#cotton gardens estate

[sea-of-concrete]

📸 Grantham Road and Loughborough Estates + Battersea Power Station

[humanoidhistory]

Cotton Gardens Estate, London, built 1966-1968.

(via Brutal London)

[amjustagirl]

chapter 4

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 5k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate. 

The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you. 

“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet. 

He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him. 

He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost. 

His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand. 

Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him. 

His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates. 

A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs. 

The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth. 

She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes. 

This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.  

You close your eyes. 

You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.  

“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -” 

He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.” 

“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?” 

Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air. 

This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge. 

Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home. 

You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?” 

“Perhaps in another life”, he replies. 

In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

(wake up) 

The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.

For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer. 

(please, wake up)

“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.” 

The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone. 

“Let me sleep”, you whisper. 

The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber. 

Perhaps you could be content like this. 

Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer. 

Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas,  shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.

An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you. 

Your heart begins to hum. 

You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open. 

The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you. 

“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!” 

Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake. 

You fall back into a dreamless sleep.

You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams. 

People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away. 

Your parents show up to visit you. 

‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired. 

You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark. 

Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep. 

A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again. 

“Hey”, he says hoarsely.

“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”

His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?” 

You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here? 

“I’m here for you, silly”, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.” 

You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time. 

Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay. 

Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest. 

Soshiro’s the worst of the lot. 

At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit. 

“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.” 

He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”  

It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit. 

“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.” 

You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.” 

“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.” 

“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm. 

It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before. 

“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”

A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?” 

“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”

“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.” 

“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”

“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”

He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.” 

His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.” 

“You could’ve died.”

“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. 

“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.” 

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I’ll try my best”, you offer. 

An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies. 

“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.” 

After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self. 

“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -” 

“I was trying to save some of the blades -” 

“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -” 

You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.” 

The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.” 

“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.” 

“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.” 

He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”

“Sometimes work can take a backseat.” 

You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd -  the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-” 

He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink. 

But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful. 

There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home. 

“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns. 

“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore. 

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately,  Then his face slackens into a childish pout. 

“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?” 

Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.” 

“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject. 

You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck. 

“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”

Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book. 

“Don’t you have to work?” 

“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair. 

“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly. 

He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree. 

“Well, how’s work?” 

He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”

“Aren’t you?” 

“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -” 

“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?” 

“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.” 

“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully. 

“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.” 

“Me?” 

Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -” 

“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?” 

His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.” 

The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches. 

“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap. 

“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.” 

A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”, 

“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure. 

There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest. 

(i like you)

(i’m sorry)

You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves. 

“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?” 

He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart. 

Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.  

“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” he asks quietly. 

“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.” 

With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.” 

You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him. 

He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding  in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.  

“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”

You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way. 

You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding. 

It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.  

“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” 

As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat. 

“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.” 

He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.” 

You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin. 

“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply. 

You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.  

The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped. 

As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you. 

“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?” 

A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place. 

This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -” 

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”  

“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.” 

He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -” 

“Just  - just stop, Soshiro.” 

You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof - 

Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin. 

“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you. 

The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too. 

“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -” 

“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?” 

“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -” 

“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -” 

Your head swims. “I don’t -” 

“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.” 

You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands. 

In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.  

There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both. 

But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.” 

Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves. 

“I think I do”, you say softly.  

Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon. 

a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>

squeal at me pls! muacks always <3

[fayes-fics]

Rescue and Ruin

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Anthony rescues something for you... and it will likely lead to your ruin.

Warnings: None really. Flirting, sexual tension, banter, and the promise of more. A lot of teasing, soaking wet Viscount.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author's Note: Unbetaed. Very belated request fill for @daisfordaysstuff (request:  I’m rewatching season 2 again, and I think I need one on this scene [lake Anthony]). I just had to post an Anthony story today to commemorate the birthday of Jonathan Bailey, the man who plays this titan of a fictional character. This is actually my oldest request fill, lingering in my inbox since Sept 2022. Sorry, my lovely; I hope late is better than never. I just got an idea of how I wanted this to play out. I hope you enjoy <3

“I’ll get it!”

A chivalrous call comes as you watch in dismay as your favourite bonnet take off in a gust of wind and flies over the lake, landing almost gracefully about twenty feet out into the gently rippling water.

You had just stolen down to the water's edge to get away from the crowds for a few moments of solitude, drawn to the beauty of the water as the sun danced on the little peaks caused by the gusty breeze. It had looked like a shimmering mirage from the terrace.

You are shocked when the one and only Viscount Anthony Bridgerton gives you a brief, polite nod as he passes you, then dives off a little jetty, still fully clothed, making you gasp loudly.

What on earth?!?

This is his garden party. Well, strictly his mother's, but he is Viscount, and this is the Bridgerton family country estate, Aubrey Hall. You are still awestruck to be here, a guest of your maternal aunt you are staying with here in Kent. Why on earth he would dive into his lake to rescue something as trivial as a hat seems mystifying. You are certain he has staff that could assist rather than take it upon himself and quite clearly ruin his outfit.

He re-emerges to the surface from his dive and swims with awe-inspiring speed towards your hat as it skates across the surface, propelling along not unlike some toy boat. When he finally reaches it, he holds it aloft triumphant and twists to swim back one-handed as he keeps it above the water.

You find yourself drawn down to the jetty he jumped off of. To give your thanks, express your surprise, and take back your hat and hope it is salvageable. You twist around to check, but all the other party guests seem oblivious to the incident or his actions, the string quartet playing so loudly closer to the house and the buffet table so laden everyone's eyes and ears are preoccupied.

“Thank you, my lord,” you demure as he pulls up to the jetty and places your bonnet on the wooden slats by your feet. “That was completely unnecessary, but I am, of course, so very grateful,” you curtsy and pick up the bonnet.

Luckily, thanks to his swift actions, it will be fine. Just the brim and lower edge touched the water. You wring out the soaked ribbons as best you can, then wrap them around your neck and tie them in a secure bow. It may be too wet to wear on your head for now, but at least it should dry while tied securely and draped down over your back. You curtsy again as you feel him watching you, unsure what else to do to convey your gratitude.

He laughs, and you see him fighting with the buttons on his jacket, still standing in the lake, the water around waist height. “There is no need to curtsy or to be so formal Miss…?” he squints up at you expectantly.

“Oh, it's Miss y/l/n,” you rush out and, for some reason, curtsy again.

“I mean it; please stop curtsying, especially to a man in such a state as me,” he says drolly, fighting off his jacket and tossing it, sodden and heavy, onto the jetty.

You are blatantly staring as he peels away his waistcoat and fights with his cravat. His thin cotton white shirt has turned entirely transparent in the water; it is barely there. Under it, you can see so much skin, toned and rippling muscle as his jerking movements strip off his clothing. Over his chest is a patch of dark hair clinging to the material you cannot look away from. You have never even so much as seen how a man looks without a shirt on before, and this sight makes your heart pound and your body tingle.

Glancing up from his actions, the corner of his mouth quirks up, and you know he has caught you—openly ogling him. Your cheeks are aflame, and you cut your eyes away.

“You may look, Miss y/l/n,” his pitch has dropped to something low and velvety, and it buzzes right into your core. Hesitantly your eyes dart back to his handsome face; the lip quirk spreads into a devastating, stunning smile. “It is alright; no one has marked us,” he assures, his gaze cutting to your right towards the house, then back to your face. “You shall not have broken any rules of propriety by talking with me. Or staring at me as you are,” he teases, an eyebrow arching appealingly.

“My lord, that is not what….” You begin to protest, knowing it's a lie even as you voice it; your reflex to appear chaste is so crucial to your need to find a match that your aunt and parents are so desperate for you to make.

But your words die out as he places both hands firmly on the dock and propels himself up and out of the water in one swift, athletic move. Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth as he unfurls upwards from the kneeling position, drawing up to his full height. Water sluices down his body and makes his clothing cling to every single contour of his toned, defined torso. He looms closer; you tilt backwards, entranced by the tracks of droplets over the lines of his handsome face, his burned umber eyes catching the sunlight and boring into you as he crowds closer.

“Do not lie to yourself or to me, Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles, “we both know you were and, indeed, continue to stare”.

His words make your body riot; your stays feel too tight for your lungs to breathe, your skin pricking hot. He’s so close now you can smell the vaguely mossy lake smell on his skin, on what little clothing he has left on; it’s dancing there on the breeze alongside something spicier and amber that you can only assume is his cologne. You want to stutter an apology, to offer your thanks again, to ask him to leave, to ask him to stay, to ask him to touch you—so many jumbled, contradictory thoughts.

“The more pertinent question is, do you like what you see?” he murmurs and leans in, his words ghosting warm on the shell of your ear.

This is the sort of thing your aunt has warned you about. Rakes. Handsome, wealthy, titled men who will tease and take what they can from young, innocent ladies such as yourself. You want to be affronted, tell him to desist, and give him a scathing remark about appropriate behaviour. But once again, you don't. Your body drawn to him, you want to trace your fingers over the swell of his chest muscles, to feel those strong arms grab your waist and haul you against his sodden form.

“No answer is, in some ways, an answer,” he chuckles with a lilt that is both arrogant and devastatingly attractive.

“My lord, we may be seen at any moment…” Your protest is weak and breathy, not moving away as he continues to stand far too close to you, as lake water drips onto your shoes.

Suddenly a clammy hand wraps around your elbow, and you are being pulled towards the nearby cluster of thick trees and bushes that abut the lake. You almost stumble and smack into him face-first as he pulls up short and releases your arm. The air feels cooler here, with dappled shade, verdant and alive with the scent of flowering bushes and leaves. The view of the house and, indeed, the party guests is wholly obscured. No one would ever know you are here.

“Do you have an answer now that we cannot be seen?” he breathes inches from you, towering over you.

“My lord… I,” you cannot find words, hanging your head. You know this is wrong. Very wrong. Your aunt would kill you for being this wanton, for allowing him to do this to you. And yet…. Every fibre of your being wants this. To see what he will do. To see what you will let him do. You suspect it's more than you even understand.

“Say it after me….” he intones, a finger tilting your chin up to look into his fiery gaze.

“I…” he begins.

“I…” you parrot.

“Like…”

“Like,” you repeat, and the grin on his face grows wider.

“What….”

“What,” your breath quickening with each word.

“I…”

“I,” that finger still lingers under your chin, caressing gently.

“See.”

“See,” you exhale shakily.

“There. Now was that so hard…hmmm?” he teases, that finger now joined by his thumb stroking over the point of your chin, the lake water running down his forearm to the point of material bunched under his elbow that now drips down the front of your dress. The dampness seeps through the material and into your heated skin.

The cord of tension in the air is palpable. You don't know what to say or what to do.

“I have another question for you,” he buzzes, and the fingers on your chin slip lower, over your throat, lighting a line of fire as they trail over your delicate skin. Your pulse pounding in your veins. You swallow hard and feel the calloused fingertips trace into your suprasternal notch. “Maybe this one you can answer,” he huffs a sarcastic laugh as your body spirals and you fight to keep your breath even.

“What is it, my lord?” your voice barely a whisper.

“Would you be willing to help me, your gracious host today, get dry?” he practically purrs.

“How…. how on earth could I do that?” you stumble.

He smiles predatory and so handsome you give up and let your chest heave, ragged breathing.

“Under your dress, you wear a chemise, do you not?” he continues, those fingers tracing over the wet bow of your bonnet strings tied over your clavicle.

“Yes, my lord,” you answer shakily.

“Well did you know such items can be an excellent towel in a pinch,” he shrugs one shoulder and lifts an eyebrow as his fingers slip lower over your breastbone until they reach the neckline of your dress, at the swell of your breast.

There is no point in pretending he is not utterly destroying you now. You can’t school anything—the blush darkening over your skin, creeping up from your chest, the tingle in your lips, the hot flush you feel all over. A viscous pulse in your underwear that feels entirely alien and where your decision-making seems to be centred at right this very moment.

“So I suppose my last question, for now, is, are you willing to give it to me?” you gasp at his turn of phrase as those fingers swirl patterns over the neckline of your dress. “Your chemise, of course,” he amends with a wink.

Utter, utter rake.

“H-how can I give you my chemise without removing my dress too?” you wonder aloud.

“Well, that is the challenge, isn't it?” he smirks. “Now I can see two options here. I can do the gentlemanly thing, turn my back and allow you to undress and then you may hand me your chemise once decent again. I will dry myself the best I can and return to the house to change.”

“And the second option?” you cannot resist querying.

“Ahh, that,” he seems to pull even closer, and the fingers slip over the neckline and onto the silk ruching that covers your breasts; even through the material layers, you can feel his fingers lingering over your nipple and the throbbing between your legs turns almost painful. “The second option is that I am not a gentleman. Not in the slightest,” his answer cryptic but dripping with a dark, forbidden promise.

“What does that involve…?” you pant.

You watch, enthralled, as his tongue pokes out of his mouth and licks his bottom lip, and in seeming slow-motion, his mouth begins to form a shape to speak words…

“ANTHONY!!”

The yell is from a few feet away, on the other side of the bushes. Both of you jump apart as if burned.

“ANTHONY?!” the male voice calls again, “ARE YOU AROUND?”

It's obvious the person has no idea you are merely a few feet away, only that they are looking for him.

Stay here, Anthony mouths silently, and you nod, your heart beating wildly at the whiplash of experiences.

With one rueful glance at you, at the interrupted moment, he turns around and fights through the mass of foliage back out to the lawn.

“Oh, there you are!” the voice exclaims. “We wondered what the devil had happened to you!!”

“Colin…” you hear him respond.

“Hell and the devil. Why are you soaked through?? Did you decide to go for a swim fully clothed? Did you find my special tea??” his voice ramping up in incredulity as he likely clocks Anthony's bedraggled appearance.

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” Anthony’s reply seems clipped. “I rescued a small beautiful creature, if you must know,” he obfuscates.

“Ahh, hero antics,” Colin laughs. “Well, you had better go change right away. Mother expects you to make a toast for our esteemed guests in a few minutes.”

