#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.

[rafescvntyclubgf]

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕊𝕚𝕩: 𝕄𝕪 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

𝙾𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: ward is awful to the reader, pet names, older!rafe, soft!rafe, brief mention of the reader’s late grandpa, and swearing

📖 based off an ask by lhhlver 💕 Hi babesss! Could you do one where like Rafe brings his pogue gf home for Christmas and it’s really awkward for her and she has anxiety but he’s there to comfort her and even stands up to his parents or something cuz they don’t like him dating a pogue? Just a thought 🫶🏼

Masterlist

Rafe’s POV:

Festive lights twinkle in the dim night, candles lit on all the windows. The balmy heat of the North Carolina summers exchanged for the chilly bite of winter.

We roll up the cobblestone drive, my hand resting on her upper thigh; the other twisted around the leather wheel. She hums along with the song, velvety and sweet, trying to distract herself from the inevitable. She looks beautiful, as always, a little more at peace than usual when she stops by my parent's place…

I know why, I'm not stupid… This dress helped, as did the shoes and the jewelry. Just simple gifts— nothing out of the ordinary. I love spoiling her.

Sure, it made her a little uncomfortable at first, but she settled into the fact that this was my love language. I wasn't buying her things to change her. I would never want to change her…

She lifts her hand, resting it in mine, her emerald dress catching the winter wind as she steps out of the car. I smile down at her, wrapping her tight in my arms as we take the last few steps up the walk.

I open the door, stepping inside watching her eyes glimmer, just a sliver of unease lingering that she’s trying her best to shrug away. She didn't come from this side of the island… But she belongs here with me, and that’s all that matters.

“You alright, princess?” I ask as I help her out of her fur coat.

She smiles at me, the kind that doesn't quite reach those pretty eyes of hers as she smoothes out the front of her dress. “Just nervous, baby. You know how I get.”

I lean in, kissing her forehead, lingering as I wrap my arms around her waist. “You got nothin’ to be nervous about, sweetheart.”

And I’m hoping that’s true.

Dinner was set like a scene from a Christmas movie. Their formal dining table’s arranged with crisp white linens and ruby centerpieces; Rose’s fine china is placed perfectly alongside delicate gold-trimmed plates.

I look down at the table, catching my old man's eye. His dark gaze flickers to her as she talks to Rose and Wheezie; the weight of his judgment is heavy, as usual. But even with that weight, conversation flows around him—the hum and laughter of the three women filling the dining room, regardless, somehow making him angrier.

She smiles at me, taking my breath away in a glance; my perfect girl. Graceful, kind, everything I ever wanted, but nothing I deserve. And then…

“So,” I simple word. His first utterance all night. Like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. His tone is smooth, spiked with a familiar edge that I’ve unfortunately become far too accustomed to myself. “Was that a gift?” He asks as he gestures lazily to the Cartier necklace around her throat. “N’that dress too, huh? Stunning.”

The table falls silent, and my stomach drops fast. I feel her hand tense in mine under the table, putting me on edge.

“Yeah, anniversary, I believe…” I smile, recalling the necklace. “And the dress, well, can you blame me? It was made for you, sweetheart,” I lower my voice. Lifting her hand to my lips, kissing the top, feeling her tremble with adrenaline.

Ward chuckles, swirling his Old Fashioned in his rocks glass; his laugh low, condescending. “Thought so. She looks well taken care of.” He drawls, talking about her like she’s not even there… Like she’s some kind of pet.

She bites her cheek, eyes shifting to the plate in front of her, confidence shrinking under Ward’s sharp stare.

“It always interests me when I see a fellow Pogue on this side of the island. Well, former Pogue,” he gestures to himself, giving us that old money laugh before taking a sip. Ward sucks his teeth, the dark liquor burning on it’s way down. “I was once in your shoes… Seems a Pogue turns Kook for two reasons: hard work or, well, what do you call it, sweetheart?”

“Dad,” I level my voice, cold and sharp enough to cut through the tension. “That’s enough. Yeah?”

He cocks an eyebrow in my direction, clearly amused. “Just a question, son.”

“Hmm… Yeah,” I chuckle back, borrowing his tone. “A cruel and classless question. Seems about right for you.”

The table falls deathly quiet, all eyes on her and I. Heat rises in my chest; my pulse pounding in my ears. I glance down at her, the hurt in her eyes all but breaking me.

“She’s here because I love her,” I continue, my voice steady but firm. “Not because of what I can give her. And if you can’t respect that, we’re gone.”

My dad finishes the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass on the table. Rose goes to speak, but I’m already pushing my chair back, helping her to her feet. I don't care about the gifts waiting under the tree or Rose’s carefully planned evening. None of this shit matters if she feels unwelcome.

“We’re goin’,” I say sharply, leaving it all behind.

The two of us leave, pulling out of the driveway faster than we came; her cheek shifted slightly to avoid my gaze. She doesn’t want to talk about it. I know her… She’s overwhelmed —her emotion boiling, threatening to spill over if I even utter the words, ‘Are you okay.’ She’s not… How could she be? She needs a minute. She just needs me to be close. I reach down, resting my hand on top of hers.

She looks down at the contact between us, the tears building on her waterline falling on her dress.

“Thank you, baby,” she mumbles hastily, like the words had been on the tip of her tongue for too long. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Of course I did, princess. Are you joking?” I ask as I steal a quick glance. “Nobody talks bad about my girl. Alright? No expectations,” I assure. “My dad… My dad’s an asshole. He’s got to understand that it’s a privilege to be around you.”

Her pretty lips tug to the side, fighting back more tears. “I don't care if he’s family or not, sweetheart. You're the most important thing to me. Okay?”

She looks up at me, eyes glassy. “I love you, Rafe,” she whispers as he lifts my hand, kissing my fingers one by one.

”I love you too, princess.”

“Where are we going?” She smiles softy at me from the passenger's seat as we pass our road, headed north.

“Change of plans. I just wanna go for a ride, princess. That alright?” I ask as I squeeze her thigh. She nods, turning up the music before relaxing into her seat.

She smiles as we roll into The Cut, gliding into a familiar parking lot. “Shells Diner?” She beams brightly, basking in the nostalgia of it all.

“Mhmm…” I hum as I lean over the center council. She grabs my cheeks, kissing me gently. “Met the prettiest little waitress here…” I whisper against her lips, feeling her smile against mine.

