshness. The hues suddenly too vibrant, the flickering glow of the candles burning too bright. She held her eyes screwed shut into him, as his embrace softened the blow.
Cast out from the protection of his spell, he was there to ease her back to the coldness from which he had sheltered her. He murmured against the shell of her ear as his thumb stroked the small of her back.
"If I am the lord to whom this soirée belongs, then I expect not one single qualm if I excuse myself for a moments privacy." Taking Ofelia by the gloved hand, he began to search along the wall closest to them for the exit. "And if I am to make you my bride, I should like to do so without an audience."
"You? Not wanting an audience?" She quipped, though it was all to hide the quaver of her tone, and the gallop of her heart.
An exercise in futility, for The Count noticed every lilting fluctuation, and savored each erratic patter.
"Just to indulge your treasured sensibilities, my love."
His chuckle carried with them as they spilled outside to the hall, his arrival announced to those beyond before he so much as stepped foot on the other side. A few patrons loitered about, nursing goblets and engaged in hushed conversation. The soft mutterings of the minstrels and guests could still be heard.
Upon noting it was Astarion whose presence had just graced them, they faltered into hasty bows and curtsies, before excusing themselves to honor both he, and his lady, with privacy. Astarion didn't even attempt to curtail his smarmy grin at their retreat, or how earnest their desires to appease him, from just his mere shadow in their peripheral.
"So, is that how this story is supposed to end, then?" Dropping her hand, he unclasped the cape from his shoulders, casting it aside to an empty console as they strode along the hall. "This Van Helsing steals you away, while myself, as well as everyone else here, burns to a pile of soot in a fantastic explosion?"
"Not quite." Ofelia accepted his lead with a smirk. "You survive this blow. Your final showdown happens much later."
He hummed. His intrigue piqued, pleased with what of the story she revealed, even with how little. Guiding her along with a delicate grasp, his black coat whipped around his torso with his confident gait.
"Well, worry not, little nightingale. I'll find a spot in this cage that'll keep you hidden yet." His eye roamed her exquisite presentation, his color clinging to her body, dripping down her curves. He sighed, a gentle sound of contemplative adoration. "Not even the full, concentrated power of the sun could could tear me away from you, here and now."
Proclaimed with stern severity, it raised heat to her cheeks, and hushed her weakened tone even breathier.
She hated him for it, to the same end it had her falling deeper. "Star..."
He abandoned his suaveness for a playful waggle of his bow. "The sun... does hurt here, yes?"
She chortled.
"Oh yeah."
"Mm, this one seems to get it all right. I shall have to appeal to Auntie Ethel's penchant for humoring whims and wishes," he teased. “This is one I'd like to return to."
She simpered, though her winded speech betrayed her stuttering heart. "I thought our portrayals were an aberration?"
"Come now," Astarion tugged her along, his languid posture and coy slur a thin cover to how anxious he was to steal away. "There are always exceptions to the rule."
Their aimless wandering led them through gaping corridors, the echo of their step carrying through each twist and turn. A marble maze enticing with how endless. Ofelia hadn't a clue where Astarion was taking them, and she suspected he was without a plan all along. But she didn't mind. The opportunity to explore Count Dracula's summer palace was every bit the thrill as what surely awaited her whenever his ideal destination was discovered.
Rounding a corner that let out into a small foyer, they were far enough removed from the ball that the operetta was muffled to obscurity, but still close enough that the hum could still be detected, even through the many walls that kept them separated. The distant murmur a gentle symphony, suspending her in a haze both surreal and romantic.
Astarion halted, tipping his chin upon spotting a large mirror adjacent to where they entered, just as ornate as the one in the ballroom. When he caught sight of Ofelia's reflection, seductive red opulence in deceptive lonesomeness, a wicked flash streaked like lightning.
"Oh... now there's an idea."
A sinful purr and sleight of hand goaded her until she stood before it. Invisible palms storming her body, her skirts began to push up along her legs before she could think to protest. She watched as the ruffles and layers hiked up higher and higher by a force unseen.
"A-Astarion-," she hissed, though the venom that would have lent to it's credibility refused to emerge. Leaving her shaking and panting as he exposed her rear. "What if-if someone sees!"
She couldn't see, but heard him fall to his knee with a grunt. Fisting the bulk of the blood-red satin, he hooked it out of his way across her sacrum. Growling low to himself, the gravel snagged his words for her ear. "They should be so lucky."
Her underthings a sheen of silk, clinging gossamer that begged to be torn. The sole barrier between he and his prize. The vampire abstained from that savagery, despite how tempting. One hand pulled them down the length of her splayed thighs, leaving her flushed and exposed to his hunger. Another wolfish rumble at the back of his throat, this time of utter infatuation, to how his attention made her quiver.
Dulcet dew between her legs, his fingers telegraphed a trail up the inside of one towards her neglect, before peeling her apart, like the petals of a flower he coaxed into blooming. A small whine rattled through her teeth, and he sighed aloud in response as he stroked her, tender and reverential. Deliberate in avoiding where she needed touch most, reveling in the blush that overtook her, one that burned dusky pink.
"My darling girl." He clicked his tongue, leaning forward to place a kiss to where the swell of her bottom creased to thigh. Then another one higher on her glute as she squeaked. "I'll not stop for you, your monster hunter, his threats."
He leaned his forehead against her while his fingers continued to toy with her nethers, tickling the hollow of her inner thigh with his light, absent drags. His breath fanned against the wetness that glazed her, worsening the molten ache knotting her center. "I'll go until I'm unable to taste anything else. Even the blood from your neck will tang of your need for me. Only then will I be satisfied."
He spared no further prelude, for the broad swipe of his tongue to her sex was itself the introduction.
She could feel the curve of his smile press into her flesh, as she gasped with the arch of the small of her back. A dragging keen that pulled from the pit of her stomach and pushed her back against his jaw. The amused rumble against her petals a lascivious conduction of approval.
Collapsing forward like a rag doll, he secured her by hands wrapped tight around the front of her thighs, finger-tips biting white into her caramel beneath the divots of his pressure. Her forehead thumped to the glass, real glass, cool and slick to the burn roused across her face, flushing down her neck.
The thrum of her heart pulsed in rapid bursts. Skin pulled tight around the constriction of her veins, feeling heavy in sluggish limbs. Blood both thick and thin as it pooled below her waist.
Astarion groaned and huffed into her. A hungry ferality muffled by her heat as he lapped her apart, his greed sated only by her honey, daisy fresh and uniquely her, flooding the curve of his tongue.
Their intimacy not yet grown from its infancy, he peeled her open like a body known to him, one he had a lifetime to study, a century to pick apart, and file away for efficiency's sake. But he didn't rush, he didn't demand. He savored. He indulged. He reveled in Ofelia as if laying with someone for the first time, though his touch betrayed an adroitness to the contrary.
Not even during their first time had he presented so unrestrained, so desperate.
He was, after all, Count Dracula. Claiming the greatest conquest of them all; his newest, most coveted bride. Should he not be so bold? So devout?
Regal, but with the beast clawing to the surface. Revealed in fragments; in the way the strands of snow pulled loose from the clip of his nape, the snarl of his upper lip twitched over the glint of his fang, the darkening of a once jewel-toned iris, then a murky garnet haloing an expanded pupil. The heft of his cock pulsing thick and eager against his thigh, it pushed at his fitted slacks with increasing discomfort. Threatening it's refusal to be ignored for long.