You hear Anthony’s frustrated noise of derision and have to stifle your giggle behind the back of your hand between deep breaths, trying to bring yourself back to a state of normality after the rollercoaster of experiences you just had.

“Urghhh, alright,” Anthony sighs, embattled, “I think I dropped my pocket watch back in the bushes. Give me one moment to find it, and I will accompany you back to the house.”

“Side entrance,” Colin responds dryly.

“Indeed,” you hear Anthony call.

You tense as the bushes before you start to rustle as he fights through them to reach you. He stalks up to you, and you gasp audibly.

“Shhh,” he warns quietly, his lips right at your ear, gusting hot, “it looks as if I must sadly depart. Your chemise is safe for today, Miss y/l/n.”

With a boldness you didn’t know yourself capable of, you grab the shirt's sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

“I would never want not to be helpful to you, my lord,” you whisper tremulant, fingers twisting in the soaked fabric. “If removing my chemise can ever be of assistance to you in future, please be sure to let me know.”

You cannot believe you allow yourself to say something so scandalous.

He pulls back slightly, and it's his turn to exhale unsteadily, his pupils dilated; his expression wild. You can see a vein hammering in his throat.

“Oh goddd,” he moans, closing his eyes as if pained.

“What?” concern suddenly flooding your tone.

His eyes reopen, and they pin you with their intensity.

“Mark my words,” his tone is low, gravelly, “if you continue to talk so brazenly, it will only encourage me.”

It is the sexiest warning bell you have ever heard.

“And if you continue to tease and defy me, I will pursue you. Relentlessly,” he growls, and once again, your body is rioting.

“Good god. How long does it take to find a pocket watch, man?” Colin calls impatiently, once again breaking the moment between you as it threatens to bubble over.

“I've found it!” Anthony twists to call over his shoulder. “I’ll be there presently!”

“Hurry up!” Colin grouses.

Anthony turns back, and his breath is hot over your cheek. He seems to stare at your lips for an inordinate amount of time as you stare back. Transfixed.

“Today, I shall be a gentleman,” he states reluctantly and draws away slightly. “However…” and your heart spikes in victory, “once that clock strikes midnight. I make no promises. And I shall be standing right here,” his tone decisive, his finger pointing to the spot right by his feet. “Just so you and your chemise will know where to find me,” he rumbles, then gives you a polite bow and is gone.

You have to grab onto a tree to stop yourself from swooning. Already knowing you will be stealing away from your room as the clock strikes midnight. Uncaring of consequences.

You want him to ruin you.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz

[jessiemeows]

Midwinter's Eve

A/N: Happy holidays! I wanted to write something about what I imagine Astarion & Amaya's future looks like (plus a little bit of smut :)). I hope you enjoy it! I've only written a little of smut so im not great at it but hopefully its good and I'll eventually get better as I write more of Lost and Found. Also this is spoilery for Lost and Found. Other than that hope everyone had some great holidays and happy new year <3

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F! Redeened Dark Urge Tiefling, My OC Amaya, Selunite Cleric/Paladin

Word Count: 3500

Warning: 18+!!!!! fingering, PIV, cum inside without protection, pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of abuse but does not elaborate in any way, Astarion being a tiny tiny smidge dominant but not really

A/N part 2: It's Midwinter Eve! Midwinter is a holiday that's the DND equivalent of Christmas. In the story it has been three years since the Netherbrain fell, Astarion reflects on the past three years of his life with his partner and how good it's truly been (everyone deserves a happy ending, especially our BOY!) Astarion in this story is also now loved and being loved sometimes makes you soft and squishy.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Story:

Astarion gazed out his study window transfixed by the quickening snowfall outside. A faint smile played across his lips as he reflected on the past three years— the defeat of the Netherbrain, Cazador's death that had freed him from centuries of torment, and Bhaal's influence had finally released its grip on his beloved. It had now been three and a half years since that fateful first meeting—gods, he could still picture it perfectly: himself, pulling a knife on her like the desperate, scared fool he was, throwing every defense and bitter barb her way throughout their entire journey, and yet she somehow saw through it all and stayed.

The winter sun dipped below the horizon earlier these days. With a casual flick of his wrist, Astarion cast some fire bolt cantrips, lighting the candles scattered across his desk. Lady Adelia Caldwel's contract lay before him, a mess of legal tangles he'd been asked to untangle. Her husband had sold off their prime Upper City parkland that she loved so dearly, and she desperately hoped for a loophole or a way of breaking the contract—though prospects looked grim. Running fingers through his silver curls, he loosened the gleaming golden cufflinks of his fine black cotton shirt, rolling up the sleeves, and propped his feet up on the desk, balancing the parchment on his lap.

His thoughts drifted treacherously to Cazador, sending an old, familiar chill down his spine. The memories still held power—how small and worthless his former master had made him feel. Though the worst had passed, there had been dark times: panic attacks, violent outbursts, moments when nothing could console him. Amaya, his beloved, understood better than anyone; she still battled her own demons, nightmares of Bhaal haunting her sleep, panic seizing her with fears she might harm him. But they both knew better now. Those fears had no foundation in reality.

After the Netherbrain's fall, they'd ransacked Cazador's palace together, setting it ablaze in a final act of defiance. The old vampire's hoarded wealth had been substantial—enough that, even after Amaya insisted he share it with his six siblings, they'd secured their place in society. Combined with Amaya's status as "The Hero of Baldur's Gate," they'd acquired a small manor just outside the Upper City, complete with a vineyard and garden. It was perfect: Amaya spent her days tending the garden and painting, occasionally dragging him to the Wide to sell their goods or to Lady Jannath's exhibitions to show off her artwork. If not spending most of his time with Amaya, or attending the endless social engagements required to maintain their newfound noble standing - balls, banquets, and the like, Astarion would then spend his days in his study which had become a sanctuary, he managed their estates and helped others navigate legal matters (thanks to his lovely partner's endless bragging of his talent of negotiation to the Baldur’s Gate nobility after he'd helped Wyll escape the now very dead Mizora's contract all those years ago).

They'd risen quickly in these three years to become Lord Ancunín and Lady Othzál—soon to be Lord and Lady Ancunín. Just six months ago, during the bi-annual ‘Heroes' of the Gate’ reunion hosted by the beloved party animal wraith Withers, he had proposed to her in the very spot where they'd first been intimate. Back then, his motives had been purely selfish; this time, he'd wanted to make it special. Her warm embrace, mingled with tears of joy had ruined his brand-new white doublet with black streaks of makeup—something he still teased her about mercilessly. 

Though in such little time, life had brought more miracles: first it was the Cloak of Dragomir that they found a little more than two years ago, which let him brave the sunlight again despite some setbacks. Then, just three months ago, they found the Sun-walker's Ring—a simple gold banded ring with a blood-red ruby that allowed him to walk carelessly free in the sun for hours on end. Although, he still keeps his cloak on hand just in case no matter how awful the fabric is. But the greatest miracle had come with the adventure to find the ring: Amaya was with child. His child. They'd discovered it in the Underdark when she kept falling ill, though he should have recognized the signs immediately.

The memory of her first ill-fated pregnancy in the Shadowlands still haunts Astarion’s mind.  When Amaya was under Bhaal's influence, she had been frequently sick, but upon entering the cursed lands, her health deteriorated even further, which concerned almost all of their friends. He hadn’t known of the pregnancy until it was lost to an infernal dagger  Back then, he'd been conflicted, almost relieved at its loss. He had never actually imagined himself as a father, it was always a foreign, unattainable concept - until now. 

The transition back to home life after their recent return from Underdark two months ago has been a little difficult for the couple. Amaya was in her first trimester, she had persistent morning sickness, obscene cravings, and general unease stemming from the pregnancy. Meanwhile, Astarion’s constant stress and worry have made him increasingly overprotective and borderline overbearing. 

Things have eased down a bit since the start of the second trimester and Astarion has relaxed more since the constant sickness has stopped. It wasn’t until their latest bi-annual reunion over a ten-day ago, Withers' had given a cryptic hint to the couple when they were alone that still echoed in his mind: their children—plural—were "destined for greatness." Coming from the usually tight-lipped avatar of Jergal, it had been a surprising comfort to both of them, especially given Amaya's fears about bearing a child being both a Bhaalspawn and a dhampir. But Astarion always knew in his heart their child would inherit Amaya's love and gentleness. She was never the person her father made her out to be and since purifying her blood, and the murder whispers had fallen silent he knew from the start their children would not be that way, though the plural "children" in Withers' prophecy still made Astarion's head spin.

Darkness had fallen completely now, the snow and wind picking up outside his window. Sighing, Astarion began tidying his desk—Lady Caldwel's contract would have to wait. Worry gnawed at him; Amaya had gone to the Upper City's Midwinter’s Eve festival with Shadowheart, Karlach, and Lae'zel. Last year's memories brought a smile to his face: Lae'zel's newfound obsession with sugar cookies, and his sneak snowball attacks on Shadowheart. Despite Amaya's adorable pouting, he declined today's invitation to finish up some work so he would be free all day tomorrow for Midwinter, though the elf did somewhat wish he had joined the group.

The Midwinter festivities weren't exactly Astarion's cup of tea,  Amaya had grown to adore them. This year, the tiefling had truly outdone herself, decking their home with the most beautiful seasonal decorations and carefully selecting thoughtful gifts for all their friends who would be joining them for the celebratory dinner the next evening. Even Minthara will be impressed by Amaya's efforts just like she had the previous Midwinter.

But this year's gathering would be extra special. Not only were Karlach and Wyll back in Baldur's Gate permanently, but Astarion and Amaya also planned to have their pregnancy announcement to everyone.  Of course, only a select few already knew— Gale, his fiancée Elysia, Shadowheart, and her partner Kaelum, having accompanied the couple on their journey to find the Sun-walker's ring, and Withers who knew everything. However, the rest of their dinner guests remained blissfully unaware. Astarion was still a bit hesitant to make the announcement, worried that it might be too soon, but Amaya was positively bursting with joy and how could he possibly say no?

Astarion was beginning to get a headache thinking over everything, and his worry began to heighten when heavy winds crashed onto his study’s window. The sound of their heavy front door slamming shut snapped him to attention making his pointed ears twitch. "Oh, thank the gods," he breathed, hurrying toward their drawing room. Shadowheart's and Amaya's soft voices drifted through the halls as he approached silently.

"Are you four months along now?" Shadowheart asked as Amaya shed her heavy winter layers.

"Yes!" Amaya beamed, smoothing her hand over the slight swell of her belly.

"Oh, by the Moonmaiden’s grace, I always knew you'd make the cutest little pregnant lady!" Shadowheart reached out to touch the bump. "Have you been taking those herbs I recommended for nausea? And drinking blood for the little one? It must be strange having to drink blood."

Amaya stifled a laugh. "I'm not too sure it's the strangest thing I've had to drink, Shadowheart."

Before Amaya could continue, Astarion slipped behind the tiefling, wrapping his cold hands around her belly and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Hello, lover," he purred into her ear.

"Can you please do that when I'm not around?" Shadowheart groaned.

"Shush," Astarion smirked. "Don't act like I didn't see you and Kaelum cozying up at the reunion. By the way, do tell them I said hello." His devious smile only widened at Shadowheart's resulting blush. Shadowheart then rolled her eyes at Astarion's teasing, pointedly ignoring him.

Astarion's eyes widened as he surveyed the drawing room floor. "So, are we broke now?" Astarion smirked, eyeing the mountain of shopping bags. "Based on this haul, I can only assume we're destitute."

"Quiet, you," Amaya turned, pressing her lips to his. He chuckled into the kiss, the sound vibrating against her mouth. "And no—everything was on sale!" She swatted his hand away as he reached for one of the mysterious packages.

Their head maid, Dakota, appeared in the doorway, offering to whisk the bags away to "Amaya's special hiding spot"—a location Astarion had long since discovered in the maid's quarters. She offered tea, but Shadowheart declined, casting a worried glance at the darkening sky through the window.

"I should really get going. The storm's picking up, and it's quite a hike to the cottage," Shadowheart said, rising from her seat.

Amaya jumped up to embrace her friend at the doorway. "See you and others tomorrow, then. Don't forget the Midwinter feast starts just before sunset. You and Kaelum are welcome to borrow some of my night clothes, or if Kaelum prefers, they can use Astarion's when you stay the night."

“I did not agree to that!” Astarion protested behind them, but the two ignored him.

"We'll be there and thank you," Shadowheart assured her. "Now rest, please."

"I will. Stay safe—send me a sending spell when you're home."

After Shadowheart's departure, Astarion sprawled across the drawing room couch, arms extended in invitation. Amaya settled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck as he asked, "Why does she want you to rest, love?"

"It's nothing, really", Amaya deflected, peppering his cheek with the rapid little kisses she always used when seeking affection. "I just got winded more quickly than usual today. That’s all."

Astarion's brow furrowed and genuine concern colored his voice. "Perhaps we should skip tomorrow's festivities if you're struggling to catch your breath. I don’t want you to over-exert yourself."

Amaya fixed him with her big, brown eyes he never could resist, and a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips."You're just nervous about seeing everyone," she countered, “I know you’re not fond of this holiday but don't try to use me as an excuse."

"No, Amaya, I'm truly worried about the little one." His cool fingers found their way to her gently swollen belly as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

Amaya let out a soft sigh, resting her head on his and running her hands soothingly down his back. "Star, I already got Shadowheart’s second opinion on it and she already said I'd be fine. I just need to rest tonight." 

 Astarion’s fingers lingered around her belly as he began to fiddle with her loose velvet dress. "If you say so, Mayabear." he said as he groaned of defeat vibrating against her skin. 

"I do. Now, I’m feeling peckish, and have you had any blood? It should still be fresh; I can fetch you some from the butcher's box while I make some tea and grab a snack ."

"Haven't had the chance," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "I've been wrestling with Lady Caldwel's contract for hours. I don't even want to think about it anymore."

Amaya's brow furrowed in concern. "I thought you said it would be easy?