I trot around the car, helping her out just like I had at Tanneyhill, looking down at her beautiful eyes, that sliver of unease long gone.

The diner is a staple— nothing fancy, just a cozy, hole-in-the-wall place with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign. But it’s special.

The diner glows with a warm retro charm. It’s the kind of place that never changes; the scent of coffee and griddle-cooked meals clings to the walls. Christmas lights dangle messily along the ceiling. Dusty garland frames the windows; its shelf, cluttered with decorations.

The booths are well-worn, their red vinyl cushions cracked but familiar. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner by the jukebox, its ornaments mismatched but lovingly placed. The faint hum of holiday music filters through the speakers, blending with the occasional clatter of dishes from the back and the people scattered around.

Eyes shift nervously in my direction as they always do. My girl sees the good in me and might be the only one. I don’t blame the old waitresses for looking at me uneasily from time to time. But, when I’m with her, their judgment seems to fade away… If she’s happy, they're happy. And that’s the way it should be.

They greet her like they haven’t seen her in years, eyes wide as they take in her beauty, making her give them a little twirl in her fancy dress, chuckling about how they wanna hug her, but they’re afraid they’ll get her all dirty.

When we slide into the booth, she leans back, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watches me, and I’m hit with the most beautiful deja vu of the first time I saw her… The only thing that changed is that she’s mine.

I throw my coat off my shoulders, rolling up my sleeves, adjusting my Breitling watch, getting a taste for how out of place she must have felt tonight. Not even scratching the surface.

The waitress sets down our coffees and pie, the two of us alternating bites, our hands occasionally brushing ‘til I'm shifting out of the table, nestling myself next to her.

She cuddles into me as I feed her and myself, and she feeds me, the two of us chuckling every time our forks clash. The waitress comes over, drawing two fresh cups of coffee, steaming curling together.

After a while, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small wrapped box from her bag. Her hand is a little shaky as she slides it over to me with a nervous smile. “Merry Christmas, baby,” she whispers.

“You didn't have to, sweetheart,” I smile as my heart swells.

Inside is a pendant—simple but elegant. The band was made from her late grandfather’s gold bracelet, and I recognized the ruby right away. The name embossed on the velvet box lets me know it’s custom. She shaped into something timeless for me… something she knew I’d love. The metal glows softly in the diner’s dim light. I flip over the pendant, our initials looped in cursive, perfectly intertwined.

I stare at it for a moment, my fingers running over the smooth surface. “This—this is perfect, baby,” I breathe. “Thank you. I love it.”

“I’m glad... I love you,” she whispers, and I feel that in every fiber of my being.

“I love you too, princess.”

“Can you help me?” I smiles as I reach around my neck, fiddling awkwardly with the gold clasp, battling against my blunt nails. I turn slightly, the tight booth making it impossible for me to twist.

“Come here, baby,” she coos as she moves out of the booth. I push out and stand up, smiling down at her before turning around. She unclasps it easily, sliding on the pendant before clipping it again.

Her fingers run across my chest, my heart banging underneath, and I drop on one knee— the ring burning a hole in my pocket all night, lifting a weight off my chest when I show it to her.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment…” My lips spread in a trembling, awkward smile. “I told you it’s a privilege to be around you. And I meant that. I want you to know that I’ve always known how lucky I got with you, princess. You have shown me love for the first time—real love. I want to take care of you like you take care of me. I hope you need me just a fraction of how much I need you. So, sweetheart, will you let me spend the rest of my life showin’ you just how much you mean to me?”

She smiles and nods happily as her hand meets mine, sniffling and holding back tears.

“Will you marry me?”

I slip the ring on her finger, and before I know it, her lips are on mine, pulling me closer, and everything and everyone else fades away.

[snowrubies]

Language Barrier

Fem!reader x Twice (mainly Sana)

Genre: Extremely fluffy and comedic

Warnings: none

Synopsis: You speak Korean perfectly, but Twice doesn't know that.

"Again? You need better staff," you say into the phone, exasperated. Your friend works in sound design for various concerts and often calls you when yet another member of the culinary or courtesy staff flakes out or quits without warning. It’s not a particularly difficult job, and the pay is decent. Plus, waiting on celebrities can be amusing—you get to see sides of them most people don’t.

"Well, you live so close, and we both know you’re not exactly swimming in plans, loser," she shoots back playfully.

"Fine, fine. Time, place, and dress code?" you reply, already rifling through your closet for the outfit she convinced you to buy "just in case."

"Same concert hall as last time. Be there at 10 AM for setup. White shirt, black pants. Bring them to change into, so you don’t ruin your good ones. Hair and makeup are your choice, but trust me—you’ll want to look good." There’s a sly undertone in her voice that sets off alarm bells. She’s hiding something.

"As if I ever try to look bad in front of celebrities," you grumble, glancing at your bedside clock. It’s 8:30—barely enough time to get ready, grab a quick lunch, and make it downtown. "Well, at least this time I have an hour. That’s better than last time’s 'get here now' panic."

"I’m learning," she says with faux innocence. Then, softer, "Thanks for doing this. See you soon."

You hang up and spring into action. First, leggings and a basic T-shirt for the commute. You pack your good clothes—crisp white shirt, black pants, and the shoes she always insists are "fancy enough." Hair comes next: rollers for quick curls while you keep your makeup simple. Neutral eyeshadow, a touch of blush, a dab of highlight—just enough to feel put together without going full glam. You're not the one under the spotlight, after all.

Time slips away faster than you expect. By the time your hair is pinned loosely at the crown of your head—not a bun, too stiff—you’ve got only ten minutes left. No time for anything fancy, so you toss hot dogs and mac and cheese in the microwave. The true lunch of champions. It’s not exactly a Michelin-star meal, but you figure you’ll sneak some of the event catering later.

You scarf down what you can grab your phone, keys, and bag, and head out the door.

You saw the signs as you were pulling into the back parking lot of the space. Your friend had conveniently forgotten to tell you just who you'd be waiting on, or even exactly what you'd be doing. She couldn't exactly hide the giant LED billboard with nine beautiful women you definitely more than recognized on it advertising tonight's concert. Even if she could, once inside the backdoor of the venue there was a staggering amount of Korean people and Hangul posted on doors and in hallways that'd give you a clue. You sent her a quick text saying where you were so she could give you today's assignment, and so you could jump down her throat for not telling you you'd be waiting on Twice. Just your favorite girl group ever.