He laved her without lenience. Goading her whines and mewls of his name to tumble listless from her lips, turning to fog against the mirrors surface. Her calves stinging as she kept propped on the tips of her toes. Both granting his access, and shying away from the brunt of his assault, it only left her open for the tip of the limber muscle to dive at her pearl, swollen past its sheath.
"Sing for me, my song bird." A taut demand ardent in it's delicacy, spun silk woven by his thickened timbre to graze the shell of her ear. "Sing for your lord."
The room lurched on a steep axis at the behest of his words, his decree gilded to a lovers adoration. All she could do was flex claws, softened by the white satin of her evening gloves, in a futile bid for purchase, her aching bud then swiped over by the length of his tongue.
Her bleating shattered the precipitating stillness, his name a sobbed cry that rang throughout the parlor. Sing for him she did, her body wound taut on his merciless tongue, the strain at his groin then unbearable.
Her entrance, hot and wet, throbbed against his swipes, yanking against the emptiness that yearned to be filled. He brought his free hand from stroking her thigh back to where she wept, finding her well primed for him, welcoming his two finger penetration with the slightest hint of give, her tightness notwithstanding.
Swallowed to the knuckle, he crooked his fingers in kind, forcing his mouth to share while he ripped her undone in his hand.
The sounds he played out of her, her body wailing its approval to gush around his expert digits, were near as loud as the cries that poured from her without end. A constant stream of praise and pleas that melded into wanton depravity, spilled out into the open a helpless tangle of raw need.
A need for him.
The melody had him manic with conceit, kneading his fingertips with equal grace and mercy. Every curled thrust stoked her flame. A smoldering ember in the pit of her stomach, tight and frantic, blazing to inferno. Liquid heat scalding, as it pooled between her hips, singeing every inch of her it trailed. Ofelia arched and writhed as if trying to ease away from his tongue, and how it burned. The mirror held upright and steadfast, supporting her weight as she plummeted towards impending eruption.
His gaze as glistening as his mouth, he pumped her once, twice, three times, with a firm persuasion rolling over her bead. Each purposeful, circular pass seized her against the heel of his palm, and he trapped her in it. Holding her on her tip-toes, her joints locked and trembling. Once she grew still and quiet he knew she was at her crest, needing no more than a push to tip over.
So he pushed her.
"Yes, darling." He crooned, a broken sound, hoarse with crumbled resolution. "Such a good, pretty thing you are for me."
To his startled delight, she came with a howl.
The pads of his fingers slippery with both her drool and his, he shoved his fingers back inside and worked them apart to stretch her around them. Giving her something solid to mount, to jerk her hips against. To peak around the feeling of fullness. His fullness.
He beamed, still on his knees for her, as he peppered little kisses to her legs and backside. Keeping his hand cupped around her, stilled and gentle, while the shock waves ebbed to return her breath.
A release wrenched from her, just as he would her morality, when he siphoned it straight from her vein. A brutally hard length kicked against his thigh at the thought.
One hand freed was all he needed, and it made quick work of the fastenings of his slacks, exposing himself to the stifling air with a groan. She recognized his audio cues, her hips teasing him with a wiggle of anticipation as he rose to his feet. A tip bloated and puckered plum, he allowed it to brush up her inner thigh, teasing her with its proximity. Riled from her body heat, and stolen whimpers.
“S-Star-,” she begged, but he hushed her gently.
"I'll take good care of you, little love." The edges of his timbre smoky and thick, he choked on his words as he grabbed himself rough about the base. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
A sob burst from her, wet and whined, to the rigidity of his swell coming to rest heavy against her. Throbbing, tender flesh pressed with insistence, he humped against her in a tease of his girth. The first nudge of his crown to her entrance had Ofelia suck in the air sharp, and held captive by her lungs.
Her bunched dress his reins, Astarion pushed his weight forward, sinking through with a grunt, low in agonized bliss. Every inch swallowed forced her laughable shreds of composure to burst forth in a keening yelp.
"Oh, you gem." He gasped, heaving for the air he didn't need as he stilled. His eyes bore down to the space between them, admiring how it disappeared more and more. Her twitching to his intrusion both pushed and pulled him, a hasty accommodation and desperation for more pinching, more tearing.
The opacity of gold in his irises phased in and out of garnet brilliance, as his leer remained fix to her heat, a pretty pink stretch around him. Only his veined root remained visible. "You look lovely with me inside, you know, you take me so well."
His pace mounted in grand orchestration, gradual yet unyielding. Perhaps cruel to the uninitiated, his force blunt in each rock of his pelvis to her rear. Punctuated by wet flesh met obscene. Their joining sacrosanct.
Pale, elegant hands abandoned their hold in the sea of red foaming around luscious hips, to slither around the front of one thigh. Easing her back into his spearing, while the other crawled along the dip of her back to shoulder. Forcing into her saw him whine, unsteady and reedy. Ill-fitting of the dominant predator that mounted her, but twice as sincere.
"Gods," he bit off the end of his moan and spat it like a curse, "it's never enough, it never goes away, it never gets easier." His ranting persisted despite how breathless. "This hunger for you. It's only worsened, it's never appeased."
Anchoring his hold, he climbed his speed in earnest, spurred by her whines and unintelligible moans, massaging his slender heft within her velvet confines. He wasn't waxing poetic as he spoke to her. The squeeze of her cunt was maddening. Her arousal potent to distraction, as he scented the air. His tip engorged to over-sensitivity, he rut the ache away against her depths, just as swollen and slick.
The fingers wrapped around her thigh crept to their apex, finding her pearl quivering and stiff beneath his stroke. His middle and index fingers stretched wide, he dragged them up and down along her draped folds, grazing his base in the same motion, as he couldn't bring himself to pull out more than half an inch before thrusting back inside.
Not that Ofelia seemed to have any complaints. Clenched around him with a fist like grip, a wide grin bared fangs beginning to pulse beneath his lip. Lengthening to a fearsome size, the sight hidden from her.
"So if I bite you here-- you'll turn?" All but moaning in his eagerness, his driving cant stilting each syllable . "Isn't that--right?"
"Y-yes-," she bleated, her breath hitching before it was stolen altogether from his force. The ruby encrusted silver wreathing her labyrinthine upsweep held miraculously. He felt himself squeezed where words failed her.
"Oh, I think you'd like that." He laughed, choppy with his shallow breath. "I'd say you'd like that very much indeed."
Without further warning, his arms slid around her front like rope, tying her straight and back into his chest. All without breaking his rhythm. Her raven bounds were twisted and plaited within her tiara, swept off her neck, conveniently bare for it. He grinned into the wet kiss he pressed to her rapid pulse, angling her head up by fingers clutched beneath her jaw.
"Look up, darling, look up." Huffing a laugh, his fangs bulged through gums unable to contain them longer. "I want you to watch."
His penetration so sharp and smooth she felt only but a pinch.
The pressure of his suction strangling her silent, her mouth dropped open in a dead scream. Forcing her leaded gaze to remain open against it's desire to slam shut, her vision faded black at the edges. The picture fuzzy, but the sight remained clear; twin holes opened at her throat, pin-pricks budding on her unblemished skin, blossoming as they teared wet garnet.
Bubbling and luscious in viscosity, it leaked to flow around invisible structures, that bent and curved the current like a stream around branches dipped in from overhead. The rivulets flattened, fanning down to carry across her clavicle, down lower, to drizzle across the mound of her breast, before disappearing into her dress.
His rhythm stuttering, it didn't slow him. Even as he gulped candid and without restraint, even as his growls exhaled wolfish and metallic against her neck. Even as she tightened around him, playing her hand of just how much she liked it.