Astarion grumbled, "It should be, but her husband is an absolute fool." The tiefling then gently kissed his cheek, saying, "I'm sorry, lovie. Maybe getting some rest will help clear your mind."

Amaya then slipped away to prepare their drinks and herself a small plate of gingersnaps that one of their maids must have prepared before heading home. Returning, she found her vampire with his eyes closed, the picture of contentment. Years ago, he'd never have allowed himself such vulnerability. Reclaiming her rightful place in his lap, her tail wrapped instinctively around his leg as she nestled against him. His fingers found their way into her dark curls, twirling the silky strands absently as he breathed in the familiar scent - his own bergamot, rosemary, and brandy faint on her but mingled with her naturally rich vanilla essence, the delicious aroma of the gingersnap crumbs on her lips and the sweet scent of her blood.

He licked his lips, savoring the memory of the rich, chocolate-like flavor of her blood - so different from the wine-like taste of others. Though the temptation remained constant, he'd been restraining himself lately, knowing their child already drew from her strength.

Taking the chalice of fresh boar's blood, he drank deeply. Their arrangement with the local butcher had proven invaluable, especially now that Amaya required blood for the baby. If the butcher ever grew curious about their frequent deliveries, they could simply blame it on Amaya's peculiar cravings for blood sausage. Usually during the winter months, the deliveries would be twice a week, but with everything going on they had made the decision for deliveries once a day, and generous payment had kept any questions at bay so far.

The peaceful silence stretched between them until Astarion's curiosity got the better of him. "So darling, what did you get me?" he asked, then promptly snatched a bite of one of Amaya's gingersnaps just as she was about to take a taste herself.

"Hey!" Amaya protested, pouting at him. "And what makes you think I got you anything?"

"HA! I know you far too well, my love. And I'd rather not have to sneak into your 'super secret hideout' in Dakota's quarters," he said with a mischievous grin.

"How did you—?" Amaya's eyes widened in dismay.

"Sweetheart, you're terrible at keeping secrets from me. I overheard you discussing it with Dakota during yesterday's tea." His grin widened. "Besides, won't Dakota peek at her own gift?"

"Her gift is hidden elsewhere, thank you very much." the tiefling pouted, avoiding his gaze.

Astarion chuckled a bit while using his free hand to cup her cheek, "Come now, darling, we both know I have ways of discovering these things." He coaxed. 

"I know, but sometimes I'd like to keep these particular secrets... secret." Her lower lip trembled slightly, pregnancy hormones amplifying her natural sensitivity.

As she began to pull away, Astarion tightened his hold. "Mayabear, don't be cross. I promise I don't know what you bought—only where you've hidden it." His cool fingers wiped away the tears threatening to fall. 

Amaya sighed ”It's ridiculous that I feel like crying over this." 

"This crying is perfectly normal, pet. You're experiencing new things." Astarion then pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and then to her cheek. 

"I know what would make you feel better,” Astarion purred into her ears, his voice was now low and sultry. 

Amaya now amused by him now looked up at him.“Oh, really and what is that” the tiefling mumbled.

Astarion gently cupped her face. “May I kiss you a little more? I can more than guarantee it will help with your little poutiness. I know you’ve missed me, and I’ve certainly missed you." 

Amaya's gentle nod of approval was all the invitation Astarion needed. He tilted her head back and pressed his lips to hers, his fingers traced delicate patterns along her curves as their kisses deepened. Amaya's fingers tangled in his silver curls, drawing a pleased hum from his throat. His hands now roaming down to squeeze her full ample bottom leaving a soft, breathy moan from Amaya’s parted lips. Astarion could already feel his trousers begin to tighten uncomfortably. Every new curve of hers was driving him mad.

"Would going to the bedroom go against your instructions to rest?" he whispered against her lips, barely breaking their kiss.

At an eager shake of her head, the vampire gently swept her into his arms, carrying her swiftly to their chambers. He deposited her gently on their bed before retrieving an arcane lock scroll from their drawer—they'd learned that lesson after an awkward encounter with a new maid. The quick incantation sealed their privacy, and he returned to Amaya who was leaning against the bed’s headboard.

Astarion crawled close to Amaya, purring, "On your side, facing me darling." She obeyed, and his hungry kisses trailed from her lips down to her neck as his dexterous fingers untied the top drawstrings of the soft velvet dress, carefully lifting the fabric to reveal herself to him.

“Such a good, obedient girl.” He whispered. The sight of her stole his breath—her swollen breasts, the subtle curve of her belly, and the flush spreading across her skin.

"What?" she asked, noticing his intense gaze.

"Nothing," he murmured, his voice low and raspy. "I just think you grow more beautiful every day." With practiced grace, he slid off her lacy undergarments, sliding cold nimble fingers toward her already glistening desire.

“Tsk, tsk, you are already so wet”, he purred into her ear. He propped up her leg on his hip, angling her body to lay on her side more comfortably. Slowly, he began slipping one, then two fingers in and out of her slick, glistening folds at a steady pace, drawing soft yet needy moans from her lips.

Astarion trailed tender kisses lower, his tongue lingering and tracing the delicate curves of her body His fanged teeth accidentally grazing around her pert nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from Amaya. Amaya then cupped his hair between her fingers, arching into his touch. "A-Astarion," she gasped.  The vampire began to focus his attention, zeroing in on her sweet spot. "I want you to bite me," she pleaded. "You haven't in so long."

Astarion hesitated, "You know I have my reasons, pet." he murmured, his voice vibrating against her skin. But Amaya's pleading, trembling voice of need was impossible to resist. "Please! And I so desperately want to feel all of you."

Astarion paused briefly, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. "Well, well you've persuaded me, you cheeky little pup," he growled. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and removed his trousers, only to reveal his aching cock glistening and beaded with precum. Positioning himself on his side at Amaya's entrance, he let out a soft growl as he slowly began to thrust into her welcoming heat.

Astarion's teeth sank into the delicate skin of Amaya's neck, drinking deeply of her rich, sweet life’s nectar as he pounded into her his fingers gripping tighter around her plump bottom. Amaya's muffled cries spurred him on, his pace quickening. Only when he felt himself nearing the edge did Astarion detach his fangs, letting out a stifled moan.

Desperate, he deliberately slowed his movements, savoring each delicious sensation as he remained deeply immersed in her welcoming warmth.

“Fuck, Maya” Astarion finally growled, Amaya's hands roamed avoiding Astarion's scarred back, her nails digging in just above his shoulder blades as their bodies moved together in a shared, building climax. "Astarion!" Amaya cried out, her walls clenching around him as his hips began to stagger losing control, his seed filling her in warm, pulsing waves..

Spent, they clung to each other, Astarion pulling Amaya close to his chest entangled with one another between the silk sheets. Her fingers played with his sweat-dampened curls brushing them back from his forehead—a tender habit that had brought him comfort since their first night together. As sleep began to claim Amaya, Astarion gazed at her drinking in her beauty. 

"I really love you, you know that right?" he whispered.

"Of course, love," she smiled drowsily at him. "I hope you know I love you too."

"I'm more than aware." He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“So, what did you get me for Midwinter?” She asked softly but amusement in her voice.

Astarion chuckled to himself, “You’ll see, now close your eyes.”

Her soft laugh and the gentle tug of her fingers in his hair were the last things he registered before she drifted off and he began to trance, safe in each other's arms forever, for good.

[givemeonereason]

Rose-Colored Boy

Photo credit here

Rating: Rain-soaked Cotton Candy

Plot: Your sunshine husband always finds the bright side in everything.

A/n: This one took me a while. I had other pieces I needed to get out. I also got Covid and topped that with my birthday and the holidays. Though it was nice to take a small break. I'm glad this was the first piece in the new year.

The one thing that is so infectious about Kyojuro Rengoku is his overly loud countenance. And unshakable will, but he means well. I love this about him. The happiness he sees in every moment is absolutely admirable. It’s probably why he’s a fan favorite.

This was inspired by my own experiences with being a natural pessimist. I’ve been burned by the flames too often to know better than to expect good outcomes. Honestly, sometimes I wish the only flames come from the hashira himself.

*BONUS* I was listening to this while I wrote. It really helped me move along with this.

╒══════════════════════╕

You looked up at the gathering dark clouds above your head and sigh. “Of course, it would rain. We’re only halfway there.” You huffed, looking down at the best kimono you own. “This is going to be ruined.”

Your husband raised his head towards the sky, smiled and laughed cheerfully. “Thank the gods for this rain. We really need it if our garden is going to thrive this season.”

You look over at him, your eyes relaxing when you see his cheeks puffed in his smile.

You couldn’t be angry with his enthusiasm. He was right. The area was suffering from a terrible drought. Many locals have had to go without because of it. Only the support of the nearby town was able to keep people from starving to death. A blessing, for which everyone was grateful.

But you, aren’t so grateful. You tend to complain about the garden at your estate. It’s so much work to keep up with, even when the servants help.

Only Kyojuro Rengoku would think about this now, his precious sweet potatoes. They make him so happy though. And you love that about him.

Umai!

You laugh to yourself at the thought of him shouting during every snack and meal. It’s the one word, the one sound, that will never get old. You can practically hear it even when he’s away on missions and even if you’re lucky in your sweetest dreams.

“Rain is good and all, but why does it have to rain today of all days. We hardly get to go into town together. I was hoping that tonight would be special.”

He took your hand in his, twining his fingers with yours. “Every day and every night with you is so special.”

You were blushing. “Kyo…”

“What’s the matter, my flame?”

You gripped his hand tighter. “I just love you is all.”

Kyojuro pushed his chest out with pride. His cheeks red with happiness. “And I love you, my dear!"

You pulled yourself close to him, holding onto his strong arm. “You’re always so optimistic. I hate that, but I could never hate you.”

He turned and kissed the top of your head and wrapped his arm around you just as you felt a raindrop hit your cheek. You contorted your face into a pout, which made Kyojuro laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me!” You pouted even more shoving your face into his chest. You felt his chest rumble as he laughed even harder.

The rain fell upon you both as you continued up the path. His hashira's cape draped over your head, not much protection as the wet seeped through the fabric.

When you stepped through the threshold of the town’s inn, you were drenched. Your hair was falling out of the carefully placed pins. The stain of your blush smeared down your cheek. The hem of your kimono sullied with mud. The ick of the elements enveloping you. You felt absolutely foul.

Kyojuro pushed his dripping bangs out of his face. He smiled brightly toward the matron of the inn. He bowed deeply. “Pardon us, madam, would we be able to impose upon you to stay for the night? My wife will not be able to make it back to our home with the weather conditions at present.”

“Yes, I have a room you may stay in.”

"Thank you so much." He bowed deeply once more. His hand on the small of your back leads you forward.

You noticed that the inn lady was very soft-spoken, even when she told you both not to worry about the trailing mud on the hardwood in the hallway.

This bothered Kyojuro nonetheless and he scooped you up into his arms so that the hem of your kimono wouldn’t drag anymore. Only wet footprint left from his socks marked the floor when you made it to the designated room.

“The bath is at the end of the hall. Please feel free to use it. I will bring robes for you to change into.” She bowed and continued down the hall.

“Ughh, this night is just terrible, isn’t it? I can’t wait to get into the bath. I feel so gross!”

“Then let me take you to the bath, my fire.” Kyojuro picked you up into his arms again, carrying you down towards the bath. He kissed you gently, looking down into your eyes. “Even if you were covered head to toe in mud you would still be beautiful.”

“Ewww! That’s so gross!” You pushed him lightly and he chuckled.

“While you’re in here I’m going to help clean the mess we made in the hallway.” He was already unbuttoning his jacket at the wrists and pushing the sleeve up his forearms. “I better get to work.” He flashed you a smile before walking down towards the entryway.

Kyojuro Rengoku, a light in a dark space.

When you peeled away your clothing you got into the bath and sunk down to cover as much of yourself as you could.

You have been looking forward to this day for weeks. When Kyo said he had a hashira meeting, it just made sense that you would go into town and make the most of it. When he's called to those meetings you never know what is going to happen, is it good or bad? Is it going to be a new mission, or intel on a upper-rank demon? You never know. So you try and make the best of your time with Kyojuro when you can.

But the way the day took a turn for the worse this time.

You can hear him talking to the inn lady from outside the door. He's so cheerful, so full of life. How on earth with such polar dispositions did you land him? It wasn't even arranged. Was he swayed by your beauty, sure, but that can't be the only reason why he chose to pursue you right?

You felt refreshed after soaking in the warm bath water. So you dressed and made your way back down the hall towards your room. The floors had a subtle sheen to them. Most likely due to Kyojuro’s heavy-handed cleaning. You laughed to yourself. You imagined the mad dash he made down the hall with his rear proudly up in the air as he wiped the floor clean in a steady line, a big smile on his face. You knew he would do anything to help others. The values his mother instilled in such earnestness.

Kyojuro Rengoku’s heart and soul exists in only pure kindness and altruism.

The guestroom had a table set in the middle. The amber light of the overhead lamp buzzed down onto tatami-lined floors. Kyo's dark brown uniform coming into view. "There is my beautiful wife." His smile spread widely across his face. His hands grasped onto either sided of your shoulders, a kiss placed upon your forehead. "Do you finally feel refreshed?"

You reached up and held onto one of his forearms. Your eyes closed when he pressed his lips to your cheek then. You smiled, feeling his honeyed-toned voice seeping deep into the rose of your cheeks. "Yes, I do feel refreshed now. You are welcome to the bath if you'd like."

"Yes!" He boomed in his usual volume. You laughed at the shift. The voice he used for only you is soft and sweet, but his normal countenance is explosive. The polarized juxtaposition of personality, yet in such perfect harmony.

You look towards the sliding guestroom door. "I saw that the hallway looked very clean on my way back here."

With his hands on his waist and chest puffed outward he shouted another, "YES!"

You reached for the buttons of his brown jacket and unfastened the top three easily. "You always liked cleaning the floors at home. No wonder you so generously volunteered to clean them here."