She found you backstage by one of the many different locked rooms. "Hey best frieeend," she drew out in a singsongy way going in for a hug.

You weaved out of her hold, " Oh no. You've lost hug privileges. When exactly were you going to tell me it was Twice?"

"I said you'd want to look nice," she giggled. All part of her master plan.

"You are the worst," you muttered, trying to sound angry despite the giddy energy coursing through you. "What am I even doing? Don’t tell me I’m stuck running drinks or something."

"Relax," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I may have mentioned you know Korean, so you’ll mostly be on standby in case they need anything. Food, water, minor stuff like that. You’re not serving tables or anything formal. Just be polite, stay professional, and don’t freak out."

"Freak out? Me?" you said with a nervous laugh. "Never. Definitely not having a full-blown internal meltdown right now."

"Good," she smirked, handing you a badge and a quick rundown of the evening. "You’ll do great. Oh, and try not to stare. They’re even prettier in person." With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone to process the fact that you were about to be in the same room as TWICE.

Taking a deep breath, you clipped the badge onto your shirt and adjusted your outfit one last time. Time to get it together. No fangirling. Just act cool, calm, and totally collected. Easy, right?

You refused to just sit and wait twiddling your thumbs until they arrived. You exchanged some pleasantries with the catering people and helped them set up snack trays and water bottles in the green room for Twice. They would be here soon for a sound check. Actual sound check, not the fake two to three-song warm-up open to the VIP fans. After that, they had some time to eat and in general hang around while getting their hair, makeup, and costumes done.

The green room looked cozy but professional, with plush chairs, a makeup station, and a neatly arranged buffet table laden with fruit, finger sandwiches, and those perfectly packaged snacks you always imagined celebrities lived on. The catering staff smiled appreciatively as you adjusted the placement of a tray.

You went to go change into your nicer clothes and tiny black kitten heels. You had just enough time to stash your bag somewhere out of sight before everyone started moving franticly.

The door to the green room creaked open, and in walked TWICE.

Nayeon led the group, her smile lighting up the room as she exchanged a few words with a staff member. Behind her, the rest of the group filed in, chatting amongst themselves in soft Korean. You froze for a moment, clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to look casual as your heart raced.

“Wow, they really went all out for this,” Dahyun said in Korean, gesturing toward the snack table. “I don’t think we’ve ever had this much fruit before.”

Chaeyoung smirked. “Dahyun, you’d say that even if it was just an apple and a banana.”

Tzuyu leaned toward Mina, her voice soft and melodic looking at the monitor in the corner. “The stage lighting looks amazing, doesn’t it? It feels so warm.”

Mina nodded, her tone thoughtful. “It’s perfect. I think the fans will love it.”

They began to spread out, scanning the room and chatting in their small groups. You tried to stay focused, pretending to adjust the water bottles while listening intently.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked up to see Sana standing a few feet away, a curious smile on her face. “Uh… water?” she asked in English, her accent charmingly thick as she gestured toward the bottles.

You quickly picked one up and handed it to her, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, here you go,” you said, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Thank you,” she said brightly, taking the bottle. “Nice...” She motioned toward the snack table and gave you a small thumbs-up before returning to the group.

Meanwhile, Jeongyeon had wandered toward a catering staff member, her English more deliberate but clear. “This… for us?” she asked, pointing at the trays.

“Yes,” the staff member replied. “It’s all for you. Please help yourselves.”

Jeongyeon nodded, looking impressed. “Very nice. Thank you.”

Nayeon, ever the social butterfly, spotted you lingering by the table. “Hello!” she greeted cheerfully in English, making you jump slightly. “You… work here?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m just helping with the setup today.”

“Ah, good job!” she said with a grin, her Korean accent giving the words a playful lilt. “This… all looks very good.”

“Thank you,” you managed, heat rushing to your cheeks.

As they settled in, their conversations switched fluidly between Korean and broken English, depending on who they were speaking to. Jihyo exchanged a few words with the event coordinator about the schedule, effortlessly mixing both languages.

“Soundcheck… now?” she asked, her English with large pauses but clear.

“Soon,” the coordinator replied. “You have a little time to eat first.”

“Good,” Jihyo said, nodding firmly before turning back to the group to relay the information in Korean.

The room buzzed with warmth and activity, their laughter mixing with the casual chatter of staff members. You couldn’t help but feel awestruck by how approachable they were, even as global superstars. Every interaction, whether in Korean or English, only made them feel more human—and somehow, even more dazzling.

As the group began to relax, you continued tidying up the snack table, doing your best to stay invisible. But you couldn’t help overhearing their conversations—especially the ones you weren’t supposed to understand.

“Did you see her?” Sana murmured to Nayeon in Korean, her voice low but full of curiosity.

“Who?” Nayeon replied, leaning slightly toward her.

“That staff member by the table,” Sana said, nodding subtly in your direction. “They’re really pretty, don’t you think?”

Nayeon glanced at you for a brief moment, her eyes sparkling with amusement before she turned back to Sana. “Oh, I noticed,” she said with a sly smile. “They’re very elegant. It’s rare to see someone like that working backstage.”

Dahyun, catching wind of the conversation, leaned in with a mischievous grin. “What are you two whispering about?”

Nayeon waved her off playfully. “Nothing. Just admiring the staff here. Very organized, very… visually pleasing.”

Chaeyoung raised an eyebrow, overhearing as well. “Wait, are you all talking about them?” she asked, her tone teasing as she subtly gestured toward you. “Yeah, they’re cute. I noticed earlier.”

You kept your head down, pretending to focus on rearranging the water bottles, but your cheeks were burning. Hearing them talk about you like that, assuming you didn’t understand a word, made your heart race.

Mina joined the conversation with a small, approving nod. “I agree. There’s something… calm about them. It’s nice.”

Jihyo laughed softly. “You all sound like you’re picking a favorite contestant on a reality show. Be professional.” But even she glanced your way with a subtle smile, clearly not immune to the group’s observations.

Tzuyu, ever the quiet observer, finally chimed in. “They do seem kind,” she said simply, her voice soft but sincere.

Sana giggled, leaning closer to Dahyun. “Should we talk to them more? Maybe invite them to hang out later?”

