#best place to buy formal shoes

[wisewonders2]

upgrade your look with Urban Sports Shoes | Wisewonders

Purchase urban sports shoes online from Wisewonders to update your look while enjoying the ideal fusion of style, comfort, and functionality.

[ofoohshoes]

Ofooh Leather Shoes: Elevating Style with Black Shoes for Women and Men's Formal Elegance in the UAE

In the heart of the UAE's thriving fashion scene, Ofooh Leather Shoes emerges as a beacon of sophistication, offering an exquisite range that includes black shoes for women, men's formal shoes, timeless brown loafers, and classic brown Oxford shoes. Let's delve into why Ofooh is the epitome of luxury and style in the world of leather footwear.

1. Black Elegance: Ofooh's Signature Shoes for Women

Ofooh's collection of black shoes for women is a testament to timeless elegance. Crafted with precision and an eye for detail, each pair embodies sophistication, ensuring that women make a statement with every step. From sleek pumps to chic flats, Ofooh's black shoe range caters to various styles, making it the ultimate destination for those seeking refined, versatile footwear.

2. Men's Formal Mastery: Ofooh's Impeccable Collection

For men who understand the importance of making a lasting impression, Ofooh's range of formal shoes is unparalleled. From boardroom meetings to black-tie events, Ofooh's men's formal shoes in the UAE redefine elegance. Impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail set these shoes apart, offering a perfect blend of comfort and sophistication for the modern gentleman.

3. Brown Loafers: Effortless Style for Every Occasion

Ofooh's brown loafers for men capture the essence of casual sophistication. Whether it's a weekend brunch or a relaxed office environment, these loafers seamlessly bridge the gap between comfort and style. Crafted from high-quality leather, Ofooh's brown loafers are a wardrobe essential for those who appreciate laid-back luxury.

4. Classic Brown Oxford Shoes: A Timeless Wardrobe Staple

The brown Oxford shoes from Ofooh are a nod to tradition with a modern twist. Combining classic design with contemporary flair, these shoes effortlessly elevate any formal or semi-formal ensemble. Ofooh ensures that every pair of brown Oxford shoes is a testament to enduring style and craftsmanship.

In conclusion, Ofooh Leather Shoes stands as a bastion of quality and style in the UAE's fashion landscape. With a diverse collection encompassing black shoes for women, men's formal shoes, brown loafers, and classic brown Oxford shoes, Ofooh ensures that individuals can stride with confidence and grace on every occasion. Explore the world of Ofooh Leather Shoes today – where luxury meets craftsmanship for an unparalleled footwear experience.

[miss-jaye]

giving boyfriend!shoto flowers

you kept seeing tiktoks about girls giving their boyfriends flowers, so you decided to do the same.

noticing that shoto always had a fond look when he saw camellias, you chose a bouquet of red and white camellias, wrapped in black paper. you pulled into the driveway, got out of your car, and made your way to the front door, giddy with excitement. as you opened the door with your key, you called out sweetly, "i'm back~," hearing your boyfriend's footsteps approaching.

"you're just in time. our reservation is in—" shoto began, but stopped in his tracks. your boyfriend, with his dual-colored hair, was dressed in a white dress shirt that hugged his muscles, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. he wore his best black slacks and formal black shoes, and the watch you gave him for his birthday was on his wrist. the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, offering a delicious glimpse of his chest.

he furrowed his brows, his gaze fixed on the bouquet in your hands. "did you buy flowers? for who?"

you smiled and walked forward, handing the bouquet to him. "for you."

shoto paused, blinking at the camellias in front of him. "for me?.." his voice was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. you giggled softly, "yes, for you."

he slowly took the bouquet, bringing it closer to his face. he delicately touched the petals, as if afraid he might damage them. you noticed his bottom lip trembling as he turned to face the wall, resting his forehead against it, cradling the flowers gently.

"aw, sweetie.." you cooed. "no one's ever gotten me flowers before.." shoto whispered. you lightly touched his back, "why are you crying, my love?"

he pouted, "they're going to wilt.." his voice cracked just slightly, and you could have cried from how adorable he looked. leaning forward, you placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"then i'll just buy you more, okay?"

he sniffed and peeked at you from the corner of his eyes, "really?"

you nodded seriously, "yes, darling."

"i love you."

"i love you too."

[uno-san]

Informality (Reader-Insert Short)

You couldn't call what you two had a relationship. Not really. Stanford Pines was too busy with his mysterious work (That you pretend to not notice) to bother with any formal dating rituals. As for you, you simply weren't looking for anything long-term. Miraculously, these specific wants worked out great for you two.

As per the start of all your little meetings it had proved a brutal day of work at the Mystery Shack. Between angry customers and the flat out dumb ones, these were the days that tended to run you the most ragged. Yet instead of letting your frustrations pile up in the form of anger it was thanks to one knowing glance shared with a passing Stanford that you knew there were better places to put your frustrations.

The end of day came fast when you had the older man to look forward to. Plus the help of your coworkers, Soos and Wendy, the time it took to close up shop was far more streamlined than usual. Sure, the help of your boss would have been appreciated but you know the work you were paid for.

With a polite but dismissive goodbye to the other two you did your best to casually stroll back into the proper house portion of the Mystery Shack. Down the hallway where it lead into the living room you could see the faint blue light of the TV illuminating the darkened space. The tips of his shoes poked out as well. He was waiting. Dating or not, that did put a smile on your face.

Before making your appearance you tidied it up first. Running your fingers through your hair and smoothing out any wrinkles from the day out of your clothes; never the need to dress up but it sure as hell didn't hurt to look a smidge bit desirable. Though Stanford was hardly one to complain.

Taking a breath to steady your excitement you stepped into the cluttered living room, where your eyes met with Stanford's who sat on his normal chair. He had yet to dress down for the day. His jacket was left open while his shirt had a few buttons loose to show off just a peek of his graying chest hair; the gold chain adorning his neck glittered in the light. God, how could he make something tacky look so fucking hot?

Stanford was grinning towards you.

Shoot.

He'd caught you staring. His eyes were half-lidded and entirely focused on you. One hand propped his head up while the other began to pat his thighs, beckoning you closer. You complied without a word.

Before you settled onto his lap there was already laugher drumming in his chest, "Aw, tough day?" Stanford asked with a hint of mockery.

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, the toughest. Boss can be a real pain in my ass."

Stanford wriggled his brow at you, "Only if you let me tonight." His large hand wrapped around your thigh to carefully spin you around in his lap so you could be straddling him. Hardy any words were exchanged but you could have sworn you felt him perk up already.

The joke didn't get the laughter it deserved when instead your lips crashed into his. Not passionate but desperate to work out the frustrations of the day. That was the silent rule you two had established when you two had first began these casual 'meetings', to put it politely.

It was easy. Stanford didn't have to buy you flowers and you didn't have to pretend you found sports interesting. Win-win.

Stanford's hands snaked around towards the back of your body where they slipped just under your ass, a cheek in each of his palm that he used the new leverage to push your hips into his. Oh, he was definitely fired up to go. When you angled your hips just right to rub up against his growing tent you both made a noise of pleasure through your kiss. He groaned your name and you moaned his,

"Stanford..."

The kisses stopped. Your eyes were closed in anticipation of the barrage of hickeys to come to your neck but none came. Unsure if he was planning something underhand you peeped open an eye like a child trying to sneak a glimpse of a present. He was staring straight at you.

Ooookay?

His expression was undecipherable until he had caught wind of your confusion and it was replaced by a nervous grin. Promptly Stanford's hands were removed from your butt to instead rest on your thighs. You raised an eyebrow at this.

"Wooah, there. Full name? Thought we were keeping things casual, toots!" Stanford said with a short and almost forced laugh, "Told ya you didn't need to be formal with me. Stan is fine."

There was a grin on your face as you took this chance to play with his chest hair, "I didn't call you by your social security number or anything! Just thought that, dunno, it might be sexy to moan out your actual name," You then press a kiss to his jawline and breathily whispered, "Staaaaanford. Doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

His grip tightened on your waist. That made you smile. When he was silent you horribly misread the meaning behind it.

"Aw, didn't realize it'd get you all flustered. Is that why you don't want me calling you Stanford, because it'll make you freeze up all cute like that-"

"I said to call me Stan," He snapped back in a way that made you flinch.

Abruptly Stanford rose from the longue chair, taking you with him with a firm grasp around you. Letting out a squeal as this usually meant you were about to be pinned against a wall your feet instead were planted back on the ground. His hands didn't release you until he knew you were standing on your own accord.

When Stanford stood back to his full height he still had yet to say anything to your growing confusion. The nervousness from before was gone, replaced by...Anger? Grief? Maybe even guilt. All you knew that in the light of the TV behind you his wrinkles somehow looked deeper set on his face in this moment. The horndog you were so used to had turned back to the 60-something year old man that he really was.

"Sorry about this, toots," The nickname felt forced in an attempt to sooth your growing anxieties, "Back is killing me after today and still gotta...run some errands."

You step forward with your brows furrowed in worry. No doubt your eyes looked pathetic with regret when Stan looked upset at himself, "No, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was actually a sore spot, I-" You took a breath to steady yourself, "I was just trying to tease you, Stan. I really am sorry."

He planted his hands on your shoulders to give them a comforting squeeze, "No, no! Trust me, it was real hot hearing you say Stanford's name- MY FULL NAME. My name."

There was something distressing in how he phrased that. You couldn't be sure of what it was. Especially when Stan finally turned away from you to start doing back up the buttons on his shirt; a true signifier that the night of planned release was canceled.

The perks of not dating meant that you two didn't have to even think about the emotional baggage of the other. Just pump and dump to summarize the extent of your outside of work relationship. But that didn't mean you were indifferent towards the guy. You'd be a monster to ignore him in this strange phase, whether you called him by his full name or not.

You reached out to comfort Stan but he raised a hand to stop you, "I'm fine, I'm fine," Stan grumbled, "Just...you know your way out by now. I'll catch ya sometime before the Shack opens tomorrow."

You'd been dismissed.

Stan was still fixing up his shirt when he turned to head out; not upstairs where you knew his room to be but the hallway. The same one you had traversed that led to the Mystery Shack. Just has he passed the threshold he stopped. Staring out over his shoulder he gave you a softer look. In his gaze was an apology.

"I mean it, toots. I'll catch ya tomorrow, and..." Stan's eyes darted off to the side, "And you didn't do anything wrong. I just have some real...real important work to catch up on."

"Like a passion project?" You tried to humorously add.

"Something like that, sure."

Stan's tone didn't match. Conflicted, you stared behind him until his back disappeared fully into the unlit portions of the house. Somehow you felt a total stranger to the home now in spite of his assurances. With a small huff of annoyance towards yourself you decide to get going.

Whether what he said was true or not, Stanford Pines was in for a busy night.

[csuitebitches]

Guide to Building a Classic Wardrobe

I was asked a long time ago by an anon for a guide to build a wardrobe. This style caters to someone mature, slightly conservative, NOT fashionnova-esque, something that will last a long time in all fashion seasons, provided you look after your items well. I live in a relatively hot climate and the coldest temperature I’ve experienced when living in a place is like 10 degree Celsius, so I will admit that I am not very well versed with living in cold climates for a prolonged period of time (I don’t think a 2 week trip to Switzerland in the summer counts as “cold”).

I have purposely built with keeping neutrals in mind. I’ve learned that its best to first build a neutral coloured wardrobe in mind, then start adding colour to it. You might find this wardrobe boring, but if you work in a corporate environment/ somewhere where you can’t showcase too much colour or creativity/ if you come from a relatively conservative/ high profile-but-not-entertainment /modest culture, you’ll find this useful.

ALWAYS keep an eye on the material of the item you are buying. If you have to buy a sweater and you live in a cold climate, buy cashmere. Yes, it will be expensive, but it will keep you warm and last longer. If you live in a hot climate, invest in tops and dresses made out of pure cotton. Material plays a huge role in the climate you live in.

I do not endorse fast fashion or over-consumerism but I understand that it is affordable. I would therefore recommend you to buy things carefully and with consideration, not just for the sake of the environment but for your wallet. It’s better to buy 1 quality item than 10 horribly made, short-lasting items.

Never mix more than 3 colours in your outfit at a time. That’s something my father taught me, and I recommend you stick to it, especially if you’re new to building a serious wardrobe.

Lastly, do not be enthralled by what influencers buy or wear. I can guarantee you that the clothes they wear on Instagram aren’t even theirs half the time. Don’t fall into the trap of micro trends.

(Pictures for this post have been sourced from Pinterest).

