#but i have tons of art books that have barely been looked at

[sleepybirbies]

i drew something!!

[swordgrace]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa��s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @camberdraws

Hello! My name is Camber (any pronouns), and I’m a mixed media illustrator located in the southwestern United States. I love drawing everything, but I have a special interest in depicting strange creatures and environments, often accompanied by abstract imagery and mark-making. Professionally, I’ve worked creating concept art and 2D assets for museum exhibits, but currently, I am engaged full-time as a software developer and make standalone illustrations in my free time. I’ve been posting art on Tumblr since I was a teenager, and the site has been very welcoming towards my work to this very day!

Check out Camber’s interview below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I’ve had an interest in drawing since I was barely sentient, but at thirteen years old I decided to become “serious” about art. I was all about reading tutorials and doing a ton of studies. I would tote my heavy instructional art books to school every single day (my poor back!) Despite all this, I decided to forgo art school in favor of a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science at my local college. Alongside my major, I received a minor in Art Studio with a specialization in fine art, which totally changed my views on creating artwork and drastically changed my style.

How has your style developed over the years?

As mentioned previously, my style did a 180 after I studied under some very skilled fine art professors! As a kid, my drawings were very realism-heavy and inspired by video game concept art. I mostly worked digitally, too. During college, I was thrown for a loop when we were instructed to do strange things like, for example, make a bunch of marks on paper using pastel, WITHOUT looking, and then turn said marks into a finished piece of art! I quickly and deeply fell in love with abstract work, and especially appreciated images that are not easily parsed by the viewer. Since then, I’ve made it my goal to combine abstract mark-making with more representational subject matter.

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Hmmm, one habit I really enjoy as an artist is strictly tracking the amount of time I spend drawing! I currently work a full-time job wholly unrelated to art, so I have to be careful with my time if I want to spend enough hours drawing each week. I created a spreadsheet that allows you to enter the amount of minutes you’ve drawn each day and calculate how much drawing time you still need to reach your weekly goal (I aim for 20 hours a week.) Having such a clear, numbers-based objective keeps me motivated to work like nothing else!

Over the years as an artist, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?

I know this is a common inspiration, but Hayao Miyazaki’s work has been rewiring my neurons since I was a child. Seemingly all of my artistic interests can be summed up by the movie Princess Mononoke: it has strange/abstract creature designs, a strong focus on nature and environmental storytelling, and a mix of dark and hopeful themes. Additionally, I’ve been deeply inspired by video game series such as Zelda, Okami, Pikmin, and Dark Souls. But arguably, none of these have influenced me more than Pokemon! I’ve been drawing Pokemon since I could barely hold a pencil, and I haven’t stopped since! I believe my love of designing creatures originated with my endless deluge of Pokemon fanart during my childhood.

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

I’ve always been fascinated by 3D mediums and am so tempted to try them out! Whether that’s 3D models created digitally or sculptures made from clay, I profoundly admire artists who have this skill. Oftentimes, it feels like I don’t have time to delve into a totally different artistic paradigm. However, I feel very strongly that learning new skills can enrich your current work. I should take that advice and someday give 3D mediums a shot!

What is a recent creative project that you are proud of?

I am in the process of creating an art book (a dream of mine!) and have been executing smaller drawings of concepts I find interesting from both a visual and storytelling standpoint. A recent drawing for said book is that of a snail made of ink with an ink bottle as a shell, and it went absolutely viral! I’ve never had an experience like this as an artist before and it has been spectacular! I was able to open a shop using my newly acquired art printer and sell many prints of my snail. Creating something original, directly stemming from my interests, and having that resonate with so many people has been unreal. I couldn’t ask for more as an artist!

What advice would you give to younger you about making art that’s personal or truthful to your own experiences?

I would tell my younger self to chill out and experiment more! I was so caught up in the idea that I needed to have a realistic style to be considered “good.” I also believed that technical skill was the only measure of how worthy my art was. That’s not to say technical skill doesn’t matter, but I now firmly believe the creativity and voice of your ideas far outweigh the skill of execution in terms of importance. Technical skills should elevate ideas, not the other way around. Once I began to revel in strange ideas and stories for my work, depicted oftentimes in odd styles or mediums, I truly found my voice as an artist.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

My peers here on Tumblr inspire me more than anything! Sharing my work with contemporaries and giving each other support brings me joy like no other, and keeps me motivated to continue creating. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them! @beetlestench, @theogm-art, @trustyalt, @ratwednesday, @phantom-nisnow, @svltart, @mintsdraws, @mothhh-hh, @jupiterweathers, @thesewispsofsmoke, @picoffee, @fetchiko, @kaisei-ink, and @pine-niidles just to name only a few!

Thanks for stopping by, Camber! If you haven’t seen their Meet the Artist piece, check it out here. For more of Camber’s work, follow their Tumblr, @camberdraws!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Neighbors 🩵 Lovers

What if Erik was your sneaky link and your neighbor?

The life of a Museum Curator for the Metropolitan Museum of Art has its ups and downs. Fae McAdams had just gotten promoted and after celebrating over drinks with friends and colleagues, she returned home to her high-rise, luxury Manhattan apartment with stunning skyline views and high-class amenities.

Her girl friends took pictures of her dressed in a sexy evening gown with a plunging neckline that sparkled. Fae posted the photos to her Instagram and received tons of congratulations. She worked hard to get that promotion. A few lemon drop martinis and hookah was much deserved. Now, she can book that flight to Indonesia.

Despite having an amazing Friday night, the one person she’d expect to show up and support her was currently unavailable for whatever reason. Just then, she was reminded when she opened her apartment door and saw him standing there with her dog, Deuce, in his arms. His name is Cordell and he’s a shitty boyfriend.

“Did you get my texts?” Fae questioned with a flat tone while locking her door.

Cordell sat Deuce down and he skirted off to play with his chew toy. Cordell— tall, chocolate, handsome— walked over to Fae, staring down at her from his imposing height. Fae liked them tall, built, and rough around the edges. Wasn’t always the best choice in men since all of her exes have been known to cheat on her. Cordell had never been caught cheating, but he has his faults. This being one of them.

Cordell was the best she’d ever had. He wasn’t some broke nigga laid up on her couch in the same draws. He was an elementary school teacher who was the first man to ever treat her like a gentleman. Butterflies crept up her stomach when he snaked one bulky arm around her hourglass waist, drawing her in so they were glued together. Cordell had to bend his back to get closer. She rolled her eyes and turned away, his soft lips catching her cool cheek instead of her plump lips.

“Fae, it slipped my mind. I would have been there but I had that thing I was telling you about.”

Fae tilted her head back to stare at him, “What thing, Cordell?”

“You know,” Cordell smacked his gums, “That thing with school.”

“The parent-teacher conference?” Fae questioned.

“Yeah. I couldn’t miss this. I hadn’t had the chance to call you back, baby.”

Fae squirmed against Cordell, “You could have sent a text letting me know all of that, Cordell. Why is that so hard for you to do? Simple communication.”

Fae felt Cordell’s arm slip away and she removed her heels before walking past him, brushing against his bare arm. It sent shivers down her back. She was tipsy and horny. He didn’t deserve to have her but the way her coochie was throbbing like a heart-beat, she couldn’t ignore it.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Cordell followed her to her room, “I’m proud of you. I’m happy you got promoted. That’s amazing.”

Fae ignored him and tossed her bag on her bed. She started to undress but Cordell grabbed onto her zipper first, pulling it down. Her dress fell from her shoulders, breasts defying gravity. He lowered the dress past her waist, then her hips, until it fell to her ankles. Cordell crouched down to grab the dress and in the process he kissed her right butt cheek. At his full height, he looked at her reflection through her floor-length mirror, his dark brown eyes sweeping over her body with lustrous desire.

“You a dime-piece, baby,” Cordell grabbed Fae by the chin to force her to look at him through the mirror, “How long you gonna stay mad at me?”

Fae responded with a half shrug before walking away, her hands gathering her hair into a bun as she walked over to her vanity. She secured her hair with a claw clip and started removing her jewelry.

“I did get you a gift. It’s not here yet but I figured you’d be happy about it.”

Fae’s chestnut eyes focused on him through the mirror and a small smile teased her glossy lips.

“I’ll be waiting on this gift.” Fae spoke with disbelief.

Cordell walked over to her at a slow pace, his cologne crowding her personal space. Fae could feel his warm body against her back, pressing her into the vanity. Cordell leaned forward and started peppering her neck with kisses. Fae’s pussy quivered when he added tongue.

“I wanna eat your pussy.” Cordell whispered into her neck.

Fae wasn’t going to tell him no. She turned around, breasts with stiff nipples stroking his chest.

“Can I eat your pussy, baby?”

Fae didn’t say a word. She blinked her eyes away from him and pushed him, taking two steps towards her bed before climbing on top. She went to lay back, her fingers dragging her black thong past her hips. Cordell took a seat on the edge of the bed before turning onto his stomach. Fae pressed her thighs together with one of her dainty hands cupping her pussy.

“Can I see that wet pussy?”

“Depends…I don’t think you deserve to taste me.”

“You say that now…you tipsy, ain’t you?”

Fae let out a suppressed laugh, “I am. I should be upset with you right now.”

“Baby, how can you stay mad at me,” Cordell moved her hand out of the way, “When I make you feel like this?”

Cordell used his middle finger to rub up and down between Fae’s slippery pussy lips. She turned her head away, a low moan escaping her mouth. Cordell positioned himself with his face pressed against her pussy, his strong hands separating Fae’s thighs. Her legs dropped open and that pussy covered in peach fuzz and dripping wet was in his mouth. Cordell pushed Fae’s thighs back and swiped his tongue over her clit lickety-split. One of her hands sat on top of his waves while the other twirled a nipple.

Cordell’s dark brown eyes were half-lidded and his thick tongue moved hastily over her clit and inner lips with the right amount of pressure that had Fae bucking her hips.

“Your pussy taste sweet.” Cordell said with a lick of his lips before going back in to eat some more.

“Fuuck,” Fae frowned her face in ecstasy.

Cordell adjusted his body so that he could slip a finger past her opening. He inserted his middle finger slowly, Fae dripping onto the bed from being opened. She could make a big mess. Cordell sucked on her clit lightly while twirling his finger around, swiping her spot and her walls.

“You gon’ cum in my mouth, sexy?”

“Yes!” Fae gripped the back of Cordell’s head, “That’s my spot, baby!”

Her nipples were hard and pointed to the ceiling. Her pussy leaked all over the bed as if she’d sprung a leak. Her inner thighs quivered the more Cordell sucked and licked all over her pretty pussy. She was sensitive, soaking wet, and ready for dick.

Fae’s entire body convulsed and Cordell grabbed her waist to keep her still. He continued to devour her through her orgasm, alternating between licks and sucks.

“Cordell, babe,” Fae whined, “I’m gonna squirt.”

Cordell sat up and quickly slipped his sweat pants and briefs past his hips, his chubby brown dick with a pink tip nothing but a hard, flesh covered pole ready for insertion. He pushed Fae’s hips back and her pussy opened up more. He dropped his seven inches in her wet, warm sex and as soon as his dick hit her spot, Fae squirted all over him.

“Still mad at me, Fae?” Cordell spoke with a quiver in his voice because of the way his dick felt snuggled between her walls.

“Just give me that dick.” Fae replied with tenacity, “This pussy ain’t gonna fuck itself.”

Cordell started moving his toned hips, pumping in and out of her pussy. Fae locked her ankles around his waist and reached down to rub her clit. Cordell increased the speed of his hips and Fae could feel his nut sack slapping against her ass.

“Harder, Dell,” Fae spoke hastily, “I’m so fucking wet, fuck this pussy.”

That lemon drop martini shot straight to her pussy. Cordell puckered his lips and spit on his dick, his way of adding more wetness. Fae rolled her eyes a little so Cordell wouldn’t catch it. She held her legs back and Cordell went harder, his hips snapping into her’s.

“Mhm…this my pussy…” Cordell whispered between strokes, “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” Fae moaned, “Here it comes—”

She leaked the more he stroked. It was so wet between her legs that his dick kept slipping out. Cordell pulled Fae up and with his dick still inside he got behind her and Fae arched her back.

Her favorite position.

“Oh, shit,” Fae brought both of her arms out and gripped the sheets, “Yes, baby, don’t stop, oh my god—”

Cordell slapped Fae’s left cheek before using his long fingers to grip her flesh. Fae threw it back while Cordell met her pound-for-pound. Everything became sticky and loud because of her dripping-wet pussy. Fae’s ass made all types of clapping noises from how hard she would thrust back. Eventually, Cordell was close to letting it off. He grabbed her hips and banged her pussy from the back, making Fae cum one final time before he pulled out and came all over her back and ass.

He stepped back and sat down on the bed to catch his breath. Fae collapsed onto the bed and turned her sweaty cheek over her equally sweaty shoulder to see all of his ejaculate dripping between her cheeks. Cordell looked at her like he wanted to go for round two, but Fae was tired.

“You can’t be worn out already, Fae,” Cordell complained.

“I came more than twice.”

“What stopped you before? Come on, ma. Let me make it all up to you.” He begged.

“You did. I got what I wanted, and now I’m satisfied.”

Fae pushed herself off of the bed and positioned herself between Cordell’s legs. She smoothed her hands up his chest and brought her lips to his, giving him the type of kiss that had him moaning in her mouth. His dick bounced between his legs when she sucked on his tongue. Fae giggled before slipping away.

“You’re dead wrong for that!” Cordell shouted after her.