“Stop it,” Nayeon said, feigning exasperation. “They’re working! Don’t make it awkward.”

You busied yourself even more, carefully pretending you had no idea what was being said, but every word made your chest tighten with a mix of embarrassment and giddy disbelief. They thought you were pretty. TWICE thought you were pretty.

“Do you think they know Korean?” Chaeyoung asked suddenly, tilting her head.

“Doubt it,” Dahyun replied. “They haven’t reacted to anything we’ve said.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. It took everything in you to keep your expression neutral, even as their words replayed in your head.

"Should we test it?" Chaeyoung asked. "Say something outrageous and see if she reacts?"

Jihyo came over and playfully slapped Chaeyoungs arm. "Don't be mean. She's probably just nervous. Leave her be."

She couldn't let it go. Chaeyoung wandered over to you. Your hands meticulously move bottles fractions of inches repeatedly. "You...very busy hun?" She managed in broken English.

You glanced at her, smiled politely, and nodded speaking slower than normal so she could catch more of it. "Yes, keeping things organized for you."

“Good,” she replied, her tone teasing as she switched back to Korean. “So professional. I think we’re making her nervous.”

“You’re making ME nervous,” Nayeon quipped, rolling her eyes. “Stop messing around. You’re going to scare her away.”

Sana, however, seemed utterly unfazed. “But seriously,” she said, her tone lowering as she addressed the group in Korean, “look at her hair and outfit. So well put together. Not to mention her face. It’s impressive.”

Dahyun smirked. “You’re really taken with her, huh?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Sana shot back. “It’s not every day you meet someone who looks like they walked out of a drama while setting up a snack table.”

This time, you couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your back to them, pretending to check on the fruit tray, hoping they didn’t catch the slight quirk of your expression.

“Did she just smile?” Momo whispered, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I think she might understand us.”

“No way,” Dahyun said, shaking her head. “She’s been quiet this whole time. Probably just coincidence.”

Still, the idea seemed to spark a new level of intrigue among the group. Jeongyeon, who had been sitting quietly, glanced at you and said in English, “You… like music?”

Caught off guard, you hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Me? Yes, I do. Your music is quite good.”

“Thanks,” she said simply, her smile warm but brief. Then she turned back to the group and said in Korean, “See? She’s nice and a fan. Let’s not overwhelm her.”

Tzuyu, who had been observing everything silently, finally spoke up. “Maybe we should invite her to the show later. Watch in the wings,” she said in Korean.

“Really?” Jihyo asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” Tzuyu shrugged. “It’d be a nice gesture.”

You pretended not to hear, focusing on folding some napkins, but your heart felt like it was doing cartwheels. If they followed through with that idea, how were you supposed to stay composed?

Sana waved you over pulled up her translator app and typed out, 'Would you like to watch the show from backstage?' but when the electronic voice read it out in English it came out as 'Do you want to see the show behind the scenes?'

You understood it regardless. You stared at her phone then back at her then back down again and just nodded thanking her. "Really? Yes, yes, please. Thank you."

Momo smirked. "Ok, that was adorable."

Sana grabbed your hands and smiled wide genuinely happy that you seemed so interested. When she let go you scurried back to behind the table blushing like a mad woman with your fingers twirling around each other.

"I stand corrected. That's the cutest thing I've ever seen," Momo said. "Look Sana, you made her all flustered."

You refused to look up now having a convenient reason to be blushy and shy. As you busied yourself with unnecessary adjustments to the napkin display, you could feel the weight of their gazes. The warmth in your cheeks was practically radiating at this point, and no amount of deep breathing seemed to help.

“I think we broke her,” Chaeyoung teased in Korean, earning a chuckle from the group.

“Stop teasing,” Jihyo said, though her tone was more amused than scolding. “She agreed, didn’t she? That’s enough for now.”

Sana beamed, her excitement palpable. “I’ll make sure she gets a good spot,” she declared in Korean, clearly thrilled at the prospect of including you in their world, even if only for a little while.

From your side of the room, you peeked up just in time to see Sana still grinning in your direction. It wasn’t the kind of smile you’d expect from a superstar—it was warm, sincere, and oddly grounding. You managed a small wave, which only seemed to delight her further.

As the group settled into their pre-show routine, the flurry of activity grew. Makeup artists and hairstylists began their work, and the atmosphere shifted into one of focused preparation. You tried to keep out of the way, but the occasional glance or kind word from the members reminded you just how surreal this moment was.

Eventually, Nayeon wandered over, her casual confidence as radiant as ever. “You okay?” she asked in English, tilting her head slightly.

“Yes,” you replied quickly, your voice a touch higher than you intended. “Thank you for asking.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “Good. Don’t let Sana scare you. She… very friendly.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. “I noticed.”

As the minutes ticked by, the group prepared to head to the stage for their private sound check. Just before they left, Sana turned back to you with a quick wave and an encouraging smile. “See you later!” she said in English, her words simple but filled with warmth.

You nodded, managing a quiet, “See you,” in return. As they filed out of the room, you finally allowed yourself to exhale fully. You leaned against the edge of the snack table, your heart still pounding.

As the green room emptied, the flurry of energy faded, leaving you in a blissful yet surreal calm. Twice had just been standing there, talking to you—not at you, not above you, but like you were part of the team. It felt too good to be true, but the slight ache in your cheeks from smiling confirmed that it was very real.

Still, the thought of being invited backstage for the actual concert was almost too much to process. You replayed Sana’s gesture in your mind—the way she grabbed your hands, her bright smile, the genuine excitement in her voice. It was the kind of thing you’d only dreamed about.

After the soundcheck, your friend finally reappeared, looking as smug as ever. “So? How’s my favorite ‘just helping out for the day’ staff member?” she teased, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You set me up,” you accused, though there wasn’t much heat behind it.

“I did you a favor,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “Come on, you’re freaking out, aren’t you? You met Twice. They love you.”

You hesitated, debating whether to admit how much you’d overheard. “They were… really nice,” you said carefully. “And, uh, they invited me to watch the show from backstage.”

Her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you’ve been here, like, two hours, and you’re already besties with Twice? That’s iconic.”

“Stop,” you groaned, but her laughter was infectious. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep it together. I mean, Sana literally held my hands, and Nayeon asked if I was okay, and—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re not doomed,” she said, grinning. “You’re lucky. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I know, I know. It’s just… overwhelming.”