Underwear

Nude bra + thong/ undie

Black bra + thong/ undie

White bra + thong/ undie

Strapless bra (black)

Strapless bra (nude)

2 sexy bra sets (optional, I have these in red, pink, blue)

Nipple pads

Tops

White silk cami

Black silk cami

White plain tee

Black plain tee

White tank

Black tank

Beige tank (or whatever suits your complexion - brown/ nude)

White shirt

Black shirt (satin/ silk)

Blue shirt

Pants

Navy blue trousers

Wine/ red high waisted trousers

White trousers

Beige trousers

Black trousers

Straight leg jeans (blue)

Another pair of jeans (not ripped, blue)

White jeans, straight leg/ mom cut

Skirts

White

Black

Red

Beige (a checked print, like Burberry)

2 maxi skirts

1 pencil skirt in black (work appropriate)

Shorts

Denim (not distressed)

Tailored white shorts

Tailored blue shorts

Tailored black shorts

Formal attire

1 maxi dress - red/ black/ a neutral colour

White/ black vest and trouser set

Everyday dresses

Knit dress in black/ cream/ brown (long)

2 summer dresses, short

White peasant dress

Outer wear

Leather jacket in black/ brown

1 cardigan in black/ white

A shawl/ silk scarf

Denim jacket

Long trench coat in camel/ brown/ beige

Blazer in white/ navy blue/ black

Sweater in black/ white/ red

Shoes

Black/ white/ brown leather boots

White/ silver heels

Black heels

Gold heels

Mules in black

Home slippers

Running shoes

White sneakers

Accessories

1 brown/ black leather bag

1 tote bag

1 clutch for parties

Hair clips

Tights/ leggings - sheer and opaque in black

Socks

Jewellery

Diamond studs

Everyday pendant

2-3 simple bracelets/ bangles in silver/ gold

Signet rings in gold

Chunky hoops

Devices

Hair straightener

Hairdryer/ Blow brush (i prefer the blow dry brush)

30 mm curling wand (for long, big curls)

[notiddygothgf]

3. Obsessed

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★ ❝ Aki, you smooth bastard. ❞

★ c.w.: nothing :) (more content warnings and tags)

★ a/n: accidentally posted chap 4 before chap 3 oopsies!! omg so like this one lowkey seems like filler but I PROMISE ITS NECESSARY. im building the tension. i hope you all like obsessive aki as much as i love him. teehee. like comment and talk to me! id love to hear ur thoughts x

★ w.c.;3.2k

shameless ; chapter index

YOU HELD YOUR PHONE TO YOUR EAR later in the evening, listening to your husband talk about his day. His voice was a comforting, familiar anchor, but tonight, it struggled to pull you from the storm raging in your mind the way it usually did.

"And then I told them they couldn't just ignore the data. They finally agreed to reassess the project," he was saying, his tone tinged with satisfaction. "That's how my day was."

"That's great," you replied absentmindedly, your fingers hovering over your phone's keyboard.

As he continued speaking, you opened a new message thread. The name "Aki Hayakawa" stared back at you, the cursor blinking in anticipation. You started typing slowly, uncertainly:

Aki, I'm sorry for running out on you like that. It wasn't |

You paused, backspaced, and tried again:

Captain Hayakawa, I apologize for how I acted tonight. It was unprofessional. |

No, that was too formal. You sighed, deleting the message once more.

"Are you still there?" your husband asked, snapping you out of your reverie.

"Yeah, I'm here," you said quickly. "Just... distracted. Sorry."

"What are you up to?" he asked, his tone lightening. "You sound busy."

"I'm just sending a text to my friend, Himeno," you lied smoothly, hoping the guilt didn't seep into your voice.

"You're so sweet," he said warmly. "Always thinking of others."

Always thinking of other men, apparently, you mean? 

You forced a smile, even though he couldn't see it. "Yeah, I guess so."

Your thumb hovered over the screen again. This time, you typed:

Can we talk?

You hesitated for a moment, then pressed delete before you could change your mind. You had done enough damage tonight. The best thing you could do was just ignore him for the remainder of your stay in Tokyo. It would be over before you knew it.

"Anyway," your husband continued, oblivious to your internal struggle (as he typically was), "So my coworker came up to me and asked if I would go out for drinks with him tonight."

"Sounds great," you said automatically, your mind still on the message you had just deleted. You glanced out the window at the city rushing by – the midnight was blue, almost as blue as his eyes.

You hoped that, somehow, everything would make sense in the morning.

.

Your first informal mission took place at the art museum. There had been complaints of Devil-sightings there. It wasn't anything particularly alarming or dangerous, but you had been sent to check it out (and kill it).

With nothing but the quiet sound of your shoes clicking against the old wooden floorboards to accompany you, you made your rounds through the second floor. Your Public Safety uniform pulled very few strange looks here where everybody else was also done up in black-tie attire. There was an art showing tonight.

You put an 'x' over the words "Second floor". No Art-devil spotted there. Two more to go.

Stopping in front of a small painting, you took a moment to admire the artistry. You didn't mind doing the scut work while Makima was understaffed – more gruesome positions existed, surely. This was most certainly not the worst way you could think to spend your first day back on the job.

The painting was a masterful symphony of oil paints – shades of pink and green and blue forming the prettiest little petals. It depicted a serene field of wildflowers and nothing else. A singular tree near the right side of the painting, a clear blue sky on the top of it.

One day I'll buy a painting like that, you thought to yourself. Not that it had much of a place in your stale, modern-style home in the Japanese countryside. You always wanted a house with color – one with wooden seats and tables and wallpaper and a happy family – even if it aged poorly. There was something homely about flowers and colors. Something that the black-white-and-grey color scheme of your contemporary home lacked.

It was such a shame, too. You told your husband about these wishes long before you married him and, yet, he insisted upon having a home that would look "sleek" and "modern". Had it not been for his vision of what your home should look like, you would have taken the painting home with you.

Briefly, the image of a small, gold-framed painting of a flower field hung up in your cold, cool-toned dining room crossed your mind. It wouldn't work.

Then again, perhaps the painting could serve as a metaphor for your feelings?

You looked away from it, and went back to scanning the room for any sight of a Devil. You didn't find one.

What you did find, however, was the one person you didn't want to see today. A certain young captain stood with his arms crossed behind his back, inspecting a larger painting only a few yards away from you.

Then, as if the situation couldn't get any worse, he turned to look at you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

You ducked over, shielding your face from his gaze. It was too late, though – you heard his telltale footsteps coming your way and you knew he'd sniffed you out.

His voice was a sickening croon behind you, "Enjoying the show?"

Okay. It would appear that neither of you wanted to address the elephant in the room (being last night, that is).

You couldn't stop the little flutter your heart did when it heard his voice.

"Yes, thank you," You snapped back a little quicker than you anticipated. "The paintings are beautiful."

"They are, aren't they?" He reiterated. Something told you he wasn't only speaking about the paintings. "You like that one?"

"I do," You answered. This whole conversation was just a whole lot more awkward than you could bear today. "It's peaceful, I think. Pretty."

You shouldn't be talking to him. You really shouldn't be talking to him – not after whatever the fuck had happened between the two of you at the party.

To your surprise, Aki didn't toy with you any longer than that. He walked away – you had only heard him leave, after all, as you hadn't made any effort to look him in the eye. How could you? You had seen that face of his far too many times in your dreams.

"Keep up the good work," He said over his shoulder.

You turned to look only when you were certain he was a respectable distance away from you. Then, looking at the back of his Public Safety suit jacket, you thought, How bizarre.

.

You were making your rounds at the grocery store two days later, grabbing some last minute food and snacks because you truly hadn't anticipated your stay to be so long. A small slip of paper clutched in one hand and a pen in the other, you crossed "bread" off the list.

"Okay," You muttered to yourself, glancing around for your next stop. "Pads, produce, chips," Deciding that you couldn't live off of the tiny little hotel sample containers in your shower, you quickly scribbled down 'Shampoo/Conditioner'.

Then you continued on your merry little way, pushing the cart forward and exploring the rest of the grocery store. Aisle 14's sign was done in a shade of lilac, and read 'Feminine Hygiene, Baby, Sexual Wellness'. Oddly enough, you had to pass through the baby section before you could get to the feminine hygiene products. You tried not to make eye contact with any diaper boxes, as they only served to remind you of the fact that – despite being married – you were the only one out of all of your friends who hadn't settled down and started a family by now.

Soon, you thought. But, then, a vision of a screaming baby throwing up in your arms flashed through your mind, an image of your husband asking you what was for dinner after the both of you had come home from work, and it didn't feel so right.

"Let's see," you hummed, tracing your finger over a box of day pads. You figured that it wouldn't hurt to be prepared, even if you weren't supposed to get your period for at least another two weeks.

So you grabbed a multipack – day pads, liners, and night pads – and you tossed them into the cart. Then, you checked "pads" off of your list.

At the end of the aisle, there were walls and walls full of condom boxes – some were even flavored – and lubricants.

Won't be needing those any time soon, you mused. You and your husband hadn't exactly been very... active recently. With work and cleaning and everything else to be done around the house, neither of you had the energy.

Well, okay. You didn't have the energy. He had made a great many fruitless attempts. It was difficult to want to have sex with a man who acted like an insolent child when you told him that, yes, it was his house too, and he could do some dishes once in a while.

You were happy, though. You were just... going through a rough patch was all.

"I'm married!" 

The words echoed in the back of your mind. You saw a vision of him there, too – not your husband – taking a tentative step towards you while you backed away from him.

"You weren't acting like it," The words replayed, clear as day, "I can't forget about tonight. I know you felt it, too."

You gazed blankly at the condom boxes on the shelves. He had been right. You weren't acting like a married woman, even now. Because when you thought of someone pressing kisses to your neck and slipping the clothes off of you, it wasn't your husband you envisioned. It was him.

You were fucked. Truly, royally fucked.

That being said, you walked right on past the wall of condoms. You were many things – a liar, Devil Hunter – but you would not break your marriage vows. It was your fault that you had been sucked into a wedding so early in your life. You had to see it through.

You had to do right by your husband.

The next aisle you hit up was the produce section in search of soup vegetables.

Some carrots would be nice, you thought. Oh, and some potatoes. Maybe even some angus beef? 

You rolled up to the vegetables. They looked so tasty, all bundled together, being misted gently with water. You pulled a few carrots off the display and popped them into a plastic produce bag.

Leeks, you thought, pursing your lips and glancing around. They were two shelves over to your right.

And you'll never guess what else was only two shelves over, so tall he had to bend over to reach the legumes, sporting a loose black tee shirt and some black sweatpants.

Captain Hayakawa. Your stomach did a backflip and a death drop and your heart seemed to beat a little faster. What the fuck.

You could tell yourself whatever you wanted, but the way your body reacted to his presence gave your true feelings away. He had you wrapped around his finger.

Still, you hadn't seen him in casual clothes before. He looked much cuter that way, you thought. You could see his arms much more clearly now, the ridges and hills of his chiseled biceps, his strong forearms.

And he was buying groceries. Could he get any better?

You couldn't recall the last time your husband had even cooked some food, let alone go buy produce.

Maybe he was grocery shopping for someone else? Maybe he had a woman at home, to whom he was only bringing these groceries. It seemed far more likely that he had just come here to cook for himself.

What am I thinking? He was bad for you. Real bad. You had no business thinking these things about another man.

So, you did what any other respectable, married woman would have done and left the produce section before he could notice you. Before you could even begin to question whether or not this meeting was really pure coincidence.

You could always pick your veggies up somewhere else.

.

"Hello, front desk, how can I assist you?"

You sighed a breath of relief, "Hey. Do you think you could have room service send up an extra towel?" You glanced down at the shattered bottle of wine you had picked up from the grocery store. You had used one of the hotel towels to mop it up. It was only after the fact, of course, that you realized you only had one towel left.

"Of course," The friendly woman on the phone answered, "Can I have a room number?"

"1409," You answered.

A few keyboard clacks later, and she said, "You have a package at the front desk. Would you like us to send that up, too?"

A package? You thought. You didn't recall ordering anything. Still, you figured it was most likely something Public Safety had sent you (and, least likely, a bouquet of flowers from your husband).

"Okay, yeah, sure," You hummed. "Send that up, too, thanks."

The phone call ended a moment later, after the two of you had exchanged goodbye. Within five minutes, there was a knock at your door.

"Room service," A feminine voice grunted.

"Coming!" You answered. Tip-toeing around the mess of broken glass you'd left bundled up inside of a red-stained white towel, you jogged to the door to answer it.