Fae entered her bathroom to take a long shower, laughing at Cordell’s weak attempts to get her back in bed.

“Can you change the sheets please?!”

Fae opened her eyes and grabbed her phone from her side table to check the time. The television was still on and re-runs of Law and Order continued to play on mute. Cordell was snoring like a grisly bear beside her causing Fae to mush his head to try and stop him. After two attempts, Cordell rolled over onto his left side and the snoring seized.

Fae threw her black satin sheets back and climbed out of bed to pee. She flicked on the light and quickly lifted the seat to relieve herself. After she used her bidet and some wipes, she washed her hands with some peach-scented hand soap and removed her satin bonet. Her long, silky, black hair fell over her shoulder and she turned to grab a grey robe from behind the bathroom door. Back in her room, Fae slipped her feet into a pair of matching slippers before exiting the room.

She decided to go and grab some mail from her box since she forgot to check it earlier. It was 2 AM and she didn’t expect too many people to be wandering about this early in the morning. Fae grabbed her keys and placed them in the pocket of her robe and she was out the door. The hall was a little chilly, the slight breeze stiffening her nipples. Fae pressed down on the elevator and waited for two minutes before it reached the top.

The ride down was peaceful, Fae admiring her reflection through the doors of the elevator. It dinged and she was let out onto the lobby floor, making a left towards the mailboxes. She scanned the many gold slots until she found hers; 13F. She opened it with a little gold key and grabbed a stack of envelopes with a small package she assumed was more gloss that she purchased from Fenty Beauty.

Tucking her mail in the crease of her elbow, Fae secured the mail slot and as she was walking away, a man that also lived here that she recognized in passing entered the building wearing a khaki beanie, a white hoodie, light wash jeans that sagged a little in the thighs and crotch, and butter Timbs on his feet. He didn’t spot her at first, his attention drawn to his phone. When he finally looked up, she noticed he wore glasses with a gold rim.

Fae turned away to walk back towards the elevators and she assumed he was going to check for mail as well but he was right behind her, heading in the same direction. She pressed the button and waited as he made himself comfortable next to her. She tried to look at him discreetly, but he was already staring at her. Fae gave him a faint smile, her inner dialogue begging for the elevator doors to open. Why was she feeling queasy?

“Hi”

His voice was deep and raspy with a hint of playfulness.

“Hi.” Fae replied.

The doors opened and he allowed her to enter first before he did. Fae made herself comfortable in a corner of the elevator while he pressed the number thirteen. Nothing else. Fae looked at him and watched as he took a few steps back towards the other corner. The only sound was the constant beep whenever they reached a new floor.

“Thirteenth floor too?” He asked while looking at her over his shoulder.

At that point it was too late for that question.

“I’m sorry, yeah, I live on that floor as well.”

His onyx eyes fell on her and he smirked.

“I was wondering if you were gonna tell me what button to press.”

Fae chuckled, “It’s 2 AM, I’m not all the way there at the moment,” Fae said with a grin.

“2 AM is like 8 PM for New Yorkers though.” He replied with his own smile and a lift of his brow.

“I’m not originally from here.”

“Neither am I.” He said.

He held her gaze for a few seconds before turning away to see what floor they were currently on.

“I’m Fae,” Fae held out her hand for him to shake, her robe opening slightly to reveal more cleavage. She noticed and quickly shook his hand so she could fix herself out of embarrassment. Heat crept up her neck and she didn’t know for sure, but it felt like he was amused by the entire thing.

“Erik.”

“Didn’t mean to flash you, Erik.” Fae said with a nervous laugh, avoiding his eyes.

“All good.”

The elevator opened and Erik went ahead of her to stop the doors from closing.

“Thank you,” Fae slipped out sideways, her arms wrapped around her as if she felt exposed, “Have a good night, Erik.”

“You too, Miss Fae.”

They both began opening their doors, keys jiggling. Before Fae crossed the threshold into her apartment, she brought her attention to Erik one final time, but he was already halfway into his apartment and shutting his door behind him. Fae blinked away, entering her place and closing the door softly.

The slight rays from the morning sun peeked through the long drapes that covered his ceiling to floor windows. Erik rolled over onto his back, his gold chain slanted around his neck. He sat up slowly and grabbed his phone from the wireless charging station on his night stand. Stopping the alarm, Erik fully sat up in bed before stretching his muscular arms above his head.

Erik always kept a tall bottle of water on his bed side table to drink in the morning. He grabbed it and unscrewed the top, taking a few sips before securing it. He checked his phone for texts and noticed a few from old friends and one from a woman named Patrice that he’d been messing around with for a couple of weeks. Opening the text, he was blessed with fat pussy.

Patrice: Good morning, King. Can I see that dick that was deep in me last night?

Erik decided to entertain her and show off his morning wood. His room was flooded with just the right amount of natural light. The golden rays of the sun against his moisturized erection would be art. Already nude, Erik opened his camera and when he caught the perfect light, he angled his phone to catch his lower abdomen and down to his bobbing girth. Erik sent the picture with a kiss emoji.

After doing a couple of stretches, Erik entered his bathroom to start his self care routine. He turned on his shower to allow the steam to circulate and activate the fragrance from the eucalyptus plant hanging from his shower head. He stood at his mirror and went in to brush his teeth first. After brushing twice, he used his tongue scraper, flossed, and rinsed with mouth wash.

Erik entered his shower and cleansed with a lightly scented soap first, then he exfoliated, and lastly he used a body wash to finish. He stepped out of the shower smelling like Italian Bergamot, Hinoki, Grapefruit, and Amber. He wrapped a fluffy charcoal grey towel around his waist and stood at his foggy mirror to do his facial routine. Afterwards, Erik added some maracuja oil and shea butter to his locs and facial hair.

He covered his body in a lotion with the same notes of Bergamot and Hinoki, and got dressed in a white beater with grey joggers and white Nike socks. He strolled out towards his office to check his work laptop for any new information on a current job. So far, all he knows is that it’s in Bangkok. He was enjoying the time away from getting his hands dirty for a change. A new email attachment informed him of when he would be leaving. He had a month to prepare and everything from flight, to hotel, to transportation was covered.

Most days for Erik between jobs weren’t very eventful. He didn’t complain though, he’s used to being alone with his dog or working out. He didn’t have any friends in New York and he honestly didn’t care to make any. From time to time, he’d travel back to the Bay Area or Boston to catch up with old friends, but his job required him to travel often. No time for a relationship either. Not that he ever actually had one.

He has needs, and he satisfies those needs. But commitment isn’t something he could do with his line of work. No one really knows what he does, at least not the people in his personal life. Erik has a well rehearsed explanation as to what he does for a living. To them, he works for a security company that pays him well to travel, stay prepared for anything, deterring crime from the people he protects, and occasionally threaten. In between his job as a bodyguard he’s a personal trainer.

Erik made himself a mug of lemon ginger tea and prepared a veggie omelette with a side of avocado toast. He fed his dog; Diesel, a brown and white American Pitbull Terrier, before putting on a hoodie and some running shoes to take him for a walk. As Erik was leaving his apartment with Diesel, his neighbor, Fae, was leaving her apartment with her Frenchie.

Fae locked eyes with Erik and smiled, waving hello to him. Erik returned the wave with a smile of his own. He looked down at her dog dressed for the fall weather.

“Hi, Erik,” Fae greeted.

“Hello, Miss Fae. Going to the dog park too?” Erik asked.

Fae stared up at him through her lashes with a smile, “Yes. I figured I could go a little earlier. Your dog is cute!”

“Thank you. This is Diesel. He’s friendly to most,” Erik bends down to scratch behind his ears, “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Deuce Brix! But you can just call him Deuce.”

“‘Sup Deuce?”

Erik crouched down to rub Deuce. He barked a few times but not because he felt threatened. He let Erik pet him and scratch behind his ears. Erik stood back up and continued walking alongside Fae. He pressed the button for the elevator and they both watched Deuce and Diesel sniff each other.

“Sleep well last night?” Fae asked.

“Yeah. I had a bit of jet leg. Took some melatonin and I was out.”

“Do you always have trouble sleeping?”

Fae instantly regretted asking him, a sorry look in her eyes.

“You don’t have to answer that.” Fae said.

“It’s okay. It’s only the hardest when I’m back in from work. After about a week, I’m back to normal.”

They both left the elevator and walked out of the apartment building. Deuce was sniffing around while Diesel was ready to take off and leave Erik behind.

“Chill out, boy! I’ll let you off when we get to the park.”

Fae giggles, “Must be moving a little slow for him!”

“Always like this too.” Erik said.

“How old is Diesel?”

“Almost two years old. How about Deuce?”

“He just turned one like…a month ago. I had a doggie cake for him and everything.”

“Hm, cute,” Erik raked his eyes up and down Fae’s frame, “looks like you spoil him too. Look at his lil fit.”

“This is my baby, of course I’m gonna spoil him.”

Only two blocks away on W. 25th Street, they entered Jemmy’s Dog Run at Madison Square Park. It’s a six point two acre green space at the heart of New York City. It’s open year-round and it’s a fun place for pets to exercise, socialize, and play.

Fae and Erik found a nearby bench near a small play area. They both unhooked their dog leashes and watched as they scurried off—paws to dirt—joining the other dogs in some fun. Fae crossed one of her legs over the other and relaxed into the bench. Erik was leaning forward with his elbows propped up on his knees. Fae scrolled through her phone and Erik kept an eye on Deuce and Diesel. He would occasionally look over at Fae and at times she would look up at him and smile.

She’s a baddie. A brown sugar beauty. He liked everything about her from her smile to her hair. He liked that she was into dogs. He loved that she lived right next door to him. Erik wondered if she was available. Something told him she wasn’t. He could sense it in the way she maneuvered around him. He hadn’t seen a man coming and going from her apartment.

“You said you weren’t from here. Where are you from if you don’t mind me asking?” Erik asked.

“Jersey.”

“Oh, I was thinking D.C or something. You’re not that culturally different. It’s just cheaper to live there than here.” Erik said.

“True,” Fae fiddled with her hoop earring, while staring at Erik,” most of my old friends from Northern Jersey are content with staying there and rarely ever come to NYC. I just wanted something different. I knew I wanted to go to school here. So, I packed up and moved. It wasn’t easy…”

Fae continues, “People come to New York to challenge themselves and partake in great art, music, movies and food. They want excitement, late nights, strange encounters and places that stay open past 10pm. This doesn’t make these people any better than those who don’t come but they may be more willing to take on a risk and more open-minded in dealing with different types of people.”

“Jersey may lack some of the urban excitement of New York, but it can be a peaceful, idyllic place.”

“I miss it. I don’t have the strongest relationship with my family ever since my mom died. I keep in touch with my little sister often. We make time to see each other. You got to, you know what I’m saying?”

“…sorry about your mom,” Erik gave Fae a once-over before his eyes fell to Diesel’s leash in his hands, “I know all too well how that feels.”

Erik could feel Fae’s brown eyes observing him.

“Wow,” Fae exhales, “You lost your mom too…”

“When I was a youngin’. I’m better now that I’m older but…I still think about it and…I’m sure you know…It’s never easy.”

“Definitely,” Fae sat up straighter, “You kinda learn to suppress it. I get triggered whenever it’s her birthday, Mother’s Day, you know…”

“Same.”

Erik’s mouth curved into a smile.

“What?” Fae asked.

“I actually talked about her without getting all sad.”

“I’ve been told that I have this presence that makes it easier for people to talk to me. I just listen…know what to say…”

They sat in silence, occasionally getting up to check on their pets. When they both returned to their designated bench, Fae sat a little closer this time.

“Where are you from?”

“Cali. Born and raised in Oakland.”

“That’s so far from here. Why New York?”

“Uh,” Erik toyed with his hood, “I went to school in Boston and I was trying to figure out if I wanted to stay here or go back home. I decided to move to New York because it was a change of scenery and I won’t run into anybody I know.”

“You like meeting new people?”

“Depends,” Erik stretched his arms before leaning forward again, “I’m not really a people-person.”

“Okay,” Fae nodded her head, “I sort of have to be, it comes with the job.”

Erik leaned in closer, “What do you do?”

“I’m a Curator at the MET. I love my job.”

“Seems like a cool job. Surrounded by art and history.” Erik said.

“It is. I just got a promotion so, not only do I get to do what I love, I get paid well for it.”

“You got to in this recession.” Erik chuckled.

“What about you?” Fae questioned, tilting her head with curiosity.

“Me?”

“Work?—”

“Oh, I’m a Bodyguard. I also do a bit of personal training.”

“Really? So you’re a bodyguard for who?”

Erik leaned back and slipped his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“Anybody with money and power pretty much. It requires me to travel a lot. Not just in the U.S, but other countries.”

“I would assume you have to have some sort of background with that shit, right?”

“Mhm. You definitely have to be qualified. Credentials and all. I used to be in Special Ops.”

Fae’s eyes went wide with surprise. Erik’s eyes narrowed playfully at her.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-six. Why?” Erik asked with a lop-sided grin.

“I figured it would take years to like…accomplish all of that.”

“It does. A lot of discipline. A lot of sacrifice.”

“Hardly any time for family I’m sure.”

“That’s the choice you make.”

Fae straightened her back and her smile slipped from her beautiful lips when she looked at Erik’s expression. He drew his lower lip between his teeth and he looked at her with eyes so ablaze that she turned away quickly to check for Deuce. Fae stood up and the breeze swept up into Erik’s face, Fae’s scent crowding his senses. He followed, a part of him wanting to confirm if she indeed had a man. He hadn’t had this much interest in a woman for years. Crazy that he just met her hours ago.