He had bitten her countless times before, yet never like this.
Not with consequence.
A tingle sprouted from the sight, a heat flooding her veins from the one he claimed. A ripple throughout her body followed, stretching over her being until every last arterial branch within her held him instead.
A shrouding of darkness from within. Cold, though a comfort. Awash in it, her skin numbed and prickling as he siphoned her warmth and light with each guzzle of his insatiability.
Her veins gasoline, Astarion was the lit match. Everything in her burned. A pleasurable scorch, but a scorch nonetheless. Writhing and twisting in his hold, blessedly chilled, every brush of his bare skin to hers a salve to quell the uncontrolled flame within. She shook, full body trembles, from just how cold the world bore down around her, while from the inside, she raged.
Fevered and aching and heavy, her muscle and bone melted. Hollowing her old self to make room for the new; leaving her limp in his embrace, succumbing to her chrysalis.
It was agony. It was the purest bliss she had ever known.
She hadn't even felt the retraction of his fangs, nor his tongue cleaning her up to close the wounds.
Satisfied how they puckered shut. Pleased with the raised skin, whose anger was soothed, but appearance remained.
Proof of their union, proof of the power he was able to bestow upon her.
"Look, my love." He rasped, urging her focus by the points of his fingers to her mandible. He couldn't have sounded more awed. "Just look at you."
Her reflection pulsed before her very eyes, faded and dimming like a dying ember. Her breaths, once deep and sonorous, pinched to wheezes, constricted and tinny. A familiar itch along the gum line, her salivation lubricating the fangs lengthening in elegant tines past her bottom lip.
She blinked at herself through her haze, and once rich, umber eyes flared bejeweled scarlet. Aglow beneath her hooded gaze.
Unrecognizable. An old friend.
The last glimpse she was treated to before the mirror denied her presence.
"Mine."
He grunted. A reptilian hiss that damned his shred of nobility, the one that spurned the notion of his soft, delicate Ofelia consigned to damnation. An insatiable existence lurking in the wake of his shadow, and the harsh blue of midnight. The imitation of light he once huddled around.
This was all make believe, after all.
A vision she was, his eternal bride. A vision he'd consume without the taint of guilt or shame.
"Y-yours!" She cried, winding her arms around his neck behind her, clutching tight as his rutting picked up anew. Far more sloppy then he was before the bite, and wound well past his limit, it wasn't much longer before he was collapsing into her back.
Her blood and honey smearing his lips and staining his tongue, Astarion snapped against her a final time, burying himself to the hilt. Fingers darted to abuse her over stimulation into joining him. With a clench and a bitter sob, he dragged her over the coals once more, taking her with him.
Rigid greed locked like iron around her, his joints gave a weak quiver in tandem with the tingle down his spine from top to base. Frozen as death, while she pulled from him the evidence of life. Warm and thick, it flooded her tender depths, turning her glistening pink a vile, bone-ivory.
They kept anchored to one another. Held still while the force of his release seeped through him, dribbling from where they meshed to the coax of her flutters. Weakened, but still firing. Panting was all that was expressed between them as each clung to the other for stability.
Astarion the sturdier of the two, though not by much. His breath ragged, deep groans and sighs continued to unfurl from him well after he finished.
Her reflection as opaque as his, once he surfaced from the white vision and wobbling knees of his high, he peered straight through where they ought to be.
In the space once occupied by her, now empty, he found another mirror staring back at them from the other side of the room. Their mirror, inconspicuous, as if waiting patiently for them to finish.
"Well, what do you know."
Raphael can do nothing at this point, but pause his narration to chuckle.
Astarion unstuck himself from her backside with a hiss, allowing her skirts to fall back to the ground around her feet. There wasn’t an elegant way to clean up and stuff himself back inside his trousers, so with hands still gripped in a tremble, he dipped his head to steal a kiss from her temple as he put himself away. Her skin was already cold.
She needed a little longer to catch her bearings and her breath, though now it was every bit a show as it was for him, a reflexive memory from a life shed. Smoothing her hands down over her abdomen, she picked at her skirts to drop the wrinkles, still swaying on her own two feet. His hands remained fixed around her waist to keep her from toppling.
Her eyes, vivid crimson, were still hazy slits between the flutter of thick lashes. “Does… does that look like the bog to you?” She croaked.
Head cocked, Astarion gave her a few moments more to steady herself, only dropping his hold once she waved him off with a weak smile and nod of assurance to her stability. His attentions then back on the gilded frame and glamor, he caught sight of something he knew he recognized.
"Well, if I'm not mistaken, that there," the two meandering hand and hand, once they were close enough, he pointed to the black speck sitting undisturbed beneath some brush, "is the trinket box you were bested by this afternoon."
Her eyes narrowing, they then spilled wide. “Oh yeah! That’s it then, that’s the way back.” She turned to face him. “I guess we can finally go back now."
"I do believe we've done enough alternate reality gallivanting for one day.” He murmured though a crooked smile, his palm raising to cup her cheek. She hummed at him, the phantom sensation of a blush tingling in a strip over her cheekbones.
"The best really was saved for last." She couldn’t help but return his smile, though one sheepish. Her tongue prodded at her fangs beneath her teeth. "I hate to say it, but… I could get used to being your vampire bride."
"As could I.” Purred and cheeky, there was not a hint of anything other than brutal sincerity. Ofelia’s hollow stomach flipped. “Though worry not; no matter which world we belong to, you will always, and forever, be mine." His gaze flickered, hinting the cleverness he was then about to impart. "My sun, and my moon."
Perhaps he was still swept up in the character, but Ofelia didn't care.
"My Star." She whispered back, leaning into his palm. Beaming at him beneath mussed wisps of black, shaken loose from her updo. Her face, flash-frozen in its youth, and de-saturated in its new pallor.
A pallor he decided was ill-suited to her light, no matter how breathtaking she looked in his dark.
"Come." He pulled away, only to collect her hand in his. His urging a soft smile. "Let us go home."
Let us go home. Ofelia's chest tightened, spurring her to squeeze his grasp back.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “I’m ready.”
Earth, Faerûn, the delineation mattered little.
Home was where they were together, and where they loved each other, as themselves.
The woods of Ethel's sprawling bog lay undisturbed; the fauna bent to the breeze, the insects chirped and chirred, and our pair emerged to the muted crunch of leaves and grass underfoot.
Stepping back through as though they had never even left.
"Ah," he sighed, stretching and rolling his head from side to side. Studying his arms and hands, he practically purred. "Back to the greatest character of them all: Astarion."
The young bard looked around to see all was just as they had left it. Even the sun clung to its position of a midday crawl. It was as if time was on pause for their Quantam Leap fashioned escapade.
Her arms and hands outstretched beneath hesitant inspection, her eye was greeted by the dusky charcoal and muted sage of her armor. Astarion's grunt, as he arched his back in such a deep stretch it cracked some vertebrae, lured her attention back to it's proper place. She shook her head.
"Hey- this was fun." She pursed her lips with an impish tilt of her head, nodding in agreement with her own insistence. "We had fun."
Astarion was unable to help his snort, nor the fond, gradual smile of assent that followed.
"Yes, it was." He gazed at her, lazy and contented. The same candid bliss she pictured him sporting just that morning, in her fantasy of the two at her favorite place, in her favorite park. "Although, I find even still, I'm much more partial to Ofelia and Astarion's story." He stepped closer to her. "Do you know how it ends?"
Ofelia wrinkled her nose in a knowing smirk, though her heart-skipped a beat.