A short, brown-haired old lady in a maid's uniform was holding a freshly folded towel in one hand, and a rectangular brown box in the other. You took both from her gratefully, ducking your head and muttering a quick 'Thank you' before closing the door.

You set the towel down on the bed. Then you flopped down next to it, eyeing the brown box up precariously. It had "FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE" printed all over it.

I wonder what it is.

Of course, you had left your letter openers and box-cutters at home, so you made do with a butter knife that the hotel had so graciously provided to you. You took out a few layers of packing foam and tissue paper before the item was finally revealed to you.

It was a small, gold framed painting. One with pink and blue wildflowers in a green, open field. One with a clear sky and a tree. The one from the gallery.

"How the fuck...?" You asked, turning the thing over in your hands, as if to make sure that your eyes hadn't deceived you. (They hadn't.)

It was something so strange, so oddly specific, that you could only attribute it to one individual.

"The paintings are beautiful."

"They are, aren't they?" Captain Hayakawa reiterated. Something told you he wasn't only speaking about the paintings. "You like that one?"

"I do," You answered. "It's peaceful, I think. Pretty."

You admired the beautiful painting beneath the warm hotel light. Then, with a giddy sigh, you flopped onto your back, clutching it to your chest.

Aki, you smooth bastard. You thought. Fair play.

.

The conference room buzzed with anticipation as agents filed in, each clad in the standard uniform of crisp suits and ties.

You sat in the front row, your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying to maintain a professional demeanor.

The atmosphere was thick with tension and a sense of gravity, appropriate for a meeting about the Gun Devil—a formidable enemy everyone in the room was acutely aware of.

Miss Makima stood at the front, her posture perfect, her pink hair immaculately styled. She exuded an aura of authority and control that was almost frightening, which was normal for her. A large board behind her displayed a complex array of photographs, maps, and written leads, all connected by a web of strings and arrows. It was a visual representation of the intelligence gathered on the Gun Devil, a chilling reminder of the stakes at play.

As Makima began to speak, detailing the latest developments and potential leads, you tried to focus on her words. She spoke with a calm, measured cadence, explaining the connections and evidence they had so far. But as the minutes passed, you felt a warmth spreading across the back of your neck, an unsettling sensation that made you shift in your seat.

Curious, you turned your head slightly, just enough to glance over your shoulder. There he was—Captain Hayakawa—propped up against the wall at the back of the room, his gaze locked onto you with a disconcerting intensity. His blue eyes were sharp, unwavering, and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot down your spine. The way he looked at you, it was as if he could see right through the layers of professional decorum you had carefully constructed.

A rush of heat flooded your face, and you quickly turned back around, your pulse quickening.

Behave, you reminded yourself sternly. But it was hard to focus, hard to even think straight, with his gaze burning into you so desperately like that – like you were the only person in the room, like he would freeze time if he could just to ravage you right then and there.

You pressed your legs together, a subconscious reaction to the sheer force of his attention.

He was going to be the death of you if you didn't get the hell out of Tokyo soon.

Makima continued her presentation, moving to a new section of the board, but her words became a distant murmur in your ears. All you could think about was the weight of Aki's stare, the way it made you feel exposed and vulnerable. You couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. He wasn't shy, not in the slightest—his gaze was bold, almost challenging, as if daring you to meet his eyes again.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look back at the board. The images and notes blurred together as you struggled to refocus. You knew you should be paying attention—this information was critical, after all—but Aki's presence was an insistent distraction. You could feel his eyes on you, a constant, burning sensation that refused to let up.

When the meeting finally concluded, you realized with a sinking feeling that you had retained almost nothing from the entire seminar. You gathered your things, avoiding eye contact with everyone as you hurried out of the room. 

ITS SO SHORT ik ik. to make up for it, read chapter 4 and pretend i didnt accidentally post that one first LMFAOAOOA... see yall soon!! x

credits: UNKOWN ATM. I found the cover pic on pinterest unfortch. If you know the artist, please let me know, so I can credit them properly for their work!!! This is NOT MY BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGGG. I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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[chahnniesroom]

tenderness | bonus scene: banmal

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: the first time you call chan 'oppa.'

this is a bonus scene taking place in the tenderness universe, but you don't have to have read tenderness to read this fic! just know that the main character is currently a manager for stray kids. she's also chan's soulmate, which explains why she lives in the dorms with him.

chapter word count: 1.6k

warnings: none!

a/n: a bit of fluff was requested by one of the readers on ao3. the term 'banmal' is used to describe informal speech in korean and is usually for casual conversation between friends, relatives, or people younger than you. i can't properly demonstrate the way that the main character's speech level changes since speech levels don't exist the same way in english. i only modified the honorifics that y/n uses to address the members. this was my first time writing fluff, it was surprisingly fun!

tenderness masterlist | read it on ao3

“Noona?” You and Jisung are lounging in the living room after a schedule that miraculously ended early. You're not sure where the other guys are and you don't really care, it's nice to have one on one time with Jisung. 

“Hm?” You drag your eyes away from the drama that the two of you have been half heartedly been watching to find him deep in thought.

“You called me Jisung-ssi earlier. You always do that. Why?”

“Ah,” you say, flustered. “It just still feels weird to talk to you guys informally. I don’t want anybody to get the wrong idea.”

“But you don’t call Felix, Felix-ssi! I’ve even heard you call him Lixie before! Why is he special?” Jisung whines.

“It’s different!” you defend yourself. “We talk in English mostly. There’s not really any honorifics or levels of speech. It’d be weirder if I did speak formally to him.”

“Sounds like an excuse, but okay. What do you call Channie-hyung?” he asks with a particular gleam in his eyes.

“Chan-ssi,” you say matter-of-factly. You have to bite back a laugh at the disappointed noise he makes at your response.

“Minho-hyung?”

“Minho-ssi.”

“Changbinnie-hyung?”

“Changbin-ssi,” you reply dutifully.

“You guys are the same age! It doesn’t make sense!” he groans.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting,” you say, amused. “I talk to all of you the same.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re hopeless.” He shakes his head dramatically. “You’re soulmates with Channie-hyung! That means you’re basically family to all of us. Listen, at work? Sure, fine, you can be all polite and formal, I get it. But in the dorms?”

“Jisu-”

“Here, the guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Please please please, can you call Minho-hyung oppa to his face?”

“What? No!” you say immediately.

“Pleaseee,” he draws out the word playfully. He shuffles closer and takes your hands in his, pouting exaggeratedly. “Just once! I just want to see his reaction! I know that all of us have told you at one point to speak to us comfortably. He wouldn’t get mad at you, I promise!”

“I’m not going to do it,” you laugh, trying to disentangle your hands.

“You can tell him that I forced you to! I’ll volunteer to clean the dishes after dinner! I’ll be better about cleaning the bathroom! I’ll buy you bubble tea for a week! I’ll buy you new shoes! I’ll stop changing my mind a million times when we’re trying to decide what to order during schedules! I'll write you a song! Please please please, Y/n-noona!”

“I-” you falter. Jisung immediately brightens, his mouth curves into a heart-shaped smile. “Fine. Only because you look so cute.”

Jisung cheers, jumping up and punching the air with his fists.

“You’re the best!!”

“I’m going to blame you for it,” you warn.

“Of course. Even if hyung kills me, it’ll be worth it in the moment.” He beams.

—

At dinner, Jisung sits to your left and every few minutes, he nudges your leg in an attempt to prompt you into speaking. You ignore it, continuing to eat as if nothing is happening. Yes, you agreed to follow along with Jisung’s silly idea, but you still want it to happen naturally, otherwise it would be even more out of place. As much as this is kind of a joke, it is starting to feel a bit strange always using polite speech and you're curious to see how everyone will react.

Opportunity strikes when you stretch to grab one of the side dishes that happen to be in front of Minho. You can't quite reach it sitting, but before you can stand, Minho picks up one of the serving utensils and picks out the best piece, placing it into your bowl. He serves himself next, but you know it's just to play off his kind gesture. You're genuinely grateful for his thoughtfulness.

“Thank you, Minho-oppa,” you say, making sure to keep your voice casual.

Everyone freezes. Minho is good at maintaining his nonchalant expression, but his ears betray him by slowly turning red. Your cheeks are flushed to match and even without looking, you can tell the rest of the boys are stunned. It takes a great effort on your part to not turn to glance at Chan, although you can practically feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jeongin elbow Hyunjin in the stomach and mouth "Oppa?" in disbelief.

Finally, Minho recovers enough to clear his throat loudly and say, "it's nothing, I was going to get some anyway."

Jisung, on the other hand, is grinning like an idiot.

“Hyung! You should have seen your reaction, I wish I had taken a picture!” He cries out, laughing loudly.

“What reaction?” Minho tries to play it off.

“Hyung, your ears.” Hyunjin tugs on one teasingly, then instantly apologises and cowers when Minho turns to glare at him.

"Call me oppa too, Y/n!" Changbin says excitedly, standing up to serve you from the dish closest to him.

"We're the same age, Changbin-ah, I'm not going to call you oppa," you tease. He just laughs, delighted to be on the receiving end of your more casual speech.

“If Y/n calls Minho-hyung oppa, does that mean she needs to call Chan-hyung ajhussi?” Seungmin pipes up. Across the table, Hyunjin dissolves into laughter at the thought.

—

Chan doesn’t mention it all evening, even though the boys continue to tease Minho, calling him ‘oppa’ instead of ‘hyung’ when they address him and taking every opportunity to call Chan ‘ajhussi’. They’ve both given out countless headlocks in revenge, but it’s all in good humour. Eventually, Minho, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin head home, and the rest of the boys drift off into their own rooms.

After washing up, you join Chan in his room, not wanting to hog the bathroom for any longer than required. He’s already set to sleep and had been sitting in bed scrolling on his phone until you had walked in. Through the reflection of the little mirror that you’re using to do your skincare routine, you can see that he’s watching you.

“You know,” he says steadily. “You can- you can call me that too, if you want.” You pause at the carefully worded request. You make eye contact with him through the mirror and watch as the tips of his ears and the tops of his cheeks slowly pinkens.

“Call you what?” you ask, deliberately playing oblivious.

“You know,” he flounders.

“Do I?" you wonder, tapping a finger to your lips teasingly.

“I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t feel comfortable, I just thought that if you were going to talk to the boys more casually then you can do the same. You’re my soulmate, things don’t have to be so formal all the time.  I don’t want to force you to do anything, but I wouldn’t mind, at all! I know Jisung probably was the one to get you to say that to Minho and it was really funny to see his reaction. Uhm. I mean, you can really call me anything that you want! Chan-ssi. Chan-oppa. Chan-ah, actually no that’s kind of weird maybe not that one. Uh if it makes it less weird you can use my English name too! Chris, Christopher, whatever,” he trails off, then buries his face in his hands with a groan. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

You're finished your skincare routine so you put away all the containers and turn in your seat so that you're fully facing him. You take a second to collect yourself, then pitch your voice so it's small and cutesy, a far cry from how you normally talk.

"Oppa," you test. His eyes immediately shoot up to meet yours, cheeks darkening more than they had before. "Do you want me to call you Channie-oppa?" You tilt your head to one side and widen your eyes.

"Argh.” This time, he turns to smash his face in his pillow to hide himself, pulling the blanket over his head for good measure.

"Channie-oppa, why are you hiding? I thought this is what you wanted." You lightly tug at the blanket, but he holds it tight, shaking his head vigorously. You've never been the type to perform aegyo, but it's surprisingly fun and you can't deny that you're enjoying Chan's reaction. After another minute, he pokes his head out looking a bit sheepish.

“You are really cute when you say that,” he admits. “And I really like to hear that you feel comfortable using banmal with us.”

“I am comfortable with everyone, I have been for a while,” you say. “And you’re also really cute when I call you oppa.”

His eyes crinkle as he smiles and you take the opportunity to lean forward and poke one of the dimples that appear. In retaliation, he grips the corners of the blanket and collects you in his arms, effectively swallowing you in the mess of fabric. He pulls you so that you lose balance and fall onto the bed, cradled in his arms. You feel so safe in his embrace and the both of you momentarily fall silent.

“Okay, I think we should sleep now,” Chan says eventually. “Good night, Y/n.”

“Good night… Channie-Oppa,” you respond.

Even though you can’t see Chan in the dark, you know that he’s smiling. It’s enough that you drift off to sleep with a smile as well.

tenderness masterlist | read it on ao3

[find-roronoa-zoro]

Roronoa Zoro X CisFem Reader

12

Soon the house was filled with guests. This party was different from your "welcome home" bash. It was formal and catered with a complete wait staff. Attending guests weren't just close friends of the family but also business associates and even a few potential clients Marco and Thatch were trying to seal the deal with.