“Well, get used to it,” she said, clapping you on the back. “Because you’re about to have the best night of your life.”

The hours passed in a blur. You helped with final preparations, making sure everything in the green room stayed tidy and well-stocked. The buzz of the venue grew louder as fans began arriving, their excitement palpable even from backstage. The Twice members returned briefly to grab drinks and snacks, their energy shifting into show mode.

Each of them had a way of preparing—Jeongyeon hummed quietly to herself, Jihyo went over notes with a staff member, and Sana, as bubbly as ever, flitted around the room, checking on everyone, including you. Every interaction, no matter how small, leaves you feeling more grounded in the moment as if this surreal experience was meant to happen.

Finally, it was time for the concert. True to her word, Sana guided you to a spot near the wings where you could see the stage without getting in anyone’s way.

“You okay?” she asked again, her tone light but genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” you replied, giving her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Her face lit up, and she gave you a quick thumbs-up before joining the others. Moments later, the lights dimmed, and the roar of the crowd filled the air. You watched in awe as the members took the stage, their presence electrifying. It was one thing to see them perform on a screen, but witnessing their energy, precision, and charisma up close was something else entirely.

From your spot, you could see not only the performance but also the little interactions between the members—the quick glances, the shared smiles, the subtle nods of encouragement. It was a side of them the audience rarely got to see, and it made the experience all the more special.

As the show went on, you found yourself completely immersed, cheering quietly from the sidelines and feeling a sense of pride for a group you’d admired for so long. When Sana caught your eye mid-performance and winked, you nearly melted on the spot.

By the time the concert ended, you were on cloud nine. As the members came backstage, still buzzing with adrenaline, Sana made a beeline for you.

“So? How was it?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Incredible,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for letting me watch.”

She grinned, leaning in slightly. “You’re welcome. It was fun.”

Before you could respond, the rest of the group began filing in, offering you nods, smiles, and even a few casual “thank yous” in passing. Nayeon gave you a quick pat on the shoulder as she walked by, and Jihyo offered a warm, “Good job today.”

As the chaos settled and the members started winding down, your friend appeared again, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

“See?” she said, nudging you. “I told you this would be the best night of your life.”

The post-concert buzz was palpable, with staff bustling around to pack things up while the members of Twice cooled down, chatting amongst themselves. You stayed in your corner, observing quietly, savoring the memories of the night.

You were carefully arranging water bottles on a nearby table when chaos erupted. A loud crash sounded from the other side of the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps. One of the backstage doors had been flung open, and a man—clearly not a staff member—was charging toward the group of idols.

Everything happened so fast, but instinct kicked in. You spotted him barreling toward Sana, whose back was turned. Without thinking, you shouted in Korean, "Be careful! Behind you!"

Sana turned just in time to see the man, her eyes wide with alarm. Fortunately, security was already on him, tackling him to the ground before he could get any closer. The room erupted in frantic murmurs, staff rushing in to ensure everyone was okay.

Breathing heavily, you looked around to see Twice staring—more specifically, at you. Jihyo was the first to speak, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. "Wait… you can speak Korean?"

You froze, realizing what had just happened. There was no hiding it now. With a sheepish smile, you nodded. "Yes… a little."

Nayeon let out a loud laugh, slapping her thigh. "A little? You just spoke perfectly!"

Dahyun looked equal parts impressed and amused. "So, you understood everything we said earlier?"

Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head slightly. "Yes, I heard it," you admitted, bracing for their reactions.

Momo clapped her hands together, looking delighted. "Why didn’t you say anything? Do you know how awkward we were being?"

Sana stepped closer, her expression a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. "Then… did you hear when I said you were pretty earlier?"

You nodded, your face growing hotter by the second. “Yes, I heard that too.”

The group exploded into laughter, their teasing and playful remarks blending together. Jihyo shook her head, a fond smile on her face. "You’re amazing. You stayed so quiet this whole time."

Chaeyoung grinned mischievously. "So you did understand when I said something weird, huh?"

Trying to lighten the mood, you shrugged. "I was just trying to focus on my work."

Tzuyu smiled softly, her voice calm amidst the laughter. "And you protected us. Thank you."

Her sincere words seemed to settle the room, and Sana reached out to gently squeeze your arm. "Really, thank you. Because of you, nothing bad happened."

Though the teasing didn’t stop entirely, it took on a more affectionate tone. They were clearly impressed—and grateful. As the night wound down, you couldn’t help but feel like the bond you’d formed with the group had deepened unexpectedly and unforgettably.

The room gradually settled as the adrenaline from the incident ebbed away, leaving only the warm hum of conversation and soft laughter. You busied yourself by tidying up the snack table, partly to distract yourself from the knowing glances and teasing smiles still coming your way. Your face was burning, and you couldn’t meet their eyes for too long without feeling like you might combust.

Sana was the first to approach you again, her usual playful smile tinted with genuine shyness this time. She tilted her head slightly, clasping her hands behind her back as she hesitated before speaking. "Um," she started in Korean before switching to English. “You… very brave. Thank you.”

You waved your hands in front of you, flustered. "It—it was nothing, really. I’m just glad everyone’s okay."

Sana giggled softly. "No, you were really cool." She glanced back at the group, who were all watching the interaction with varying degrees of amusement and encouragement. “Uh… do you… have phone?” she asked hesitantly, her accent adorably thick.

You blinked, caught off guard. “My phone?”

Nayeon, who couldn’t resist jumping into the moment, called out in Korean. "You might as well ask for her number!"

Sana whirled around, her cheeks pink. “Unnie!” she scolded before turning back to you, her bashfulness now painfully evident. “I mean… number? For… talking later?” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, her confidence faltering.

Your heart was pounding as you fumbled for words. “Oh, um, yeah, sure. I can—yeah.” You pulled out your phone, your hands trembling slightly as you unlocked it and handed it to her. Hopefully, fast enough she didn't realize your wallpaper was her.

Sana quickly typed her number in, then smiled shyly as she handed it back to you. “Text me… sometime?”

Before you could respond, Dahyun chimed in with a sly grin. "Should we invite her to our group chat?"

Momo snickered. "Don’t overwhelm her."

“Maybe,” Sana said, glancing at you with a playful smile before joining the group again, leaving you standing there with her number saved in your phone and a heart racing faster than it probably ever had.