“Deuce!” Fae called out for her Frenchie.

“Diesel!” Erik whistled, “Diesel!”

Fae and Erik walked forward towards the doggie playfield. Her smell kept drawing him in.

“I like your perfume.” Erik said.

Fae’s big, brown, pensive eyes stared back at him and then she blushed, “Thank you. It’s Kayali Vanilla.”

Diesel charged towards Erik and leaped up at him. He was still in a playful mood so Erik pulled out a ball and tossed it for him to fetch. Fae picked up Deuce and coddled him while he licked her cheek. Diesel came running back with the ball in his mouth and his tail wagging.

“I forgot to bring my ball.” Fae said with a pout.

“You think Deuce would play?” Erik asked.

“Yeah,” Fae let him down, “Look Deuce!”

Erik tossed the ball and Deuce and Diesel ran after it. Fae giggled watching both dogs wrestle for it. Deuce grabbed it with his teeth and ran back to them with Diesel on his tail, barking loudly.

“Good boy, Deuce!”

Erik tossed the ball again.

“Look at ‘em go.” He said.

“They really are good with each other. We should plan more doggy dates together.”

Erik cocked his head with a teasing look in his eyes.

“Just doggy dates?”

Fae shifted her eyes but couldn’t hide her obvious blush.

“Just doggy dates, sir.”

Erik let out a suppressed laugh, “my guess is you have a boyfriend?”

He tossed the ball again.

“I do,” Fae gave Erik a friendly smile.

“Cool,” Erik shrugged both of his shoulders with a playful smile, “You ready to head out, Miss Fae?”

“Yes.”

After securing Deuce and Diesel, they headed back to their apartment building. Erik wasn’t quite ready to part ways just yet. Her sweet smile and warm voice he couldn’t get enough of among other things.

“You sure your boyfriend wouldn’t mind our doggy dates?”

Fae gave Erik an enigmatic smile. His plump limps turned up into a dimpled-smirk.

“No.” She finally replied.

“It took you way too long to answer that.”

Erik laughed and Fae rolled her eyes before glancing at him.

“He wouldn’t mind. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Hm.”

Erik tucked his lips into his mouth, dimples deeper in his cheeks. Fae looked at him with those angelic eyes of hers.

“What is hm?”

Erik’s brows disappeared behind his locs, “Nothing.”

Erik held the door open for Fae and of course he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t check her out from behind. He was pleased. They made it to the elevators to make their ascent to the thirteenth floor.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day?” Erik asked.

Fae tucked her chin and smiled.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Just having small talk,” Erik shrugged, “I like talking to you.”

He knew his words would have an effect. Fae looked at him and he could tell her breaths quickened.

“No need to get all nervous, Miss Fae.”

The elevator doors opened and Fae left first. At their respective doors, Fae put the key in but didn’t turn the knob to enter. Erik waited, his eyes compelling her to say what was on her mind. She shifted, that sensual look in her eyes again.

“I had a really great time, Erik.”

“Me too.”

“Uhm,” Fae reached into her pocket to retrieve her phone, “What’s your socials?”

Erik smirked at her and retrieved his own phone.

“I have Twitter and Instagram.” Erik said.

“Okay,” my handle is fae.mcadams on instagram and Twitter it’s beautifulfaee.”

Erik followed her on both. Fae waited for his notification to pop up and she returned the follow.

“Don’t use it much.” Erik revealed.

I can see that. Last post was a year ago on instagram.”

She looked up at Erik through her lashes with tender eyes.

“I’ll see you around, neighbor.” Erik said.

“Likewise,” Fae smiled, “Bye, Erik.”

A few days had gone by and Erik hadn’t seen Fae. He hoped to catch her leaving her apartment or coming in from work. So, to stroke his curiosity, he pulled up her Instagram to just have a look. He’d just finished a training session with a client and went to do his own workout. He worked for Equinox in between jobs. He brings a holistic approach to his workouts and although they may be advanced, his clients leave the gym satisfied and transformed.

Erik did a little bit of cardio first to warm up and then he hit the weights. Today was lower body day for him. He started with heavy back squats, three sets with five to seven reps. He went on to doing barbell RDLs, leg extensions, and calf raises all with the same reps. He finished his workout with a core circuit and headed for the showers.

In the locker room, Erik took a minute to admire his physique. His tattoos stood out against his sculpted arms from all the sweat dripping down his body. He took a few pictures with no real intention of uploading them to his social media, just as progress pics. He just got back into sculpting his body more than bulking up.

After taking a shower, Erik got dressed in an all black hoodie with matching joggers and headed back to his apartment. The drive over only took him twenty minutes. He entered his building greeting the security at the door before walking over to his mailbox. He didn’t expect to find anything except for bills and a few magazines he wasn’t going to keep. Sifting through his mail, he strolled over to the elevators the same time a dark skinned male and a light skinned woman did.

Erik looked up and noticed the guy in passing but not so much as the woman. The elevator doors opened and he entered first, pressing button thirteen. They came in behind him, the woman giggling. Erik turned to look at them over his shoulder to get their attention.

“Which floor?” Erik questioned.

“My bad, thirteen, boss,” the man replied.

Erik nodded and focused his attention back to the elevator doors. He had his AirPod Max headphones halfway covering his ears so that he was aware of his surroundings. The woman had auburn hair sleek down her back and she was dressed like she’d just returned from brunch. The man with her was dressed in flashy attire, all designer, drawing a lot of attention to himself.

“‘Dell,” the woman whispered, “You owe me for last time.”

“I gotchu, baby.”

The elevator doors opened and Erik went his way. The couple left the elevator with their hands all over each other. Erik gave them one final look at had to do a double take when he noticed which apartment they were heading to. The man apparently named Dell opened the door while the pretty yellow bone wrapped her arms around his waist. She noticed Erik was watching and gave him a flirty wink.

“Yo, you good?”

Erik slowly pulled his eyes away from the woman to look at him.

“I said, you good?”

His tone was abrasive and Erik simply chuckled with a shake of his head.

“Yo, dead-ass, you keep staring like you got a problem?”

“Calm down, Cordell, it’s cool. Ain’t that serious.”

“I’m only asking questions,” Cordell gave Erik an icy look with his lip turned up into a mug.

“Why don’t you go inside before you get yourself hurt." Erik said with an even tone of voice, just the slightest bit of playfulness. He knew dudes like Cordell very well. Liked to play tough in front of their bitch. He could see that man shaking from where he stood.

Erik walked into his apartment and shut the door behind him. He could still hear the woman trying to calm Cordell down. As long as he didn’t come knocking on Erik’s door, he can talk until he’s blue in the face. Erik wasn’t much for talking.

He flopped down on his couch and mulled over what he’d just witnessed. All he could think about was Fae. What type of dumb ass piece of shit do you have to be to cheat on a woman and disrespect her by bringing her back to where she lays her head? He hardly knew Fae and he was so furious.

Erik went to Instagram and he didn’t need to go to her page, she was the first thing he saw as soon as he opened Instagram.

Outfit of the day. First day back to work as Lead Curator! I’m so excited for this journey 🤎 🖼️

Erik went to her page and was blessed once again with how fine this fucking woman is.

He clicked on a picture that he knew was from a few days ago when they went to the dog park.

How could you cheat on this? Erik needed to tell her. She needed to know that her man was doing her dirty.

_ES87: Big Deuce! 🐾

Erik got a reply back two minutes later beneath his comment.

fae.mcadams: ☺️

Going to his notifications he noticed ten. Fae had liked pretty much all of his photos. Erik couldn’t help but to smirk. He decided to DM her.

_ES87: what’s good mama Deuce!

All he could think about was her cheating boyfriend. He didn’t feel right telling her about it through a DM. If he was going to let her know, it was going to happen in person.

fae.mcadams: nothing much daddy Diesel!

_ES87: are you supposed to be on your phone at work?

fae.mcadams: I’m off actually 🤨

_ES87: Any plans for your evening?

fae.mcadams: my boyfriend is taking me out to celebrate my promotion.

Your boyfriend is fucking some other bitch brains out at the moment.

_ES87: have fun. Much deserved ✨

fae.mcadams: thank you.

Fae got home and she was happy to be in her domain and away from work. It was a pretty busy day for her. She took off her heels and greeted Deuce at the door. He licked her affectionately and Fae went looking for Cordell. She found him in the living room with a gift bag and a big grin.

“Hey, beautiful,” Cordell kissed Fae, “Your gift for being such a hard-working woman.”

“Thank you,” Fae beamed, “I wonder what it is.”

Fae sat the bag down on the coffee table and she pulled out a Louis Vuitton box. She gasped and looked up at Cordell with wide eyes.

“No you didn’t!”

Cordell laughed as he watched Fae rip the top off of the box and pull out the most gorgeous bag she’s ever owned. She had a Louis Vuitton bag years ago but it had gotten damaged in a house fire back in Jersey. She pulled out the cutest little bag that would be perfect whenever she went out for drinks and needed something small to carry her things.

“It’s just perfect,” Fae pouted, “Thank you so much!”

Fae jumped into Cordell’s arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. She stared longingly into his eyes before pecking his lips a few times. He tapped her on the butt and then let her back down. Fae grabbed her gift and headed for her room, giddy and smiling from ear to ear.

“We got dinner reservations in about two hours!” Cordell shouted from the couch.

“I’m gonna freshen up and get ready now!”

Fae undressed and went to take a shower. She double cleansed, exfoliated, rubbed down in body oil, and spritzed herself all over with Eilish Eau de Parfum. She got dressed in a black turtleneck dress and paired it with black boots and her new bag. She styled her hair in a half-up, half-down look and accessorized with gold jewelry. She walked out to find Cordell wearing an off-white cable-knit sweater with black jeans and black Timbs. He had on his gold Rolex and gold cross chain. He looked great and his outfit complimented hers. As they were leaving hand-in-hand, Erik was exiting his apartment dressed in black jeans as well with an olive green crew neck, and black Doc Martens. He had diamond studs in both of his ears, rings on his fingers, and a thick diamond Cuban link hanging from his neck.

Erik and Fae locked eyes and Erik was devouring her with one look. There was no denying his attraction to Fae. He started from her feet all the way up to her hair, dragging his eyes over her frame slowly, like he was studying a canvas. Fae could feel her stomach lurch when his sensual gaze focused on hers again. He was silently telling her that she looked damn good. When he looked away at Cordell, his eyes became cold and menacing. Fae looked at Cordell and he mirrored Erik’s expression.

What the hell is going on?

“Hi,” Erik greeted Fae before pressing the down button on the elevator.

“Hello.”

It was safe that they didn’t mention names. Something transpired between the two of them and Fae wanted to know what happened.

They all entered the elevator, Cordell with his arm around Fae, pulling her close, while Erik remained in front of them, keeping his eyes forward. It was eerily silent the entire ride down. They made it to the lobby floor and Erik stepped out first. Fae went ahead of Cordell and when she stepped out she shared a sneaky glance with Erik. What happened next she wasn’t prepared for.

“You look amazing.”

Fae's eyes went round with surprise at his boldness. She parted her glossy lips to say something, but Cordell grabbed her hand, leading her in the opposite direction.

“I swear, this nigga is asking to get his ass beat.” Cordell spoke angrily.

Erik smirked and walked towards the garage entrance. But he didn’t leave without a final word.

“Don’t hurt ‘em love.”

Fae blushed and gave Cordell a stern look for him to chill. He was so pissed a vein appeared in the middle of his forehead.

“Let’s go, the ride is waiting,” Fae lightly shoved Cordell and he finally walked out of the building.

The ride over was uncomfortable. Fae would cut her eyes to Cordell and see him jerking his leg and blowing out his breath harshly. Fae grabbed his hand and rubbed it with her thumb to calm him down.

“Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”

“Ask that nigga. I don’t even know that clown. He had the issue with me first.”

“Cordell,” Fae looked heavenward, “It was just a compliment. If that’s why you’re upset you really shouldn’t be. I’m your woman.”

“This Michael B. Jordan looking-ass nigga got one more time to look at me like he wanna do something.”

Fae shut her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

“And do you know him or something?”

“I’ve seen him in passing, Cordell.”

Fae felt small beneath his accusatory gaze. She knew that she’d done more than see him in passing. She spent a lot of time with him some days ago with their dogs and exchanged socials. She even stalked his Instagram page, liking all of his photos. And his Twitter, on the surface level it looked innocent with not many posts, but his likes…

“You let me know if he tries anything, Fae. I’ll knock his ass out, dead-ass.”

“Cordell, are we going to talk about this all night? Everything was going so well.”

Cordell dragged his hand down his face.

“I’m sorry.”

He grabbed Fae by the hand and brought it to his lips to kiss.

“This is supposed to be your special day.”

“It is. And you’re ruining it.” Fae said with a whiny voice.

Cordell chuckled, “I am. Daddy sorry.”

It’s been a week since they both crossed paths.

But Fae didn’t stop looking through his Instagram.

She spent an unhealthy amount of minutes staring at his pictures.

And an even unhealthier amount of minutes scrolling through his Twitter likes. Post after post after post had her squirming. It’s obvious that’s his passion. Fae had it bad. So bad.

What was she thinking?! Fae stood up from her work desk and gathered her things to leave. She wasn’t going to get herself caught up. She’d never been this distracted by another man in her life. Fae bid farewell to her coworkers and made her way towards her car. She got in and followed the exit out of the garage and out onto the bustling New York streets. She preferred to drive in silence to keep her focused.