You had done your share of mingling and schmoozing, finally taking a break at the bar that had been set up on the back patio warming yourself under the gas heaters that framed it.

"Two Shiners." Zoro called stepping up next to you.

You turned to greet him having missed his arrival. His normally haphazardly styled hair was combed back. He wore a charcoal gray suit with a cobalt button down and a black tie cinched loosely under the unbuttoned collar.

"Well, you clean up nicely." you complimented.

"I could say the same for you." he returned the comment while handing you one of the beers he ordered.

"Thanks, I'd rather not be wearing these shoes though." you pointed at your black pumps.

"You two have reconnected." a familiar voice invaded your conversation.

You turned to see Mihawk raising his empty wine glass to the bartender.

"Hey Hawkeyes, it's been a long time." you greeted.

"Sensei." Zoro nodded.

"Wait... you two know each other?" you motioned between the two males, " and what do you mean 'reconnected'?"

"He works for me." Mihawk calmly replied, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if you don't remember, F/N."

"Remember?" you glanced back at Zoro who was blushing faintly.

"Yes, he works for me now but back in college when I was a tutor he was my student as well as you." Mihawk sipped from his newly filled glass.

"And we met?!" you gaped.

"Well, he was just a rebellious seven-year-old but I was forced to bring him with me to a couple of your study sessions." the raven recalled, "After you gave him that toy at the arcade he talked about you for weeks. I don't think I could ever forget how the two of you met."

Toy from the arcade?

The tiger.

You suddenly remembered passing it to the boy telling him, it matched his hair while he blushed and muttered a curt thank you. Back then he had no scar and hardly spoke a word.

You turned back to Zoro trying to contain your blush, "Just somebody?"

"What was I supposed to say? I'd look like a pervert." he defended.

"That's my cue," Mihawk muttered walking away.

"I mean, it's weird but also sort of cute." you both ignored the older male's departure, "Why didn't you tell me we'd met before?"

"I didn't think you'd remember, I was just a kid." he defended, "And you didn't... And that's fine."

You frowned. It felt kind of bad that you'd met someone so important to you now and forgotten them, but at the same time he was a kid and you were studying for college entrance exams you didn't even remember to eat most days. Zoro watched your frown grow into a mischievous smirk.

"Why did you keep it after all this time?"

"It - I just -" the greenette stammered and sighed, "There was no reason to throw it away?"

"Not buying it." you poked his chest and walked passed forcing him to follow you into the house.

Christmas music filtered down the hall into the den from the living room. You took a seat and kicked off your heels. This was the only common room off limits from the party. You rubbed your stocking feet as you pulled them up onto the sofa.

"What do you mean by, 'not buying it'?" Zoro asked closing the door.

"I'm just not. Why would you keep something some random chick gave you when you were a kid?" you hummed still squeezing the soreness from your aching feet, "Unless you're some kind of hoarder. Mmm... but your place was too clean for that."

He sighed and plopped down next to you. Curiously you watched him rub his face and try to keep his composure as he chose his words.

"Look, there was a reason I followed Mihawk around; not just because he was my sensei at the dojo. I didn't have the best childhood, but he kept me around making me do odd jobs to stay in kendo and he tutored me as well."

You let your right leg drop over the edge of the sofa as you turned to face him keeping your left leg folded flush against his thigh.

"I just didn't receive gifts like that is all." he glanced down at your amused expression, "What?"

"Awe... You had a crush on me ~" you sing-songed, "you wanted to marry me ~"

"Please stop." he chuckled.

"You wanted to hug me ~" you leaned forward poking his side, "you wanted to kiss me~"

"Seriously, F/N." he leaned toward you and brushed your fingers away.

"Awe, whatcha gonna do lil tiger?" you continued to prod playfully at his ribs.

He swiftly but gently took your hand leaning further into your personal space. Your eyes trailed from his grip to his soft but smug smile. You couldn't hear the Christmas music anymore and the fluttering of heart made it suddenly difficult to take a full breath.

He glanced from your eyes to your lips and back again. It was now or never. He continued his advance at a painfully slow pace, you deserved it after all of your teasing. Your eyelids dropped as his nose brushed against yours, his body heat radiating over you. Finally, your lips met firmly, the tense anxiety of an unsure moment melting away as you relaxed in his arms. The teasing fingers he had stifled clutched his dress shirt and eventually made their way into that soft green hair.

You had experienced some amazing kisses in your life, but this was different. It was somehow calming and exciting at the same time and had your body tingling pleasantly from head to toe. Instead of pulling away for air you received soft short smooches between breaths and new long deep kisses. It turned into quite the passionate make-out session. Zoro shifted pushing you back into the arm of the couch.

The door swung open forcing you to part. Panting heavily, you brushed your wrist across your lips, eyes swaying to meet your younger brother's emerald gaze. Al let out a soft 'uf' stumbling into his back as he stopped abruptly at the sight before him. Sabo's eyes immediately shifted to the ceiling, unintelligible mutters ripping passed his lips at an impossible speed as he backed up pushing a very confused Al out of the room.

Zoro slumped forward resting against your chest as you laid back, melodic giggles pushing passed your lips.

"This house will never change." you chortled brushing his hair back into place with your fingers before he sat up, "prepare to be stared at the rest of the evening."

"Nothing I can't handle."

[ivanaskye]

Stalking and the Glory of God

(this is the prequel story to my Šehhinah trilogy, edited slightly in line with the first book's 2023 edits; if you'd prefer to read this on an ereader go here)

7,419 words

A hot wind rushes through the streets of Ēnnuh; it picks up dust nestled between the pebbles in the streetside succulent beds and blows it right into Tamar’s face.�� She closes her eyes, trying to shield herself—and almost immediately bumps into someone walking down the same cobblestone.  Closing her eyes wasn’t the best idea.

Tamar, it turns out, is very good at bad ideas.

Still, there’s too flaming much dust to keep her eyes fully open, so she decides to take the halfway-safe middle ground of just squinting.  That’s enough to just barely make out the shadowy forms of pedestrians, buildings, and a pinyon pine that she’d probably have bumped into already if her eyes were still closed.

“Keep it together, Tamar,” she mutters—right before a motorcycle barrels down the street.  Of course.  Of course.  It’s the one really windy day this week, and the day bringing sunglasses didn’t occur to her.  And her ways of working around that are looking more and more like a way to get herself killed.

Good thing she feels cool air to her right, then.  She turns to check it out: the doors into a store are opening. A good place to get out of the wind and heat, and maybe buy some proper eye protection while she’s at it.

There’s an entrance hall just through the doors, with warm-glowing lights.  Tamar’s always thought these things an odd formality, the space between the two sets of doors not having much use that she can see.  

Today, though, she’s glad for this fancy, carpeted space—because it happens to have a mirror.  And, fire and flames, her hair is a mess.  She sighs, giving her dark hair a quick finger-comb so it’s only sticking out most directions instead of every direction, and then tries to rub the dust from her eyes.  There.  That’s better, ish.

Now that she looks vaguely presentable, Tamar makes her way into the store proper.  She emerges into the shoe section; there are something like ten full rows of shoe displays and stacks to either side of her, selling everything from absurdly fancy sandals to heels that it probably shouldn’t be physically possible to walk in.  No thanks, Tamar thinks, and—glancing at some directions written on signs hanging from the ceiling—takes a left and a right to the accessories section.

Mostly what she sees here are cases of expensive jewelry, and spinning displays of other jewelry that is presumably cheaper, and thus able to be touched by the hands of a mere mortal.  Not that they’d let an angel touch the more expensive jewelry for free either, of course. Plastered onto the front of one of the cases is some kind of promotional image of two people wearing way too many shiny things. One’s even a demon, as though to say, even a demon can’t help but indulge in what this shop’s got to offer.

But Tamar isn’t here for jewelry.  She’d headed to the accessory section to track down some sunglasses.  She surveys the area around her, but all she really notices is the lingerie display on the wall nearest her, the traveling robe display on the next nearest wall, and a sock display a few paces to her front.

Tamar starts walking in a random direction, figuring that if she canvasses the entire store, eventually she’ll find sunglasses.  She walks past a rack displaying chocolates—who knew this place even sold those?—and finds herself in the purse section.  She’s not alone; another woman is browsing in here, picking up a brown purse, examining it, setting it down, turning—

Oh my God, Tamar thinks.  That woman looking at purses—she.  She.  Her mouth.  Her mouth glows with fire; she exhales light.  Bright light.  Like, burned by the fires of God light.  She’s one of the Holy—out shopping.

Tamar wrenches her gaze away, retreats behind the chocolate rack to try to stop herself from staring.  That’s a Holy, a Burned One, someone who has directly experienced God Themself and been forever changed by it.  They’re not so rare, she reminds herself.  Yet, she can’t think of a time she’s ever seen one in person.  She assumes the places a high school student regularly goes wouldn’t be interesting enough to attract one of the Holy.  Except, apparently, this one, who appears to be—Tamar still can’t get over this—out shopping.

She tries to catch her breath and figure this out.  That woman, it was her mouth that was her price for what she did, right?  Thinking this, Tamar can’t help but turn and peek her head out from behind the chocolate display.  The woman’s still there, looking at purses.  Her mouth still glows, the flame she breathes from it somewhere between orange and white.

Tamar ducks back.  Right, yes, it is her mouth.  Okay, Tamar thinks.  What does that mean? If it’s her tongue that’s been burned away, that means this woman has spoken one of God’s names, right?  And having done that, she’d never be able to speak again. 

She closes her eyes and thinks about the color of that fire, the intensity.  She’s never understood before why the Holy pay the price they do.  To touch the glory of God is to be unable to ever touch anything else again: that’s the phrase Tamar’s heard since primary school, describing why the Holy are the way they are.  It makes her think of the feeling of awe.  Or fear.  Or curiosity.  The difference between those emotions seems to blur when one approaches Them, like the air blurs in the fire of this Holy’s breath.

Flame it, Tamar wants another look.

She moves back out from behind the stand, taking a long look as she does so.  The Holy is in profile: her mouth closed, keeping the fire in, only a faint glow around her lips.  Then she starts to turn her head, and Tamar bolts. She tries to do it casually, well what is causal really, is it normal, okay she can just walk normally, wait is normal slow or fast, Tamar isn’t sure, but anyway she’s walking down the faux-marble path through the store, trying so hard not to glance at the Holy, keeping her eyes straight ahead, but God she’s never paid quite this much attention to her peripheral vision before.

Tamar walks right on into a circular rack of shirts and forces herself to start sifting through them like a normal person.  Breathe, Tamar, she thinks.  It’s rude to stare.  But somehow she never knew the Holy were this fascinating before, even though that should have been obvious, of course people who touched God Themself would be interesting. But maybe it’s one of those things where you hear about something a lot, and it’s just a thing, and you don’t care.  Like how she’s never climbed Point Rock, even though she’s lived in this city her whole life—probably because she’s lived in this city her whole life.  It’s just always there in Oldtown, and she’s never bothered to climb it, even though every tourist does in their first week here.  The Holy are like that, Tamar thinks.

She figures enough time has passed to let her see if she can catch another glimpse of the Holy.  But she turns, and the Holy is gone.  

Maybe it’s the angle, Tamar thinks, hoping fervently that she’ll be able to see her again.  With the kind of confidence that comes from desperation, Tamar heads into the purse section.

But the only person here now is a sharply-dressed man who is most certainly not a Holy.  Tamar sighs, and tries to scan the store—maybe the Holy is in a checkout line?  She almost laughs at how funny that is even to think, but then catches herself: the Holy have whole lives outside of turning up in odd locations or having conversations with fascinated journalists, they have jobs, albeit usually weird ones, why wouldn’t they be in checkout lines sometimes? Though even then she has an easier time imagining them shoplifting than shopping. 

She rushes over to the checkout, no longer worried about how casual she seems.  But the Holy is not there.  Maybe, Tamar thinks, if she’d just turned around earlier and looked … but no, regrets won’t get her anywhere.

So Tamar runs through the store, looking at the ceiling signs, trying to get her bearings.   It’s probably pointless—the Holy’s probably already left—but she has to at least try.

But again, when she reaches the checkout on the other side of the store, the Holy is not there.

“Flames,” Tamar curses under her breath, aware of the irony of doing so.  And then she happens to glance to the side, and finds herself looking right at the sunglasses section.  Of course.

* * *

Tamar doesn’t stop thinking about the Holy for the rest of the day.  Even when she kicks off her shoes and eats some of that incredible fruit soup her parents love making, she’s still thinking about her.  About the Holy in general, as a concept.  About seeing one again.  Some thoughts half-resembling a plan start to form, but with them come what probably qualify as some ethical questions.