As the evening wound down and the group prepared to leave, several of them waved and offered warm goodbyes. Sana lingered just a moment longer, catching your eye as she gave you a small, almost nervous wave. "Good night," she said softly before disappearing with the others.

You stared at your phone again, the contact glowing on the screen like a dream made real. This was a night you’d never forget—and perhaps, the beginning of something even more extraordinary.

[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."

[melancholicstation]

FRAT!JACK SCHLOSSBERG SFW AND NSFW HEADCANONS

imagining COLLEGE SWEETHEART!READER who loves the outdoors, is the best in her harvard polo team, is a criterion channel SNOB, spencer hasting's archetype, vacations in miami, aspen, ibiza and saint tropez, is the president of many student clubs, buys hermēs blankets for the dogs kennel blanket and keeps an elegant stack of erotic, cheesy novellas under her .

tags: @obsessedwithjohnjr @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl

fyi: I have not edited this nor looked over it too closely so if there's spelling/grammar mistakes je m'excuse please!!

you cross each other's paths at institut le rosey in year 13 because you guys are unfortunately wealthy teenagers of highly successful family dynasties so it'd be sacrilegious to go anywhere else... where else would they go to get their educational chops that they can brag about at dinner parties?

super rich kids by frank ocean is both of your respective spotify wrapped no.1 song

you guys don't formally meet until harvard law school

always immediately goes to you for any fraternity parties where they need to be all gussied up for it and whines until you do his makeup... and of course he wants you to use your expensive chanel, byredo, chantecaille make up

jack uses your own la perla thongs as bookmarks to keep track of a certain page in a law textbook when studying at your place cause he left all his stationary at home

when you both found each other you guys were both in your slut era and weren't looking for anything serious

tries to make you beef tartar in the confines of your tiny dorm like this one chick on tiktok does in her bed

after a couple days of not seeing each other jack comes back with little gifts and trinkets cause he has the instinct to gather in his bones, baby!

you both eat like a 17th century king despite being college students

classes were cancelled for a day due to a particularly aggressive blizzard that sought to reek havoc on anyone in its path--or in this instance trying to get to their econ major on time for once so you two are held up in your dorm end up watching 'secretary' (2002), one thing leads to another and you and jack's have ended up recreating this scene except jack is lee... and the saddle is an old hermēs vivace jumping saddle that you got for an early christmas present one year back (something like this) and the carrot is slightly dirty cause its been in your farmers market tote since your last run to whole foods... but you both enjoy it all the same cause you guys are F.R.E.A.K.I.S.H.

he has a very intense samurai sword obsession to the point where his dorm closet holds all the medals he won for the best sword in local competitions... and gets extremely territorial if you want a drawer in his closet cause where are the synthetic fabric medals supposed to go??

always buys you lingerie whenever ssense has a sale

you both buy each other maison margiela shoes for a joint graduation present from law school

you both always have a ritual of buying mint and lavender lemonade at different harvard athletic games

you guys broke up briefly during mid term hell-week and you genuinely observed him re-connecting with nature in the harvard yard to ease his anguish

you guys practice parenthood by adopting a few sylvanian families and putting them in a house

your matching boat n' totes (top: yours bottom: jack)

on holiday break from college you guys go on so many sketchy facebook marketplace hunts to the point where jack films with his phone just for evidence purposes

your dream that makes you crash out over imessage to jack:

NSFW UNDER THIS CUT 🧵✂️

he definitely wears a hat while you guys are fucking making beautiful sensual love

foreplay is stimulating conversations with jack

as foreplay you make jack recreate that one cmbyn timothee chalamet scene with the peach

eroticising studying and giving each other orgasms when you've memorised a topic correctly

two beers at a beer garden and you guys are in each others pants immediately. stat!

they are delicately perverted

he loves giving you some clavicle kisses... like that is his shit!

jack loves to be lightly tapped with the hermēs crop but he'd never admit it what?? who said that??

[chaiwithmybeloved]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x reader.

Description: Hitting (on) a stranger with a shopping cart was not on your grocery list.

Word count: 1k

The lights in this grocery store are too warm for your liking.

Too warm, too dim. You suppose it goes well with the aesthetic of the brand but it's almost fucking impossible to check the fine print on the imported pistachio spread that you've been holding for the last 15 minutes.

You cannot risk buying something so expensive without knowing when it expires. You grimace at the amount of produce in your cart that's going to cost a chunk of your paycheck and put the jar back on the shelf saying a silent goodbye.

Steering the trolley to the front of the store, the angel on your shoulder scolds you for thinking it was good idea to visit a gourmet grocery store.

In your defense, this place wasn't your first choice either. The regular grocery store was 5 miles closer to your place and handed out amazing discounts too, but—

"You're not going to believe who I saw at S-Mart."

"Was it..." Adjusting the phone between your shoulder and ear, your frowned as the layer of purple nail polish smeared on the skin of your toe. "...your biochem crush?"

Your friend sighs, "I wish. It was your ex-situationship, though. Anyways, I hope you've blocked him..."

Her voice fades and the carpet is stained purple.

No. You couldn't risk running into him, even if that's all you've wanted. So, you drive— 20 minutes out of your way— to be as far as possible from the bittersweet memories of the ice cream isle.

You almost hit someone with your cart. Panic sets inside you. What if it's some rich snob who would set their lawyers on you like a pack of dogs? It wasn't your fault the wheels were wobbly!

"I'm so sorry," you bend quickly, to pick up the fruit that had slipped from their hand. As you stand straight, a pair of formal shoes, khaki pants, a half tucked blue shirt and a loose tie meets your eyes.

"It's alright," the smooth voice has you looking up faster than your brain can process. "No harm done." Thin lips, gentle crook of his nose where a pair of spectacles rest, hiding his beautiful brown, maybe a little tired, eyes.

The devil on your shoulder calls you an embarrassment. You hold out your hand and he takes the apple, adding it to his cart. "Thank you."

A number of wooden carts are arranged before you, each containing different colours and varieties of apples; Fuji, Gala, Honey crisp, Kashmir—

Reaching out for the Granny Smith, you're impressed with how big they are. Instinctively, you smell them: sweet yet tart.

You add one to your shopping cart, eager to go home and taste it. The last batch your vendor had brought were pathetic—

"Excuse me, would you mind picking them out for me. I can't tell the good one's apart." The man asks, showing you his selection. Small and weirdly round with red streaks.