"I have some fan theories."
A wry grin crinkled his handsome features, as he reached forward to pinch her chin. At once a condescending gesture, Ofelia all but melted beneath his chilled touch.
"I suppose we'll just have to keep at it to see for ourselves."
So concludes our twisting, turning fable. One of the celebrations of Astarion's kind by Ofelia's; of the possessive, and savage. Of lovesick and noble.
Of standoffish, and sparkly.
Where Astarion may, or may not have, sewn a recreation of Amy's plunging turquoise blouse upon their return, but absolutely fashioned an exact replica of Santanico's bikini.
All from memory.
Though the tale of Ofelia and Astarion, Earth mortal and Fey spawn, is far from over, one outcome remains the same, though it has yet to be written...
...in that they lived, happily ever after.
The end.
OH BOY THAT JUST ABOUT DOES HER.
“But Rose why wouldn’t you make Astarion David in The Lost Boys-“ Because it’s funnier this way!!! Because it’s funnier. And I like Paul more!
Oh oh I’m sorry. I’m so sorry? You thought I’d take the easy way out and make him vamp daddy Valek from Vampires instead of the vampire Hunter just to flip the script for funsies? You thought I was gonna drop him in Salems Lot and NOT make him David Soul? You thought - you thought I was gonna take Ofelia. Montez. Sexy Mexican Durge, plop her in thee Titty Twister and — what — dress her in Kate’s flannel and 90’s mom jeans??? Absolutely not. She’s Santanico Pandemonium. She’s in that bikini. Astarion would want her in that bikini. I WANT HER IN THAT BIKINI-
“But Rose,” I hear you ask “what about Queen of the Damned? And Hunger? What about Only Lovers Left Alive? ANY of the Blades-“ I know. I KNOW. Listen there’s so much vampire media. I am one (1), tired, little woman. I am a one person team. I did my best !! “But RoOoOsSsE what about all of the Hammer horror vampire flicks-“ YEAH AND THE GIALLOS. AND THE EURO TRASH. PLEASE I’D BE WRITING THIS UNTIL THE END OF TIME
And lastly; for all the scenes I put them in, and reworked for the sake of the story, and for all the inconsistencies and conveniences, I have nothing to say for myself other than—
PART 1
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tools of the Trade - Gnolbard’s Request
Wood smoke filled the forest clearing. The mixed scent of a warm fire and a savory meal had started to work its way through the still wind. There, sat in the center, next to the crackling fire was the impossibility of a Gnollish woman, dressed in proper clothing made of flax and cotton rather than furs and rawhide, as was against tradition. She sat there, tending the fire, turning a fat haunch of meat on a spit.
It was a particularly fatty piece of meat. Poorly marbled, badly butchered, but the Gnoll didn’t care. A Gnoll is many things. Resourceful, creative, crafty. Nothing would be wasted, Not the drippings falling from the meat, into a earthenware bowl that sat nestled in the warm ashes, nor the animal’s gut, that the woman had taken off the hands of the butcher who, otherwise, would have thrown them into the refuse pile with the rest of the day’s remnants. She was familiar with spiced offal, but this wasn’t the day for it. Too little salt, not enough herbs. It had been set to dry over the cooler part of the fire.
At her side, on a lain out cloth, was a fine wooden mandolin. It was hard worked but lovingly cared for. Imperfect, where the worn spots where the varnish had worn away from a tender grip turned the tan fine grain into a pale divot. It laid there, missing one of the thinnest strings on the fret. The Gnoll never learned the names of these notes. They never felt right in her head. Single letters didn’t give the sound and song any meaning that she could come to grips for. To feel in her heart. Her mentor only called the thing string ‘Like a songbird’. A light, sweet tone.
The Bard loved that note the most, oft plucking it with the tip of her smallest finger’s claw as she drummed on the body or idly sat in mead halls and taverns while waiting her turn to perform. That loving attention netted it one too many plucks, haphazard against her sharp claw. It was an unfortunate reality that gut string only lasted so long. And now, it was time for her to do her duty. A mixture of somber feelings of guilt and elation that she had the chance to show her beloved treasure the care and attention it deserved.
And so she began to sing. Jaunty and quiet. Equal parts in celebration in tempo to the tone of a lullaby.
Over the hills and through the dale,
We lift upon our silver vales,
A song oft sung apart.~
Carefully she took the sinew and gut from the spit, pliable and dry. Deft fingers tied it to the base of the metal spit, and she began to stretch it, first in sections, then as a whole.
When the sun is come
And until the day is done
We lift the song alone.~
Her voice lifted some. The worry that the gut would snap as it drew thinner passed, and she grasped the fiber between her sharp teeth, behind her longer canines, and dragged it to tear away lingering meat and coarse fat. Between those nips and drags, she continued her song.
A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold
An evening spent, merchant’s haul sold
And never a night so-cold~
She was happy with her work, with the gut stripped to a proper string, she paused to replace the broken note, she made her treasure complete. Trimming and tuning, twisting the string taut until she heard that familiar songbird, testing it on that same claw that had snapped it earlier in the day. Then came the polishing.
A light rag was dipped into the animal fat coming from her meal for the evening, and gentle as she could, began to buff the wooden surface of her instrument. She cared not to rewind time, to restore it back to the glory it once was. But to give her beloved a glossy sheen, to keep the water and dust off for a time. It glimmered in the firelight, reflected her pearly smile, a satisfied grin that game with a truly warmed heart. Her friend was whole, and she expected no thanks in return.
In reality, she was quietly thanking the mandolin for its time, its patience, and its trust to come back to her. It was settled back on her lap, a few careful plucks to test it. She began her song anew.
This time, they sung together, her beloved tittering songbirds playing along the toads and the frogs and the joyful beating of her palm along the wooden body. As joyful as any long coming reunion between friends, as if they were never apart.
Over the hills and through the dale
We lift upon our Silver Vales
A song oft sung apart~
And when sun has come
And until the day is done
We lift this song along~
A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold
An evening spent, a merchant’s haul sold
And never a night so-cold~
Travelers come from down the road
To sing and dance, unite, unfold
To ale and glee once more~
Never too-long the dawn has come
And til we meet, our work is done
We sing our long farewell~
Never to sad, we’ll meet again
When firelights shine, our heads will spin
‘Neath our Silver Vales~
The moon had creeped out from behind the forest canopy, casting a cool light that barely pushed into the campfire’s glow. Her mandolin was placed back on that spread cloth to keep it from the dirt and ash of her home away from home, and she turned to her dinner.
A Gnoll is many things. Caring, Stubborn, Careful. She is Resolute, Crafty, and Loving.
And for now, with her task done, and care shown to her beloved? A Gnoll is hungry.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Temp Blanket: Week 1
It is officially 1 week into 2025 and I have completed all 7 days. It has been rather surprising on how much progress and emotions I have already felt for this project. The only thing I truly wish I could change is the curling problem that comes from stockinette lol
It is truly satisfying watching this go from one little strip and growing the way it has. Not gonna lie, this is probably going to be the longest project I have ever knitted. Biggest shall always be the Big Boi Project but this will definitely be the longest. I will try and get accurate length's but given that it is indeed a wavy pattern, will be hard pressed to do so. I can't wait for the finish line and after blocking to see how it all looks like.