The types of ethical questions she might get lectured about if she didn’t bring them up first. 

So when dinner is done and Tamar excuses herself from the table, hoping her parents don’t notice anything too suspicious about her, she retreats to her room.  Because in her room, she has a telephone.

It’s nothing too fancy: one of the older models that only connects to the city’s own system, so she can’t call anyone from outside Ēnnuh.  Then again, she’s rarely ever needed to, and when she feels like talking to her aunt off in Havilah, she can just use one of the library’s more modern phones.

Still, even a non-fancy phone in her room is nice.  Even better, her friend Elīya also has a personal phone in her room, meaning privacy on both ends.  And Elīya’s really good at moral quandaries.  Distressingly good, even.

So Tamar quick-selects Elīya’s personal phone from the Ēnnuh city phone registry, and puts the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?” Elīya says on the other end.

“Hello!” Tamar responds.

“There’s no school tomorrow, right?” Elīya asks.  Though she’s great at reasoning her way out of a difficult situation—hence her skill with ethics—Elīya’s memory never ceases to amaze Tamar in its awfulness.

“No, no school tomorrow, tomorrow’s Sixthday…”

“Right.”

“Actually, I kind of called to ask you something,” Tamar says.

“Aw, not even gonna ask me how my day went?”

Tamar has to mentally admit, Elīya does have a point—even though they did just see each other in class no more than six hours ago.  “That… might be the correct thing to do, now that you mention it, yeah.  So, how was it?”

“Fine,” Elīya says.

“Wow, that was a lot of buildup for nothing,” Tamar says.

“You know what they say, always try to instill good habits in your friends.”

“I’m not sure that’s actually what they say,” Tamar says, and can almost hear Elīya shrug across the line.  “But… something interesting happened, on my end, and I’m kind of planning something that I’m pretty sure isn’t technically criminal—”

“Excuse me?” Elīya asks.

“I should probably start from the beginning.”

“Yeah you should.”

“So it was really windy and dust was getting in my eyes and I forgot my sunglasses so I went into a department store to get another pair of sunglasses and to not die—”

“How come everything with you is always either ‘I almost died’ or ‘I figured out how not to die’?” Elīya asks.

“Life is a dangerous place. Besides, I only fell down the stairs twice this month…”

“Good for you,” Elīya says.  “Though what would be even better is not doing that criminal thing you were talking about.”

“Hey, I said it wasn’t criminal.  And I haven’t even told you what it is yet!”

“Then please, go on.”

“So anyway I saw one of the Holy there shopping for a purse,” Tamar says, infusing her words with dramatically-appropriate nonchalance.

“You what now.”

“That’s what I thought, that that made no sense, but… it happened.  She was there.  Her mouth was mostly fire and…” Tamar lets herself trail off, aware she’s not doing a good job at keeping the tremor of intensity out of her voice.

“Someone who was burned by speaking a name of God was shopping for purses,” Elīya says.

“Guess so,” Tamar says.  “But Elīya, it was… she was… I don’t know.  I mean, I’ve seen pictures and all, recordings… but her mouth.  I know I’m not making sense but like, just, you don’t see people whose mouths are still like, glowing… with the burn… I mean, like, she did something sacred, and she’s still burning?  And I knew that, but, I just couldn’t stop looking.”

“Uh-huh?” Elīya says, with that bemused tone that means she’s waiting for Tamar to dig herself out of admitting to staring rudely at someone.

“Well, then she left while I was trying to pretend I wasn’t looking.”

“The only thing stopping me from teasing you about having a crush is my concern for your moral sense,” Elīya says, deadpan.

“Then it’s probably good that your concern for my morals is only going to get worse,” Tamar says.  When Elīya doesn’t respond, she continues.  “So I kind of really want to see one of the Holy again.”

“Uh huh…?”

“And, like.  That’s kind of like stalking, I think, even though it’s not the same person?  Or probably wouldn’t be?  But like.  Also.  If the Holy I saw did like, publicly show up somewhere else, I’d definitely… spend some time looking at her… so like, I think my intent is basically stalking.”

“Aww,” Elīya says, “look at you, coming up with moral concerns all on your own.”

“This is what I get for being friends with you.”

“So, do you have a more specific plan I can pick apart?”

“…No, honestly, I don’t even really know where to find a Holy.”

“Now, I can’t ask you to do research,” Elīya says, “because without a clear moral judgment, that may qualify as purposefully inspiring you to do or at least strongly consider immoral behavior.  On the other hand, I can only judge so far if I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing.”

“Maybe there’s some public event, or something, where one might show up, and I could just…” stare at them, Tamar continues in her head, but that sounds strange to admit aloud.  It seems silly at best to want so much to just look at the price of one of the Holy, and yet, here she is.

“Doesn’t the bookstore have a deba–“ Elīya starts asking, then catches herself.  “Oh flame and fire,” she curses, “I may be providing you impetus for poor action.  Flame it, now I have to think about whether the intent automatically makes whatever you’re going to do bad, because if it is, I might be implicated in all this…”

Tamar still has no idea how Elīya can worry this much about moral matters, in this kind of detail.

“So, essentially, what you want to do is just look at one of the Holy for a good, long while,” Elīya says, halfway between a mutter and real speech.  “Now, this typically might be considered a subcategory of stalking if it were a specific person.  However, if you aren’t following anyone, it certainly isn’t stalking under the law.  Not that the law has absolute moral authority.  Which brings us to the point of where moral authority comes from, which is relevant here, because if it has to do with what each individual wants—consents to, perhaps—then it may be true enough that a Holy, and especially one at a bookstore debate, would want to be seen, thus making it not an immoral type of staring, if you’re just there to stare—”

“Elīya,” Tamar says.

“Just thinking aloud,” Elīya says.  “This is a really interesting moral quandary, and I might have to get back to you on this—that is, if I can trust that you won’t just go ahead and do something anyway in the meanwhile.  Which I really can’t.”

Tamar can’t help but think that Elīya knows her all too well.

“…Well, most people probably would consider it to be less moral overall if you were sexually attracted to Holies, because that tends to make things more personal, especially things like stalking.” Elīya pauses.  “So, are you?”

“Not that I know of?” Tamar says, although she hasn’t been having the easiest of times categorizing what exactly her experience earlier today was, and what her interest is.

“That helps, I think,” Elīya says.  “Also, there is a provision in certain moral codes that acts and decisions before the age of majority count less overall, and as we are sixteen, you could treat this as a learning experience, perhaps.”

And by bringing that up, Tamar thinks, she gets to exonerate herself from the possibility of spurring Tamar to ‘immoral action’.

“If you were to do what you’re thinking of,” Elīya continues, “you would have to report back to me on any feelings of guilt, and your overall moral sense of the experience.  After all, it sounds like you have a little bit of morality these days, from my influence, so you should be able to handle that.”

Tamar raises an eyebrow, though Elīya can’t see it over the phone. “Impressive bending of moral codes.”

“I am just stating the possibilities. And this is morally appropriate enough.”

Then again, Tamar thinks, given the sheer number of moral codes and beliefs out there, one would probably have to bend them around in order to get anything done.  

“Debate, huh?”

“I can’t tell you what day it’s happening,” Elīya says.

“Elīya,” Tamar says, “can you even tell me what day today is?”

“…Well, I think there’s no school tomorrow, so maybe it’s Sixthday?”

And yet Elīya gets high marks in all of her classes, while Tamar so much as passing is something worth celebrating.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Elīya presses.

“Not really. See you Firstday, if nothing else?”

“Yup,” Elīya says.

Tamar hangs up, suddenly filled with nervousness. She’s going to go somewhere and stare at a Holy for something like a full hour.

God, what is even wrong with her?

* * *

The stars are fading into the glow of the dying night when Tamar steps out of the house that next morning.  Elīya doesn’t understand it, and neither does her other best friend Yenatru, even though at least he’s more outdoorsy, but Tamar’s always liked this time of day.  She just feels so awake when she’s kind of horribly tired.  And seeing the sunrise somehow gives her energy for the rest of the day.

Of course, now that she’s been thinking about the Holy nonstop for something like sixteen hours, she can’t help but wonder if her love of the sunrise has to do, somehow, with God. 

It could also just be that the city’s gorgeous at dawn: the blue light makes the many patches of planted green in the city seem more vibrant.  Ēnnuh is already a lush place in the desert, a tall and well-sheltered garden of skyscrapers and hanging plants, unlike the more famous city of Eden carved out directly on the sharp, rocky desert plain, which Tamar’s never seen except in photographs and moving pictures—but at dawn, it’s more so.  Shadows aren’t a problem either: most houses are lined with lanterns that somehow complement the stars without competing with them.  And being a little cold is actually nice when Tamar’s hot for most of the day. Not that she usually minds being hot—but the open desert stretching outside the outskirts of Ēnnuh has a better kind of heat to her, which is why she spends as much time exploring on her motorcycle out there as she can.

But she was too distracted yesterday to charge her batteries over the afternoon before the sun set, and now they’re completely dead. At least it’s an easy walk to Hightown. Even if she prefers how, on her motorcycle, she can whisk herself anywhere at a moment’s impulse.

So she turns right, toward the sunrise—and toward the morning star, that not-star that Lucifer made for no clear reason—and begins walking.

“The” bookstore is just one of several in Ēnnuh, but it was clear last night which one Elīya was talking about.  The Ancient Regent stands out above the others both because it’s one of the largest in the city, and because it’s right where Hightown meets Tamar’s own neighborhood, Olive Heights.

It’s convenient that it happens to be to the east, because this way Tamar gets to watch the sky light up more and more on the horizon, the one pitiful cloud in the sky turning a bright pink to signal the coming sun.  The stone buildings common to Ēnnuh block a direct view of the horizon, but the change in colors and the softly blinking stars are still nice companions as Tamar walks to the bookstore.

She spends most of the walk just enjoying the colors of the sky, and the way they play off the cobblestone, the leaves of succulents, the massive stems of cacti, and the occasional pine.  The riverfront buildings past Hightown—the ones in Downtown—reach into the sky, as if they’re trying to make the sunrise better.  And in fact, they do: the Zillah building’s blue-tinted windows reflect the sun in slightly different colors as it begins to come above the horizon, and a bright shine off the radio antenna of Adah tower is visible before the sun itself is.

And then, with the sky fully blue, Tamar is in front of the bookstore.  It’s just opened, but Tamar doesn’t need to go inside to find a flyer for the debate.  There’s one right on the door.

“Flinging Yourself into the Fiery Pit of Heaven: Yay or Nay?” reads the top of the flyer, dramatically.  It’s typical bookstore debate fare, although with three participants instead of the usual two.  The participants were probably hand-curated by the bookstore higher-ups, and probably specifically to compete with the Central Library’s own debate program: the two have been at almost-war for as long as anyone can remember.

Farther down, the flyer lists the names of the participants: “Safirah Mahalalel, Holy • they/them • recent author of ‘An Uncommon Proposal: the Superfluousness of Heaven’; Evon Lilim • he/him • recent author of “The Complexity of Life, The Complexity of Heaven’; Israfil • he/him or they/them • author of several major landscapes of Šehhinah”

Most people are probably here because they’re excited to see Israfil, Tamar thinks.  And sure, she’s heard angels also tend to be filled with God’s fire—but it’s not the same as the Holy.  They’re not burned.

It’s really quite interesting, how obsessed she seems to be.

Then she sees the bottom of the flyer, which has the date.  Oh.  It’s today’s date.  At six in the evening, apparently.

She grins, already looking towards the desert beyond the city. She’ll hit up Yenatru to see if he wants to go exploring with her. And she’ll be back here later.

* * *

The time is now.  The sun’s setting and Tamar’s at the bookstore again.  Where, in the first of its five floors, in the debate atrium, there will be a Holy.  Tamar finds her heart beating against her chest; tells herself to calm down and just enter the building.  It would be no use if she was late.

So, with a deep breath, she enters.

The central checkout area is as big as she remembers, with a number of bestsellers before  the significant large print section.  

But beyond that is the debate atrium.  And it looks like Tamar isn’t the only one heading there.

So she joins with the crowd and goes through the atrium double-doors.

Oh.  It’s big in here.

The atrium’s two stories tall and faintly gilded, with sparkling gold accents to the curved white walls. The lights on the ceiling, while a warm and soothing color, are diffused enough to prevent any shadow.  It all makes for the strange feeling that the atrium is from some other world.