He worked the buckle of his belt and pulled the white leather through the hoops of his slacks. "It's the least I could do after we unintentionally brought all that wet in with us."

You closed your eyes, but the pressure from their roll still tensed behind your eyelids. "Yes, how could I forget." You looked towards the window, the rain still spilling down from the dark clouds above. "And to think, we could have been stooling the market street at this very moment." You sighed, your hand grasping the soft fabric your robe that was nearest your collarbone.

Kyo's voice came in again, soft, honey, sweet. "I promise that when I get back we will make the trip once more." He came up behind you, gently kissing the delicate skin behind your ear. A shiver scaling down your entire body. "Weather permitting of course."

He would do that for you. And you knew that he would make the trip even more special in some form. Knowing him all too well, he will probably present you with a brand new kimono for the occasion, possibly a new hair accessory, shower you with fresh flowers or sweets. Or if you're especially lucky, you might even go to town by carriage. It could be any, or even all of those things. Though, the only thing you've ever needed is him. Just Kyojuro, home and safe with you. The trips to town or even longer excursions don't matter if you don't have the one person who you've spent so many years with.

When he leaves for missions, you wait for him. Wait to hear the sound of his sandals on the gravel. The sound of his humming near the garden before he walks through the door. The verve of his laughter when you throw yourself into his arms. His calm breath in your ear.

He's home.

He's safe.

He's alive.

Kyojuro turned quick and made his way out of the room towards the bathroom. You sat down at the small square table and took the cup filled with tea to your lips. The warm liquid racing down your throat now warming your insides.

A young woman appeared at the door with the meal service. She placed the dishes carefully down on the table. It looked delicious and even more so smelled delicious. You poured another cup of tea and placed it on the opposite side of the table for where Kyo would sit with you.

You sat quietly and listened to the rain. The pattering of the raindrops hitting the roof would put you to sleep had the food in front of you kept you from lulling. Yet, your eyes were closed nonetheless enjoying the quiet—

The door opened with a flash. Your husband, robe-clad charged into the room towards the table. “It smells so good in here. And look!” He marveled at each plate in front of him when he sat. “These dishes look amazing!” He served you some of the stewed beef before eagerly taking some for himself.

itadakimasu--Umai!

You savored the rich taste of the sauce as it meshed so well with the vegetables.

Umai!

"Indeed this food is very good. However, I don't think it's as good as Rika's cooking." Your housekeeper is very skilled in the kitchen, which, unfortunately, has always been your weak spot in your marital life. Even if you did cook, Kyojuro always made you feel as if it were a wonderful meal.

Umai!

"Kyo, please be careful my darling. I don't want you to choke." You reached out for his hand that firmly grasped a large piece of beef between two chopsticks. But he shoved the meat into his mouth anyway.

Ummmahhh.

He could barely speak with such a large mouthful.

You sighed and shook your head. You laughed when you saw how wide his smile was, his cheeks puffed with food on each side. He could pass as a woodland creature.

You took another bite of your food. The difference is you chewed your food and swallowed before you let out a softer, but pronounced "umai!" It had similar energy to Kyojuro's, but the volume would never match.

Now that he swallowed the hunk of meat in his mouth, he laughed heartily at you. One hand on his belly and the other at the crown of his head, which he had thrown back in his laughter. His flame-tipped hair flattened from washing, now curling up at the edges near his eyebrows and chin.

He looked at you bright-eyed. "You know, you're very beautiful when you smile. It's one thing about you that I never tire of."

You blushed deeply, dipping your chin down towards your chest. "I'm sure you are the only one who thinks that my love."

His fist hits the table making the plates tremble. Though he's not angry in the slightest, his Kyojuroisms intensify even the most subtlest of actions.

"Everyone knows you're the most beautiful!" He got up from where he sat cross-legged and walked to the window, looking down at the rain-sullen garden below.

You're not sure if he's practicing for the stage. Shakespeare? Kabuki? Such drama, so Rengoku.

"Men are envious that I have such a beautiful and extraordinary wife." He looked back towards you. His eyes were soft again. "No other woman in all of Japan-- in all of the world could compare."

You put your bowl of rice down on the table and joined him at the window, resting your head on his shoulder as you looked out farther towards the empty street, lanterns rocking to and fro in the wind. "I am the luckiest woman in all the world."

"I am the luckiest man. I thank the gods every day for meeting you. And when I'm away, all I can think about is coming home to you."

You wrapped your arms around him. "How are you like this all the time? Isn't it exhausting?"

He held onto you tighter. "How so?"

"Aren't you tired of always being happy, always seeing the bright side, putting people before yourself? You're so joyful." You looked up into his amber-red eyes. "I love that about you, but you don't have to try so hard with me. You don't have Kyojuro Rengoku all the time."

He laughed. "But I am Kyojuro Rengoku."

You laughed as well, pressing your face into the shoulder and taking a breath. "I know, but what I'm saying is, if you keep burning so unwaveringly, all that will remain of you is ashes." You gently pulled his face down towards you and kissed his lips. "What good are ashes? I could use them in the garden, but who would I harvest sweet potatoes for? I want you and only you, no other variation."

Kyo kissed your lips, lingering there before looking into your eyes. "I will always be with you flame, fire, and ashes, in here." He pointed to your heart and gently placed his palm against the soft fabric of your robe. "I will never leave you, even in death."

He held onto you tightly when he mentioned death. He could die at any moment. His occupation continuously puts him at death's door. He is one of the best swordsmen, but death will come for all eventually.

You constantly think about the possibility of him dying. He could be outmatched. The thought strickens you.

Flame, fire, ashes, death, fire, death, umai, umai, umai, flame, fire, ashes, death. Death.

You rubbed your eyes against his robe, tears rolling down your cheeks. "Please don't go. Kyo, please...Come home with me. We can figure out something new. We will take Senjuro and Shinjuro with us."

You knew this pleading wouldn’t go far. It’s been a Rengoku legacy for generations to become the flame hashira. And all he wants to do is help people. To protect them. To protect you.

He got you down to rest on the futon. “Kyo…” You could barely talk. Your face buried into his chest. A blanket covering you both on the futon you were now sharing. You didn’t stop shivering until you honed in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

The table and plates had been cleared away an hour ago. And you were embarrassed when a young girl came in to take food and table away, your eyes blotchy and red, tears streaming down your face. So you hid behind Kyojuro. The girl profusely apologized for the interruption.

Buh-bum, buh-bum.

You focus now. Your breathing leveling out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

He brushed the hair stuck at your temples away and ran his fingers down your side. His gentle touch pulling you close to his body. A comfort that only he can bring. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” He tries to whisper, but due to his premature hearing loss, what he thought was a whisper, to you was a regular indoor volume. “I am very sorry to make you worry so much over me.”

“Of course, I worry about you. You’re my— my— my world.” You hugged him tightly. “I wish I could do something to protect you. The only thing I can do is try to prevent you from leaving, but you will go anyway. I’m not strong enough to keep you here. And I don’t want to, but I don’t want to wake up one morning knowing you’ll never be here beside me.”

He remained quiet, rubbing you back in languid strokes. This is a conversation that you frequently have. The end conversation. Always at your behest. The song and dance remain the same. Kyojuro and you never move out of place. He resolves to his missions, and you dissolve to worry.

You quieted yourself, concentrating on his heart again.

Buh-bum.

The scattered pattering of the rain slows outside of the window. Sleep pulling you into its hollow embrace. “I will never leave you. I promised you.” He somehow was so soft there in your ear. The fulfilling embodiment that sent you into slumber.

You hear rustling and open your eyes. The morning light shining in your eyes. Kyojuro is aside the window adjusting his hashira's cape. Your guiding light. You lift yourself up to stretch. "Oh, good you're awake." He smiles down at you. He pulled you up into his arms. "Good morning, my flame."

You pushed your face into his broad chest. He's so warm. "Morning." His arms stretch around you. "I'll change quickly so you can get an early start." You walked towards the privacy screen and began dressing into your kimono.

Someone soft-spoken came into the room while you were dressing and brought a light breakfast for the two of you. He stood beside the table waiting for you. When you sat down opposite him, he finally sat down. The joy in his voice as he ate happily. Food really is one of the most important things to him. If you let him he'd eat all day. Though it did make sense, being a hashira requires a high level of athleticism. He needs all the energy he can get.

But the best energy he gets is the love he receives from you. If he never could eat again, he would simply exist solely on your subtle glances, the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter, and the sweet taste of your kisses.

Forbidden fruit within reach.

Reaching out for him at the head of the road. The grass beneath your feet. You never want to let go, and he would rather you didn't. "Kyo, please be careful."

You heard him chuckle. He's putting up a good front, always.

"You have nothing to worry about." He winked at you. His infectious smile spreads into your own cheeks.

"Kyo---"

He turned back as he began to walk away. "I'll be back in a flash." He smiled again. His blond hair swayed over his shoulder, the string tied tight around the ponytail at his crown. It was the very same string you so delicately braided for him the first night he told you he loved you. He's kept it since.

"I love you." You smiled back at him.

"Love! You!" Kyojuro shouted back as he started moving down the dirt road. He took off in a mad dash down the path and into the woods. When you lost sight of the white of his cape fluttering behind him you walked in the opposite direction towards the Rengoku estate.

The air was fresh after the rain. The grass was greener. The flowers are in bloom on the trees. The sun warming your skin. The road rises up to meet you at every step.

Even though he's gone, he's still here with you. The lasting signs of his love in your usual disposition shifting, even if only for the moment.

The world is so much better when he's in it. Everything is brighter, it's so full of life.

Our life, you thought.

Ours and only ours.

Well, sweet potatoes too, but still ours...

Come home soon, my love.

╘══════════════════════╛

© 2024 givemeonereason

Don’t steal other people’s works! Respect creators!

Reblogs and likes appreciated :)

[secret-third-thing]

@erisweek2023 Day 1: Family

Rated T - Implied Abuse; Potentially Triggering Images | Words: 2k

Read on AO3 or on Tumblr below the cut

"When you've finally overthrown me... when your ambitions bloom, and all your schemes are fulfilled, What will you do then, Eris?"

Summary: After many restless nights, Eris has a difficult conversation with his mother.

A/N: This is a tough one, folks. Please take care of yourselves.

"When you've finally overthrown me... when your ambitions bloom, and all your schemes are fulfilled, What will you do then, Eris?"

--

Most nights, Eris wakes up in a cold sweat, body twisted in silken sheets stained with fear. For a moment, he cannot breathe, and his hands grasp his throat, intending to claw away at the skin there until he can feel the cool night air of Autumn. He chokes on the darkness, the deep despair that lingers within him until his lungs remember how to breathe and his chest heaves with relief.

Tonight, he reminds himself his father is dead - the severed head of the former high lord hoisted and burned on a massive pyre, the body laid waste and tossed into the sea. Beron would never appear again, ire brandished like a red-hot sword poised to strike. Eris had made sure of that.

Yet, his father's final words echoed in his head as he slipped from the bed, hair tusled with restless sleep. Eris didn't dare catch his reflection in the bathroom, instead cupping the water of a running facet in his hands, watching the liquid leak from the cracks in his fingers as he prepared to splash the cooling liquid onto his face.

He was safe, and yet…

In the days leading to his coronation, sometimes in the middle of holding court, Eris' mind would twist and would see the sneering grin of his father in the crowds of commoners. The former high lord's head cocked to the side in false curiosity at his son finally playing leader. With him gone, would Eris finally craft Autumn to fit a new vision?

Wrapping a cotton robe around him, Eris steps out into the private balcony of his bedroom. The night air curls around him, and he relishes how it feels against his heated skin. It was halfway to winter, and soon, it would be too cold to set foot outside without a wool coat.

In the distance, he can see the Forest House guards make their rounds through the estate, paths weaving in and out of the trees, through the gardens, and up the main entry. Eris had stationed them there, just in case his father's sympathizers bore ash and iron to cross him. So far, however, his imminent reign is met with ambivalence. Eris knows that, like his father, he is a near indomitable force. He feels all of Autumn, the frenetic life of the fauna, the aching of the rot in the woods, the thrumming of all the magic his court possessed.

As he watches the trees shift from the nighttime breeze, he sees a head of red hair walk to the gardens, flames entangled in her hand. She opens the gates and settles herself on a bench. Unusual at this hour.

Eris slips on his shoes and wanders into the empty hallways of the Forest House, eyes darting to every shadow as he makes his way to the entrance. Very rarely did Eris seek out his mother. Only under her gaze did the guilt and shame begin to eat away at him. He remembered the first time he had lied. Or the first time he had hurt his brothers. He recalled the disappointment in her face. The way the corners of her mouth turned ever so slightly down when she realized that despite all the love and care she showed, Beron had won.

Sometimes, Eris swore his mother wore that expression when she knew he was the only one looking at her. How exhausted she seemed. Her sons, the lights of her life, burning so violently under their father's gaze that they could only consume the world around them.

These days, Eris felt like he was going to burn out of control. Beron had been ruthless, his schemes unending. It had been challenging to keep up with what was running through his father's mind. So much so that Eris wondered if it would be worth being high lord at all. Could Autumn be salvaged? Was it even worth it? His father's legacy of cruelty was planted in every corner. Eris wasn't sure he would be able to uproot it, being born of that pain himself.

When he reaches the garden, he is startled by the vision of his mother lounging on the bench, head leaning back, eyes closed, and face relaxed. She is wrapped in a worn robe, her legs thrown over the arm of the bench, shoes dangling from her feet. In this moment, he remembers she is not much older than him. With her eyes still closed, she addresses him.

"It is not often my eldest comes to me," she says. She tilts her head and opens her eyes just enough to see him standing there. It makes him feel small. They both know he avoids being alone with her, the burden of his shame always laid bare before her.

"You're up late," he counters, voice sharper than he intends. His hands slide into his pockets, a habit that he picked up as a child. He worries she remembers this, too.

"I'm enjoying the quiet," she finally says. Eris can read between the lines, can sense the ease with which she speaks, her taking solace in her husband's demise. His mother pulls herself up and sits cross-legged on the wooden bench. She pats the wood next to her.