"Calville Blanc?"

He nods, "I've read that they have a high amount of Vitamin C."

You try not to fall on your knees. Beautiful and intelligent? Maybe gourmet grocery stores weren't so bad after all.

"They do," you select a few from the paper bag and replace them with better quality ones. "But if you're looking for Vitamin C, citrus fruits are the best."

He doesn't reply. Not for a whole minute. "My son—"

Oh. OH.

The angel slaps her forehead. You wanted to suck off a married man!

He doesn't have a ring. The devil makes a fair point.

"—doesn't like oranges. Or anything orange flavored. I've been trying to get his Vitamin C levels up."

"Does he like lemonade?" You try to maintain a normal conversation. He looks pretty young to have a child.

"Yeah," The stranger nods. "Will that help?"

You nod and hands rest on the handle of your shopping cart, feeling dirty for lusting after a married man. "It would be more pocket friendly than spending...5,499 ¥— shit, that's pricey."

Great, now he thinks you're broke. Clumsy and broke.

The man laughs and you get a warm feeling in your stomach. "That was my first thought too."

Two of you make it to the check out counter, standing behind an older, definitely richer, woman. Her cart is full, to the brim and the cashier looks like they're in pain.

"How old is he?" You ask. The blond falls for the marketing gimmicks, taking a cartoon keychain off the rack.

"Turns six, soon."

"If he's fond of apples, you could buy regular ones and squeeze some lemon juice on them."

The man nods, "Thank you. He's a picky eater but—"

"Every child is."

"Exactly."

You move ahead in the line and the cashier is relieved to see your minimalist cart.

"You should try Golden Plate on 5th street." A shameless self promotion. "They have customisable kids menu."

"That would make things a lot easier. Apparently, he hates everything nutritious," He sighs. A notification on his phone goes off and you get to see a glimpse of a pink haired child, smiling brightly with a floating tube around under his little chubby arms.

"You seem to know a lot about kids," The man clears his throat, unsure how to phrase his words.

"I know a lot about food," you correct him, looking back. "Sometimes I make meals for my colleague's daughter, so I know how to hide the greens."

The word tumbles right out of his mouth. "How—"

The cashier clicks some buttons. "Your total is..."

It physically hurts you to pull out your wallet and hand over the card. A quick swipe and you're being handed your paper bags.

The cool AC air greets you at the exit doors. Should you wait for him? The stranger has an unfairly gorgeous side profile as he unloads the cart items. You almost smile at the heart eyes the cashier gives him.

He doesn't look your way and you walk towards the parking lot.

The sunset looks prettier, the air seems lighter and like some cheesy sitcom lead, you hope that you get to see him again.

(Spoiler: you do.)

[yanmuffins]

Glad you getting better muffin! I just wanted to ask if you could show the style of clothes that teen!vampire!reader wore and when she become adult after and before the biting thing please?

context &. context.

anon i love you. i hope your crops are watered and your harvest is bountiful. i'm really excited that i get to talk about this!! disclaimer: i know a lot of people aren't too keen on inserts being too characterized or specific, but i hope everyone will enjoy her fashion style! i promise it's relevant and i had a lot of fun with it.

so. where do i even begin with this post?

it all begins, of course, with vampire! reader's coming to the wayne manor as a child and the circumnsances behind it. that was a huge shift in her life. she was very little when it happened, long before damian could even dream of being concieved. media was going insane over this bastard wayne child that appeared out of nowhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of her to stamp on next day's newspaper and magazines. and as guarded as she was from the public eye, public appearances were inevitable, even if they were minimal at the time. so it was very important for her to dress and behave very proper and put-together.

but damage control wasn't the only, or even the biggest reason she was dressed like that. we have already established vampire! reader's fashion sense was greatly influenced by alfred, yes (and it still kind of is) — but also the new (fancy, upper-class) environment she found herself in. alfred mostly dressed her in whatever he thought was fitting for a wayne child, and although his choices might have been a bit outdated, no words of complaint were uttered. little vampire! reader's outfits were the least of bruce's problems at the time.

but all in all, it was alfred wanting to welcome her into the family and make her legitimate, providing the best of the best, donning her in the best fabrics from the best seamstresses and the best boutiques. he would show her old pictures of her grandmother, martha wayne, how she dressed, would show her the jewelry that were her heirlooms, and let her take a look at martha's old clothes that she could use once she was old enough, if she so desired.

now reader's fashion choices walk hand in hand with her upbringing, with the education she recieved. she takes being a "proper wayne lady" very seriously. it was a choice of mine to only have vampire! reader wear darker, more somber colors. it overall fits thr wayne/gotham aesthetic as well as emphasizes her upbriging, her blending in to the point of not being noticed. darker colors are also heavily associated with vampires, so there's that too!

onto the outfits. now, teen! vampire! reader is a bit more laid-back and experimental than her child self. but... not really. she begins to coordinate her own outfits without alfred's help, but his influence is far too ingrained in her brain for her to truly distance herself from it. she has certain luxury brands she will and will not buy from, seamstresses she contacts when she wants a piece custom-made.

the excessive formality of her childhood outfits dwindles, but doesn't completely disappear. it gives place to looser silhouettes, a pop of a brighter, non-muted color here and there, a shorter (gasp!) skirt if she's feeling daring, cashmere cardigans and (gasp!) a pair of sneakers here and there. she will go for more formal outfits here and there, but they have a certain joviality to them. the mary-jane shoes are still there, and so are the ballet flats, but now they're joined by loafers and oxfords. of course we have the fancier, tailored fits, with the tweed jackets and such, but they're mostly reserved for fitting occasions. heavy on the usage of long black/grey skirts, usage of pants or shorter bottoms pretty much non-existent.

this is somehwere around the time she convinces bruce to ditch the homeschooling and let her attend high school.

now, as vampire! reader reaches adulthood, the laid-backness of her outfits take a backseat. she leans onto more mature options, martha wayne and alfred's influence back with more force as she adds plenty of her grandmother's belongings into her own wardrobe. with some adjustments, that iconic black dress martha wayne wore to that charity ball fits bruce wayne's daughter like a glove at yet another charity event at the manor. and so many 50's-inspired outfits. her skirts are long, pleated or circle/swing for a more voluminous look with the help of some peticoats. full of neat gathers. usually plain dark or grey in color, but sometimes there's a plaid or a pied-de-poule to add a bit of fun to the outfit.

and that's when she starts wearing martha wayne's jewelry, too, so vampire! reader is getting fancy old money points not just for wearing expensive designer items like they cost $99 cents, but also because a lot of her wardrobe has extremely valuable, genuine vintage pieces that she inherited from a family member.