Tamar finds a seat in the fourth row among the droves of mostly middle-aged philosophy and theology hobbyists; she’s one of the younger people here, although some of the few others she sees are whispering excitedly about Israfil.  She wonders if Elīya actually goes to some of these, given her interests, and decides to ask her later.

And then the three debaters walk on stage.

Tamar happens to be looking to the left, where Evon arrives, yellow eyes and horns like all demons. Yes, that’s a pretty striking look—but that’s not what she’s here to see.

So she looks to the center—and flame it, that’s just the angel.  Israfil.  Their hair is made of feathers, their suit of mirrors reflects the fire that seems to emanate from their six wings—but that’s not what she wants to look at either.

So she takes a deep breath and looks to the right side of the room, where Safirah enters.  They wear a deep orange dress slitted slightly up each side, and let their dark curls hang as they will around their face.

And their left arm is blackened.

Well, it’s more like a reddish-brown, with a slight, flickering glow under the skin.  But it’s burned, burned horribly—the skin twists and turns, and it’s easy to see how it wouldn’t be usable at all.  Adding to that impression is the fact that Safirah doesn’t move it, not even for balance: it really was their price, then.

Her breath catches.  It’s beautiful.

Actually, as Tamar continues to look at it—she’s allowed to, she reminds herself, no one will even care or notice—she realizes that the twists on the skin are actually moving.  There are patterns there, patterns of flames and not of flames at all; Tamar squints at it.  She continues to watch Safirah’s arm as the debaters take their seats, trying to follow the patterns there.  She’s becoming half-convinced that they mean something—

The announcer is loud enough to snap her out of her stare and actually look at Safirah, Evon, and Israfil’s faces.

“Welcome to tonight’s debate.  Tonight’s opponents are Safirah Mahalalel, they/them…”

Oh, Tamar thinks, he’s just repeating the information on the flyer.  So instead she focuses on Safirah’s face, trying to discern if there’s anything in the way they smile that hints at the power underneath them. The power that has burned them, changed them.  She looks long and hard, finding her eyes drawn to Safirah’s.  They seem hard, somehow.  Like diamonds.

Then Safirah begins their opening speech, apparently having been spurred to do so by the announcer: “This will come as no surprise to those of you who have read my writings, but my answer to the question posited by this debate is no.  Not for myself. Yes, as you can see, I have experienced the glory of God firsthand, here, in this life”—they use their right arm to lift their left, for emphasis—“and that’s not the only thing I intend to experience.  I’m one for variety, and if there’s one thing we know about the world after the Resurrection, it’s that it’ll have a lot of that.

“Our lives argue for us—they argue for what we want to happen after the Resurrection, what kind of new world, or worlds, I suspect, God will create then.  And I want to experience that—I want to experience it all.  Heaven is already right here in my arm; in my other arm, maybe there can be something else.” Safirah smiles, sharp.  “But I’ll have more to say once I have something to respond to, so move this onto the next speaker, if you will?”

“Then, Evon Lilim,” the announcer says.  “Your opening words.”  It seems like he’s really going to make this audience wait for Israfil—probably a good move, for the suspense.

But what Tamar really cares about is that flame under Safirah’s arm…

“Unlike my debate partner here,” Evon begins, his voice smooth if fairly high, “I say for myself ‘yay’. This is not because I disagree with any of their points—at least so far—but that I feel some of the most interesting variety that can be found is here on Šehhinah, right now.

“The world as is, the first world, the first draft if you will—that contrasts more than I imagine anything else will with God’s Heaven.  And it is also for that reason that I have no wish to be Holy—I will save that experience, make my life after Resurrection as different as it can be from my life now. That is what I believe will give me the most joy.”

“Now, Israfil, your opening?” the announcer says.

Israfil shifts then, moving two of their wings around their torso, the fire in them catching the mirrors on their suit—and seeming to fill the room with light.

Clearly, this is a practiced maneuver.  Tamar finds it impressive, even if it isn’t as breath-stoppingly amazing as Safirah’s burned arm…

“People have argued about Heaven since the Covenant,” they start. “And by people, I mean not just humans, but angels and the Fallen as well—all of us will have much to choose, in the days to come.

“As for me… well, I’ve said it before, but not in a book, and maybe not this century, so I wouldn’t be shocked if none of you knew this: that for me, I do not know what I will wish to do after the Resurrection.

“I came to existence this way, God’s fire in my veins—and I have loved it, have loved most of all my role in helping make the world, in adding what is of me to what exists physically. Truly, God would not have been able to make any of this without Their angels—and I say that not just to toot my own horn, but because it is true. Their soul is many things, but ground, water, air… are not among them. So of course They could not have manifested those into existence, not without more varied souls.

“And as I said, I have loved it.  I have never wanted this way of being to change, never wanted to fall—

“But roles, too, will change after the Resurrection, I imagine. And so I cannot say if I will want to be similar to how I am now, then, or if I will want to undergo some great change.  And as for what that might be… well, I’m still thinking.”

A tilt of their head suggests that their introduction is over—and so Tamar looks back to Safirah’s arm.  The burns, the swirling burns, seeming to draw her in with their suggestiveness, their hints of what has happened to them… she is so curious….

“Does anyone have a response to anyone else?” The announcer asks.

Safirah raises their arm—the non-burned one, of course.

“I have a response to Evon,” they start.  “You speak of contrast, of this world being maximally different from Heaven—but the point I would like to raise is that one of those differences is length.  Your life here is only likely to last what, ninety years? And Heaven could be eternity. It seems that those two timespans could never hope to balance each other out, or be two sides of one coin, as your book suggests. Not that I suspect you are foolish enough to have not thought of that, but…”

They totally suspect he’s foolish enough.  Tamar’s seen that look on Elīya’s face more than enough times to know.

“…But anyway, that is my objection.  If not for that detail, I would have a very similar opinion of the world’s variety.”

“Evon, your response?” the announcer asks.  “Or Israfil, do you want to get involved here?”

Neither of those possible directions the debate can take seem as interesting as Safirah’s arm, so Tamar zones out.  That’s one of her skills—being able to not bother hearing or paying attention to things, to anything but the one thing she cares about at the moment.

She’s here for Holy-staring, after all.

God, the patterns of the burn really do seem to be moving—and wait, the glow… oh.  The glow beneath their skin moves too, in a different way from the marks on the skin itself.  In the glow also, Tamar swears she can see patterns, if only it would stop moving for a second.  She wonders if they’re the same patterns as the ones on the skin.  Do they complement each other?  Do they mean something different?

God doesn’t communicate in words, Tamar knows, so they’re unlikely to be letters—but then, what? Images, maybe, feelings, sensations, textures? Or, since that glow in Safirah’s arm is of God—no, is God, Themself, Safirah chose to have part of their body be burned into by that strange other person—perhaps it’s not something consistent at all.  Maybe it reflects whatever God’s thinking about, right now, at this moment, or what if it’s even what God and Safirah are thinking, saying in reaction to each other…?

Tamar puts a hand to her mouth in amazement.

“While it is true that the patterns of fire and feathers and spinning wheels in Heaven will be infinite, and therefore infinitely varied,” Israfil’s saying, “it is true that some types of sensory experiences will not be common.”

“That is why I intend to get my fill of those here,” Evon responds.

“But again, how does a lifetime compare to eternity?” Safirah asks.

So they’re ganging up on Evon, then. Elīya would probably have an opinion about that. But Tamar’s not really sure which side she takes—other than curiosity about infinite patterns of fire.

“I would say that its brevity, its very finitude, gives it value, such value as to make it meaningful, and so to try to extend these experiences beyond life would make them less important,” Evon responds.

“And yet,” Israfil begins—

—and Tamar goes ahead and zones out again.

She has prayed to God before, of course.  Out of curiosity, mostly when she was younger—but though she felt the vague turnings of wheels, the sense of God having a whole bunch of eyes, it all felt distant.

Like, sure, praying leads to a feeling of a flurry of flames of flapping wings that responds to your thoughts, but it always seemed just… that? A flame like the sun being there suddenly… but yet no closer than the sun.

But having seen a Holy’s mouth, wreathed in flame… a Holy’s arm, burned to a crisp and still swirling…

Tamar grins, watching those patterns, watching them…

“Surely God could create ground, if the ground was feathers, or perhaps eyeballs,” Safirah’s saying.

Yeah, Tamar has no idea what that’s in response to.  She’s been missing a lot of this conversation.

But the experience of God still swirls in Safirah’s limp arm, the pulses of flame under it seeming almost bright enough as to sear into Tamar’s eyes…

And then people start moving out of the atrium, because the debate is apparently over.  Wow.  Okay.  Apparently staring at one of the Holy can do things to you and your sense of time, or at least can do things to Tamar, whose engagement with time is already conditional at best.  Still.

Tamar forces herself to stand, one of the last ten people to do so.  The paths between seats in the atrium are already fairly clear as she begins walking out of the atrium, preparing to go home, thinking she ought to wonder what she’s going to say to Elīya in her moral report, but not really wondering that, because she’s still more than a little distracted by the things she never quite saw in Safirah’s burns.

And then she just happens to catch Safirah walking through not some back door behind the stage, but just the other, usual, door on the other side of the atrium.  One that if Tamar turned around, she could easily go through herself.

Think about this, Tamar, she tries to tell herself, but she’s already walking that way—not for any reason, she half-attempts to convince herself, oh no, certainly no reason at all.  

She walks at a quick pace that’s just slow enough to not seem out of place with the setting.  This, Tamar thinks, should probably be disconcerting: it’s one thing to stalk someone, and a whole other thing to be good at it.

But she makes it to the door and casually opens it.  She sees the turn of Safirah’s dress among the many bookshelves.  And she turns to follow.

What in God’s names are you doing, Tamar? she asks herself as she strides along the slate floor.  But all she can answer herself with is that this is her only chance to—to do what, even she doesn’t know.  To commit a crime, probably. 

Tamar catches Safirah exiting through one of the side doors, and half a minute later makes it through that door herself.  It opens into a small street that might be called an alley, although Tamar’s never been that sure about what the exact distinction between an alley and a not-alley is.  The sun’s already down, so here in this maybe-alley Tamar finds darkness that was conspicuously missing from the atrium—and Safirah walking forward, arm seeming brighter out here in the night, going God knows where. Literally.  

Tamar—again, stupidly, foolishly, criminally— follows, trying to keep her footsteps a little quiet on the not-quite-clean cobblestone, on this thin path between backs of buildings.

She’s only made it past two of those buildings when Safirah suddenly turns.

They run at her, and Tamar barely has time to register the hard lines of Safirah’s face before she finds herself pinned to the back of the nearest building, Safirah’s right arm pressing Tamar’s shoulder into the wall with surprising strength.  Tamar shouldn’t be surprised that instead of looking at the face of the person pressing her against a wall, nor even at the arm that’s doing the pressing, her eyes end up drawn to that burned left arm, so close now, still swirling.

“Who are you,” Safirah says, quietly yet firmly, “and why are you following me?”

Tamar runs through what feels like dozens of thoughts: how much can a Holy hurt her? Can they set fire to her? Would they give a fuck about the ethics of beating her up here? Can they really take her in a fight one-handed? Can she lie?  What can she say other than that she was, essentially, stalking them?  Her eyes twitch around as she considers this, but her gaze always returns to the same place.

So she just lifts her chin, her gaze fixed on that swirling, glowing arm.

Safirah sighs, long and rough.  They raise their left leg and press Tamar’s chest to the wall with their knee.  That done, they remove their right arm, the one that originally did the pressing, from Tamar’s shoulder.

Tamar considers getting away, wondering if maybe a knee-press is less strong than an arm-press; but then she notices that Safirah’s using their now-free right arm to grab their left, lift it up—

—touch Tamar’s head with the limp, burning fingers—

And it feels warm, it feels burning where it touches her skin, but also cool, like mint, the cool strong enough to itself burn, and she isn’t sure how, but she feels it go beneath her skin, the cool somehow sticking even to her thoughts, even while her skin remains hot, too hot—

A sound.

The hot and cold fade, Safirah no longer touching Tamar.

Tamar’s mind slowly processes what she is seeing.

Safirah now stands a foot away, no longer holding Tamar to that wall.  Their right hand is raised to their mouth, and their back is curved, and that sound—that sound is laughter.

Tamar blinks a few times.

Safirah’s laughter fades into quiet giggles, and they look at Tamar and say, “Oh, kid, you were afraid you were stalking?”

Tamar isn’t sure if she should answer that question, but she nods slightly anyway.

“Not to say”— another giggle interrupts Safirah’s speech—“that you entirely weren’t stalking. Oh but you were so curious! That’s really sweet, especially when I was half-expecting an actual attack.”