"Come, sit."

Eris finds himself obeying, sitting next to her, staring back at Forest House. He can see the many rooms, mostly dark save for a few late-night readers or schemers who dared defy the night.

"Today is a big day," she says when he sits in silence. She faces him, smiling, soft and genuine, face framed by her unbound hair, just as brilliantly red as his own. "Are you excited for the coronation?" The way she says it, the tone of her voice, and the melody it carries make him feel young again. He recalls how, long before his other brothers were born, he would tug at her skirts until she lifted him onto her lap, and they watched the fae working the gardens around the home, how she would sing him to sleep when he wouldn't rest alone in his room.

"Relieved," Eris simply replies, ignoring the churning of his stomach.

"I am, too." she says. They sit in comfortable silence for a while until Eris can feel his chest tighten, can feel his lungs seize. He swears he can see his father standing on a balcony watching them both, waiting until-

"Care for a drink?" she says to him suddenly, resting a hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into reality. Now he is back in the garden, alone with his mother. No remnant of his father to be found. The light of her faefire flickers, and she rubs her thumb against him in circles.

"At this hour?" he asks. She laughs at this, her hand pulling away from him to cover her mouth as she tosses her head back. When her laughter subsides, she smiles.

"Whiskey would be good, but I meant to help you sleep."

"I never said I couldn't sleep."

"You never slept well, even as a child," she counters.

Carefully untangling her legs, she stands, holding out a hand. He stands in turn and allows her to wrap her arm around his as he escorts her back inside.

Their walk to the kitchen is long. His mother winds through Forest House, leading him down halls, through rooms he nearly had forgotten existed, past portraits of relatives whose names he never learned. His mother's world is so different from his, yet they had coexisted this whole time. How much had he missed of his mother by serving his father?

In the kitchen, she finally withdraws her arm, giving him a gentle squeeze with her hand, and walks to a cupboard. She seems to float like a ghost, robe dusting the floor. In the dim faelight, the dark circles of her eyes are pronounced, her face thin and angular. She looks so frail, the widow of the high lord. During the day, she wears gowns the color of ash that wash her out, making her into a living corpse. As far as Eris knows, she has shed no tears for her loss.

His mother turns and gestures for him to sit at the table in the corner. She takes her time pulling a clay mug from the cupboard, placing it reverently on the counter. She flits to where the milk is stored and pours a generous amount.

"Why are you here still?" Eris asks, watching her pull a honey wand from the jar and drizzle it over the milk.

"Here?" she asked, brows furrowed as she maneuvers the wand back into the jar without making a mess of the counter. She places the honey back and searches for spices.

"In Autumn. Why aren't you in Day by now?" he clarifies. She knows what he's talking about. Eris watches her closely now, noting the way her eyes widen just so slightly, how her mouth twitches in denial, how she can't look him in the eye.

"Why wouldn't I be here?" She heats the mug with her hands.

"We all know, Mother," he says too calmly. The rumor of her affair was the worst kept secret in their family.

Eris had found out when Lucien was not much older than an infant. He had brought his younger brother to the Kennels to pet his dogs when his Lucien had glowed, a flickering beacon of hope in the dim rot of Autumn. And Eris had crushed it, startled Lucien into crying, and carried the wailing child to his mother. Eris had seethed, had never been so angry at her before. He warned her, accused her of betrayal. How could she have found such joy in abandoning the rest of them?

His mother stops heating the mug with her hands and sets it down before the milk can curdle. Her mouth is pursed as though the unspoken agreement to never mention her infidelity again is still meant to be honored. Eris only complied for her sake.

"You all are my children," she says. When she finally dares to meet his stare, he sees the fire that burns within her, the same that burns in him, in Lucien. "I don't know why you seem to forget that."

"What did you ever do when he hurt us?" he spits out. He's gripping the chair until his knuckles are white.

"You have no idea what I've been through, Eris. I did the best I could." Her flushed face twists into a frown. She's right, but he does have an inkling of what she went through and the scars to prove it. His mother has seen them, saw when he earned them. Did nothing to soothe him. But he drops the subject and gives a long, defeated sigh. He is tired, and it's early in the morning.

Sensing the shift, his mother finally hands the mug to him, and he takes it—a peace offering.

"I love you," she says, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," he says. He sips the drink and savors how the warmth of it seeps into him, the closest thing to a hug he's had in centuries.

"Are you happy now?" she asks him, choosing her words carefully. He hates how he makes her nervous like he's a monster too.

"Yes," he lies. She nods, knowing. She leans over the counter, eyes bright and a rueful smile upon her lips.

"I am here for you," she says. A lie, Eris is sure. "You are going to do great things. Don't let the memory of him stop you." She gives that feeble half-grin he has come to loathe. Her wise words are lost on him.

"Good night, Mother," Eris says. He returns the mug to her and walks back to his room, steps echoing in the silent gulf between them.

His mother stays for his coronation. She leaves the next day.

--

Notes:

Phew - that was hard to write. I'm a DV survivor and so is my mother. The conversations we had after the abuse had ended were very, very difficult, and this fic was inspired by that. I'd like to think that even though this piece ended on a sad note, what happened is the first step to longer journey of much-needed healing. My mother and I took years to be able to talk about what happened. I suspect Eris and the LoA would need the same time and space. As always, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think and be sure to check out the rest of the @erisweek2023 fics. <3

[cantsayidont]

Something that bugs me a little about the reactions to LORD OF THE RINGS is the way that fans pointedly overlook the sometimes uneasy class politics that are involved in the relationship between Frodo and Sam.

This is in no way denying that it's a homoerotic relationship, which is something that comes through vividly even in the weird, truncated Rankin-Bass RETURN OF THE KING animated adaptation from 1980. However, it's important to understand that until the last few pages of the novel, Sam is literally Frodo's servant.

Tolkien is quick to stress, as stories from class-conscious societies often do, that Sam is happy and eager to serve Frodo, and willingly does so even when there's nothing in it for him, but the story emphasizes throughout that Sam is not the social equal of Frodo, Merry, Pippin, or Bilbo. When Sam calls Frodo "Master," it's not a D/S thing; Sam is Frodo's household employee (and in a sense his batman, which Tolkien said was the inspiration for their interactions), having essentially inherited that role from his father, who was Bilbo's employee. When, in the final chapter, Frodo tells Sam to marry Rosie Cotton and movie her into Bag End, he isn't proposing a menage à trois, he is offering to hire Rosie so that Sam can combine his marriage with his full-time duties. It isn't until Frodo tells Sam, on the way to the Grey Havens, that he has made Sam his heir that Sam becomes Frodo's social equal and the master of Bag End rather than the head of its staff. (Tolkien implies elsewhere that this caused Sam some legal trouble, since there was no indication that Frodo was dead or permanently gone — and if Merry and Pippin hadn't been there to witness Frodo's departure, people would have wondered if Sam did away with his master to try to steal his estate.)

Moreover, Tolkien expressly links Sam's perseverance, loyalty, and ability to resist the power of the Ring to his knowing his place. Toward the beginning, Sam's father recalls telling him:

‘Elves and Dragons! I says to him. Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you’ll land in trouble too big for you, I says to him. And I might say it to others,’ he added with a look at the stranger and the miller.

Later (in "The Tower of Cirith Ungol"), Sam is tempted by the Ring, which shows him wild fantasies of his overthrowing Sauron and building a garden in the vale of Gorgoroth. However:

In that hour of trial it was the love of his master that helped most to hold him firm; but also deep down in him lived still unconquered his plain hobbit-sense: he knew in the core of his heart that he was not large enough to bear such a burden, even if such visions were not a mere cheat to betray him. The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.

The word "free" is doing a lot of work here, since Sam is, back in the safety of Hobbiton, quite literally a hand for others to command; he tends Frodo's garden, not his own. But the point is that he recognizes his humble, inferior position in society and accepts it "freely," and that that choice gives Sam what Gandalf might have called the strength and good purpose to heroically resist a temptation that more noble and lordly types like Boromir could not.

My point is not that Sam doesn't love Frodo, which obviously he does, or the reverse, which the narrative makes plain. However, if you are not so reflexively comforted by classist fantasies of this kind, it's hard not to periodically stop and wonder, "Is this sexual harassment?"

[sleepingdeath-light]

apologise ; 18+

requested by ; someone on wattpad (my first ever request for sweet seduction, but rewritten)

word count ; 4051

content ; sexually explicit content, clothed grinding, hand job (male receiving)

fandom ; black butler

pairing ; finnian x cis female reader

read also on ; ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

Though you'd only been employed at the prestigious Phantomhive estate for a short few months, it had been more than enough time to get a grasp on how your colleagues functioned as individuals and as a collective. A well oiled machine manned by the head butler, Mr Sebastian, and under the complete jurisdiction of the young lord — a lad you'd only met once and would much prefer to avoid.

There was just something so... haunting... about him. Something far too old and pained in his eye for someone so young.

So you opted to minimise any direct interaction with your employer, instead focusing your time and attention on the other servants of the manor when possible. Of course this meant spending many a morning conversing with Mr Sebastian, whose company you'd come to appreciate, but it was much more than just professional small talk spoken between daily rounds.

It was quiet mornings spent with Meyrin walking down the labyrinthine hallways of the manor, arms filled with laundry and heads tipped back with lilting laughter as you joked and teased and gossiped your way through your chores. It was busy afternoons spent chasing after Baldroy with a bucket and broom, your faces smeared with gunpowder and your sides aching with bitten back giggles as you try to repair whatever damage his latest cooking scheme had done to the servants' quarter of the estate. It was evenings spent on your knees, feeling blindly under tables and beds and chairs, bare fingertips brushing against soft carpets like clumsy spider's legs as you sought out one of Snake's more rebellious companions — their name on your lips and a dozen voices sprouting from his own.

It was late nights spent awake until your eyelids were too heavy to keep open and your brain too fuzzy to think. Thinking and fantasising until your skin was burning and covered in gooseflesh, until you were clamping your hands over your mouth and giggling like a child. Mind racing as you recalled each and every interaction, minor and major alike, with the estate's gardener; Finnian.

Finny, with eyes so lush and green that Mother Nature herself envies them. Finny, with hair as soft and fluffy as cotton, it's colour spun gold and so pure that the very sun he works under all day admires it. Finny, with a smile so cheery and bright despite all he's gone through, the picture of purity and beauty — an adorable Adonis who stole the breath from your lungs and whose voice struck the match that set your flustered flesh ablaze. Finny, who you adored but could never bring yourself to speak to without making a complete and utter fool of yourself.

That Finny. Oh how much you longed to trade places with the flowerbeds, whose petals he touched with a gentleness unmatched, humming and smiling as he diligently tended to each and every stem and bud. You were sure that they only bloomed so bright because of him — as you felt yourself growing more jovial and alive in his presence so surely they must feel the same way too.

But, still, you could never quite bring yourself to voice such feelings to him. Always falling just shy of confessing as the words died on your tongue like soldiers at war or flowers in a meadow, overrun with the weeds of doubt that stole the confidence from their very roots and left you floundering in awkward silence before you finally — inevitably — gave in and retreated. Another loss for the books.

One of many. You were never really cut out for war, it seemed.

Though today you weren't given the option to flee and hide, because you were the staff's last option and failure on your behalf could disrupt the entire system of the estate. A misspoken word snowballing into raised voices, tools with their mixed metal and wooden parts snapped like toothpicks, tearful glares and a deep canyon of trauma and anger whose broad gap you had to bridge.

Meyrin had been the one to start the whole thing in the first place, a comment about cages and experimentation in a new book she'd been reading having sent Finny into a tearful rage. She didn't want to risk making things worse, having disqualified herself and come to you all for aid.

Bard had tried, but he'd fallen just short of the finish line by making a poorly timed reference to a bird. That had only sent him into another round of hysterics.

Sebastian had tried, but he'd been far too stern and had only agitated Finny further, nearly causing him to lash out and attack. He'd retreated and gone back to his other duties to let him calm down.

Snake and Tanaka were out of the estate, and the young lord was far too ill to get out of bed. So they were out of the running.

That only left you, and you hoped beyond hope that your perpetually tied tongue would loosen itself from the anxious knot it so often found itself in just enough to help your dear friend. To let you find the words you needed rather than leave you spouting pure stammering gibberish as it had so often in the past.

Hoping that that hope was enough.

————

Waiting for Finny to answer you through the greenhouse doors felt like waiting to be hung; stood anxious at the gallows with your eyes trained on your cheap heels and your breath caught in your throat as you counted the seconds. One then two then three and so on, each microsecond spreading onwards for eternity in your own mind, in the silence, until a scratchy, raw voice called out — its tone startlingly, yet not entirely unexpectedly, harsh.

'Who is it?'

You wetted your lips for a moment before responding, calling out your name.

'I told them I wanted to be left alone,' stern and unwavering, so very unlike himself.

'Well, yes, but I — we — just wanted to check that you were okay,' when he didn't respond you continued, speeding up as your words became more disjointed and jumbled, 'Mey said you were really upset and you know she didn't mean to upset you. She just misspoke, you know how often she says silly things. And when you ran off she was terrified and we're all really worried about you and,'

'I said I want to be left alone,'

Cold and harsh and certain and low. Yet his voice still cracked with what were surely tears and you felt your heart break for him.

'Finny, please, let me h-'

An echoing slam, deep as thunder in a raging storm, rang out through the large building, cracking the upper panel of the door beside your hand. Causing you to flinch away and cower in on yourself as a final shout followed.

'Leave me alone!'

And then deathly, painful, infectious silence.

As loud as thunder and as quiet as the grave all at once; heavy with the implications of what remained unsaid whilst you remained frozen in place, staring through the cracked panel at the distorted, quivering silhouette on the other side. You were so close that you could hear the tremble in his voice and his sobs despite his best efforts to hide them — despite him burying his face in his hands and huddling in on himself. He was more scared than angry, so you swallowed down your own anxiety and grounded yourself.