Her fingers tapped impatiently against her stirring wheel twenty minutes into traffic. All she could think about was Erik’s body. His voice. His eyes. His Twitter likes. She was losing it. She knew it was wrong to think these thoughts about him. Fae also knew that she had to distance herself from Erik indefinitely. She’s in a relationship and it’s not appropriate to allow another man to flirt with her.

Finally home, she parked her car and took her time exiting. Her back was turned and she was reaching for her work bag when she was startled by a pair of hands on her waist. She shot up and turned quickly, sighing with relief before glaring at him.

“Erik! Don’t do that. What is wrong with you?”

“My bad, ma,” Erik furrowed his brows, “I called you like three times just now.”

“…you did?”

Erik slowly nodded his head, “yeah. I’m sorry I scared you. Need some help?”

“No thanks,” Fae shut her car door and slipped past him.

“How was work?”

Her eyes took in his appearance and she wished she hadn’t. He had on a leather letterman jacket, a white T-shirt that clung to his chest and torso, and medium blue denim jeans with Jordan’s on his feet. His locs looked freshly retwisted and that tapered fade was lined up with the sharpest clippers known to man.

“Productive.”

Erik opened the door for her and Fae thanked him. She walked as fast as she could to the elevators but Erik was right on her heels.

“Sorry about last week.”

Fae looked up at Erik, “It’s okay.”

“You don’t look like it’s okay. You look like you’re mad at me.”

They entered the elevator and Fae pressed the button before Erik’s finger could even touch it. He blinked his eyes and poked his lip out playfully.

“I’m not mad at you.” Fae said with a flat tone.

“Uh-huh.”

Fae kept staring at his hair and he caught her looking. Erik chuckled, hands in his pockets.

“How my boy Deuce doing?”

“He’s good. Diesel?”

“Same old pit.” Erik said.

Erik rocked back and forth on his heels as if he wanted to say something.

“You okay?” Fae asked, genuinely concerned.

“…Whatchu got planned for tonight?”

Fae felt her stomach do a somersault.

“Uh—Erik–I don’t think—”

“Fae,” Erik turned to look at her, “I wanna tell you something…something important…something you should know. I figured you could meet me at that bar across the street. It’s not a date, I promise.”

Fae studied his face, looking for any signs of untrustworthiness. He didn’t take his eyes off of her, and he looked upset about something. She wondered if this had anything to do with Cordell. She’d been trying and trying for days now to get him to open up and he keeps shutting her out. They even argued about it a few times. This could be her chance to find out what the hell happened.

“Alright. I can meet you at the bar tonight. To talk.”

Fae emphasized on the talk.

“Yes ma’am. Just talking.”

Erik gave her a smirk and held the elevator door for her. She gave him a shy smile before walking towards her apartment.

She had to figure out what she was going to wear.

@goddessofthundathighs @theegoldenchild @hearteyes-for-killmonger @imagining-greatness @chaneajoyyy @uzumaki-rebellion @theeblackmedusa @lisayourworries @bellleame @ratedbadgal @bombshellbre95 @cecereads209 @cancerianprincess @dameshaemonique @6lack-1otus @thickemadame @thickeeparker @stinkalinkkkk @ehniki @electrixit @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @bakarisprxncess @melodicheauxxlovesfood @bxolux @sweet2krazee @bluesole16 @90sisthenew80s @ispywithmylileye @geemamii @unbotheredblackchild @nubianbabee @adoreesun @blackpinup22 @nayaxwrites @dersha89 @honeytoffee @thickianaaaa @modelmemoirs @why-wait-4-eventually @angelicniah @queenfaithmarie @soulfulbeauty19 @asweet-serendipity @aijha @novaniskye@princessxotwod@callmemckenzieee@blowmymbackout @lahuttor@momobaby227@blackerthings @kenbieee @palmstreesallday @kokokonako

[vanishedinvain]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄

—𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader (but she doesn't show up yet, sorry lol)

summary: benedict's last moment of contentment before the storm that marooned his dreams.

warnings: very very brief mention of a gun, baby's first fic (it's me, i'm baby)

wc: 1.6k

next chapter // series masterlist

The Wiminet Art House sits just outside the limits of Mayfair, owned by the Dowager Baroness Lyra Wiminet. It is only half the size of a wing at Somerset House, and most of the artists are either anonymous or so unknown, they are as good as anonymous. It crams in an overwhelming number of pieces, barely a centimeter between each frame. It features a myriad of styles: soft landscapes, portraits, absurd finger-paintings, violent war scenes. 

When it first opened, every London newspaper dismissed it as the eccentricity of a widow, mad without a man to guide her. There was no cohesion, they said. Downright tasteless. Where was the class? The refinement? It was a laughingstock for all of two days before the ton moved on as they always did.

It was also Benedict Bridgerton’s most frequented gallery. And Eloise had no idea why.

“You have been here at least twenty times in the past year, and they have only changed a single painting,” Eloise pointed out on one of these trips. Though she did not prefer to visit the same blasted gallery with the same blasted paintings, it was more merciful than watching Daphne and their mother flit about the house searching for the perfect dress to secure a proposal from the Prussian prince.

Plus her brother promised to buy her an apricot ice afterwards.

“What could possibly be left to see?” she asked.

They were standing in front of a rather large seascape, one that spanned a quarter of the wall. Benedict turned away to look at Eloise, a grimace upon her face as she tried to see what her brother saw. It was a quality Benedict most appreciated in her; she was stubborn and quick to snark, but she never wrote off his interests as frivolous. She was attempting to understand, even if she was staring at the painting like it personally offended her.  

“Do you remember when you were eleven and Colin brought home that mystery novel for all of us? The one where an opera singer was killed in the middle of a show.”

“An Aria Most Deadly,” she recalled, smiling, “I couldn’t put it down. Col was scolded for bringing home such a—how did Mama word it?—terribly gruesome and improper book.”

He chuckled, remembering their mother’s scandalized face. As Colin was being scolded, she had set the book down on the settee. Eloise, ever nimble, snatched it and ran up to her room with nary a scuff across the floor.

“You re-read it over and over, looking for the clues, even after you’d finished it days prior. A snide comment from the stagehand that was once humorous turned dark. The author’s insistence on describing the location of the candelabra suddenly became obvious.”

“The details were so much clearer in hindsight,” she remarked.

“That is usually the privilege of hindsight.” He gestured back to the painting in front of them. “What do you see?”

She stared for a moment, tilting her head to one side to see if a change in angle would help. It was a turbulent scene, violent even, with outbursts of red and orange screaming amongst the cerulean and imposing slate clouds as the ship went down.

“A shipwreck?” Eloise answered with a shrug. “An unfortunately timed storm?”

Benedict stepped back, and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders, shifting her to the right so that she could stand in his place. “Do you see that spot of red on the ship?”

She squinted slightly. “Clearly, a fire broke out on the ship. Likely from the gunpowder catching on the wood. I mean, it says it in the title, Ship on Fire in Water,” she said, reading off the plaque underneath.

“But look closer at this spot of red at the front of the ship. Or that one by the captain’s quarters. Compare it to how the artist paints the flames,” Benedict insisted, gesturing to each area of interest. “He or she blends out the flames with orange and a bit of yellow usually. But these particular spots aren’t. They’re blended with brown. Maybe even a bit of black. That’s not fire, is it?”

Her eyebrows raised as the realization dawned on her. “It’s blood! Someone was killed. The captain, maybe?” She turned back to look at him in unbridled excitement at the newly-uncovered narrative.

Benedict smiled widely, crinkles forming around his eyes, watching his little sister finally get it, get him. “Possibly.”

“What do you think was the motive? Was it a mutiny?”

He shrugged. “That I am unsure of, dear sister. Every time I come back, I see something new. So, perhaps we need to look at it longer. Or make our rounds and come back with fresh eyes.”

Eloise had bounded off before he even finished.

They spent another two hours in the gallery, making little comments on each one, attempting to decipher a story from it. They even requested a step-ladder for the ones that had been skied because Benedict, having met Lady Wiminet, knew that there was no rhyme or reason as to the placement of each painting.

There was a most brilliant park scene about half a meter down from the ceiling. The artist did not draw a realistic, soft sunset, but a heightened one with punchy plums and a bright tangerine shade to blend. It was a bold choice that Benedict would’ve never thought of. The scene itself was of a promenade, much to Eloise’s displeasure, but she found amusement in mapping out the interpersonal relationships of the swans in the lake.

They made their way back to the bloodied, fiery ship shipwreck, standing in amicable silence before Eloise spoke.

“I understand it now. Why you've been here twenty times. Why you sketch until your fingers shake at dinner, but then use your drawings as fire kindle at night. You’re chasing greatness.”

“I want to get one of mine on these walls one day, El,” he said quietly, as if they weren’t the only people in the room. It was the first time he had admitted that ambition out loud.

“You will,” she replied, equally quiet back.

He sighed in relief. He wasn’t worried about Eloise’s reaction, though her vote of confidence was cherished. He was worried about being so unworthy that the words would refuse to roll off his tongue, lodging in his throat as a croak. But the idea was out there now, and a mirthful giddiness sprouted forth in the soil where his insecurities were rooted.

“I’d be anonymous, though,” he added after a pause.

She frowned, but neither of them made further comments on the subject. He already understood what she didn't verbalize. She dreaded living and dying in anonymity without a university degree or prolific novel attached to her name, something to outlast her that wasn’t a dullard husband or terrifying child. She could not stand the thought that the world might feel zero impact from her existence. 

Benedict, however, was far less eager to sign his name on a canvas. He could be displayed in any gallery in England if he simply asked, regardless of whether he was even good enough. Who would dare criticize a Bridgerton painting, with nine generations of viscounts breathing down their necks? If he were to ever put his name on any of his work, he wanted—needed—to be so good that everyone would be too awestruck by what was in front of them to check whose name was etched onto the little copper plaque beneath the frame.

This was one of the only points of incongruence between the second eldest Bridgerton brother and sister that couldn’t be remedied by a simple anecdote or shift to the right. Though, perhaps there was no need for one; a painter would never ask a writer to adjust her palette and a writer would never tell a painter his meter was off-tempo.

It was an afternoon well spent away from the ornery obligations of the social season, coming home with their appetites spoiled from the promised apricot ices. Benedict grabbed An Aria Most Deadly from the library, and read the first few chapters before retiring for the night. He’d finished the novel after he pried it away from Eloise years ago, so he knew it was the conductor who had killed the opera singer. This knowledge only pulled the deftly placed clues into crisp focus upon this second reading; even the first chapter was littered with hints.

Perhaps that is why when he sits in the viscount’s study, the one that was never supposed to go to him, he often thinks about the night of Granville’s party. That night began with him feeling so alive, more alive than he could ever fathom. Yet, it ended with a sinking stone of dread taking up a months-long residence in the pit of his stomach.

Were there clues he should’ve seen?

If he’d been less drunk off the wine or the women or both, he’d have noticed Daphne wasn’t wearing the necklace gifted to her by the prince, even though he clocked the ostentatious clunk of jewelry when she left for the Trowbridge Ball. Or that the hem of her dress was muddy and her face was pinched, on the verge of tears.

If he wasn’t so preoccupied with how to take advantage of his freedoms as the spare of the family, he’d have noticed the blooming violet bruises on Anthony’s knuckles as he yanked Benedict into the study with considerable force.

It wasn’t until he was rolling his shoulder, about to complain that his arm could've been popped out of its socket, when the gun box was placed on the desk with a resounding thud. 

Things only clicked into place as Anthony began frantically talking about estates and dowries and an appointment with the duke at dawn, but there were signs from the moment he walked in the door.

The details were always so much clearer in hindsight.

next chapter // series masterlist

a/n: they dropped new abc pictures last month, and i decided to make it everyone else's problem by starting this fic. now it’s bridgerton eve!!! rejoice!!!

[mizusnose]

Hii!! I love ur writings AND UR ART TOO! I have a req 😈

Mizu meeting reader who has heterochromia!

And I miss you on a train, I miss you in the morning

Been missing Japan tons recently so this one’ll be set in modern day Tokyo. Here is a list of translated terms/phrases:

Gouchyui kudasai. Abunai desu kara.. : Please be careful, since it’s dangerous

Keigo: super politeful form of words/grammar.

Gaikokujin: foreigner.

daijoubu desu: It’s okay/I’m fine. In this situation, can also mean: I’m okay (without it)

arigatou gozaimasu: thank you (very much)

samu—!: cold/chilly. it’s actually 寒い (samui), but ppl shorten it in daily conversation by dropping the i.

arigatou: thanks, more familiar.

ohayo: good morning

Summary: A meet-cute in a train car leads to an unlikely friendship that blooms into something more. Discussion of beauty standards in Japan. Insecurities are discussed. Tons of flirting, some heavy petting.

SFW, some nudity but nothing blatantly sexual.

— — —

The first time you saw her, it had been on your morning commute to work. The autumn weather muted that far underground. The wind from departing and arriving trains was the only thing that would create a breeze in the otherwise stagnant air.

She was easy to notice.

Her height forced her to duck under the hanging advertisements with a practiced ease, neck long and slender. A white turtleneck against thin golden chains peeked out from her indigo jacket, spots of sunlight soaked into the snow.

And her eyes—a frozen-over ocean in the middle of the Marunouchu line, an early morning in winter. You breathed and suddenly it was the dead of winter in Sendai and the birds fluttered away up above you.

It’d only been a second, a millisecond, the flutter of a bird’s feather. Then she was gone. Her dark hair a shadowing eclipse against the sharp of her chin, the red of her nose—her eyes.