Jan1 - Spring Green - 50°
Casted on with this and hit the ground running. Casted on 218 stitches. 1 | 216 | 1 is the pattern for the entire blanket. I placed stitch markers throughout the blanket. 1 to separate each 1 border stitch and then 1 sm after 24 stitches, as per the pattern says to do. I used accuweather.com to keep track of the highs of each day. I knit in the evening when the high of the day has passed, mostly to confirm what the high was to get accurate color for the stripe. I do not want to frog or backtrack on this project AT. ALL.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5c4d4e865895707dee026ddb30e91884/64316e7b3cc3280d-0f/s540x810/4b22041fc7e41140cf6f812d20d217bc7cc37c4d.jpg)
Jan2 - Spring Green - 41°
Same color as the day before, which is nice because then I don’t have to cut the yarn just yet. It is kinda worrisome that the start of the year is already in the greens. Climate change is totally real, guys. Also, I saw on halfway through day 2’s stripe (row 4) that I had a void in the skein. What that means is that I’m at about halfway on just this one skein of yarn…I might need to go buy more. Oh shit.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ada69546916c462384f0473de14c466b/64316e7b3cc3280d-30/s540x810/8bb6fcb75877f0418797bcb7a1640657c5777c2f.jpg)
Jan3 - Turquoise - 37°
A new color!! Hurray!!! It is going to get nothing but colder this winter here in CT but I am ready for it to bring some beautiful variations to my Temperature Blanket!! Will say that trying to get update pictures kinda sucks cause stockinette knitting tends to curl. A lot. I do not have any yarn weights so I am going the best that I can.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ed29a4349add7d8dbd4db865eaa93891/64316e7b3cc3280d-51/s540x810/adc5660daf62de263299a261c367423e2fadfcd6.jpg)
Jan4 - Turquoise - 34°
I was at work all day so I did not have time to knit this stripe and will be knitting this stripe with Jan5. But it is turquoise so I thankfully do not have to cut or switch colors. Thank the gods. But I am definitely going to have to buy more of the winter colors at the end of January. Already know it.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1670ac55550372e27c324776107311e1/64316e7b3cc3280d-74/s540x810/d1260aa103e57a8e13172556e980abc50ab660c1.jpg)
Jan5 - Turquoise - 33°
Today was particularly windy and it also made me realize that I am going to have to go buy a lot more of the blues than I originally thought. And here I thought just having the get more of the Spring Green was bad enough. Oh boy. As I am knitting on row 7 out of 8 for day 5, yeah, I have a VOID in the skein. Def gonna need to buy more yarn for this project. Looking at the projected highs for the rest of the month, Turquoise and Country Blue are going to be used a lot.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7775ef3fd3c9c65996b7ab88ddccd308/64316e7b3cc3280d-17/s540x810/23de0e5e33d6e28748c7ada8182292fd2a725e92.jpg)
Jan6 - Country Blue - 28°
Ok, I know we are having an Arctic vortex coming over us right now but for fuck’s sake. It felt like it was colder than this all day due to the wind. I am thankful for a new color because YEESSHHH I am def gonna need to get more turquoise on my way home from work tomorrow. Most likely going to have to rewind this skein into a small cake cause the void is quite large. But for now I shall make the lovely country blue shine this day.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/591e2b79886d0947b058450f9ea74a6a/64316e7b3cc3280d-ed/s540x810/3f4dda4f9b9a1c0f60618a9a17e157bbd7a08c1e.jpg)
Jan7 - Country Blue - 29°
It was fucking WINDY today. It was freezing and winy. Not a good combo. But hey, a new color!!!! Kinda. I’m just over this cold nonsense. Working on this project makes me feel like I am accomplishing something, even with how cold it has been. I also have been trying to keep up with it and work is slightly getting in the way of it but that’s life. Seeing a side by side picture from day 1 to day 7 is such a good serotonin boost.
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/adb3dae73c70bf81b31828655acb06ca/64316e7b3cc3280d-2a/s540x810/20c4a23e13a2963fe43cb1c97ccad6b2d7b2ba81.jpg)
To sum up Week 1, I think it has gone really well. I've made tremendous progress on it and it's only been a week. A few things to note is I am definitely have to buy more yarn. This blanket will primarily be blue. Which is a different change of pace from me being in TX, that is for sure!!
0 notes
Text
Motor Rewinding Machines: Restoring Efficiency and Performance
Electric motors are integral to industrial and commercial operations, powering everything from machinery to appliances. Over time, these motors can suffer from wear and tear, leading to reduced performance or complete failure. A motor rewinding machine is a valuable tool for restoring motors to optimal condition by rewinding the coils. In this article, we’ll explore what motor rewinding machines are, their benefits, and how they play a critical role in maintaining and repairing electric motors.
What is a Motor Rewinding Machine?
A motor rewinding machine is specialized equipment used to remove old or damaged windings from an electric motor and replace them with new windings. This process restores the motor’s functionality and extends its lifespan.
Key Features:
Automatic Coil Removal: Efficiently strips old windings.
Programmable Winding Control: Allows precise winding of new coils.
Wire Tension Regulation: Ensures uniform winding to maintain motor performance.
Benefits of Motor Rewinding Machines
1. Cost Savings
Rewinding a motor is often more cost-effective than replacing it, especially for large or custom motors.
2. Extended Motor Life
Rewinding restores the motor to its original specifications, prolonging its operational life.
3. Energy Efficiency
A properly rewound motor operates more efficiently, reducing energy consumption and operational costs.
4. Customizability
Motor rewinding machines can be programmed to handle various winding configurations, making them versatile for different motor types.
Types of Motor Rewinding Machines
1. Manual Rewinding Machines
These machines require operator input and are ideal for small-scale operations or custom rewinding tasks.
2. Semi-Automatic Rewinding Machines
Combine manual setup with automated winding, offering a balance of control and efficiency.
3. Fully Automatic Rewinding Machines
These machines handle the entire process, from coil removal to new winding, maximizing productivity and precision.
Applications of Motor Rewinding Machines
Motor rewinding machines are used in various industries to repair and maintain electric motors:
Manufacturing Plants: Keeps industrial machinery running smoothly.
Automotive Industry: Rewinds motors in electric vehicles and automotive components.
HVAC Systems: Essential for repairing motors in heating, ventilation, and air conditioning systems.
Power Generation: Maintains generators and other power equipment.
Marine and Aerospace: Repairs specialized motors used in ships and aircraft.
Innovations in Motor Rewinding Technology
Technological advancements have made motor rewinding machines more efficient and user-friendly:
1. Smart Automation
Modern machines use AI to optimize winding patterns and adjust parameters for different motor types.
2. Digital Interfaces
Touchscreen controls and digital monitoring make it easier to operate and track the rewinding process.
3. Eco-Friendly Operation
Energy-efficient designs reduce power consumption and minimize waste.
Factors to Consider When Choosing a Motor Rewinding Machine
Motor Size Compatibility: Ensure the machine can handle the range of motor sizes you work with.
Automation Level: Decide between manual, semi-automatic, or fully automatic machines based on your needs.
Customization Capabilities: Look for machines that allow flexible winding patterns.
Budget and ROI: Assess the machine’s cost-effectiveness and potential long-term savings.
Conclusion
Motor rewinding machines are essential tools for restoring electric motors to peak performance. By enabling cost-effective repairs and extending motor life, these machines play a critical role in various industries. With advancements in automation and technology, motor rewinding has become more efficient and precise, ensuring motors operate at their best.
Are you ready to revitalize your electric motors with the latest motor rewinding solutions?
0 notes
Text
The AV Squad
1969-1970. Big events, Woodstock, the Moon Landing, Kent State, the Beatles break up. For me, age 11-12. 6th grade. In school, filmstrips and films were a great distraction to the yearly study of the planets, US history and fractions.