Then, after taking a few deep breaths, you wrapped your hand around the handle and pushed it down. The click echoing off of the tall glass walls as you stepped into the sweltering room and carefully closed the door behind you.

No going back now.

————

You took a tentative step forward. And then another and another; carefully inching your way towards Finny's trembling figure whilst skilfully avoiding the spilled, cracked plant pot shards that now decorated the tiled floor. The soft clicking of your heels and the soft scratch of clay against porcelain filling the otherwise silent room and overpowering the soft sniffles and sobs coming from the man in front of you — until you came to a halt a few inches in front of him and crouched down to his level.

‘Hey…’

‘Go away,’

‘Finny,’ you sighed, placing a hand on his knee and gently squeezing once, then twice, ‘I promise that I don’t mean you any harm. I just want to help you — we all do. So will you please listen to what I have to say? Just a little bit?’

Your prodding earned you a small victory — him shifting around enough to be able to look at you over his knees — but small was still better than nothing so you celebrated whatever progress you could make.

‘Thank you,’ you smiled at him and he looked away, ‘now as I was saying; Mey feels terrible about what happened and wants to make amends with you, if you’ll allow it. She’s the one that came and got us to talk to you — it’s why Bard and Mr Sebastian and I have all stopped by. We — I — care about you and I want to help you out, but I can’t do that if you don’t let me help you,’

You could see more tears start to well up in his eyes and panicked slightly, brain running a mile a minute to try and come up with something — anything — that could help make this situation better only to keep coming back with nothing. Leaving you gaping like a fish out of water, completely at a loss as you sought out any sort of solution.

So completely and utterly caught up in your inner turmoil that you didn’t notice Finny shifting again until he’d already launched himself forwards and tackled you to the ground in a tearful, almost bone-crushing, hug.

————

The moment you hit the floor you froze, unable to even react when the apologies started falling from his lips and the salt of his tears dripped down and gathered in the dips of your collarbone. Mind racing so fast that your body was unable to catch up, just barely processing the sting of your back as it started to fade and registering the weight of his body atop your own as he obliviously settled between your legs — pressing his crotch against your own as he tearily begged for your forgiveness.

But once you finally regained your bearings, you were quick to comfort him — raising yourself up on your elbows and moving to brush some fly-away hairs out of his face. Shushing him and whispering reassurances whilst caressing the sides of his face and brushing away his tears with a feather light touch. A few dozen 'it's okay's and 'I believe you's and 'I've got you's coming from your bitten lips as easily as breath — your tone sweet and genuine but no less firm for it, grounding him bit by bit with your repetitions until he was no longer sobbing and clinging to you like you’d scatter like pollen in the wind once he let go.

But the moment he pulled away enough to look you in the eyes, soft lips quivering and forest green eyes fretful and wet, whatever confidence you’d managed to scrape together was washed away — leaving your mind scattered and lost like a well-worn ship at sea. Grasping for some semblance of coherency as you faltered and floundered and flustered under that wide-eyed, gemstone gaze — stammering and stuttering and tripping over your knotted tongue until you finally managed to blurt out something.

‘You’re beautiful,’

Finny faltered under your unexpected praise, doe eyes widening a fraction as a wave of blushing, startled pink slowly spread up from his collarbone to his cheeks. He swallowed and your eyes flicked down to watch his Adam’s Apple bob up and down — had your throat always been this dry? — before he offered a response that was closer to a squeak than a question.

‘What?’

For a split second you considered backing out and backing down. Contemplated spewing a hundred excuses that felt a thousand times more hollow than the cracked cocoons he’d brought in from the garden earlier that week and that burned the tongue more than the fire that was blazing just beneath the skin of your face and throat. Lying to his face and fleeing, going back to the manor and asking Meyrin to just bite the bullet and apologise…

But you didn’t.

‘I… I said that you’re beautiful, Finny,’ god it felt good to finally say that out loud, relief flooding your veins even as your hands trembled as they touched his burning cheek and as your heart beat so loudly that you could barely hear yourself think.

‘You-You really think that?’

Green eyes — greener than the flourishing plants to which he tended, greener than the perfectly polished gemstones that decorated the themed jewellery worn by the young madam for the summer gala, greener than anything you’d ever seen — glinted with a sort of hope that you couldn’t quite place, clouded with a hesitance you knew all too well and yet still shining brightly through it all.

‘Of course I do!’ You responded firmly, shocked by your own sureness as you coughed into your fist and continued in something just above a whisper, averting your eyes to a suddenly very interesting fraction of plant pot as you spoke. ‘I always have,’

He was silent for a few moments and you felt your heart sink, blood pumping deafeningly in your ears as you started to panic. Thoughts of losing any chance to be with him, of losing your job, of losing your place all buzzing around your mind like a malicious storm — tears welling up in your eyes as it all became too much. Too much. Too much.

But then you felt a work calloused hand on the side of your face — rough thumb wiping away your shed tears with an unmatched gentleness and it all stopped. Silence, once again, until you finally turned your head and received a wordless acceptance of your confession.

A kiss so harsh and passionate that it sent you crashing back down onto the tiled floor — your own hands flying up to bury themselves in his hair as he deepened the kiss. Your lips parted in a startled gasp, which was eagerly swallowed by Finny’s soft lips and before long you found yourself lost in the moment: tilting your head in time with his own, experimentally gliding your tongue along his and delighting in the way you felt him shiver and groan, carding your hands through his messy blond hair and relishing in the way you felt him melt into you even further. Loved and loving and messy and passionate but pure.

Pure until he lent forwards in just the right way and pressed his crotch directly down against your already wet sex — the scratchy material of his uniform catching on the smooth cotton of your drawers to create a sinful combination of sensations that immediately coaxed a moan from your throat. A sound that sent a shockwave of heat straight to his own centre as you felt him starting to harden against your sex.

A sound that he swallowed just as eagerly as before until his mind caught up with his body and he realised just what had happened. Mortified, then, he started to pull away — the motion causing his length to brush against your slit once again and coaxing a fresh moan from you that had him reddening further — apologies already forming on the tip of his tongue and fretful tears brimming in his eyes as he went to speak. Though before he was able to get a word out, he was swiftly interrupted by your breathy plea and your soft hands gently tugging him back down, offering him an opportunity that had him letting out a whimper of his own.

‘Please, Finny, don’t stop,’

And, thankfully, he didn’t.

————

You were clumsy at first — both of you were — jittery with nerves and jerky with inexperience but still somehow able to make it work as you settled into something resembling an actual rhythm. Wrapping your stocking-clad legs around his waist and pulling him down against you whilst he ground his hips against yours — clothed erection hard and throbbing as it rubbed against your needy pussy, creating a delicious sort of friction that had you soaking through your undergarments far quicker than you'd like to admit. So wet that you were sure that you were starting to dampen the outside of his trousers, but if he felt anything he never made a point to mention it.

It was fast and rough and messy, your mutual desperation for release and for each other bleeding into your every action like water trickling from a stream to the sea. Clear as crystal through the way you arched your back up into his chest and one of those wonderfully gentle hands immediately wrapped around and beneath you to pull you closer to him. Apparent in the way neither of you made any effort to break the kiss, only separating by the merest of millimetres every few moments to catch your breath before diving forwards once again; lips and chins and cheeks smeared with saliva as you moaned and groaned and whimpered against each other, utterly oblivious (or, perhaps, apathetic) of the mess you'd made of yourselves. Obvious in the way that you moved against and with each other: circular grinding, bucking in tandem, downwards thrusts and so on — chasing those individual highs together as you held each other tighter and tighter and tighter.

Tighter until you could barely breath and it still wasn't enough. Though, by now, in the state you were in, even becoming one wouldn't be close enough — you just needed him. Needed his hands on your body, his lips on your own and you needed to make him feel good.

To make him moan and whine and gasp and say your name in that light and airy voice of his again and again and again. The need to pleasure him overwhelming what remained of your coherent mind until you were unable to stand it anymore and finally let yourself give in to that impulse.

Ever so slowly you started to inch your hand lower and lower between your bodies, cautiously palming his hard cock through the scratchy fabric of his uniform — coaxing a deep moan from the base of his throat that sent another wave of pleasure straight to your core. Then, after a short while of slow, gentle groping, you finally built up the confidence to reach into his trousers and wrap your soft hand around his throbbing dick — moaning at the feeling of its weight in your palm as you started to clumsily jerk him off.

Slowly — slowly — you traced your loose fist along his length, fisting from twitching base to swollen tip once, then twice, and again and again and again. Settling into a comfortable rhythm that had his hips bucking into your hand and him moaning and groaning against your lips — sounds and actions so erotic that you couldn't help but start to grind up against him in return, seeking stimulation for your throbbing, needy cunt. Aching for his dick, so painfully thick that you could already anticipate the stretch that would happen once he was finally inside of you; the mouthwatering sting that you were already craving through the lustful, heavy fog of your mind.

Though what few coherent thoughts you managed to scrape together soon dissipated once Finny broke the kiss and leaned downwards to press his lips to the underside of your jaw. Stealing your awareness and your breath with every peck of his addictively soft lips against your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, over your pulse point and down further to your collarbone before making his way back upwards. A rhythm all of his own that had you panting and whimpering and moaning — one hand in his hair and the other still wrapped around his throbbing length.

As moments turned to seconds turned to minutes you lost yourself to the feeling of his lips and hands on your body — all trails of thought leading back to him: his clothed cock grinding against your sodden panties, creating a delicious friction that drove you closer to the edge with every buck and grind; his soft lips, gentle still in spite of everything he was made to be, which he lovingly trailed along the arc of your neck and which curved handsomely upwards when your pulse jumped beneath his feather-light touch; his warm, work-rough hands, which held onto you with a strength and tenderness that had your pussy aching and that nervously massaged your breasts with an uncertainness that you were near-certain was reflected in your own clumsy ministrations.

The humid air of the conservatory mixed with the flustered flame burning beneath your own skin to create a cocktail of sweat and slick and precum that soiled your work clothes and cling to your skin in a way that you'd have hated had you been in the mind to recognise it. Though both of you were too far gone to even acknowledge the world beyond yourselves — beyond the hot skin, the soft mouths, the grinding of sex on sex only kept modest by the thinnest layers of cloth, the moans and groans and whimpers and sighs — everything else having faded away the moment that his clothed cock brushed against your needy, covered cunt all those minutes ago.

Then all at once something snaps. Finny's pace stutters and jerks as he lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper against the crook of your neck — hot, throbbing dick spurting his release in waves that cover your hand and soak into his trousers. Whining and sobbing as he presses his shaking hips harshly downwards, button catching against your neglected clit in a single, rough brushing of drenched cotton against plaid that had you falling over the edge of climax mere moments later.

It was all you wanted it to be and so much more: your vision was invaded with flashing blurs of white, stark as fireworks on a clear and moonless night as they clung stubbornly to the insides of your eyelids; your thighs and pussy and underwear were soaked through with your slick, wetness gushing out unbidden until you were coated so thoroughly that you couldn’t even move without noticing it’s cool and lewd presence on your gooseflesh-ridden skin; your heart was pounding madly, so loud and quick that your hearing was overwhelmed with the sound of the blood rushing in your ears that you could barely even hear yourself moaning and whining and groaning and panting; your limbs were trembling so badly that if it weren’t for Finny’s unrelenting grip that you were sure you’d have collapsed into a pleasure-ridden mass of writhing limbs.

Grounded only by the feeling of his lips on your skin as you both came down from your highs — by the way his messy hair felt beneath your fingertips as you soothed and massages his scalp. Sated by his warm weight on your body as he finally collapsed on top of you, wrapping you up in a loose hug as he just panted and gasped and regained his composure — all the while burying his reddened face in your chest. Kept sane by the feeling of the cold tile beneath your head as you finally gave in and laid back down on the floor, the pleasant chill helping you find your peace as you let yourself relax and catch your breath properly.

You could have stayed there forever if given the chance, laying in his arms saturated with a pleasure unlike any you’d experienced before, and gladly would have had it not been for a less than ideal interruption. The sort that had both of you rushing to readjust your uniforms and hide the evidence of what had taken place as best you could — all burning cheeks and terrified looks and shaking hands — not wanting to be seen in such a delicate state.

The clicking of heels. The humming of a lilting feminine voice. The silhouette of a telltale maid’s dress dancing across the front of the greenhouse.

Oh dear.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Dig For Victory!

Most people have a garden or could take on an allotment fairly near to where they live. Organising garden sharing schemes where people with gardens they can’t use team up with people who want to garden but don’t have gardens is a worthwhile step. We need to investigate ways of producing and distributing organic food in our localities in ways that maintain biodiversity and as far as possible outside the money economy. Think organic, low-impact farming won’t work? A recent study of sustainable agriculture using low-tech methods introduced on farms supporting 4m people in majority world countries revealed that food production increased 73%, crops like cassava and potato showed a 150% increase and even large ‘modern’ farms could increase production 46%. The future occupation and use of land will depend on the extent to which all who wish to do so have discussed and consented to such use, that those occupying or using the land continue to work in solidarity with the whole of society within broad principles of co-operation, sharing freely both the means of production and what is produced. No individual or group of individuals will have any ‘right’ to say “the land must be used in the way we decide” nor can what is on or under the land or produced upon it be their property, whether plant or animal. The number of people involved in agriculture (in its widest sense) will probably expand greatly, with vast estates and agri-corp holdings broken up and shared out but also urban farms created in and near towns. The aim of agriculture (and associated activities like food processing) will be self-sufficiency for the localities and specialization or growing for ‘export’ only where there is surplus land or productive forces. It is likely that neighbours, co-workers, communities and communes will collectively agree that land will be used in particular ways according to a plan or program of beneficial change. This will not always be in the direction of development or ‘efficiency’ (which will have different definitions and parameters anyway); if people need more gardens or wilderness, small-holdings instead of sheep stations, they will create them.