The train ride went uninterrupted. A jingle, shuffling, and then you were on your way to work. You didn’t quite notice though. Your breath a bleary thing in your ballooned-out chest. Belly wide and searching. An open mouth, fanged and hungry.

The next time you see her, it’s in the dead of night. The last train barely caught. Your mini skirt pressed against your bare thigh and the seat. Make-up dark and hair wild in the nearly empty train car. Winter’s fist had started to close around the Tokyo metropolitan area and the nights became a sharp kind of cold. You felt frozen in your seat.

She’d been sitting there, right across from you in the middle of the row of empty seats. Straight tapered office pants meeting her oxford shoes, that same indigo jacket, golden chains glinting in the glow of the moving lights outside. Her glasses caught in the passing stations, a muted orange that blocked the blue of her eyes.

You stared, entranced. You knew it was rude, but the image she made against the smeared nighttime Ginza scenery made you hold your breath, amazed. The last time you’d seen her, it was too quick. Barely a snapshot of a second. So you drank your fill, greedy and tipsy. The train shifted on the tracks and you both leaned into the bend, your bodies in line.

You distantly wonder if she’s willingly not paying attention to you after the doors automatically open and close following two stops. She hasn’t looked up once from her book, her fingertips a dull pink against the English title.

You want to put them in your mouth—a wild thought that conjures itself in your bleary mind.

When she finally does look up, her eyes greet your own and holds—a challenge. Her dark eyebrows furrow: anger. She observes you closer, focusing on your eyes.

You blush, and quickly look away.

You know she’s seen them: your eyes. People usually narrow their own eyes at you after realizing, and yet—hers shift when you meet them again. There’s no longer a scowl, her eyebrows rise instead, lips parted. A question, a surprise, Intrigue.

Oh, you think, oh.

Your chest buzzes and you wonder if your lipstick is still intact. If your eyeliner hasn’t been smudged. If you still look desirable.

There’s no one else but you two, so you quirk an eyebrow, satisfied to see her flush and look away. The cut of her jaw hidden by her short dark hair.

Her wired earbuds follow, they press against her chin and her hair, and you wonder what she’s listening to. If she can hear your breath quicken, heart rate spiked.

The train doors open at your stop and your stomach flips when she stands as well. Her head ducks underneath an advertisement about train manners, and she waits for you to stumble out first. You feel her hands around the air of your body, the pressure of the feeling against your waist. She doesn’t touch, but you wish she had.

“Gouchyui kudasai. Abunai desu kara..” She mutters down to the ground after you’ve both swiped out of the station. Keigo and all.

Her hair flutters in the tunnel wind, grey eye bags and pink cheekbones that make you wonder what her job is. You settle your miniskirt and nod quickly. The glow of the FamilyMart shines on you both, a play, an experiment.

Yet, as she turns to leave, you feel like it’s gone interrupted. Your story, and hers.

“I’ve! um—I’ve seen you around”

She stops, doesn’t turn around. You continue in clunky Japanese. The alcohol settling deeper in your belly, confidence rising in your throat,

“Are you free for lunch or dinner or..”

She freezes—and you feel like you’ve misread the entire situation, but as she turns back around, she nods. A jerky thing that heats up your face.

Her necklace glints in the nearby streetlights as she puts her Line info into your contacts. Her hand encompasses all of your phone, fingers long and palm wide. You ache at the sight.

“Mizu?” Your fingernails brush the character she’s entered after she hands it back to you: 水. Mizu, mizu mizu.

“Mn. My parent’s..Gaikokujin. Thought it sounded pretty.” She looks embarrassed, her short cut hair brushing her jaw, her ears. Yet, her eyes stay on yours. A lull.

“It is.” You swallow around your words. Greet her with your own gaze, a smile.

She doesn’t trust you to walk home in your stumbling state, so she guides you into the FamilyMart nearby.

She grabs a water bottle for you, a hot milk tea for herself. Like this, in the fluorescent light, she’s taller than the aisles and towers above you. Her nape meets her neck and the hair is shaved there. Short—like a boy’s. You want to touch the skin there, just below it.

She pays despite your assurance that you can pay for yourself.

“‘ts only 120 yen.” is what she says, turns to the cashier and waves away a bag, daijoubu desu, collects the receipt and turns to leave, arigatou gozaimasu. A barely there bow, the receipt crushed in her palm, and then you’re both outside in the softly falling snow.

She opens the bottled water for you and you hiss after you take it: samu—!

She chuckles, watches you take the lip of the bottle into your mouth: tracks your throat as you swallow. You feel like you’re burning up inside your chest and finish half the bottle in one go.

“Do you live far?”

“Just past the next streetlight. I’ll be okay, promise.”

She looks unsure. It’s not windy, but strands of her hair push against her face. She presses it away. Behind her ear that has a stud in the soft flesh of her lobe. You follow the movement in your tipsy state. Watch it glimmer in the night.

“Let’s meet again soon, then.” Her hand gestures to your bare legs, eyes averted and away—flushed, “Stay warm.”

She presses the hot milk tea into your hands. Swaps it out for your water bottle. It sloshes against the plastic when she meets your gaze. She’s inspecting you. Tracing the outline of your face, your eyes. Your fingertips welcome the warmth, and you open your mouth to thank her: arigatou

“Get home safe.” Her hands brush your own, and she grins at the touch, slow and soft.

A taxi’s unoccupied sign blinks on in the dark nearby. The rush of the trains sound behind you, a car drives by.

She leaves then, and you watch her go. Her shoulders sharp in the cold night. The snow falls on you but the unopened milk tea burns and you think of her again and again. Even after you turn and walk away too.

The walk back is slippery and when you get home, your phone sits content in your pocket. You smile, a big happy thing. Her name sits in your mouth, and you think: Mizu, mizu, mizu. As if your lips would forget in the morning.

—

You go out for dinner later in the week.

Mizu is shy. She jokes only after you’ve both ordered a round of sapporo, her flush an insistent thing. Her neck is long and you watch as it reddens through the night. The glow of the shop the only thing keeping your hands to yourself.

The conversation flows steadily. Like two lifelong friends. The banter is easy, and the flirting easier. You notice Mizu’s steady gaze on you and you smile to welcome it. A flower unfurling in the sun.

You both promise to do it again afterwards. Mizu’s hands linger on yours when you leave, and the touch sinks into you, a slow gulp of water against your throat.

It’s breathless and exciting, being with Mizu. She texts you ohayo’s and brushes your hair out of your face, stands close in the train, and slips her hand into yours when she walks you back home after your fifth date. The first night you spend together, her thumb slips against your cheekbones and she smiles,

“You are so beautiful.”

She kisses you and your body and your thighs. She fucks you the way she had promised over texts late at night. Kisses your eyelids afterwards, a love that blooms between you both.

“Did you ever get bullied about it?” She asks one morning.

You’re both naked, the sunshine glinting on the sheets and into the kitchen where you’re making coffee. The question is asked unsure, a train passes by in the distance.

“I did. Not too much, but yeah.”

“Me too.” Mizu shoves on her shirt, a button down that she leaves open, the space between her breasts littered in marks, “Kids can be mean.”

You nod, tilting your head to the side when Mizu comes up behind you and kisses your throat. The muscle in your shoulder. Your back: the bone there.

“You’re stunning.” She whispers. Moves her hands up your body, a warmth that stirs between your legs, “Fuck what anyone says—kids especially.”

You laugh, twisting around to face Mizu. Her eyes meet your own, a clash of colors and you let her gaze win. You tuck your face into her neck and blow a raspberry to the skin there.

“It’s not so bad now. Usually, people just think I forgot to put in my other contact.” Mizu huffs, lets her hands wander lower, “The plus side is that I got a hot girlfriend out of it.”

You pull back and peck Mizu’s unassuming lips. She stutters around the sudden labeling, and you smile to let her know it’s okay. It’s okay.

You spend the day together, a lazy Sunday. And when you see the scene you both make in the bathroom mirror after a shower you flush at it all: Mizu, naked, her eyes boring into you and tracing the lines of your body. And you, the color of your eyes, each a separate hue. Yet, the love inside them the same and as blatant as ever.

“You’re beautiful.” You say, grabbing Mizu and kissing her. Pushing her bangs away from her eyes, hand settling on her back. There’s a freckle there you’d kissed earlier. You press into it.

Mizu chuckles, finds your lips and pulls away to whisper into the opening of your mouth. A secret, a wish, a promise.

You keep every single one.

———

Haha, so I really just miss FamilyMart and affordable food and the stellar Japanese public transportation so here this is. Didn’t specify reader’s eye color so you can imagine whatever colors you want—including your own!

title inspired by about you by the 1975

[perseephoneee]

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓘𝓥

In which, you, a lady of the ton, are forced to participate in courting season. Except that courting season comes with one particularly silver tongued Prince who is making it his mission to drive you absolutely insane.

↳ fic masterlist  ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist

a/n: guys the joy i felt writing this one is insane. i hope you like it.

The recent weeks had consisted of following Loki’s lead, which you loathed to do. Mainly because he was bossy, and you fought the urge to snap at him in public. You entertained tea with Thor as well as another dance. One day, you even brought Ivy to the promenade with you as you met up with Thor and Loki. Unfortunately, you and Loki spent more time correcting each other’s literary analysis than you did bonding with Thor. Fortunately, your sister has always been charming, and the opportunity wasn’t lost. 

As you waited for Loki to make his next move, you busied yourself with everything except the courting season. Word of Thor’s interest in you got out, and you had several gentlemen callers throughout the days. Most of them were fine but boring. They had no interest in the books you read, and most of their questions came back to family and the ‘role of women’ within the house. Your Grandmother would protest, but you would rather stab yourself with your fork than entertain a conversation about child rearing with a man you barely knew. 

It was on one afternoon that you felt yourself growing impatient waiting for Loki. You felt like you were waiting on a cliff for someone to push you off, and you disliked the lack of control that came with playing to Loki’s whims. With a well-placed bribe to a nosy coachman, you were able to learn that Thor and Loki were currently at Angelo’s School of Arms, an institution where men could practice their combat skills through the art of fencing. You were well versed in its corridors, having spent plenty of time reading in its halls while you waited for your brother to finish practice. 

Taking the carriage to Angelo’s now left a lump in your throat as you recounted your brother's fate. You preferred not to think about it. Tragedy informed character, but you didn’t want it dominating your day-to-day.

Pulling up to the school, you jumped out of the carriage before the footman could assist you and gave as charming of a smile as you could. Women were scarce around the institution, but you were never one to follow societal rules that well. The front doors were as grand as you remember, and the floors were perfectly polished. The sound of clanging metal filled the hallways like bell tolls filled churches. You hiked up your skirt, taking a right and left to the central atrium where you knew the princes would be sparring. You found them engaged in combat right as you entered. Loki managed to knock Thor down, but Thor had already noticed you and paid no mind to the defeat. 

“Lady Chilton,” he exclaimed, a genuine smile as he took off his helmet. “I wouldn’t expect to find you here.”

“What can I say,” you chuckled, clasping your hands together. “I like going where I’m not allowed.” Thor let out a deep chuckle at that. “And perhaps I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

He looked down bashfully at that, and for once, you saw the boy instead of the prince. It was refreshing in a way you didn’t expect. Loki rolled his eyes behind you, and you stuck your tongue out at him when Thor wasn’t looking. You didn’t need to pretend to be a lady in front of the raven-haired prince; he didn’t care anyway. 

“I’m afraid we’d probably bore you, m’lady,” Thor gestured to the rest of the room, where several other gentlemen had paused to observe the conversation. Instead of shying away, you held your head up high, acting like you belonged there even if the beating of your heart proved otherwise. 

“I like observing a good duel,” you responded. “For your blade, do you prefer a foil or a rapier? I always found the epee to be much more exciting– less rules.”

Both Thor and Loki blinked in surprise. Thor was more shocked, while Loki was amused– the hint of a smile on his lips. You just raised your eyebrows expectedly. 

“The epee, as you said,” Loki answered instead, stepping closer to your group. 

“Would you like me to show you how to fence?” Thor inquired, earning a few side glances from the other gentlemen in the room. Women weren’t really allowed to fence, but you don’t think Thor cared about that. And frankly, you didn’t either. 

“Gladly,” you bowed your head, taking the handle of the outstretched epee. You twisted it in your palm, figuring out how the weight counteracted your balance. You let Thor position you, wrapping his hand around yours to show you the proper grip. He demonstrated a parry and thrust, and you carefully watched his positioning and stance. 

“I’ll spar you, m’lady,” Loki chimed, hands clasped behind his back as he observed you watching Thor with rapt attention. You flipped your hair over your shoulder and narrowed your eyes at him. “I promise I’ll go easy.”

“I’m sure,” you smirked, biting back a smile as you took your position. At this point, every man was paying attention to the commotion. You felt your heart hammer with all their gazes on you, but you refused to be seen as weak in front of these gentlemen. You took a deep breath, bowing to Loki to begin your duel. 

The best thing you could have in battle is the element of surprise. Whether physically or intellectually, knowing more than your opponent thinks you know can tip the odds in your favor. It’s something that Thor or Loki should’ve asked before agreeing to let you spar. Then, they would’ve learned that you would beg your brother after his fencing classes to teach you. He eventually relented, and in the middle of the night, when your parents were asleep and couldn’t reprimand you, he taught you everything. During this period, you were pretty interested in pirates, a topic your Grandmother was not thrilled about. You fancied yourself one of the pirates in your books when you fenced in the dark night.

