#had to hand type this. arduous!

[transgenderer]

Hu plig is the ritual for calling or summoing the tus plig (the soul or self), which is often performed for a sick person, and always for a newly born child. It is believed that among the plig (selfs) which every human possesses, there is one in particular (referred to as the 'chicken self') which is easily alarmed, playful, and likes to wander. Such plig leave the body during sleep, and go off the play like children, with other plig. Like children, they may wander too far, and get lost, or they may suffer accident, such as falling into the otherworld through a deep hole, and may be unable to return to their 'house', the human body, or they may be ambushed and captured by hungry and malevolent dab qus. They may also leave the body at other times, particular during long and arduous journey, or in cases of sudden shock or grief. In such cases the self is said to have 'fallen' (tus plig poob) and special means must be employed to recall it to its owner, who will fall sick without it, and may even eventually die unless it is recalled in time.

The purpose of the silver necklets, or xaw, worn by children and Hmong who have been seriously ill, is to 'bind' this plig more firmly to its 'tsev' or house, the human body (cev). These, or a particular necklet made of three intertwined metals- silver, copper, and iron, may be prescribed after serious illness. It is of course the shaman's business to travel to the otherworld to bargain with the spirits who may have trapped such a tus plig, but in less serious cases a hu plig ritual is often resorted to, in cases of sickness or mental distress.

At birth a child does not possess this tus plig, and if the child survives for three days after birth, a hu plig ritual must be conducted to summon the self into its body. After this a prohibition is placed on the house for a period of one lunar month (30 days). Th ritual may be performed by anybody who knows the appropriate words and formulae, but in practice it is usually a man of some standing who is asked, who may also be a shaman, although he does not have to be. This is like a christening, since it is at this time that child's first name is given by the caller of the soul; he will receive an 'elder' or mature, name, after the birth of one or more children, and these names, like clan names, can be changed to avert continued sickness or misfortune.

The ritual to call the tus plig is performed just inside the house, on the front porch. Four sprigs of maple are planted in the ground at the four corners of the porch, bound together by a string of hemp. Holding a chicken and burning paper made from bamboo which symbolizes money in the otherworld (for as heavenly money is earthly paper, so tears on earth are laughter in the otherworld, and cattle here are people there), and burning incense before a saucer of rice with an egg on a stool, the person who is calling the soul of the child stands facing the valley and sings a very sweet and beautiful song to invite the wandering tus plig into the body of the new-born child. Afterwards he will eat with the family and ties hempen thread as a protective bond around the wrists of all present

Hu plig is often performed at the actual site, usually otuside the house, where it is diagnosed that the tus plig of a patient has 'fallen', in which case the soul-caller will go to that site with a chicken and incense, spirit-money to burn, and a bottle of rice-wine, and squatting by the site will quietly summon the tus plig to return to its abode. He will take back with him an insect from the site which symbolises the returning tus plig. On other occasions the ritual is performed a the open door, where a chicken is released to search for the insect before it itself is sacrificed, A special hu plig ritual is performed by each household at the new year, when the selves not only of the inhabitants of the house but also of the domestic animals and crops (plig woob plig loo) are summoned back to remain within the household compound, and the all the farming tools and domestic utensils are ritually blessed.

-Hmong Religion, Tabb 1989

[mysumeow]

ᯓ★ KINKTOBER DAY 5: SCENT KINK

ᓚᘏᗢ WARNINGS: Afab body, mentioned to wear a skirt. Public sex (no one gets caught though wink wink), fingering, cunnilingus, scent kink.

ᓚᘏᗢ SUMMARY: You agreed to meet with Ace at the library to work on a project. However, who shows up is not him, but Leona...

ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: I know october is over but this was supposed to be posted like two weeks ago ;7; I had a lot going on the past week but i finally got some time to share this filth >:DDDDDDDD

🎃 . . . KINKTOBER MASTERLIST | TWST MASTERLIST

You groggily open your eyes, the bright lights glaring at your pupils as you woke up. The annoying burn became a secondary thought—memories from what led you to be in the college’s library this late.