To many people this will sound utopian. However we believe that if this approach was developed widely – and applied to our other vital needs — it could subtly undermine the credibility and power of the global economy (as well as having obvious personal benefits in terms of health etc). It is an important part of building social solidarity and a community of resistance in majority world communities. It would be a way of showing our solidarity with these majority world movements based around issues of land use, access to resources and so on: communities of small farmers are organising seed banks to preserve crop diversity as well as launching more militant attacks on the multinationals such as trashing fields of GM cotton and destroying a Cargill seed factory. In the longer term as (hopefully) numbers and confidence increase, large long-term squats will become a possibility on land threatened by capitalist development either for roads, supermarkets, airports etc or for industrialised food production being taken back for subsistence food production and as havens of biodiversity. We should take inspiration from the Movimento Sem Terra in Brazil where in the face of severe state repression and violence hundreds of thousands of landless peasants/rural proletarians have occupied large tracts of unused land.

Although it is clear that food prices are so low that they are not a major factor in tying people into the capitalist system (rents, mortgages and bills do so far more effectively) it seems to us that a population capable of and actively involved in producing much of its own food outside of the money economy will be in a stronger position in the event of large scale struggles against capitalism involving strikes, lockouts, occupations and campaigns of non-payment etc. Many thousands of people are being forced by the government to take low-paid, shitty jobs or mickey mouse workfare schemes and threatened with loss of benefit if they refuse. We could support that refusal by offering surplus food from allotments and gardens to those suffering the state’s oppression. There is also the possibility of people developing similar independence from the money economy in other spheres as well — housing, energy production, waste management, health care etc which would also be highly beneficial but which is beyond the scope of this text. So to summarise our practical response should consist of: 1) a massive campaign of direct action; 2) a consumer boycott and propaganda campaign against corporate injustice, focussing on issues of sustainability and social justice; and 3) attempts at collective withdrawal from the industrialised food production system.

[penelope-regulus]

Headcanon #7

When they were little, Ivonne loved to be spoiled and babied by her older brothers, so she made them do everything for her instead of her servants.

Every morning, she would jump out of bed and tell her second brother to wake up by jumping all over his bed and get him to do her hair, making Reynold an expert hairstylist, then she would drag him to Derrick's room and they both would start yelling at him to get up so that he would make her breakfast, and in this way, he ended up an amazing cook and baker (and he made her lots of cute unicorn cupcakes too that they both said were Reynold before gobbling up).

She would also have them teach her etiquette instead of actual etiquette teachers, so Reynold and Derrick had to learn noblewoman etiquette for her. Of course, she would do the opposite of whatever they said and insisted she was going to learn the etiquette for men since she wanted to be like her brothers, but instead of getting annoyed, the brothers tried convincing their parents to allow her to live how she wants and supported this. They taught her dance as well -- with Derrick being her supposed partner, Reynold crossdressing to be a girl and demonstrating the dances so that Ivonne could learn.

There was this one time when Reynold and Ivonne forced Derrick to cross dress and play the role of the noble lady while Reynold did the steps her partner would too, but they couldn't continue this practice because Reynold failed Ivonne by turning out to be a terrible dancer and not fit to lead the dance like Derrick was.

After this, the trio would have to separate to learn the education that was their own individual level and suited to the roles they would take on in the future, and this made them all really sad and lonely and miss being together. At first, they tackled this problem by sneaking out of class whenever their teachers turned around to write or left to get notes and meet up in the garden for tea parties (they actually drank cotton candy milk dyed the color of tea, which of course Derrick made for them), but got lectured by their parents about how they weren't allowed to skip classes and needed to learn for their own sakes and better futures, and so on and so forth, and had to stop. So instead, they did a tête-à-tête and came to the conclusion that they should become pen pals.

Thenceforth, whenever they somehow ended up in different rooms of the estate, they would begin writing letters to each other, giving updates on their lives since the last time they met, reminiscing old times (the moments less than 15 minutes ago when they were still allowed to see each other), and saying things like "I miss you ever moment of my life, even as I endure this terrible suffering far from your reach", "Do you still remember me? I used to be your sibling, once upon a time...", "I don't remember you... how do you remember someone you never once forgot?", "Oh this world is so cruel for separating us", and "I sincerely pray I will get to see you once more, even if for a few moments in this life... Otherwise... I'll be sure to meet you in the next...!" (Even Derrick) and have the servants deliver these letters to the addressed person.

Their parents learned of this and decided to have their study sessions at different times so that when Derrick was studying, Ivonne and Reynold could stay by his side and ease his suffering, when Reynold was studying, Ivonne and Derrick could do that, and when Ivonne was studying, her brothers could make sure she didn't feel sad. They also helped Ivonne do her homework, despite it being cheating, but the duke and duchess gave up at this point. Their study sessions were literally one hour each and they couldn't handle that.

ALSO!! Ivonne was so cute, Derrick and Reynold were constantly fighting over which of the two would get to take her hand in marriage in the future! They would duel over her, propose to her in really romantic (cute) ways, argue like crazy over which brother would be her husband when playing house (she would eventually have them become either her mother and father or her sons), dress up really fancy just to impress her (Reynold wore every piece of jewelry he could get his hands on and dress in glittery tuxedos while Derrick would find her favorite story book and dress exactly like the princes Ivonne fantasized marrying in the future), had competitions like 'who can pick the prettiest flower for Ivonne', holding her judge, and even wrote love letters and poems to her about how much they loved her.

This led them to become really knowledgeable when it comes to flowers -- whenever they would have the flower picking competitions, which was often because Ivonne loved flowers, they would try to convince her to pick them by telling her the pretty meaning of their flowers and fascinating facts and stories about them.

Ivonne was petty, though, and turned them both down every time, because she enjoyed showing them attitude and getting them to try even harder to woo her by insisting that she would marry their father, even if they flattered her a lot by doing these things.

Additionally, Ivonne loved to play in the garden with Reynold and Derrick, and they spent most of their time outdoors, and Reynold loved to dig around in the garden. Ivonne would be continuously swearing at him for ruining such a pretty thing, and Reynold learned swearing from her (she, in turn learned swearing from spying on her father during his meetings, and when Reynold gets into swearing, they hide behind the door and listen to the meetings together and 'increase their vocabularies'. Their club is called the swearing corner and Derrick never learns about this).

One time, Reynold was playing in the dirt and kicked up an ancient horseshoe that, after being examined by a professional archeologist, turns out to be thousands of years old from the Viking times. Ivonne, who was there and swearing at Reynold until he unearthed it, took all of the credit, and the Duke and Duchess held a party for her where she got to show off her incredible achievement. Reynold is bitter about this to date.

Did I mention Harry Potter exists in the vadd world? Derrick is a huge fan and reads the series and tells them about all the things that happened, and then they play Harry Potter together, where Derrick is Harry Potter, Ivonne is Hermione (she holds a book upside down and pretends spells are written in them), and Reynold is Ron and they run around trying to kill Voldemort and being betrayed by the house servants who are actually just telling them to stop and behave themselves.

One day, during these adventures, Reynold was pretending to be chased by an evil magician and climbed the walls using torches and wall decor as leverages, and Ivonne had the game stopped immediately and demanded he teach her. After that, they spent a huge amount of time freaking the entire household out by climbing all over the walls and hanging from the ceilings. Derrick was too heavy for this, so he had the role of catching them when they let go or running to get their parents to help the two children down whenever they felt like they were losing their grips and started screaming. They somehow never got hurt doing this.

Other things they would do include running around all day long having pretend adventures where they, for example 'discovered ancient and magical books/scrolls' in the library, pretended to take over the royal palace or met magical creatures in the garden. They also wrote stories together (mostly romance where Ivonne was the protagonist and married a fair and handsome and just prince) and played with dolls and stuffies (including Derrick).

After this, at the end of the day, they would sit together as a family for dinner and tell their parents all about their amazing adventures and the duke and duchess enjoyed listening to their stories and found it very cute.

Another thing: Ivonne turned out to be great at horse riding and learned it even before her older brothers and would often pretend from that point forward to be a prince and that her brothers were princesses and had them sit behind her and hold onto her while she took them for a ride. She also forced them to ride side-saddle for 'maximum princess experience' and they actually did it, too, since neither of them could deny her. When she was riding with Reynold, she would get the horse to move really fast too, just to get him to start screaming like a girl and make fun of him later.

And then, at the end of the day, she would have them read her bedtime stories. Derrick would read her a children's storybook while Reynold would draw cute pictures to go with what Derrick was saying and she would also sometimes have them act out a bedtime story before going to sleep. Other times, she would tuck them into her bed and read them bedtime stories and kiss their foreheads goodnight just to be cute.

Which reminds me, when she wasn't calling her brothers 'Boring Brother' (since he's always telling her off for not behaving like proper nobles and lecturing them, even if at that age it was only to show off his knowledge and not be called dumb by his little sister) and 'Dumb Brother' respectively, she called them her babies and pretend to be their mother and scold them and boss them around like their mother sometimes did and babied and cooed them all day long because she insisted that after she married their father, she was going to become their stepmother. The babies in question pretended to dislike this (actually disliking the thought of her marrying, as Reynold liked to say "their old man" instead of handsome 'men' like them), they enjoyed the affection they received from her in this way and found her scoldings really cute.

Lastly, to reward her brothers for being so nice and as a token of affection, Ivonne did cute crafts for her brothers and made them things like tassels (she picked strings out of her dresses (consequently ruining them), put them together, and tied a knot), paintings, and origami (Ivonne was a master at origami) and sometimes dragged them to a really scenic place by their hand, sat them under the shade of a tree, waited for a gentle breeze to rustle her hair and have a leaf get into theirs for maximum dramatic and romantic effects, and picked the leaf out, wear a charming smile, and whispered "I love you to them" in the sweetest way possible.

[terrence-silver]

Ooh, what about exploring a dark, yandere beauty and the beast type situation, where Terry keeps beloved locked away in that palatial gated mansion of his in exchange for forgiving some sort of debt maybe? And then proceeds to totally breach all of their privacy and take away all their agencies and manipulate them into doing all sorts of sordid things, whatever it is he fancies. 💜

---

You ruined Terry Silver’s Charlotte Thomas bed sheets. 

22 Gold Karats - woven directly into the sleek Egyptian cotton.

$2400 a piece.

Ugly as all fuck.

The maintenance of his estate and the surrounding grounds was never an easy affair — not in the 80’s and not now, when he deliberately downgraded and considerably downsized from his Beverly Hills mansion into a more compact sense of accommodation at Malibu, La Costa, and occasionally elsewhere, when he both, here and everywhere he resided depending of his needs — he employed a smaller army of people to ensure everything ran smoothly with people who cooked, cleaned,  washed, tended to his affairs, answered emails, polished his shoes, his floors, took calls he couldn’t be fucked taking, minding the security of the place, and yes, even changing the bedsheets. 

It was very much deliberate. Him breaking protocol.

Indirectly steering you from your very precise and allotted task of tending the issue of swapping out pillow cases with the exact thread count. Smoothing the antiseptic, fitted sheets and removing the used ones twice a week. Cleaning and presenting the appropriate blankets whenever he wasn’t there, and of course, he never was. Always away on business. Always on meetings. Always somewhere. Traveling. From one jet to the other. You never even saw your employer and the owner of the household.  All you knew, poor thing, was that Mr. Silver was very anal about how he slept. The quality of his rest. Where and how he re-charged his body. But, he? He saw you plenty. Oh, did he ever. Through the cameras all around the mansion since day one. A bird couldn’t crap on the roof without him being alerted. The other members of the senior staff who reported to him on what everyone did. At any moment. Any given hour. He liked watching. For two years,  five months , a week and eight days. 

That’s how long you were in his employ.

Even when he entertained himself with other people — other holes — he still watched. A precious butterfly, fluttering at the edge of his web.

And somewhere, between  the time it took to carefully and very meticulously comb through your work resume delivered to him by his majordomo who gave you the maintenance job in the first place and your more personal affinities through the aid of a private detective and his own Internet search (ah, the joys of modernity) Terry Silver decided he’s going to keep you. Keep you..indebted, if you will.  He was never a tyrant, after all. Never with the people he paid. His people. They’d all collectively call him the best of bosses if asked — and he was. He really was. And not just because messing with one’s maids and gardeners was generally considered bad mojo. The clogs in his machine were never to be underestimated and Terry had a devotion to each and every one of them to the point of memorizing everything he could about everyone ranging from his pool cleaner to the people trimming the decorative verge on his grounds. Of course he was mindful of the controversy of getting entangled with his maid but he also found he didn’t give a fuck.

If the rules were smooth bending steel, he was born to bend them.

And yet, for the past six months, he does the unthinkable in specifically requesting — exactly and most unflinchingly of you, through the network of his staff’s hierarchy — that upon his return to the estate, dropped off by his chauffeur, a glass of red Burgundy wine be delivered specifically to his bedroom, to his bedside, and furthermore, his made  pristine white bed on a silver platter, hoping that one day, in the near future, you’ll spill a droplet. Just a droplet, so the head of his managerial staff can remorsefully deliver the news to you; all damages made to Mr. Silver’s property are as per the tiny print in your contract to be worked off with extra hours or cut out of your monthly salary, purely so he can swoop in like the savior of the very narrative he elaborately weaved, and in all his charitable fashion declare that ‘No, Charles, we’re not monsters! They’re just sheets!’ Naturally, all pre-planned. A disaster waiting to happen. Like a banana peel on a greasy floor someone could slip on, one day, a crystal glass of red wine tumbles off of the silver platter you were placing down on the end table he could ritualistically drink out of on scheduled arrival the way he always did, and with a thud, it lands on the clear white bed, like a stain worthy of a crime scene. Spilling. He nearly cums watching you through the camera,  and your body language and expression when he concealed your shriek.

Finally, the last puzzle piece of his plan. Beauty lured into the castle’s dungeon.

Took you long enough. Frankly, Terry hoped you’d be clumsier. 

Terry imagined himself far less patient than he turned out to be in waiting.