That knowledge led you to serve a quick offense to Loki. You saw his eyes widen slightly as you parried his thrust, immediately counterattacking. In one swift movement, you had not only knocked his rapier out of his hand but also caused him to fall flat on the ground—the tip of your epee at his throat.

Loki looked at you with an indecipherable look—a hint of amusement with something darker. You felt a heat crawl up your neck with his stare, but you were ultimately distracted by all the commotion from the audience. The other gentlemen were clapping or laughing, giving you appreciative glances. You extended a hand to help Loki, pulling him up with the bit of strength you had. You gave a small teasing bow, a grin on your lips. 

“Beginners luck,” you said coyly, twirling your epee. 

“Evidently,” Loki rolled his eyes, a knowing look as if he could see right through you. 

“Any lady who can defeat my brother in a duel has all my respect,” Thor laughed fullheartedly, inspiring a smile in everyone else. You’ll have to teach me some time.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” you smiled. “I should be on my way any longer, and I’ll smell like the lot of you,” you pointed at all the surrounding men in the room, earning more laughs. Thor offered you his arm, which you gladly took as you left the room. Your cheeks were still heated, and you hoped that you would cool down before you arrived home. Thor strolled beside you. One thing you did appreciate about him was his ability to appreciate silence. 

“You continuously impress me,” Thor murmured, his voice quiet. You glanced at him as you continued down the hall, finding solace in the patterns on the floor. 

“I don’t try to.”

“You’re well-read, shockingly adept at fencing, and unafraid,” Thor stated. “I greatly admire you.”

You paused at that, stopping in the hallway and turning to look at him in full. He stood much taller than you and was very well built, as if he exercised often. His blond hair was tied back, and there was a constant sense of movement with him. It’s as if he could never fully pause long enough to polish himself up unlike Loki, who always had a cold sense of control. 

“My sister was always the friendly, outgoing one,” you sighed, fiddling with your skirt. “I’m only well-read because I’m shy.”

“Introspective? Yes. Shy? I doubt that,” Thor grinned. “It takes a lot to keep up with you.”

“That’s also what my sister says,” you laughed. You bid farewell to Thor at the foyer, letting yourself walk down the steps to one of the available carriages. You found that meeting to be a success, and by any chance, Thor appeared to like you. Still, you felt nothing but appreciation when you were with him. You’re a fool to expect a love match, but it doesn’t mean you can’t yearn for one. You expected to have a quiet carriage ride by yourself, but as you’re about to depart, the door opens, and Loki slides in across from you. You glared at him. 

“Did I invite you–” 

“Lovely work today,” Loki cut you off, adjusting his jacket. “My brother seems to like you. Surprisingly.”

“Do you find me that unlikable?” you inquired, biting the inside of your cheek from frustration. Loki seemed to ignore your irritation at him, almost relishing in it. 

“I think your wit is going to get you in trouble,” he responded cooly. You didn’t answer; you just turned to stare out the carriage window instead. 

“Where did you learn to fence?” Loki asked. For once, his tone was not mocking. It was genuine; he was just curious about something he didn’t know about you. You turned away from the window, looking at the prince before you. 

“My brother,” you uttered. You could see Loki trying to remember a potential brother you would’ve had but coming up with nothing. “He died.”

“How did it happen?” Loki asked. You appreciated him not giving condolences. Your whole life had been of condolences; you didn’t care to have more. 

“He went overseas with my parents. There was a storm,” you felt the clench around your heart, but you ignored it. You had lots of practice ignoring your grief. Ivy might be older, but you were always the responsible one, the sensible one. You never had time to grieve. “No matter, it was a long time ago.”

“I had an older sister; she passed as well,” Loki said solemnly. Your eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t seem that upset—more…at peace. You softened in understanding. This was his way of connecting. Of telling you that he got it. The loss and the hole you felt whenever you saw something that reminded you of them. Except, he would never say the words ‘I understand’ or ‘that’s horrible’ because that wasn’t in his nature. This was better, though. The two of you, in grief but surviving. It was much better than any condolence he could’ve offered. 

“Why me?” you murmured, your voice soft in comparison to the horses' hoofbeats or the wind's sound. You weren’t entirely sure what you were asking, but Loki seemed to understand. 

“Why not you?” he quirked an eyebrow at that, the hint of a smirk on his lips, for once, you could see how he could be charming instead of mischievous. Thor might be all thunder, but Loki was the calm before the storm. 

“For all your misgivings, you can be quite agreeable,” you smiled coyly, enjoying the huff of laughter from your companion. 

“Oh darling,” Loki huffed. “I am anything but agreeable.”

The carriage pulled up to your home before you could say anything more, and you accepted his help descending from the carriage. You smoothed down your skirt when you hit the ground and turned one last time to see Loki looking at you just like he was during your sparring match. 

“Sweet dreams, Y/N,” he winked, allowing the carriage to pull him off before you could find a response. Instead, you pulled yourself inside, your mind elsewhere as your body went through the motions of eating supper and getting ready for bed. You answered your grandmother’s dutiful questions, ignored Ivy’s questioning looks, and eventually found solace in your bedroom. As you blew out the candle by your bedside, allowing yourself to nestle more profound into your comforter, you prayed for a quick and dreamless sleep that was inherently unremarkable. Instead, you found yourself out at sea, the waves wrapping around your body as if in a hug, and eyes too green to be anything but his staring back at you. 

taglist:: @gruftiela @eleniblue @iwrite-things @youneedanap @huntress-artemiss @linaax @pisces-celeste @marygoddessofmischief @saay-karani @choki.laufeyson @foxherder

[asparklethatisblue]

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating + Fitzier 👀

yee!

“You remember Alan, from the charity fundraiser last month? He’s been asking if he’ll see you at the party tonight.”

James looked up from his reflection in the mirror, where he’d painstakingly been trying to make a french braid look neat. Dundy was leaning against the doorway of his bedroom, ready to go and just watching James finish up. He frowned, sorting through any recent business encounters he’d had.

“The Canadian?”

Dundy grinned.

“Exactly the one. You’ve gotten along so well, I’m surprised it took this long.”

James returned his attention to the braid, already only half listening.

“I didn’t think we had any common acquaintances.”

“Graham goes to the same gym. And I have it on good authority that he’s ripped.”

James saw Dundy wink at him through the reflection as he tucked bobby pins into his hair. He hummed non committedly.

“So you know you’ll have something rock hard to grind against if you get it on after the party.”

James paused.

“What?”

“Come on Jas, when was the last time you hooked up with anyone? This dry spell can’t be good for your psyche.”

“What dry spell?” James asked, finally turning in his chair to stare at Dundy. “I’m half moved in with Francis, didn’t I tell you that?”

Dundy rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah right. I have eyes, there’s no way you’re genuinely getting anything out of whatever it is you two tell people you do.”

James stared at him. Dundy stared back, his grin not dropping, not waving it off and cracking a joke about James being boring and settling down and this being a tease. Was he being serious?

“I’m getting everything I need and more out of that relationship,” James said, his voice clipped.

Dundy snorted and shrugged.

“Of course you do. Come on then, John’s probably outside with the car by now. And I’m sure poor Alan will be beside himself if we’re too fashionably late.”

James watched him go and turned to look back into the mirror. The man looking back at him was far less happy and at ease than he’d been a mere five minutes ago. The braid was perfect, but suddenly James felt the need to rip out the pins and run his hands through his hair until there was nothing artful about the mess at all.

Had his friends really been so wilfully blind? Yes of course they barely saw Francis, despite working in the same office building . He never took Francis to the same places his friends went, he never posted tons of pictures of his hot new date when he and Francis took long walks by the river. He didn’t describe in detail what had been going on, didn’t spin tales of his romantic adventures to his friends. It hadn’t felt appropriate to do so about a man that was more or less their boss now.

But Dundy rolled his eyes when James spoke of Francis in any way that didn’t involve work or gossip. And hadn’t Graham been mentioning men he knew more often, men that his friends once would have tried to set him up with? Charles and John both talked about dating apps or bars and looked at James as if he cared. Had none of them taken him seriously this entire time?

James’ phone buzzed and he picked it up reluctantly. The little string of hearts in the contact name immediately softened his expression, and he eagerly opened the message.

“Hpe you have fun tinight 😘”

The phone buzzed again.

“Casserelo in the fridge if yiu come home late”

James felt his lips twitch and replied with a few heart emojis. 

He suddenly wanted nothing more than to go home and join Francis in the house that he’d half moved into already. Maybe they’d watch some old movie, or Francis would read a book while James scrolled on his phone. Francis would pet his hair in the way James loved, and maybe he’d take him to bed, kissing him until he was breathless and making him cry out in pleasure in ways no overly fit gym bro from any old party could hope to achieve. And then, of course, Francis would kiss him regardless of how the night went, and would whisper that he loved him as James fell asleep in his arms.

James slid the phone away and got up, giving his reflection one last, encouraging smile.

He’d go to that party and roll his eyes at whoever his friends tried to set him up with, and then he’d spend the evening judging the poor guy for all his flaws and the way he could not possibly hope to measure up to Francis. 

Perhaps he’d also snog Francis in the middle of a meeting on Monday. Let his friends try and wave off that one

[just-prime]

8 : Oh so boring

The horrifying MCU-ification of the Star Wars universe is in horrific display as 8 episodes lead nowhere but setup.

Before I get to everything else, I do want to say, Ray Stevenson's passing is a true tragedy, and I appreciate the love and care he clearly put into his character. He was the only compelling one, and I shudder to think of how Disney will probably heartlessly recast.

Now, on to the episode

Well, all the leaks that said it was zombies were right, to the surprise of no one. This is the MCU now, we need something more than just a fuck ton of stormtroopers to blow through, we need an undead CGI army.

First off : The Jedi, The Witch, and The Warlord...FUCK OFF FILONI. YOU ARE NOT CUTE.

The show opens with the attempt to lull Legends fans back into a Sion reference for no reason. Also, Thrawn's super baggy pants seem unnecessary, especially since the design in Rebels always has him in perfectly tailored clothes. Nothing during his decade abroad that would have cause the pants to change that drastically, so it just feels like an unnecessary change that is not an attractive look :(

Morgan's power ups make no sense, and as soon as she got them she was going to die. Her eyes had me making a half dozen Supernatural jokes for obvious reasons. The whole "Blade of Talzin" thing is also very dumb given the fact that I assume Mother Talzin would have used every weapon in her arsenal to stop Grievous, and I would think a lightsaber proof sword is on that list.

The entire "Ezra makes himself a new lightsaber" scene filled me rage for a few reasons.

A) Ezra literally just turned down Sabine's offer of the lightsaber for the martial arts force powers which we never see him use again.

B) Huyang knowing about Caleb and Kanan being the same person feels kinda weird to me to be perfectly honest.

C) Ezra's new lightsaber is boring. Full stop. This is the kid who built a gun into his first one, it makes no sense that he'd make one that looks this mediocre.

D) All of Sabine's family dying horrible deaths on Mandalore has always struck me as a cop out. It's just lazy writing to isolate Sabine.

The Stakes

Spoiler alert : THERE ARE NONE

We knew this was going to end in a cliffhanger for a while now, which means none of the main cast was going to die. Morgan has always been a means to an end for Thrawn, not that her loyalty was ever explain...But none of our heroes were gonna bite it (regardless of how I hoped for Huyang to explode) so there were no stakes. Thrawn had to escape, despite the fact that he is weirdly shaken, so he does. Ezra had to get home, so he does. Sabine and Ahsoka are now trapped on some stupid Mortis world??? Okay, pause, I'm getting ahead of myself here...because before that...

Sabine has the Force now

My deepest condolences to anyone who is finding this out from me, but Sabine is offically confirmed and shown to be Force sensitive. Yes it is dumb. Yes it makes no sense. Yes this is something we all saw being foreshadowed from day one, unfortunately. Especially with the playing down of her Mandalorian-ness (she's constantly losing her helmet, her gun accuracy has utterly gone, she barely uses her gauntlets, etc etc) it was obvious that Filoni wanted to do with her, what he was too cowardly to do with Grogu.

Other miscellaneous shit

It turns out that Ahsoka's shuttle is Jedi era...which makes no fucking sense.

The nightsisters being totally on board with the Empire feels like their ability to tell what's going on in the main universe might be a bit sketchy do to the fact that they missed that the guy in charge of the Empire is the one who ordered Dathomir razzed.

100% of the problems that the gang run into would have been solved if Sabine had a fucking jetpack

They pull the "Thrawn knew Anakin" card out of nowhere in the dumbest possible way, which really just goes to show how much FIloni hates the new canon Thrawn books.

Chopper recognizes Ezra (which was rather cute) before Hera does, because he decides to show up on a New Republic cruiser in full Thrawn stormtrooper garb. Also we don't even get a hug between Hera and Ezra.

Shin (because she exists, remember?) who is also stranded now, goes and appears to be taking over the bandit camp we saw earlier. Have no idea where they are taking that...but honestly, good for Shin doing something for her, this seems like a selfcare move.

Now, the ending...Fucking Mortis

So, the final shot we get of Baylan, he is standing on a giant statue of The Father (there is a statue of The Son, and a destroyed statue of The Daughter) pointing out towards something on the horizon.

Back at the hermit crab people camp, Ahsoka and Sabine (and fucking Anakin's ghost, because that's right people, instead of hanging out with his son, Anakin has been just hovering over Ahsoka this whole time apparently) here this chirping, and it's a fucking creepy hyper realistic CGI Morai.

So yeah, that's clearly how all of the trapped characters are going to get off this planet...the World between Worlds. Now, this brings up a fuck ton more questions...Chief of all being how did Ezra not use this to escape years ago???