Tamar finally makes it to the point where she manages out one word: “What?” Ēnnuh’s nowhere near that dangerous.

“Depending on what you’re asking, for starters, I did read your mind, if that answers your question.”

Tamar had figured out that much.

“Or—well, the other obvious question I can answer is, yes, an attack.  Nothing to do with the city itself, but as I’ve directly argued that little to nothing would be lost if the option for Heaven were removed—not that I expect or want such to happen—I’ve been a target for a decent share of nasty letters lately. Now, usually those types don’t actually follow up on their threats, but when I heard suspicious and yet poorly concealed footsteps behind me in an alleyway… I admit I may have jumped to conclusions. As I think I am generally skilled at not doing in the context of writing, debates, and so on, this one included.”

Tamar might agree with them—if she’d been paying attention to anything they actually said during the debate.

“I can’t say I’m sorry about the stalking,” she ends up saying bluntly. Flame her.  

But Safirah looks impressed if anything, like their respect for this stupid kid in front of them has somehow increased.

“It happens,” Safirah says.  Then they seem to think about that a little, rubbing their chin with their right hand.  “Or, I don’t know if it happens frequently, but I guess I am a public figure now, which does increase the chances.  Anyway, it’s better than an attacker.  Although perhaps I should repay you for treating you like one…?” 

Tamar spends a moment thinking about this, and then her mouth opens and she says words she hadn’t known she’d even formulated in her head: “Are you hungry?  I know a good sandwich place…”

Then, of course, Tamar mentally kicks herself repeatedly for having somehow asked someone she just got into an altercation with in an alley out to, what, dinner?

But Safirah just gives a bemused smile.  “As a matter of fact, I would love to know what a local Ēnnuhian considers to be a good sandwich place in this city.”

Tamar tries—tries—to keep her eyes from overtly lighting up.

“Who knows,” Safirah says, “maybe I’ll be able to provide information to help you make that decision on whether to eventually try and become one of the Holy yourself.”

Was she considering that? Tamar wondered.  Was that why she was so fascinated with them, these past two days?

“Well,” Safirah says, inclining their head, “we’ll either talk about that or we won’t.  But first, you’re the one who knows where this place is, so lead the way.”

And so Tamar manages to get herself walking forward, in the direction of Plateau Eatery, with one of the Holy—no, Safirah, a person who seems to have rather more qualities than just being a Holy—following her.

She has never been quite this uncertain where her life is going to go, nor quite this certain that it will go somewhere.

[wisewonders2]

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[existentialterror]

how would you define dr. lights gender identity?

Let me give you way too many words for a boring answer. (And of course, this is how I see her, anyone is welcome to headcanon her in any damn way they please.) In short: mainstream-Light (not an O5, not a god) is cis by default. She does not have a strongly-felt gender identity and is a little skeptical that anyone does. In the same way that I (known asexual) will still hear someone say like “a good sex life is important to me in a relationship” and at first think “yeah, sure,” that’s her w/r/t anyone having much of a gender.

Her presentation wiggles a little. She used to present fairly femme. Autism, masking, even after leaving her family she found it easier to get along if she has a Role she can Perform clearly enough. People come up to her. She gets a little more flexibility. Mars comes around with her dapper aesthetic and suddenly Light has a place to fit in, a role to belong to without tying her down. She accumulates clothing with tolerable textures and figures out enough Fashion to put together outfits.

When Light's old world ends and she's recruited to the Foundation, she has to figure out who she is from scratch. The Foundation is unlike anywhere she's worked before. For all its faults, the Foundation does care less about certain things.

When she finally puts some effort into her appearance, she goes for Utility rather than any particular aesthetic. She wants to look formal and trustworthy but mostly doesn’t want to have to think about it. Her hair is long enough to get it out of the way. She doesn't wear makeup because she doesn't like things on her face, and also, who wants to bother. She orders clothing out of online catalogs and tugs at the sleeves of shirts that don’t quite fit right.

When she breaks her hand badly and can’t always get the braces through the buttons, she ignores it and fights her way through for as long as she can. It comes to a head after her breakdown when she has to replace most of her wardrobe, which she should have done months ago. In her defense, you never really get in the habit of remaking your existence.

You’re still making choices, her psychiatrist tells her. It's fine not to worry about it. You don’t have to be making a statement about everything all the time. But you can’t completely sacrifice fashion at the altar of practicality – that’s not how it works, there is no such thing as truly neutral clothing. Are you sure you don’t care what people think of you? (For other reasons, Dr. Sabourin is one of Light’s worse psychiatrists.)

Light thinks she can get pretty close to pure practicality, thank you very much. When she’s promoted to Level 4, she tries on thirty six different brands and sizes of garments, and buys a closet full of the best ones - the exact same white Oxford shirts, camisoles, and those yoga pants that look like black business pants. Throw in some synthetics for exercising and she's good. She never needs to think about it ever again.

Later she adds one detail – and if it’s a little bit to spite Sabourin, that’s fine, she’s made her peace with it by then – which is the wingtips. She falls in love with a particular Italian workshop and orders a new pair every other year. They’re custom-made, exactly like men’s shoes but smaller, because her feet are small. They are, objectively, worse than sneakers: more expensive, less comfortable, less traction. She kicks her feet against her desk, scuffing the leather, and stares at the broguing. She really likes these shoes. It’s silly, right? It’s silly.

Ten years down the line, she finally, quietly, stomachs the thought: Mars would have worn these.

Even that much later, her closet is basically identical. Her system is fucking good, thank you. The additions are a few outlier outfits for special occasions. One shirt that is A Color (green) and has some embroidery, for casual events. A few t-shirts with various animals on them received as presents, that are not accounted for by her system but get worn nonetheless. A suit, for weddings and such. Boots and cold weather gear for dayhikes and seabird-watching in Svalbard. A single clean labcoat for when she needs to appear somewhere as A Member Of Senior Staff(TM) (and she will complain to anyone nearby about that not being the point of a labcoat, because of who she is. But she sees Sabourin’s point by now, clothing is about signalling as much as comfort.)

Light doesn’t know what the wingtips mean. She doesn't need to. Mostly, what she wants to signal is “I want you to listen to me" and "I want to get back to work.”

-------------------------

That said, Light, of course, comes in different versions with their own stories going on. It doesn’t really surprise any of them that they have different gender situations, except in as far as provoking questions like “some of us sure seem to have different chromosomal situations, how does that work? If we’re not genetic clones what does that even mean for us to be the same person??”

O5-2 "The Nazarene"’s story is different. I want to do more with her but need to up my weird esoteric gnostic queer theology game before I commit to anything. But I’m tentatively thinking something like: You need to be a certain kind of person to be the son of god. To be responsible for everyone. You can present as whatever the hell you want, but for certain ploys to work, people – even just a group of people that happen, for no good reason, to be at the center of the universe for a few moments – need to believe you. It’s easiest to believe it yourself.

If you’re already serious about being responsible for everyone, for becoming an icon, you don’t even need to think about the question: do you want to become this kind of person? Of course you do. It’d be like thinking “I want to bake bread, but do I want to be the kind of person who kneads bread?” You can stress over this. It’s totally possible. No one’s stopping you.

But you can also just knead bread.

No one’s stopping you.

[xspirite]

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[sleepingdeath-light]

relationship hcs ; lord oyster cookie

requested by ; (totally not) 🍾 anon (12/08/23)

fandom(s) ; cookie run

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; lord oyster cookie

outline ; “lord oyster smut and relationship hcs ~ (undercover 🍾)”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

lord oyster cookie is nothing short of a complete and utter gentleman in how he approaches courting, and eventually also dating, you — he goes at whatever pace you’re most comfortable, lets you take the lead when it comes to taking steps forward as a unit (when you become official, what labels you ought to use for each other, who you should tell about your blossoming relationship and when you should tell them, etc.), is endlessly conscious and respectful of your personal boundaries (e.g. if you’re touch averse he’ll do his best to keep close without making physical contact with you until you yourself initiate anything), insists on paying for your every outing, and never shows up to a meeting with you and your mutual chaperone without some sort of gift suited to your preferences (e.g. if you love flowers he’ll bring you a fresh bouquet, whereas if you’re more of an avid reader he’ll bring you a book in your favourite genre)

and make no mistake these efforts don’t stop the moment you two become an official couple, no, because this lovestruck sailor never stops dating and wooing you no matter how long you’ve been together — it’s important to him that you know how much he loves you and how often he thinks of you, especially given how much time he spends away from you and out at sea with his crew

dates are an absolute must and happen as frequently as your schedules allow — walks along the harbour, trips into town to window shop (and inevitably have him buying you any pretty thing you lay your eyes on for more than a few seconds), visits to the local park, day trips to neighbouring towns and villages, etc. — with your lovely spouse doing just about anything he can to make your day that little bit brighter

he’s the type of partner who would, without a second of hesitation, drape his coat across your shoulders if you seemed cold or place it on the ground for you to walk over to prevent you from ruining your shoes or the bottoms of your clothing in a puddle

…is it obvious enough yet that acts of service is his primary language or do i need to go on about the breakfast (well, feast) in bed he brings you every weekend he’s at home, or his insistence on taking care of you when you’re too tired or mentally drained or ill to do so yourself, or any of the numerous other things he does without batting an eyelid because to him there’s no such thing as a chore or a pain so long as it’s done for you

the pet names he uses for you are all very traditional and almost formal sounding (e.g. ‘darling’, ‘beloved’, ‘my sweet’, ‘my love’, ‘my dear’, etc.) but he won’t be opposed to you using terms of endearment for him that don’t quite fall into either of those categories — but calling him something a bit more modern like ‘baby girl’ or ‘my male wife’ will have him raising an eyebrow in private and turning bright red in public

he’s extremely protective over you and will, if need be, speak up in your defence should someone else try to insult, belittle, or threaten you (and he’s more than capable of handling his own in a fight if it should come to that) — but he also trusts your judgement and your ability to handle yourself, only stepping in if he notices that you’re uncomfortable or frightened, or if you look to him for help

lord oyster cookie takes a while to fully open up to you about the failings and the sins of his past, how he betrayed his first love and nearly destroyed a whole civilisation in the process, and as one might expect it’s very emotional conversation and he can barely look you in the eye for most of it — just sit and listen to his tale and then, when he’s finished, pull him into your arms and hold him close, reassure him that you know he’s changed and grown and that you won’t hold his past against him (and don’t bring up later how tightly he clung to you and how his whole body shook with the force of his cries as he wept and sobbed into your shirt)

his favourite places to kiss you are as follows: your lips, your fingertips, your knuckles, the apples of your cheeks, and (in the early mornings when you’re just waking up, and the late evenings when you’re changing into your nightwear) the backs of your shoulders — and his kisses are all either tender and sweet or lingering and intentional depending on the mood of the moment

[kateperkins23]

Sole Searching: Where to Buy Men's Footwear Online

In today's fast-paced digital era, the convenience of online shopping has become an integral part of our lives. Whether you're a fashion-forward individual looking to stay on top of the latest trends or simply seeking comfortable and stylish footwear, the online marketplace offers a vast array of options. 

This comprehensive guide will help you navigate the vast world of online men's footwear shopping, providing insights into the best websites to explore. As we embark on this journey, let's also take a moment to introduce Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear, the go-to destination for all your ethnic fashion needs.

Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear: Your Fashion Hub (H3)

Before we delve into the exciting world of men's footwear, let's take a moment to get to know Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear. This online platform has earned its reputation as a one-stop shop for all things ethnic and traditional. With a stunning collection of sarees, lehengas, kurtas, and accessories, Saheli is the perfect place to find Indian ethnic wear for both men and women.

The Quest for the Perfect Men's Footwear

Selecting the perfect pair of shoes is not just about style; it's about comfort, functionality, and personal expression. Here, we'll explore some of the best websites to buy men's footwear online, offering an array of choices to cater to different tastes and needs.

1. Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear: A Diverse Range of Men's Footwear

Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear isn't just limited to ethnic clothing. They also offer a curated collection of buy men's footwear online that complements traditional attire. From classic mojaris to contemporary juttis, you'll find a variety of options to complete your ethnic look. Explore their collection to add the perfect finishing touch to your traditional outfit.

2. Amazon: The E-commerce Giant

Amazon is a global e-commerce giant that needs no introduction. With an extensive selection of men's footwear, Amazon offers options for all occasions, styles, and budgets. Whether you're looking for formal shoes, sneakers, or casual sandals, Amazon has you covered.