“And people complain about me napping anywhere.”

At the sound of Leona’s unexpected voice, your drowsiness left your body.

“Leona?” you jolted. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be the one asking you that. This is not a place to nap. And this late? Even less.”

You were about to retort back with a snarky comment of your own, but the memories of why you were here in the first place stopped you.

"Ace, that jerk, did he stand me up?” you fished your cellphone out of your pocket. Ace could be a jerk sometimes, but would he dare to abandon you when you were supposed to work on the upcoming project? 

You sighed, relieved when you found his messages, explaining that he wouldn’t make it to the library this time because Riddle assigned him some tasks in their dorm.

The day had been arduous, and the moment you sat on this couch, in the silent place that is a library, you couldn’t help but nod off...

Leona sat next to you on the couch and leaned closer to peek at your messages. In the middle of you typing your response back to Ace, Leona couldn’t help but notice the obvious scent of that other guy on you.

“You hang out around that herbivore too much. His pesky scent is all over you.” Leona complained.

“Well, he’s a friend. Of course I’ll hang out with him.”

Without exchanging any other words, Leona snatched your cellphone away from your hand and placed it on the table.

“Hey—What’s the big deal?”

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer to him, until your chests pressed together. The abrupt movement made your knees bump into each other; however, the second his mouth made contact with your neck, you couldn’t bother paying it mind anymore. His fangs grazed on your skin, teasing about a possible mark he could leave there with ease. The way he inhaled your neck made goosebumps rise. It both tickled you and made arousal pool between your legs.

He even tugged at your shirt to reveal more skin for him to lave with his tongue. In the back of your mind, you knew this wasn’t the place to do this, and yet, the thrill of the situation wouldn’t allow you to care about it enough.

Leona slid a hand under your skirt; his fingers sought the growing wetness concealed by your underwear without hesitation.

“I was about to tell you to move this to my room, but it looks like the place isn’t an issue…” he kissed the tip of your ear after he whispered, meanwhile two fingers eased inside. Leona groaned at your warmth and tightness, fingering at a languid rythm.

The heel of his hand rubbed against your clit while he thrust his fingers. The pleasure was overriding your thoughts, and you lost yourself in it.

Leona chuckled when he noticed you were relaxing into his touch, your position becoming slack.

You discerned him pulling away, his mouth opened to welcome his drenched fingers into his mouth. A look of pure carnal desire glazed his eyes as he lapped his fingers, swallowing the remnants of your pleasure. His attention shifted back to the source of said arousal under your skirt and crouched in front of your parted legs.

“Wait,” you panicked a little.

“Relax, no one’s around. No one comes here a Friday after classes.”

“What if someone comes?”

“I’ll be able to pick up footsteps before they even put a foot inside. Trust me, I’ll notice someone’s around before you do.” His lion ears flicked while he said that, a hand on your thigh as he waited for your response.

You gazed at Leona, his piercing green eyes giving away his eagerness despite his laidback demeanor. Well, beastkin had way better hearing than humans. And, as he said, no one wanted to spend their free time in the college’s library at this hour on a Friday.

At last, you opened your legs again for him. You were sitting at the furthest point away from the entrance. You would have plenty of time to fix your clothes before someone saw you.

Leona had similar thoughts, preferring to push your underwear to the side instead of pulling them off.

Before he feasted upon your dripping pussy, he grabbed you by the hips to pull you closer, positioning them in an angle that would make things easier. With this new position, he spread you open and slid his tongue against your needy clit. A gasp escaped you from the sensation; you reminded yourself to cover your mouth for extra precaution. The more his hot mouth sucked your clit, the closer to your orgasm you were.

The scent of you was driving him crazy. He could smell your slick dripping the moment he kissed and bit your neck. It wasn’t enough to erase Ace’s scent from you, but it was a start.

He would have you in his room soon enough, and he would make sure to get rid of it.