And I get that Mortis is not everybody's favorite Clone Wars arc. Which is fair. I don't hate it, but I never loved it, and Filoni dragging in the dumbest piece of Force lore that he created is infuriating. ESPECIALLY with this being so obviously aimed at those who've not watched Clone Wars or Rebels. I'm curious to see how much he immediately recons about it, given that it's been his go-to move since before even Mando s3...

I fear they're going to do something like "Bayan is The Father, Ahsoka is The Daughter, and Shin and Sabine have to fight over being The Son" or some stupid bullshit like that.

I'm glad this is the last Filoni property we're getting for a while, since I'm pretty sure he's not involved with Skeleton Crew at all writing-wise.

I am just so happy it's over!

In the meantime, if you are as annoyed at Filoni as I am, spite him by reading the new canon Thrawn books!!! They are really fantastic and give Thrawn a lot of facinating depth, along with having an incredible cast of side characters.

For those of you who are new or just finding me because of my Ahsoka rants, please stick around!!! I'm sure I will be having other annoyed Ahsoka thoughts in the weeks to come as I think back about the full series and about just everything that it's fucked up. Feel free to pop into my ask box if you're curious about my other Star Wars related opinions, I'm more than happy to answer, though know that for the majority of the recent shows, I do not look fondly.

But if you are looking for some vindication on not enjoying recent Star Wars things, then this is the blog for you!!!

[isanaakira]

Guys Ive been so busy with school and life I've barely had time to actually sit down and enjoy TV or a movie and it's disheartening to be honest.

I have however been reading Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. When I tell you I am obsessed, I am obsessed. I have been reading it slowly to enjoy it since I read it on my way to school. So I just read a few pages here and there just so I can have something to read for a good while. It is soooo good though. I finished book one and I'm on book two chapter 2 currently.

Something that I enjoy is reading the descriptions of the characters and they literally match the cast of the movies. I was like damn they did so fucking good in that part and I love it. Imma be honest as well, I think they did good in capturing the books story in the movie. Apart from being a book enthusiast I also like watching movies. I don't go heavily into them like I want sometimes or like others (absolutely no hate because your guys breakdowns help me love something even more) but I do enjoy the storyline of the movies. It makes sense they did it that way because something I think many people forget is that not everyone reads the books or likes to read. So sometimes they have to do things a certain way to not only appeal to the book readers but the audience that has not read the books. On top of that budgets and stuff. And sometimes writers sometimes just like to write a whole new idea based off a book which is kinda how we like to make fan art and fan fic. Don't get me wrong, yeah it would be so fucking great to have it exactly like the books, but I also appreciate the story telling of the movies.

I'm sorry if I kind of got side tracked. It's just I sometimes get the movie watchers perspective cuz my family doesn't like to read, but they love a ton of movies based on books. So maybe I'm biased 🤷.

But besides that, I am going to continue reading these books for the first time and enjoying the heck out of them. Apart from Lord of the Rings I'm also reading Percy Jackson and currently looking to read something else.

Anyways, stay safe out there. Have a good day 😁 and enjoy your hobbies. Love y'all.

[soul-dwelling]

Thoughts on the clowns going from an interesting representation of one's dark side and the temptation to induldge self destructive madness, into just generic faceless mooks with no personality or point besides bloating the already overstuff moon arc?

It’s wrong for me to generalize, but it seems like most final arcs in serialized stories suffer when they introduce new characters or details that inevitably will not get enough time to develop. This should work: it’s the last arc, break all the rules, so long as the result ends up being a spectacle or too cool not to do or so shocking but concise in reiterating the message that has been reinforced over and over in this story…and the clowns just don’t do any of that--the spectacle isn’t engaging enough, I thoroughly enjoy clowns in pop culture but even these clowns in Soul Eater aren’t that engaging visually or personality-wise, and nothing about the clowns does much to reinforce any message, or at least reinforcing the message of “fear is always with you” in any fashion that another part of the manga didn’t reinforce better. 

And I don’t mean that Soul Eater should be criticized only because the clowns don’t get to develop to their full potential: I can’t think of any series where even main characters reach their full potential in their entire story because that’s not how storytelling works, that’s perfectionism and hence a fool’s errand. No, I mean that the characters and details are just there without any sense of progression, elaboration, or sometimes any use to the story aside from cannon fodder. 

And that is what the clowns feel like: cannon fodder, antagonists that can be done away with easily not only because their personalities are so limited that we feel almost no sadness or any other emotion when they are gone and not only because their power sets are so dull that they can easily overpowered by the protagonists and we won’t miss losing that power set because they weren’t cool enough at all but also because they are dehumanized so killing them off is not regrettable. Oh, Stein wasted a ton of clowns? Who cares--they weren’t human, and they were barely humanized at all, including, again, in terms of having almost zero personality. 

And yet, all of this could be salvaged if the clowns had something to them that was reflective of the larger themes of the story. As you point out, the clowns in parts of Soul Eater were indicative of a character’s dark side. We got to see how jealous Maka can be, how fearful she is of losing her father and her friends and teammates, and how powerless she feels without Soul. All of that is much needed character progression. Yes, I can be frustrated that it still feels a bit forced similar to throwing these details in during the Book of Eibon arc, but it makes sense that Maka would be this emotionally raw after Crona was kidnapped. It is also visually striking: look up just about any Maka clown art by Z-Raid and other illustrators. 

But even then, aside from Maka, what did the clowns actually show us about any character’s dark side? 

We get that with Justin--but even then, the clowns themselves don’t have much in the way of personality to get a sense of how they corrupt Justin. Granted, just about all of Justin’s story only works because of how little is given to us to show how he got corrupted. We know the “why,” we get belated clarification when Justin fights Tezca. But the clowns never have much in the way of personality to give us a sense how this unfolded. It’s good storytelling potential, likely something someone else did in their own fan works. But I wish Ohkubo had committed to some choice. We already have Ragnarok right there at times acting like a bad conscience on Crona’s shoulder--is that how a clown should act towards Justin? Should it be like the Symbiote telling Eddie what he wants to hear, more like what we got in Weisman and Cook’s Spectacular Spidey animated series? 

Edit: I forgot to mention--elliotthezubat once again handles this stuff better: Justin's dilemma works better if you have it more like a clone of himself talking to him, a conversation between two Justins to emphasize different dimensions to his personality and the potential split happening, or the potential for one side overwhelming the other.

When the clowns did pop up to fight for Medusa against Black Star and Tsubaki, and against Team B with the Thompsons, was there really anything gained? Any character progression for Black Star was actually more from fighting Crona, not from fighting a clown, to demonstrate where Black Star and Crona could have gone had each one had different intervention by a parental figure, Black Star at least having Sid and the DWMA, Crona being stuck with an abuser like Medusa. But did the clown unlock any such insight into Kilik, Ox, Kim, and their partners, or Liz and Patty? The clown was just a scientific experiment without any personality of their own. (See also how Ragnarok gets reduced to almost a non-entity as the series persists, and his commentary on what Crona is going through is sorely missed, whether to add insight or just some Falstaff-ian comedic relief with how dire things are getting.) 

The final arc had two major opportunities to justify the importance of the clowns: the characters as their own entities, and the characters as reflective of the path Stein could take. And then the arc fails to live up to either potential. 

Let’s start with the latter first: like the clowns, Stein is falling more and more into madness--and then on the Moon he just doesn’t, instead weaponizing the madness to lay waste to Asura’s forces, re-establishing that even under madness he is still the same person and his commitment to Death and the DWMA does not falter. I’m not asking that the story continue to milk the angst of Stein after Buttataki’s murder, or take the path of the first anime and show Stein falling under Medusa’s sway. But with this being the last arc, this is the last chance to re-establish Stein is a good person. We need that Iron Giant moment hitting us over the head: we didn’t need the Giant to say, “I am not a gun,” but it summarized the point in an obvious fashion. Where is that moment for Stein? Is there a quotation or a panel from the final arc that I’m neglecting that adequately summarizes how Stein’s fight against the clowns is a rejection of the path Stein could have taken and in his last battle in this series recommits to his characterization, how he has progressed throughout almost 100 chapters, where he goes next, and some larger message the manga is trying to say or at least tie into the ongoing themes about courage, fear, and collaborative work? I don’t get that from Stein’s fight against the clowns, but maybe someone else and can share that quotation or panel. 

As for the clowns as their own entities: what do they serve, in terms of their own character progression, or as larger allegorical or symbolic value, or as antitheses or foils to our protagonists? They just seem to be a grab-bag of mythological and literary references: rabbit on the moon, the story of Kaguya. What is Kaguya supposed to tell us in Soul Eater as a foil to Kid? Or, how is she a continuation of ideas Ohkubo is toying with when writing Blair and then later Tamaki in Fire Force? None of these questions really interest me because the potential answers are dull: there is barely anything between Kaguya and Kid to indicate a battle of differing philosophical viewpoints, Kaguya’s shtick is somehow more dull than Blair’s and lacks the other dimensions Blair has (whether in the manga or because fan writers are better at handling her), and the path from Kaguya to Tamaki is just a reminder how gross Ohkubo is when it comes to his attacks against feminism and readers who just get tired of his endless horny misogynistic bullshit. If you just want naked Kaguya, then just go naked Kaguya--that’s more honest and a clearer understanding why this character is here than dressing it up (so to speak) with pseudo-intellectual posturing to try to make her presence and maybe even this arc and this entire manga into something it’s not. 

Or, they’re just leftovers from B Ichi, seeing as they are called “Dokeshi” in the original Japanese version of the Soul Eater manga. Super--this is somehow the less annoying version of Ohkubo’s same trick, that being waiting until the final arc to gesture back to the author’s previous work. I should appreciate that the final arc of Soul Eater referencing B Ichi is a harmless Easter egg, compared to the final arc of Fire Force ruining the continuity and thematic cohesion of Soul Eater. 

And that’s not even getting into how the clowns just re-populating because of Asura’s almost infinite power of madness. 

At least “madness and fear are always with humans” is a clear, understandable message. But clowns? I get that clowns are scary to a lot of people, and their exaggerated details and potentially inhuman grotesque shape is decent shorthand. But this also feels like a failure of using the images to address the message: not everyone is going to find clowns scary, even taking something from childhood enjoyment and making it fearsome isn’t much of a deep message: “I made the things from your childhood edgy” strikes me as lazy. It’s as bad as Ohkubo assuming breasts can only be maternal and must be only a yearning for maternal love as in the final chapter of Soul Eater, or Ohkubo’s regressive cisheteronormative approach to sex as existing only for baby-making and that the idealization of sex appeal is embodied only by an underage teenage girl (again: Ohkubo is fucking gross, fuck this guy) in Fire Force. 

This is Ohkubo latching onto a small set of visual details or story tropes he likes and not letting them go. And it again disrupts what we already had: we go from Shotaro in B Ichi being a good guy who is clownish and literally turns into a clown as a final power-up form, to clowns just being absolutely evil in Soul Eater. Again, what is it with Ohkubo taking something from a previous manga, introducing it into another manga--and then taking a completely different approach in that new manga that contradicts what he did before? I can appreciate an author changing their mind over time, but it also comes across as a failure to let the previous work stand on its own and a refusal to let the message of that earlier story persist without needless contradiction by a later work. It comes across less as the author maturing and changing their mind with time and more like a creator who just wants to keep contradicting themselves for the sake of spurring on an argument (and more attention for the sake of more book sales).

[ramennoodlezzzao3]

Alternate reason as to why Ponyboy joined the party! If you guys want me to make this canon in my fic, it’s not entirely too late, I could add it into a different chapter if you want

My whole life I’ve been devalued, and I was fully aware of that.

Now, of course, nobody downright told me, nobody says that to a twelve year old, but I could tell it was true.

Mom was always too busy keeping Dally out of jail. She always criticized me, comparing me to my brothers if I did anything wrong. When I skipped a grade she barely said anything, she was tryin to figure out what to make for dinner because they had so many. 

They had three, two now considering the fact I wasn’t even a Curtis at this point. 

If the gang went somewhere without inviting me, and I asked about it, she would always go on a tangent along the lines of:

“Oh come on, Ponyboy! You arn’t apart of the gang, your brothers just let you hang around because it would rude not to invite you. Let them spend time with their friends without their little brother nagging them.”

I was ten when she first told me that. That’s when the insecurity started. 

One time, she was trying to bail him out of jail. I hadn’t known he was even jail at the time so I had asked her to come to my track meet. She had never yelled at me so loud and so angrily before.

I never asked her, or anyone for that matter, to go to a track meet again. I just dealt with the fact that I never had a family in the stands and when I won I wouldn’t have a family to celebrate with. I’d be the kid who won but was alone afterwards.

Dad was loved talking to Sodapop about cars and went to every single one of Darry’s football games. Dad was the one that taught Sodapop to fix cars. He was so happy to teach him but when I asked, he was always too busy.

He was always there when Two had a hangover, when Dal needed out of jail, when Johnny was beat up by his dad, when Steve was kicked out by his, when Darry got into a fight or Sodapop had a bad breakup.

But he couldn’t spare five minutes to talk to his youngest son. 

I guess that’s probably my fault. Who would want to talk to me anyways?

Darry never had time, similar to dad. He always had football practice he was hanging with friends. If I needed help on homework, I could always “Do it myself” since I had skipped a grade. If I was ever crying, I was a crybaby.

If Johnny was down, he’d take him to play football or get ice cream. He replaced one little brother for the one he actually wanted. That had stung.

A lot.