3. Zappos: Unparalleled Selection and Customer Service

Zappos is renowned for its vast assortment of men's footwear and exceptional customer service. The website boasts an impressive variety of brands, styles, and sizes. Additionally, their customer-friendly return policy and reviews from real buyers help you make informed decisions.

4. DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse): Designer Styles at Affordable Prices

DSW is a haven for those who appreciate designer footwear without breaking the bank. They offer an impressive range of men's shoes, from dress shoes to athletic sneakers. DSW's rewards program provides additional savings and perks for regular customers.

5. Sneakerheads Unite: StockX

If you're a sneaker enthusiast, StockX is the place to be. This online marketplace specializes in authentic sneakers and streetwear. Whether you're after limited edition releases or timeless classics, StockX connects buyers and sellers in a secure environment.

Factors to Consider When Buying Men's Footwear Online

When shopping for men's footwear online, it's essential to consider several factors to make an informed purchase.

1. Sizing and Fit

Proper sizing and fit are paramount when buying shoes online. Different brands may have variations in sizing, so it's crucial to refer to size charts and reviews to find the right fit.

2. Style and Occasion

Consider the style and occasion for which you need the shoes. Are you looking for formal dress shoes, casual sneakers, or athletic footwear? Choose a website that offers a wide range of styles.

3. Budget

Set a budget before you start browsing. Some websites cater to budget shoppers, while others offer high-end designer options. Stick to your budget to avoid overspending.

4. Customer Reviews

Reading customer reviews can provide valuable insights into the quality, comfort, and durability of the shoes you're interested in. Real feedback from other buyers can help you make an informed decision.

5. Return and Exchange Policies

Before making a purchase, familiarize yourself with the website's return and exchange policies. Knowing these policies can save you from potential inconveniences in case the shoes don't meet your expectations.

The Importance of Men's Footwear

The importance of men's footwear goes beyond mere fashion. The right pair of shoes can impact your overall comfort, health, and self-esteem. Here are a few reasons why choosing the right footwear is crucial:

Comfort and Health

Wearing comfortable shoes that fit well is essential for your overall well-being. Ill-fitting shoes can lead to discomfort, blisters, and even long-term foot problems. The right pair of shoes can provide support and prevent issues like plantar fasciitis or back pain.

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The shoes you wear can significantly impact your confidence. A well-maintained and stylish pair of shoes can leave a lasting impression, whether you're heading to a job interview, a date, or a social event. They are an integral part of your personal style.

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Investing in high-quality footwear can save you money in the long run. Durable shoes can withstand everyday wear and tear, ultimately reducing the frequency of replacements. Look for trusted brands and materials that stand the test of time.

Style and Self-Expression

Your choice of footwear is a reflection of your personal style and taste. Whether you prefer classic leather dress shoes, trendy sneakers, or comfortable sandals, your shoes convey a message about your individuality and the image you want to portray.

Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear: More Than Just Clothing

Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear offers more than just men's footwear; it's a holistic platform for all your ethnic fashion needs. While it's renowned for its stunning collection of sarees, lehengas, and kurtas, it also provides a range of accessories and jewelry to complete your traditional look. Let's explore some of the offerings in more detail.

1. Ethnic Clothing

Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear's collection of ethnic clothing is vast and diverse. Men can find everything they need to create a complete traditional ensemble, from elegant kurtas to dashing sherwanis. The range caters to various occasions, be it a casual family gathering or a grand wedding ceremony.

2. Accessories

To add those finishing touches to your ethnic attire, Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear offers a wide selection of accessories. This includes intricately designed turbans, stoles, and pocket squares, allowing you to customize your look with finesse.

3. Jewelry

No traditional outfit is complete without the right jewelry. Saheli offers a variety of traditional jewelry pieces, including necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. These items are crafted to complement your ethnic wear, enhancing your overall appearance.

4. Men's Footwear

As previously mentioned, Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear also provides an array of men's footwear, with a focus on traditional and ethnic styles. Whether you're looking for mojaris, juttis, or other classic options, you can find the perfect match to complete your traditional look.

Conclusion

In the digital age, shopping for men's footwear online offers a world of possibilities, from budget-friendly options to designer exclusives. As we conclude our exploration of the best websites to buy men's footwear, don't forget to visit Saheli Ethnic Indian Wear for your ethnic fashion needs. Whether you're seeking the perfect pair of mojaris to complement your traditional attire or looking for the latest sneaker releases, the online marketplace has something for everyone. Just remember to consider sizing, style, budget, reviews, and return policies before finalizing your purchase. Happy shoe shopping!

[elecalice]

Well, I had to do what I promised on the poll that I made.

This blog is dedicated to my attempt to do amateur Cosplay (Well, Crossplay) as Prosecutor Ito, from Mega Man Battle Network 6.

Amateur indeed, since I didn't and don't have a red tie, so I had to use a Bowtie. I feel that Ito could use a bowtie, I think. Also, I don't have formal shoes, so I had to use my cute beige Sneakers.

Yeah, I'm that amateur. But after all, I'm just casual and I'll not dedicate myself to cosplay. I'll sticking with drawings and other things.

I'll try to show the photos in chronological order.

WARNING// My real face (lol)

My first attempt on doing the Ito cosplay. It was December of 2022, and at one weekend there was a Geek/Nerd event. At Saturday, I went to buy a short for the cosplay. It kinda hurt my wallet back then, but oh well.

I even went to show off my Cosplay. I was SO nervious to show off to present my character, and I think I showed up too much introduction to my character. Eh, first times. But the best thing is that ONE PERSON recognized my character!! And he even took a picture of me! That made my day! ;w;

But I didn't took pictures on the event itself. But instead I took some photos during my way to walk to home. I took pictures nearby a tree, which fitted so well. (I took more but at that moment it was SO windy it kinda ruined some photos, in a funny way. Also, the book used was my copy of Fahrenheit 451. I didn't have a law book, so I improvised... yeah.)

Months later, now in 2023, I attended another event, the first event of a major Nerd event in my town. I even participated on the Cosplay contest. I sadly didn't took photos of myself on that event, except a few ones of me eating a origini. (That origini was delicious)

BUT as a compromise. I'll tell my experience on the Cosplay event... OH BOY.

I wasn't sure to participate, but then I decided to eat up my pride and participate. Adding to me not having a tie nor formal shoes, my hair, my natural hair by the way (not a wig), was long. But at least I complimented the Cosplay with a borrowed copy of my country's constitution. Yes really.

So yeah. But the most awkward detail was, I had to act in-character. And I was like "OH... FUCK". Ito doesn't do much, except operate JudgeMan or being the happy doomer prosecutor that we know. The NetNavis do the cool battle stuff, while the humans excluding some, don't do much. So yeah...I had to improvise. Using dialogue but... I didn't have a microphone, not they provided me one. So yeah. I had a massive disadvantage, and when I tried to speak, probably didn't reached to so many people. When I LAST attempted to "jack-in" JudgeMan at something, I did it in front of the judges, and I jumped out of embarassement. And fun? fact, acting while having your eyes close is, and I repeat, H.A.R.D. HARD, All caps. At least the judges told that the majority of time I actually looked at the public.

When I had to leave the scenario, I had to cover my face with the book, while my friends dragged me outside. I felt that my I wouldn't Cosplay as Ito again. This situation could've been more embarassing, if it wasn't for my friends supporting me during the whole dear, I REALLY appreciate them. ;w;

At least someone asked who's my character, and I told the lore around him, but I had difficulties due to my speech impediment with my unability to pronounce the hard R letter. (And in extention, the RR as well)

I had to recover the embarassment after that. I seriously considered NOT to Cosplay as Ito again... But at least I managed to eat my pride, accept that I did it and I should move on from that.

I also did a Tiktok making Ito dance a bit with the audio of Bo's "A really good book" Vine. I thought that the Vine fitted Ito SO MUCH that I had to do it while I was home alone. It was hard to find the perfect position to place my phone in orden to record that video. But yeah, I tried. Now I don't remember if I did it before or after the previously mentioned event. I think I did the TikTok before the event? I'm lazy to check the dates.

Now, in September, I managed to get a haircut. And in some moment, I had the idea to Cosplay and act like Ito for a moment. So I did it, and did some photos. I take more but I decided to put this three ones.

I also acted and did some videos of me acting as Ito and being angsty and edgy. Yes really. I tried to act. I also did some videos of Ito trying to awkwardly dance to Nürnberg's Valasy. I love Nürnberg's music, btw.

And now, the previous weekend, there was the second edition of the Nerd event on my town, and again I went as Ito. But I didn't participated on the Cosplay event. Because come on. I don't want to show off as Ito again, not due to embarassment, but because It's kinda boring of my part to show off again as Ito. Okay?

Anyways, despite the overwhelming first day, that and the second day I had fun. It was fun! I didn't took that much photos of myself. The first one I took it myself, but the second and third one I had a friend who took those photos of me in my cosplay. And the last photo, I did it after returning to home. (I also took one of myself with the brown jacket that I used in case that the day became cold. I think that jacket fitted Ito.)

So yeah!

As when I ate my pride to participate that contest, I'll be eating my pride showing my real face and dressing as my cuestionable blorbo.

And random fun fact, the me posing showing three fingers, is a reference to a Japanese fanart where Yuika, Vic and Ito pose showing three fingers, like a W. WWW, World Three. I love that fanart.

I kinda feel weird and kinda lonely being the major Prosecutor Ito fangirl. But oh well. That's kinda my curse. (?

(I hope I can get braces... When my friend took some photos, I felt self-conscious about my two weirdly-located frontal teeth. Well. Gotta save money. ;w;)

[kelsey-robinson]

There is was again, that all familiar bubbling feeling in Kelsey’s stomach, like jumping beans trying to escape as she shakily applied pale pink eyeliner trying not to smudge it too badly. Valentines day was usually the kind of holiday that passed her by without so much as a second thought, Galentines day on the other hand? Well that had been more her speed for the last couple of years. Buying or drawing things for her best friends to make sure they knew how loved they were, but this year was different. The weekend with Keys in LA had somewhat cemented their relationship into something more ‘formal’ if that word could even be used when it came to the two of them, since they existed in her eyes on their own plane of relationship definition. Who told their boyfriend they loved them for the first time at the side of their sister’s grave? Kelsey Robinson did apparently. As strange as that was it felt intrinsically right to her - for them. Even without trying they’d managed to be different from the rest of the world in a whole other level, making their own way to where they needed to be.

Tonight though she was quite literally concealing a huge secret from him under her shirt. As soon as they’d returned from LA she’d gone the next day to the tattoo parlour to put into action her plan for his Valentines day gift. Some would call it stupid, foolish to get something etched onto her body that was a signifier of a relationship that no one could be certain would last, but Kelsey didn’t care about that. Firstly she couldn’t see an instance where the pair failed, it was a foreign concept really, but secondly she saw nothing wrong with a permanent reminder of everything she and Keys shared. Even if they crashed and burned that wouldn’t erase the happy times where she felt like she was walking on air through showers of stars while holding his hand. It wouldn’t take away the memory of his soft brown eyes gazing at her when her own fluttered open in the morning, or how his lips brushing against the mole on her cheek always sent a ripple of shivers down her spine making her lips stretch out into a perfectly calm smile. None of those things would change, and she wanted a reminder of them whenever she looked at herself. 

Having spent hours working on the design of The Creation of Adam hands but interchanged with replications of her own and Keys’ she’d finally managed to get it perfectly placed across the scarring under her left breast. Even now as she looked in the mirror one last time it tingled making its presence known as it finished healing. At a point now where it looked good instead of like a freshly tattooed scabby mess - that wouldn’t have been particularly romantic to show him after all. There was part of her that knew whatever happened it would be exactly the evening she and Keys deserved because somehow they seemed to have a way of always making sure things fell into place, even by dumb luck, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to do everything she could to nudge things in that direction. The knock on her front door was the signal he’d arrived, Kelsey had asked if they could just do something at home - her home - specifically so she could show him her special rather private gift for him. After all she was in a rather revealing crop top to give easy access to the newly tattooed area and it probably wasn’t something she should really be wearing to a public space. It was actually more like a bra than anything. On top of that the weekend at the Grammy awards had been so extravagant with Keys spending so much money on her that she couldn’t bare the idea of him doing that all over again so quickly. Making sure her shoes were on properly even as she was making her way to the door the blonde did a kind of skipping hop to get there, yanking it open with a grin that might as well be made of fireworks, the delight at seeing him evident from space. Without saying anything her hands went behind his neck so she could pull her boyfriend in for a kiss, pressing herself up against him. “Happy Valentines day.” She whispered once she finally pulled away enough to speak. @ofmckeys