More important than the content of the films, was the process of seeing the film. Two members of the AV squad, Bryan and John were sent to obtain the projector. No girls allowed. Where they got it, I have no idea and how many projectors there were at the elementary school is also a big unknown.
When they returned, the process was always the same. There was usually some trouble threading the film to get it started. After it ran for a few minutes, the film broke and some splicing had to occur. Once the film started up again, you could be rest assured that within minutes the bulb burned out and the projector needed to be stopped. There usually wasn’t a spare bulb along with the projector and if there was, and it was tried out, it usually was also burned out. The AV squad would then be sent to retrieve a new bulb somewhere in the building, sometime with no luck. If they did get a bulb, it usually took some time replacing it.
The AV squad seemed unflappable despite the seeming pressure to complete the tasks. I wonder if they suffered in silence and years later break out in a sweat when a bulb goes dark. If we made it to the end of the film, the film had to be re-wound. The re-wind noise was like a helicopter taking off next to you. The teacher for some reason would use this time to discuss the film and could not be heard. Sometimes in the rewind, the film would break again and need to be spliced.
Now the film strip process seemed to be less fraught with danger but a burnt-out bulb was always a high likelihood. The teacher would handle the film strip process and not the AV squad. The teacher did not seem to trust the AV squad to manage the timing of the record player to move the film strip to the next slide even though the record would beep to tell you to do so. Sometimes the images were projected upside down or backwards and the class would laugh uproariously at the teacher for setting it up wrong. At the end of the film strip, the bulb was turned off but the fan had to be kept running so as to make sure to cool the bulb. However, all the cooling in the world seemed to make little difference in bulb burn out rates.
All the other students were impressed with the AV squad in 6th grade despite the high level of failure rate. However, by the time high school rolled around, the AV squad were considered uncool and oddballs.
Life in the 60’s and 70’s. Not all long hair and clothes with fringe. By the way, for those that grew up in that time, Pluto definitely remains a planet no matter what the astronomers say.
0 notes
Link
We are specializing manufacturing doctoring film strip winding rewinding machine. Specially built for film strip winding with correction doctoring winding Machine, Doctoring Rewinding Machine, Winding Rewinding Machine, Rewinding Machine, Doctoring rewinding, Doctor Rewinder Machine, Winder Rewinder Machine, Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding, Film Strip Winding Rewinding. Strip Winding Rewinding, Inspection Rewinding Machine, Rewinder Unwinder System for widest converting & flexible packaging industries.
#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewindng#Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Rewinding#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winding Rewinding#Rewinding Machine#Doctoring rewindings#Winder Rewinder Machine#Winder Rewinder Machine Manufacturer#Winder Rewinder#Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Rewinding Machines
0 notes
Link
We are specializing manufacturing doctoring film strip winding rewinding machine. Specially built for film strip winding with correction doctoring winding Machine, Doctoring Rewinding Machine, Winding Rewinding Machine, Rewinding Machine, Doctoring rewinding, Doctor Rewinder Machine, Winder Rewinder Machine, Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding, Film Strip Winding Rewinding. Strip Winding Rewinding, Inspection Rewinding Machine, Rewinder Unwinder System for widest converting & flexible packaging industries.
#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Film Strip Winding#Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winding Rewinding#Rewinding Machine#Doctoring rewinding#Winder Rewinder Machine#Winder Rewinder#Strip Winding Rewinding#Inspection Rewinding Machine#Rewinder Unwinder System
0 notes
Link
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/52bb4b5074ad47de0943043861e1ca0f/3293d6fb6c214a10-fa/s540x810/4d5af9d87e2ab33bb1301ba1d663cbb22b39de65.jpg)
KEW ENGG. & MFG. PVT. LTD. have been manufacturing, exporting and supplying various types of Winding Rewinding Machine. Different types of Winding Rewinding Machine with high quality and heavy duty equipment. Winding Rewinding Machines Like, Film Winding Rewinding For Batch Coding, Winding Rewinding For Batch Printing, Winding Rewinding With Inkjet Printer and with Multihead Inkjet Printer, Winding Rewinding With Thermal Transfer Overprinter, Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding, Winding Rewinding With and Without Slitting System, Coil Winding etc.
#Film Winding Rewinding Machine For Batch Coding#Rewinding Machine#Film Winding Rewinding For Batch Coding#Winding Rewinding For Batch Printing#Winding Rewinding With Inkjet Printer#Winding Rewinding With Thermal Transfer Overprinter#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Winding Rewinding With and Without Slitting System#Doctoring Rewinding Machines#Heavy Duty Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Film Winding Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Winding Unwinding Machine#Roll to Roll Rewinding Machine#Automatic Roll Rewinder Machine#Inspection Winding Rewinding Machine
1 note
·
View note
Link
We are Manufacturing Batch Coding for different industries and applications, Film Winding Rewinding Machine For Batch Coding, Winder Rewinder manufacturer, Winding Rewinding, Winding Rewinding Machine For Batch Printing, Winding Rewinding Machine With Inkjet Printer, Winding Rewinding Machine With Thermal Transfer Overprinter, Winding Rewinding Machine With Multihead Inkjet Printer, Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine, Winding Rewinding Machine With Slitting System, Winding Rewinding Without Slitting System.
#Film Winding Rewinding Machine For Batch Coding#Film Winding Rewinding Machine For Batch Codings#Film Winding Rewinding Machine#Film Winding Rewinding Machine s#Film Winding Rewinding#Winding Rewinding#Winding Rewindings#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine With Multihead Inkjet Printer#Winding Rewinding Machine With Multihead Inkjet Printers#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewindings#Doctoring Film Strip Winding
0 notes
Link
Winding Rewinding Machine With Inkjet Printer, Winder Rewinder machine manufacturer, different type of industrial inkjet printer with winding machine. Our Product range includes Machines Like Winding Rewinder Machine, Winding Rewinding Table Top, Heavy Duty Winding Rewinding, High Speed Winding Rewinding, Custom Application Doctoring Rewinding, Film Winding Rewinding with Slitter, Winding and Slitting Rewinding, Doctoring Rewinding, Inspection Slitting, Doctor Rewinder Machine, Doctor Rewinder, etc.
#Winder Rewinder Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine With Inkjet Printer#Rewinder for Inkjet Printer#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding
1 note
·
View note
Link
We are manufacturer of Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine manufacturer, Film Inspection Machine, Inspection Rewinding Machine, Rewinder Unwinder System, Winding Rewinding Machine, Winder Rewinder Machine, Film Winding Rewinding Machine for Batch Coding, Winding Unwinding Machine, Doctoring Rewinding Machine, Doctor Rewinder Machine, Doctoring Slitting Rewinding Machine, Inspection Winding Rewinding Machine for the bad printing on materials of flexible packaging film.
#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winder Rewinder#Winder Rewinder Machine#Winding Rewinding Machines#Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Rewinding#Doctoring Slitting Rewinding#Doctoring Slitting Rewinding Machine#Doctor Rewinder Machine#Doctor Rewinder Machine Manufacturer
0 notes
Text
paper stars // kim doyoung
genre: fluff pairing: doyoung x gn reader word count: 1.2k warnings: language, spoilers for at dawn (would recommend reading it first, or i’ll just tell you who the killers were hehe)
just a short, fluffy headcanon i couldn’t stop thinking about at 3 am, in which doyoung can’t do origami to save his life and reader is stressed for their life. thank you yves for the idea <33
@neonun-au, as promised!! will also be working on a crack fic for the rest of the characters at some point :D
“You’re surprisingly really bad at this.”