But Johnny didn’t have family, so I never said anything. I convinced myself the reason I never got any attention was because Johnny needed it more. So I let him have it. Even if that meant I lost my brother because of it.

Two-bit was always nice to me. I always thought he was the only one who liked me. But that was quickly thrown out the window when I overheard him complaining to dad about beating a babysitter.

I turned down every offer to go anywhere with him after that. I joined tons of free activities at school to keep myself there so h wouldn’t have to babysit. 

I joined the arts club and got really good at drawing and actually enjoyed it a lot. I joined the book club where we all pick a book and read it. We can talk about it when we join again. I joined the fight team, the basketball team, the soccer team, and I kept doing track.

The teachers praised me on how many clubs and teams I joined and always commented on how my family must be proud…they didn’t even know.

I also joined Drama and got any role I wanted, I just had to ask for it. I got Hamilton I the play “Hamilton” and I got Bert in the Mary Poppins musical. My class,ages insisted it was because I was a “Pretty Boy” but I didn’t believe that.

Which is a perfect segway into the next person; Steve. He’s always made fun of me and always told me I was a tag-a-long. Until my mother confirmed what he was saying, I’d always roll my eyes, now I look down and whisper “I know” only loud enough for me to hear.

He would mercilessly make fun of my height and weight. 

“You’re too fat for how short you are”

 “You eat too much, you’re gonna be all chubby when you grow up!”

And everyone laughs. They don’t even try to stop him. Not Darry, not Sodapop. Soda only tried stopping the rude comments after mom and dad died, and I don’t know why.

Dally is self explanatory. He hates me, similar to Steve, and it’s clear. He hates everyone in the world but the gang and I wasn’t apart of the gang. Johnny was the only one he genuinely loved.

He always looked disappointed when I’d go to the drive-ins with them, so I’d make excuses as to why I couldn’t go after I agreed. He’d have a grin on his face when he’d find out it’d only be him and Johnny, or only him and the gang, or only him and Two-bit.

And Sodapop? Sodapop was nicest to me, even more than Two-Bit. He’d invite me places with him and Steve, he’d drive me places after he had gotten his license, he slept in my bed when I’d gotten nightmares.

All it took was for one singular “Shut up! God, you’re so annoying!” To have my one person, my one wall come tumbling down and left in a pile of ash and bricks.

I should have known he didn’t mean it, I should have known he was just having a bad day. But I was thirteen, and growing up how I did, you never think rationally. I asked to stop sharing a room after that too, and Soda happily agreed.

At least Steve couldn’t bug me about that anymore.

Annoying. Brat. Tag-a-long. Stupid. Loud.

Those words rang in my head all the time and they are what kept me in my room almost everyday.

So, I really have no idea why, but I did something insane. I joined a different group. A different gang. The Party.

Sure, I’ve known everyone in the gang since I was still in diapers, we grew up together, but that’s the problem. I’ve known them my entire life they have only known me for, what? Eight years? Ten years?

Sure, that’s a lot, but when they don’t like you it becomes a lot shorter.

They wouldn’t care if I made my own friends. They wouldn’t care who they were. They wouldn’t care that I took off the dog-tag necklace mom got us all when the gang was complete. They wouldn’t care if I got new brothers and new brother figures. 

They wouldn’t care.

But to my shock, they did.

[poetic-beats]

Sometimes when I come back to this blog it just makes me cringe. Mostly because whenever I’m manic I start a ton of new projects whether its crappy art, jumping around to different sites for my poetry that I eventually ditch, different business ideas that I start but never finish, bad poetry I have written things I like but there’s also just bad poetry that served a purpose for me to vent but objectively is bad. It’s also a very open book of the events and stages I’ve gone through and some of you have followed me from the beginning and I just cringe at the thought of what it must look like seeing my erratic postings. And it’s a monument to all of my sadness and trauma and struggles and I don’t find that a bad thing though I guess because writing was helpful and I’m not ashamed of what I’ve struggled with but damn this blog was almost as much of a mess as my mind. Life has changed so much in the 7 years since I started this blog, I’m 30 now which is scary to be so old ( I know 30 isn’t actually old old but in context of where I am in my life) and yet feel like I’m so behind in adulting. It’s like when I hit 30 in my mind it changed you know until I hit that number I was still in my 20’s even if it was 29 it felt like okay I’m not an ‘adult’ adult yet so it’s fine my shits not together but its like okay I’ve hit 30 now I should’ve started checking some boxes off the list and whilst some things have improved I still have a long way to go. I’m in therapy now I managed to start early last year privately ofc because NHS sucks ass. Luckily she’s good about pricing clearly not in it for the money; was my old MH teams lead therapist before she quit didn’t know she’d gone private, found her by dumb luck. She’s really good & it’s already helped me so much. I managed to acquire a few new diagnoses at the end of last year not a surprise though nothing new or unexpected as such but sometimes does feel like it’s a never ending list. Oh I got a second cat!!! His names Shrimp and he’s adorable. Bagel loves him I’ll have to post a picture of them both at some point and after having not written/barely written anything for awhile I recently started writing poetry again. Not sure why I slowed down/stopped I guess things got really busy & I managed/coped in different ways I also just kinda lost it like I had a mental block when I did try writing. Anyways so I wrote some new stuff recently sadly it’s not exactly happy it’s more of a throwback to when I first started this blog, writing as a way to cope in the moment when emotions were too much, to sort of purge it from my mind. I’ve had some difficult things to deal with and it’s been a lot so being able to write again is bittersweet. I also can’t vouch for its quality but hey it helped me cope so does it really matter, guess not. Anyways idk that’s enough rambling from me now don’t know why I wrote this out on here I mean my blogs mostly dead apart from these random check ins I do where I give these life update posts which I”m not sure anyone even cares to read because this blog is so inactive now but here I am doing it anyways.

[colorlesschristmastree]

“It’s not Elriels’ fault that they spent months preparing for Elain’s week and therefore have a lot of content to show for it while you don’t. “ This just reminded me of how many Feyre stans never spend money on arts for her, another fault with this fandom. The main sister who saved everyone has the least art.

Art is a key reason why people enjoy fandom, it brings the storylines and characters to life. Maybe that’s why people aren’t active as Feyre stans because not only is the fandom toxic but there’s barely any decent looking Feyre arts while there’s tons of pretty arts for her mediocre sisters. There’s so much fan art of Feyre’s sisters I thought they were bigger characters before I read the books. How is it that so much time and effort is put into making art for two sisters that barely deserve it? I appreciate any art we have gotten! But…Why bother being in this fandom with barely any Feyre arts being made on top of the fandom being toxic and weird? So many Feyre or Feysand scenes in the trilogy haven’t even been drawn yet all these years later. But you have Feyre stans doing nothing but reblogging sister art. Weirdest fandom ever foreal.

Elain Elriel week meanwhile a bunch of art for characters that barely do shit. Just in case you wonder what may play a role in people not wanting to be active as Feyre stan’s. The author ignores Feyre and the fandom does arts on the sisters that never did shit. Again a very fucking weird fandom. Sorry for the rant I just got triggered by this art topic. People can do what they do what they please with their interests and money this is just a bitter rant I guess, post it or not I rly don’t even care 👌🏼

You are always welcome to vent in my anons!

I do understand the frustration and being saddened by there perhaps not being as much new Feyre art recently and I used to get similarly salty myself. I think it's important to remember though that we don't need to compare ourselves to the fandoms of other characters. A lot of the appeal of other acotar characters comes from how incomplete there stories still are. Many of these other characters still have a lot of unanswered questions and theories surrounding them and in my experience the acotar fandom has always been the most excited about imagining future plots and things for their characters.

I don't think Feyre has the least amount of artwork at all, I'd actually argue that if one were to count every single piece of acotar art that's been released since book 1 came out, so so much of it would be of Feyre or include her! Feyre is the main character of the acotar series and has three books and a novella where she is either the only pov or the primary pov. We Feyre stans are already so spoiled by the author that we don't need to care what other people are doing. Feysand is the center of everything, Feyre got a perfect story and a happy ending, three books, a mansion, and everything she could dream of.

Don't get too hung up on thinking about what other people are doing love. Feyre stans have so much and I personally have cultivated a really lovely circle of close mutuals who all adore her and we all just spend time talking about her and appreciating her. I'd rather the people making content for Feyre be people that are actually stans anyways and not out of some obligation or curiosity. Just focus on the people who really love her and ignore everyone else!

[kx0e]

RAHHHH TYSM FOR ASNWERING MY PREVIOUS QUESTION!

So. I had 3 problems-

1. Constant study but no results

>I make sure I atleast spend 2 hours atleast twice a week doing full body or partial body sketches with references (from lineofaction🔥), and have been since 2021, but going from barely any art ability to now, all i've managed to do is drawing things from the neck up☠️ No matter how many different kinds of faces or perspectives i try its always the 3/4 side view. And i can barely even draw a recognizable jawline😭 (but then on any whiteboard or public art thing its as if the spirit of a medieval master artist possesses me)

2. motivation

>how on this earth do you stay motivated to draw your favorite fandoms😭 theres tons of shows i LOVE or games that I adore, whos characters i literally am obsessed with, but once i pick up a pencil its as if I've never seen them in my entire life💀

3. I know youre not really an oc artist (understandable, if I had the ability to draw genshin and/or persona characters forever, i WOULD.) But if you do have any, is there any specific place you got inspo from? a lot of art advice i see is to turn an object or concept into a character of some sort, but no matter where I look, and how inspiring it is, as previously stated, all traces of muscle memory delete themselves the second i pick up a pencil☠️

Have a nice day, Im really bad at explaining i apologize, and TYSM for hearing me out💖

long reply

1 - maybe doing some theory rather than drawing could help you, if you study the human skeleton and muscle you might understand more how the body works and therefore how it must look in different poses (read MORPHO). Other advice is to trace your references with basic shapes and landmark (just a cube and a cross for the face) and then do your study, you can also do quick studies focusing on only one part of the body but draw it under all angles (the thing is to not rush, if you have trouble drawing the face as a whole, draw all the element separated and add them little by little)

2 - this honestly depends on the person, im someone who loves fandom art but i have zero OCs because im not interested, dont force yourself to draw things you dont want too it usually ends up looking bad anyway !

3 - i do look at objects first when doing character design, but i also like to look at plants or in fashion history books. Most of the time i first do a global search on pinterest to find the general idea and then go to more specific sites depending on what im going for

i think you should take your time and draw only when you're in the mood for it, when you feel motivated pick up a pen and DONT THINK just draw whatever

remember art takes time, patience and a lot of practice, dont force yourself and draw for yourself first ^^

[hpandthegobletofsass]

one of the few scenes i've written for the jegulus fic i've been working on, regulus getting his dark mark. wrote this back in january and haven't looked at it since until today and am deeply unwell about it, so posting this snippet to hopefully get motivation to write more than just the three scenes and fuck ton of notes i have (it's like 550 some words, so putting it under a read more, but you should read it and then ask me questions bc i have so many thoughts for this fic :3)

The next meeting is just after Christmas. There seems to be a slightly different cast of characters at each one, probably why these are so frequent, to keep anyone who couldn’t make the previous meeting up to date.

He isn’t there until the third meeting though. Just before Regulus is due to go back to Hogwarts. The vibes are different immediately, a chill in the air, everyone speaking in more hushed reverent tones with less idle chit chat.

He addresses Regulus specifically towards the end of the meeting. “Black, I’ve heard promising things about you,” he gives a small nod, “How have you been finding our meetings, intriguing I hope?”

This is the moment, the pivotal spot where everything shifts, “Yes, sir, they’ve given me much to think about, and already I have learned so much more than I ever could’ve hoped. I’ve been given access to resources on the dark arts I could never dream of finding at Hogwarts, it has been a great privilege.”

Bella looks like she’s about to start vibrating from excitement, that the Dark Lord is paying specific attention to the Black family is a dream come true to her.

“Hm yes, we can offer much that Hogwarts cannot. However, Hogwarts is where the youth of today exists, and it’s always good to have an insider, to convince those who might be unsure, what the best side to be on is." He pauses for a moment, "So perhaps, we have ourselves a new recruit tonight? Your cousin Bellatrix has already proven herself more than loyal, and I can’t imagine she would bring someone along who wouldn’t already be loyal to us as well.”

Regulus panics, Fuck does he know? he can’t know. It’s probably just because I’m 16 and he can’t have full control over me at Hogwarts. Verbally he says, “I’d be honored, My Lord,” with a small reverent bow.

He seemed pleased with this, “Brothers, tonight we celebrate adding another to our ranks! Welcome, young Regulus Black.”

Bella screeches beside me, clinging to my arm, Regulus offers a smile to the rest of the room, hoping he seems excited and not on the verge of tears. The meeting has now extended to include his induction.

Regulus has no clue what to expect, he knows Bella has the Dark Mark tattoo, and can only assume he's in for the same.

Regulus can tell there’s some sort of strong magic woven into the ink being painted on his forearm. It’s cold and feels almost alive, sort of snake like. Then came the pain. After Nott finished painting the design, he grabbed Regulus' wrist, barely touching his wand to the skin, and the mark sunk in. Regulus felt it eating away at his flesh, more like a brand than a tattoo, it was the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. But he knew this was part of it, they were testing him, to see if he was weak, how he reacted to this pain was another part of whether or not they’d let him live.

Regulus allowed himself a grimace and nothing more, he refused to make any sort of sound as the ink burned through him like poison. Then it was done. The others congratulated him, told him he did well, that they were excited to have him on board, promised to send him books and such.