He has to laugh, though. What kind of man orders his maid to leave him a silver platter with red wine next to a white bed with obscenely expensive sheets? Only one who wanted to cause trouble on purpose. And he did. And he managed. You were so careful too. For an infuriatingly long time to the point he started contemplating changing tact somehow. So respectful of his things. Where he rested. Your scent all over his pillows, keeping him up at night. And now, those bullshit Charlotte Thomas sheets could finally be discarded in the hazard of your accident. He barely contains your embarrassed sobbing, interrupting the scene of his household’s staff manager chastising you.  He’ll deal with them later. Nobody chastises you. Nobody. Nobody but him . You deserved to be draped in diamonds and jewels, not scorned by someone who’s job it was to oversee his kitchens and guest rooms, and you would be, in due time, but for now, you’d stay here and work and it would all be fine.  You’d work your debt off and you didn’t even know it. Whatever it took to have you around. Nothing was for free, after all. And he’d keep adding to what you owed him and adding and adding until you’d be inadvertently tied to him in a slurry of prolonged work contracts that never expire.

-”C’mon. We’re are all a family here.”-

Terry uses a much reviled phrase while he hovering over you with a paternalistic, warm sense of comfort, offering you a handkerchief to dry your face with when you found one lacking inside the pocket of your own uniform, flustered with anxiety and shame to come face to face with him for the first time ever like this, your immediate superiors in the chain of command  dismissed by him while he spoke to you, right there, in his own bedroom, the floor swiftly mopped down, sheets and mattress immediately removed by his workers. -”A family. A team.”- He claps his hands in front of him tenderly with a smile that he knew could make Grandfather Christmas melt. You shake your head, avoiding his gaze, making yourself appear small, clearly shaken. Did you really think he’d fire you over this? He’d didn’t fire his Dynatox agents when they created an oil spill the size of Burundi in the Pacific Ocean back in the ‘87, and he’d certainly not fire his darling over something he planned for so long. In fact, you performed immaculately. Beautifully. Much like them, you’d be promoted, if anything — promoted , in due time, to the very bed you sullied today.

-”I’m sorry again, sir, I don’t know how that happened. I really didn’t mean to, I —”-

You stutter, infinitely apologetic, and he yearns to order; Call me sir again. Instead, Terry chuckles.

-”Tactically unsound, huh?”- He tries on the airs of a casual, jovial semi-retired business mogul, hands in his pockets. Always worked like a charm. Something people out here ate up like Kale. -”Drinking red wine in white sheets? Totally my doing.”- He makes a down-to-earth joke, trying for self-awareness in a meta sense, and you never even realized he was confessing to his own petty machination to your face disguised as easy going humor; something you’d be working off for the rest of your life if he had any say in it. But, sweet thing? You’d find being with him is the most comfortable place you could ever imagine being. In time, you’d thank him for it. Love him for it. Unable to envision yourself anywhere else but by his side. This was meant to happen; was entirely beyond your control. It was in his hands to decide. You were bound to spill that wine the minute Terry Silver set his mind to it, and no other outcome was possible since then. Maybe your fate was sealed the minute you crossed the threshold of this mansion. -”But, what do I know. I’m just an old man who likes his comforts.”- He shrugs, ever so humble, and you finally peer up, daring to look at him, unsure what to do with his handkerchief now that has been used. Oh, the gorgeousness. In any other situation, he’d take it, moist as it was but for the sake of not putting you off too soon, he gestures for you to keep it. Saintly boss that he is. -”Now, tell you what; clean yourself up and take the day off. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow morning, same time?”- 

Terry suggests, warm as a spring breeze. If he didn’t know any better, he’d charm himself. In due time, though --- not today, not tomorrow, but soon, you’d be broken in ways he needed you to be.

You nod, excusing yourself and walking out, appearing…well…somewhat relieved.

Ah.

Terry Silver’s heart was full.

His little companion; the one who will never leave him or this house.

[smashboxgirl26]

in another life — i admired you from afar.

regency au for @deartouya for the 900 follower event!! i hope you like it venus! (i think it's my favorite one actually hehe i wanted to add so much more)

You clearly remembered the day of the Todoroki's arrival due to the sweltering heat present — the air humid and the lazy buzzing of cicadas over the hilltops — and how, despite the conditions, your mother insisted on you wearing a heavy, beaded, long sleeved gown while your sisters were allowed to remain in their cheaper printed cotton ones.

("You must capture his attention as the only real lady present," she scolded. "Real ladies are not tortured by the heat.")

You found yourself already winded when your carriage stopped in front of their estate as your two sisters attempted to bustle their way out of the carriage first, while you only sat fanning yourself to try and keep the sweat from pouring into your eyes.

"Behave," your mother directed a glare towards your sisters. "It was kind enough of Mrs. Todoroki to invite us for tea based only on our acquaintance with her sister. Do not make her regret that decision."

They nodded, of course, before attempting to race each other to get inside first while your mother pursed her lips. You followed behind her, taking in their beautifully trimmed rose bushes and gardens: though they didn't hold a candle to the interior of their house — freshly painted golden archways and french, hand painted floral wallpaper. Every piece seemed so specifically chosen to emmersify their space, from the paintings that were hung on the walls to the couple of statues and busts lining the hallway.

"Mrs. Todoroki," your mother bowed as you'd all entered the drawing room.

"Mrs. L/N," she smiled warmly. Mrs. Todoroki was beautiful — her intricately embroidered dress resting perfectly over her shape and silver hair styled to rest just over her shoulders. She appeared to have been reading on her lounge chair.

Another pair of eyes caught your attention, a smoldering blue from the corner of the room at a desk — held by a frowning man who held a glare in your direction.

"Allow me to introduce you all to my son," she continued, gesturing toward him. "Touya, come here."

("You must be dying in that." His eyes pointed towards your velvet dress — ignoring his mother's silent plea for formality.

"I'm doing just all right, thank you."

"I can tell you're lying by the sweat lining your forehead.")

[girlactionfigure]

Did #Jews make the desert bloom? 

One example: the Jezreel Valley - purchased by the Jewish National Fund from private Arab landowners in 1923 in the largest ever real estate deal of its kind.

When the JNF purchased the Valley, it purchased land uninhabitable to almost all but the mosquitos itching for human skin to bite and infect with malaria. 

The Jezreel Valley had been a “no man’s land” for centuries.

But the #Jewish pioneers knew the land was fertile – in fact, it is the most fertile in Eretz #Israel. 

Jewish pioneers, beaming with #Zionist vision and pride (but mostly lacking in farming skills), did what they had to do – they learned, and then they worked ... very hard.

Jewish labor drained the swamps with eucalyptus trees imported from Australia; and then the Jews turned a rocky, barren, sad, forgotten desert into the “Garden of the Galilee.”

Two of the many early kibbutzniks of the Jezreel Valley? None other than PM Golda Meir and astronaut Ilan Ramon (may their memories be a blessing).

Today, the Jezreel Valley is a boom town of cities, kibbutzim, shoavim, and even an Air Force base. 

And it is the greenest area in the entire State of Israel where families come to hike, picknick, and enjoy the land of their ancestors.

A little more than a century ago, it was uninhabitable and dangerous. Now, Jezreel Valley is literally Israel’s “breadbasket,” with crops that include wheat, cotton, sunflowers, and legumes, along with fishponds and grazing areas for cattle and sheep.

Always appreciate the hard work of those who came before us. We owe them a debt we can never repay, but we can try by continuing to perfect the Zionist dream every day.

[3rdeyeblaque]

Today we venerate Benjamin Rucker aka Black Herman on his 134th birthday 🎉

Heralded as the greatest magician in U.S. history, Black Herman was brilliant for his fusion of performance magic with occultism & superstition, and his strong Separatist & militant Pan-Afrikan ideologies (Marcus Garvey x Booker T. Washington). He proclaimed that it was his mission to promote Black Power.

Born in Amherst, VA, as a teen, Black Herman learned the art of illusions from his mentor, Prince Herman. They ran a medicine show, performing magic tricks to attract curious passersby to their "Secret African Remedy". When Prince Herman, 17yr old Rucker was determined to carry on the show; this time using only magic. He then took on the name of, "Black Herman"; in honor of Prince Herman & as an homage to Alonzo Moore, the famous Black American magician who was known as the "Black Herrmann".

In Harlem, Rucker established himself as a pillar of the community. He was often seen in Garvey’s massive Harlem parades & is believed to have offered Garvey spiritual counsel. He befriended preachers, intellectuals and politicians, many of whom met at his home for a weekly study group. He was an Elk, a Freemason, and a Knight of Pythias. He used his success to make loans to local Black businessmen/organisations, established scholarship funds, & performed for free to help churches pay their bills. He expanded his wealth by purchasing a printing plan to establish a monthly magazine, "Black Herman’s Mail Order Course of Graduated Lessons in the Art of Magic". He acquired real estate, bought shares in two cotton plantations, gave personal consultations, & started herb/root gardens in a dozen cities.

Black Herman famously claimed that he was immortal & directly descended from Moses of the Bible. He asserted that our people could elude Klansmen & their descendants by escaping the limitations of mortality & simply outliving them. He'd also sell protective talismans to combat racism. He inserted his Afrikan heritage into his performances. One of his specialties included the “Asrah levitation.” He'd produce rabbits & doubled the amount of cornmeal in a bowl. Many of his tricks were "secrets taught by Zulu witch doctors". Some of his tricks were parallel to miracles from the Christian bible. He'd cast out demons from his assistant or brother hidden amongst the audience, then offer a special tonic for sale & offer a psychic reading address their “problems”.

Yet none compared to his most famous act of all, "Buried Alive". He would be interred in an outdoor area called "Black Herman's Private Graveyard", in full view of his audience. He'd slow his pulse by applying pressure under his arm, & pronounced "dead" on the spot by a local "doctor". As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Herman would slip out unnoticed. For days, people would pay to look at the grave, buidling the suspense over the fate of Black Herman. When the time was up, the coffin was exhumed with great drama and fanfare, and out walked Herman to lead his audience into the nearest theater, where he performed the rest of his show.

Eerily enough, his must famous act foreshadowed his own death in 1934 in which he collapsed on stage due to a massive heart attack that many audience members took to be part of his act. After the crowd refused to believe that the show was indeed over, Black Herman's assistant had his body moved to a funeral home. The crowds followed. Finally, his assistant decided to charge admission as one final farewell & homage to Black Herman's legacy. People came and went by the thousands; some even brought pins to stick into his corpse as proof of his death. His burial made front page news in Black newspapers across the country. Today, Black Herman rests in the Woodlawn Cemetery in NYC.

In 1925, he published a book, ghostwritten by a man named Young entitled, "Secrets of Magic, Mystery, and Legerdemain"; a semi-fictionalized autobiography that offers directions for simple illusions, advice on astrology & lucky numbers, & bits of Hoodoo customs and practices.

"If the slave traders tried to take any of my people captive, we would release ourselves using our secret knowledge." - Black Herman during his rope escape routine.

We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his love & service to our community/people & for his legacied contributions to Hoodoo Culture & History.

Offering suggestions : read his literary works, libations of whiskey/rum, Pan African flag, coins & paper money

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

[firstwcman]

Key Locations ;

⛧ Palace District ⛧

The Palace District, the location of the Morningstar Palace and Lilith's Workshop. The Circus aesthetic is well and alive here. Clusters of colorful shops are everywhere, vendors carrying candy apples, popcorn, and cotton candy highlight street corners, and the place is clean and alive with excitable energy. It's another world here compared to the rest of the Pentagram, with Jesters, clowns, and entertainers as its lifeblood. A portal looms high in the sky above the Palace - a window to the moon shining its beams down upon the royal estate.

Gardens, floral and poisonous, are dotted with encasing gates, and the enormous Nede Park, old and flourishing with nature and home to Hell's biggest carousel, is a beautiful public park to rest your feet and enjoy the sight of the district in motion, or simply watch the ducks, geese, and swans in the pond.

⛧ Lilith's Workshop ⛧

Many have heard of it, but few are allowed in. Lilith's Workshop is a sky-piercing construct of gothic grandeur bespeckled with stained glass windows portraying the birth of Hell and finds itself littered with glowing purple lanterns, and topped with a bell. Up until the Queen was taken captive, music flowed freely from the building and wove through the district night and day and carried an enchanted tune to liven spirits and endorse good moods. But as it stands without her absence, the building is completely silent.

The interior is set alight by the towers of candlelight perched about everywhere upon their obsidian mantles, messy melted trails of wax pouring down over the sides but never quite reaching the ground. Dripping lucent stalactites patched with spiderwebs reach for the reflective black marbled floor that ripples bright magenta with each trickle. Incense burners hang by their side, smoking with dragon's blood and cinnamon. There's long tubes of crystal encased in the wall with clawed, stony hands curled around them holding them secure, and inside are the souls of men either harvested by Lilith's own hands from the Red Sea, or sacrificed - their spirit light helping illuminate their section of the room. Heavy curtains wait to be pulled around them whenever Charlie enters the space, Lilith knowing better that her daughter would not like to see them.

You'll find the tools of an artist populate the workshop, from the regal easels set as the heart of the room to the blocks of bone waiting to be sculpted, this space is made for dark creation. This is also where the Soul Well resides.

Located in the Palace District, just right of the Palace gates.

⛧ Gossamer Court ⛧

When you make a deal with Lilith, you make it in the Gossamer Court: a dimension outside of space and time, a place that is cold and dark - a forest island surrounded by tides of deep shadowy waters. The moon hangs above here too in the nightly purple sky, big and bright, the only true serving light.

From the soil to the flora to the towering trees that reign high above with spindling branches heavy with the presence of dewy webs, it is black with veins of magenta pulsing in the trunks and the roots. Glowing purple flowers grow in abundance, and they will bite if you show disrespect. When the wind blows, it twinkles.

Owls and nightjars fly about, spiders spin their webs, snakes slither to and fro from their burrows under the great trees, black cats pad about - these creatures make their home here, and they are highly aware whenever a new soul enters the dimension. The ones who take the most notice, however, are the guardians; an owl that is eighteen feet high with a neighborly spider just as big, and a draconic entity that lives in the cave system beneath the ground.

There is always the feeling of being watched. Lilith's presence aside, it goes without saying that being on your best behavior is encouraged.