Doyoung sits across from you, his face scrunched up in concentration, stormy eyes filled with nothing but determination as he watches the YouTube tutorial again. He holds the piece of red paper up, his gaze flitting between the origami star on screen and his own handiwork: a sad, unevenly-edged pentagon that folds in on itself when he tries to proceed to the next step. He lets out a frustrated groan, crumpling the paper into a little ball and flicking it off the table like it’s an insect intruding on your time together.
“This is impossible,” he grunts, spinning his chair around like a little kid. When he finally stops, it’s to stare begrudgingly at the jar of origami stars on your desk—a little keepsake of yours that Doyoung’s taken an interest in lately. Quite frankly though, his mission to fill up the last quarter of the jar with shiny stars has been miserable. Though bright-eyed and determined at the very beginning, his resolve is starting to crumble, evident in his failed attempts thrown all over your living room. It’s starting to get a bit ridiculous.
You push your work to the side, snatching the second piece of crumpled paper out of his hands before he can chuck it across the room. “So you’re telling me that you have six PhDs and can solve almost any homicide case in an hour, but you can’t do a kids’ arts and crafts project?”
Doyoung gawks at you. “First of all, I don’t have a PhD in paper crafts, and I don’t solve homicides by folding paper.” He reaches for his phone to rewind the video, then picks up a fresh strip of paper. “Second of all, kids?! A kids’ arts and crafts project? Origami was a prestigious ceremonial practice back in the day—”
“Yeah, and my seven-year-old niece can fold a better paper airplane than you. You’re like, ten times her age,” you joke. He gives you a wounded look from across the table.
“I’ll do it,” he murmurs beneath his breath as he loops the strip around his fingers. “I’ll get it eventually.”
You can’t help but giggle at the way his eyes take on a strenuousness you only ever see at work: the furrowing of his brow and steadiness of his hands whenever he’s deep in thought, trying to crack a case. But you suppose making paper stars is his case to crack tonight. The type of paper, how tightly he winds the strip, the crispness of the folds—he’s subconsciously turned the whole ordeal into an unsolvable mystery instead of just folding the damn paper.
“How are your revisions coming along?” Doyoung asks, and you look back down at your screen. The words of your report are starting to crawl off the screen, shifting in so many directions at once like they're trying to escape your eyes. You sigh.
“I hate going to hearings.” You rub at your eyes tiredly. “The evidence is solid, indisputable probably. But you know what defence attorneys are like. They'll probably pull something out of their asses tomorrow and I don’t know if I’ll be ready for that.”
“Who’s defending?”
You flip through your papers to check. “Byun Baekhyun. Some new guy… Park Chan-something.”
“Byun?” Doyoung questions with a raise of his brow, now setting down his origami to give you his full attention. “I thought he and Lee got into some serious trouble after Seo’s case?”
“That crafty little fucker never gives up,” you groan, and now it’s your turn to slump in your chair, defeated. “He got his name cleared in December and I’m gonna bet he has something up his sleeve for tomorrow. He always does.”
Doyoung reaches across the table to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. And when that doesn’t seem to alleviate any of your stress, he rolls his chair over to where you’re sitting, readjusts his glasses and leafs through a few of your papers. His arm comes around your waist when you drop your head onto his shoulder, and he pulls you a little closer to him while he reads.
“Taeyong’s getting what’s coming for him,” he says at last, gesturing at your carefully-prepared notes and the speech you’ve started typing out on your laptop; while you don’t intend on memorizing everything you’ll say, writing it down definitely helps. “Whether or not you’re confident in what happens tomorrow, they can’t let him walk. They won’t. Just give them your statement… and don’t overthink it.”
Still, despite his words of encouragement, you can manage only a sigh before curling up closer to him and burying your face in the soft fabric of his sweater. He smells like lemongrass and lavender, and a hint of the delicate floral notes you’ve learned are unique to the FVA house—they remind you of the candles in the room where you first met, the library you spend nearly all your time in whenever you visit, the shirts he occasionally allows you to steal from his wardrobe. And as comforting and grounding as it is, having him next to you, your skin is still crawling with anticipation for tomorrow.
Almost six months after Nakamoto Yuta’s arrest, the investigations at LTY have finally come to an end, and with enough to lock Taeyong away. If only it were as easy as throwing his pretentious ass into a prison cell and throwing the key into the Han River; if it were as easy as skipping testifying in court. Jaehyun will be suffering alongside you, but at least he’s good at public speaking. You, on the other hand, always feel like a hot mess of fumbling words and unsatisfactory arguments—contrary to the opinion of all your colleagues.
“There’s no need to be so nervous,” Doyoung says softly, pulling you away from your anxieties and back into his arms. “I’ve heard you speak at hearings, and you’re always much more well-spoken than you think. You were amazing at Yuta’s.”
“Gross. We don’t talk about him,” you grunt, making a face at your new coffee table. Doyoung gives a laugh, pressing his lips to your forehead in gentle apology.
“Sorry,” he murmurs against your skin. “But I mean it, you were good.” He glances at his failed stars. “Some might even say… stellar.”
You flush with embarrassment and swat him away, pushing his chair back to the other end of the desk so you can get back to work without distraction. “Okay, back to your stupid stars. They’re not gonna fold themselves, you know.”
He throws one at you.
The next morning, you find a neatly-folded star in the pocket of your dress pants—perfectly puffed up, perfectly cornered, with a lopsided smiley face drawn on one side. There’s a small arrow drawn where one edge of the paper disappears into another. Confused, you unravel the star to find a quick message scribbled along the length of paper:
Be clear, concise. Relax. Don’t slouch.
“You ready?” At the sound of Jaehyun’s voice, you slip the paper away, accept the cup of coffee he offers you. Despite how early it is in the morning, he looks energized, determined. You focus on that, readying yourself with the words Doyoung left in your pocket and his encouragement the previous night. You nod, smiling.
“Yeah. Let's get this fucker.”
#cznnet#kpopscape#nct#nct 127#nct fanfic#nct angst#nct fluff#nct smut#nct drabbles#nct timestamps#nct scenarios#nct imagines#nct moodboards#doyoung#kim doyoung#doyoung fanfic#doyoung fluff#doyoung angst#doyoung drabbles#doyoung timestamps#doyoung scenarios#doyoung imagines#czennet
125 notes
·
View notes
Link
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/bb26c1712e00e9c2edeeb541b03aef88/2aa87f23baa41a89-e7/s540x810/a0082ff4f0c8f079cef30a98b101c4ae91ef48bf.jpg)
We are Manufacturing of Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer India, Winding Rewinding, Doctoring Rewinding Machine, Doctor Rewinder Machine, Doctor Rewinder, Inspection Doctoring Slitting, Film Inspection Machine, Winder Rewinder Machine, Batch Printing Machine. We are manufacturer of Inspection Rewinding Machine, Rewinder Unwinder System for widest converting & flexible packaging industries. Cantilever design-balancing body for easy loading and unloading of parent / rewound reel. Movable unwind stage for Edge guiding System.
#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winding Rewinding#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Rewinding#Doctor Rewinder Machine#Doctor Rewinder Machine Manufacturer#Doctor Rewinder#Winder Rewinder Machine#Winder Rewinder Machine Manufacturer#Winder Rewinder#Batch Printing Machine#Inspection Rewinding Machine#Inspection Rewinding
0 notes
Text
Turn Back The Clock: Duckingham Palace
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/02effe1f4ec6b0034f68ba5fb424181d/ddee3382e2fdab23-fe/s540x810/3482656a992635f0b1436ecebcd9edf13bad955c.jpg)
Let's rewind the time, before you married your beloved Tom, before the endless amounts of feathers floated through the house. Wade was a tiny thing, chirping up a storm, and angrily hissing up a storm anytime Tom would come near the brooder you had set up into the bedroom.