(can you tell i'm having fun leaning into the nepo-baby aspect of this? because i am. this reader is emotionally neglected but broke she is not.)

here you don't really have the loose sillhouette anymore. there's a lot of things reminiscent of her teenage phase, but now we have puffy skirts with a snatched waist — but nothing too form-fitting, either! no such thing as pencil skirts in her wardrobe, elegant as they may be. sometimes you might get an off-shoulder moment, but that's about it. we have a lot of fur (from martha's wardrobe), wool, velvet, etc.

(most of these are for fancier occasions!!)

but although she wears a lot of vintage or vintage-inspired outfits, there are fits that very much modern. get this: vampire! reader wears pants. jeans, mostly, and not very often, now that she's gone to college, but still. ironically, the sneakers are pretty much out, with designer slingback heels taking their place. designer heels, in general. lots of bags.

vampire! reader also... kinda flirts with the color red here and there, before being turned into a vampire. just a little pop of red here and there, maybe it's a more daring choice of dress she wore. just eyeing the color red sheepishly one time or another. hehe.

and, of course, her style of dressing is very much related to her upbringing. shaped by it, actually. she does enjoy the way she dresses, but i do think it portrays well the overly-posh, demure and modest image she maintains even uncounciously. always safe and never daring (as in she will stick with the outfits she deems proper/appropriate and will not deviate from them, at least not too much), always aiming to honor the family name.

but! onto the more modern outfits that i put together myself:

these are outfits vampire! reader wears on a daily basis! at this point she goes out a bit more often, to go to class, go shopping, a stop by a nice restaurant for lunch…

now here's some more references that i found on pinterest:

now you must be asking yourself: what about haute couture? does vampire! reader purchase those gorgeous, straight-out-of-a-dream dresses? and the answer is no. not often, at least. again, she keeps a very muted, elegant, somber style with no room for sequins, rhinestones, intricate or unconventional designs, anything too flashy in general. in those occasions she’s invited to fashion weeks she might stare at some of them longingly, desperate to find a plain enough dress she can wear to one of those few public appearances in she’s allowed to make. this is all before vampire! reader... well, being turned into a vampire. but i will say that the changes start some time before her transformation. her gradual changes and ultimate style as a vampire are still a work in progress, i'll admit. but.

dresses get more fitted, at first. the necklines get lower. skirts get a tiny bit shorter. the outfits more playful, more risqué, more assymetrical. there are corsets, deep red and green velvet, delicate laces, sleeveless tops with no white blouse underneath. it's cunty, that's all. and honestly? this is once again vampire! reader being influenced, this time by her sire, as she goes out with them into the night. the confidence isn't really there, lots of outfits she hasn't really picked and isn’t comfortable wearing.

(jason, duke and damian are first to notice it, and it makes a few alarms go off in their heads.)

i have some references and inspo, lots of them from 90's and early 2000's fits. she’ll lean more into haute couture then.

but i’m still deciding on vampire! reader’s style once she gets turned. this is the overall gist of it, though. a femme fatale kinda vibe — sexier, cuntier and absolutely powerful once that confidence kicks in and she starts wearing what she wants.

so that’s it for now I guess?? thank you for the ask anon, this was super fun!! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡と

[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.

[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!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505

wanna join the taglist? | shameless ; chapter index

[wisewonders2]

Ultimate Comfort of Urban sports Shoes Online | Wisewonders

Are you looking for urban sports shoes for your morning and evening walk? Go through our website and Discover the perfect and comfortable collect for your active lifestyle. Our collection offers stylish and attractive options for all your athletic needs.

[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)

[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

[wandurlvst]

bodyguard!miguel x actress!reader

note: ignore how long i've been gone. miguel has taken over again and brought me back to tumblr.

bodyguard!miguel who constantly wears a suit/formal wear in general, so when you see him in casual wear it makes you like him even more.

bodyguard!miguel who remains professional 24/7 and perfectly hides his feelings. making it hard for you to understand his way of expressing emotions.

bodyguard!miguel who follows you around and accompanies you to shop or at an event. red carpet, movie premieres, sports games, concerts etc.

bodyguard!miguel who develops feelings and uses his job as an excuse to see/be near you as much as he can. taking double shifts or even taking a shift he normally wouldn't work.

bodyguard!miguel who knows a lot about you and knows what you like. a perfect way for him to buy surprise gifts.

bodyguard!miguel who keeps the paparazzi back while you're trying to get to your dark SUV. keeping his attention on you instead of what's around him.

bodyguard!miguel who knows you'll get overwhelmed by paparazzi so he makes sure to stick extra close to you

bodyguard!miguel who refers to you with honorifics but eventually gets comfortable enough to refer to you casually

bodyguard!miguel who helps escort you to your car/SUV, keeping his large hand on your lower back and ensuring you get home safely. basically riding in the back seat with you instead of normally in the front passenger seat.

"the pink one or the brown one?" you held up two purses to Miguel. he observed each one, "the pink one." "hmm, but i like the brown one! it goes with my heels." you held the bag down to your shoes. which you also asked him to choose earlier in the day....they weren't the ones he originally picked too. he rolled his eyes, sighing, "why do you even as me at this point."

bodyguard!miguel who stays close but not too far when you're at a meet and greet. he doesn't worry about the girls and women who meet you, but once a man is anywhere near you, he gets JEALOUS AND PAYS ATTENTION TO HIS EVERY MOVE.

miguel unclipped the railing, stepping through, sliding it back into place behind his back, "excuse me sir- please back away." "I'm not even close to her." the man scoffed, "i WILL have you thrown out. back- off." the slight glint of his fangs scared the man away. BARKBARKBARKBARK I'm sorry guys excuse me

bodyguard!miguel who refuses gifts from you because he thinks he doesn't deserve it, but you manage to sneak the gift/s into his home anyways. so he's forced to keep it.

bodyguard!miguel who watches you work. acting for the big screen and wishing he was the man touching you. kissing you. his jealousy always gets the best of him in these situations, so it's difficult for him to hide his anger.

[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.