The day after you had called the bird sanctuary and found out they wouldn't take the tiny ball of feathers you had set about learning everything you could about the upkeep and care for ducks. What you hadn't planned was how fast the duckling would grow, and as of now Wade's head would poke above the edge of the brooder and nab anything in close enough proximity.
He had you in panic one day when you saw a bit of red in his poo, Tom was sitting on the edge of the bed talking about an film he was going to be doing two months from now. Your heart raced as the slightly feathered bird chirped and chirped at the corner of the brooder by Tom who was ignoring the duck.
"Tom, there's red, red in his poo, red in the brooder." Your voice raised a notch as you searched for the reason. Tom stopped talking and looked down to see what you were talking about.
"Could this be the reason why?" Tom asked, slight annoyance in his voice as he held up the end of your thick fuzzy red blanket. Bald patches in the corner, the fluff stripped from it, you looked back at the precocious bird, eyeing a piece of red fluff in his beak. He had stopping making his usual ruckus to look over at you, before turning his head and taking a nab at the blanket.
"Naughty little duck, you were caught red beaked, weren't you." You giggled as the panic you felt eased away in an instant.
It was at that point you had both decided that it was time for your feathery companion to live outside full time. His feathers had molted and his adult feathers had come in (mostly). Tom ordered a dog run, the set up to keep the predators out and way from your little friend. He made sure to get one with a canopy to keep hawks and other flying critters at bay.
So in the mean time Tom set about leveling a corner of the yard, it was hot back breaking work but he didn’t complain to loudly about the desk at hand. And before long Tom was shirtless, sweat dripping down his back in the summer sun. Being the gentleman that he was he refused to let you help him, plus he knew where you went the tripping hazard, err duck, was sure to follow.
"Tom, are you sure you don't want any help?" You asked, taking a sip of your iced lemonade as you stayed under the shade on the deck.
"I'm sure darling." He replied stopping for a moment, wiping a tip of sweat that was forming at his brow. "Though I will take a sip of that lemonade."
You smiled sweetly as you stood, taking care not to step on the energetic ball of feathers. You came down the steps on the back porch, eyeing the box that the large dog run came in. You were slightly worried, the box didn't seam like it would be heavy enough to hold the run and the cover but Tom had assured you multiple times that it did.
"Looks like you got the area leveled, I'm guessing that's next?" You asked, hooking your head the box with the words Lucky Dog stamped a tossed in.
Tom nodded as he took a big drink from the cold glass. Wade bustled about, squawking and hissing at the flowers blooming next to porch. He lifted his little wing, feathers taking flight before he karate chopped downward causing the bright purple flower to spring back and hit him in his bill. Wade fell backward in shock, his little webbed feet kicking in the air.
“Yep.” He took a deep breath as he wandered to the box and started to rip it open.
You walked over to the prone animal. He stopped moving for a brief moment and cocked his head at you.
“That mean ole tulip got you good, didn’t it?” You cooed at him as you picked him up. Wake started squawking louder as he nestled into your arms.
You turned around to see your boyfriend. Tom had pulled the contents of the box out onto the lawn and paused for a moment. You stood there biting down on your lip when you noticed just a little bit of metal and a tarp. No chain link, no longer pieces of metal. This was obviously not everything, looked like it was just the top. But you managed not to say anything as you sat back down under the shade of the tree with the ball of feathers who at this point has quieted down.
“Darling.” Tom sighed as he putting his hands on his hips. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and typed away.
“Yes, Tom.” You replied sweetly.
“I think I will finish this tomorrow.” He stated as he looked over at you. “I think I’ll start building his castle first at then put the run together.”
“Sounds like a marvelous idea.” You chuckled lightly as Tom went to the pile of lumber.
Hours passed by, in that time you had weeded your garden, pulled Wade away from Tom, plant flowers along the fence line, pulled Wade away from Tom, started to prep for dinner, pulled Wade away from Tom. By the time dinner was ready to put on the grill Tom had stepped away from what looked like it was supposed to be a dog house with a turret.
However the turret looked like one good gust of wind would knock it over, and the walls were uneven. The roof sloped to the left and the door was already falling off. He stood looking at it with his hands on his fist, Wade hissing the awkward looking castle. Or at least that’s what Tom told you he was going to build. He looked up pictures on the internet claiming how easy it would be to build.
He knelt down after grabbing one more screw, mumbling something about the door when Wade swung his feathery butt around catching the door with his mostly bare rear. The door swung back harshly catching the man in the face. You rushed down the steps as the avian cocked his head at Tom before waddling over and rubbing his head against the man’s chest
“Tom, are you okay?” You asked kneeling down next to him.
“I’m fine darling.” He said pulling his hand away from his face looking at his palm. He had an angry red welt between his eyes and nose but nothing seemed broken. He blinked a couple times and then looked at the bird who was currently try to snuggle on him.
“You know Tom, I was thinking.” You bit your lip as you looked down at your boyfriend. “Maybe Wade could live inside with us.”
Tom took a heavy breath and looked back at the falling castle and down at the mischievous bird. He shook his head as he sighed out.
“Two against one, not fair.” He remarked before looking up at you. “Alright, but only till I can built a better house for him.”
Permanent tag-
@kitkatkl
@octobermermaid @ajosieface @instantnoodlese @crystlblu @coffeebooksandfandom @thisismysecrethappyplace @the-wayward-robot @lokilvrr @shynara51 @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl @loislp @savedbyimagination @bubblycypres87 @ifyousayyouloveme @courtmr @blue-cat-1989 @saharzek @lokiodinsoninwriting @silverhart93 @rynabarnesrogers @geeksareunique
Wade The Duck Tag-
@theoneanna @winchesterwife27 @jewels2876 @devilbat @sarahivi @bookgirlunicorn @just-the-hiddles
#tom hiddleston fan fiction#tom hiddleston x you#tom hiddleston fluff#tom hiddleston one shot#tom hiddleston x reader#tom hiddleston#wadetheduck
40 notes
·
View notes
Link
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/943d843106ac78a76ba688ce1f00abe1/444ee1bfcd049f2f-e1/s500x750/c4e42156fefd8679fef097893c4818b4c9c56f81.jpg)
We are Manufacturer Of Different type of Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer India, inkjet printer for batch coding Machine, Winding Rewinding Machine, Inspection Rewinding Machine, Standard Doctoring Rewinding Machine, Table Top Doctoring Rewinding Machine, High Speed Doctoring Rewinding, Heavy Duty Doctoring Rewinding Machine with Slitting System, Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding, Coil Winding, Inspection Doctoring Slitting, High Speed Doctor Re Reeling and many more per client’s requirement and application.
#Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Doctoring Rewinding Machines#Doctoring Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Doctoring Rewinding#Winding Rewinding Machine#Winding Rewinding Machines#Winding Rewinding Machine Manufacturer#Winding Rewinding#Doctor Rewinder Machine#Doctor Rewinder Machine Manufacturer#High Speed Doctoring Rewinding#Table Top Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Standard Doctoring Rewinding Machine#Heavy Duty Doctoring Rewinding Machine with Slitting System#Doctoring Film Strip Winding Rewinding
0 notes