The more of your fluids coated his fingers, the more he was pleased. His mouth occupied with your nub, and his fingers worked your cunt with purpose. He didn’t even care about the fact that you were tugging at his hair, your hands dangerously close to his ears. Whatever, if you tugged on those too, he would make you pay back for it…

Leona hummed pleased once he felt you become undone under his touches, your walls clenching around his fingers. How antsy he was about feeling that around his cock—

“Careful there. Don’t forget whose hair you’re tugging here,” he pulled away to speak; his fingers didn’t abandon your tightness, however.

“Ah! I’m sorry.”

Once you tidied your appearance to the best of your ability and Leona led you to his room, you wondered why you bothered to tug your shirt into your skirt in the first place…

After that night, you noticed beastfolk would glance at you with a certain... knowing look you quite didn’t like. You didn’t like it because you didn’t know what the reason was. Even Jack would seem flustered whenever his eyes landed on you, quick to excuse himself. 

[heartysworld]

A Champion's Proposal | Lando Norris x Reader

W.C.: 2.5k

Reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated! Feel free to send requests! 🧡

Masterlist

"Lando Norris rounds the final corner in Monaco, the roar of the crowd almost deafening. It's been a long and arduous journey for the young Brit, facing countless challenges and setbacks. But today, all the hard work, all the perseverance, has finally paid off.

The checkered flag waves as Norris crosses the finish line, and the realization hits – Lando Norris has won the Monaco Grand Prix! What a moment, what a triumph!

This isn't just a win; it's a testament to Lando's incredible spirit and determination. From his karting days to this very moment, every lap, every turn, every sacrifice has led to this unforgettable victory. He's conquered the streets of Monaco, a feat that many drivers dream of but few achieve!"

The atmosphere at the Yas Marina Circuit in Abu Dhabi was electric. The crowd erupted into cheers as Lando Norris crossed the finish line, securing his first Formula 1 World Championship. The roar of the engines mixed with the jubilant cries of fans and team members, creating a symphony of victory. Lando could hardly believe it. He had finally achieved his lifelong dream.

You stood in the McLaren garage, your heart pounding with excitement and pride. The energy around you was palpable, and you could barely contain your joy as you watched Lando bring his car to a stop. This was the moment he had worked so hard for, and you felt incredibly proud of him. You've spent over a decade supporting him in every step towards this exact moments. All the sad and happy tears the two of you had shed over the years were finally worth it.

As Lando climbed out of his car, he wasted no time and ran straight towards his team, and you watched as they congratulated him with high-fives and hugs. Soon, he was hoisted onto someone's shoulders, a huge grin on his face. You couldn't help but smile, your heart swelling with love for your boyfriend who had just achieved his life-long dream.

Lando was then ushered towards the podium for the trophy ceremony. The crowd roared as he took his place on the top step, the gold medal around his neck.

Your teary eyes met his as he searched the crowd of the McLaren team. You mouthed an "I love you" which he seemed to understand quite well as he mouthed back to you "I love you too". You watched with tears in your eyes as the British national anthem played, your heart bursting with pride.

After the anthem, the champagne celebration began. Lando, along with the second and third-place finishers, shook their bottles and sprayed the fizzy liquid everywhere. The sight of Lando, drenched and laughing, made you laugh too. It was a moment of pure joy and triumph.

Once the celebrations on the podium were over, Lando was whisked away for interviews. You watched from the sidelines as he spoke to the media, his face glowing with happiness. His words were full of gratitude for his team, his fans, and for you. He mentioned you several times, and each time, your heart skipped a beat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Lando made his way back to the garage. He looked at you with that signature smile, the one that always made your heart flutter. Seconds later your body crashed against his as you two finally let it all out. Wrapped around each other's arms you kissed passionately, smiling against Lando's lips as your tears mixed in the kiss. His hands were gripping your waist as if there's no tomorrow, holding his favorite person in the whole entire universe and not wanting to ever let go.

After the high emotions worse off you separated your body from his, finally looking at his teary eyes that sparkled with a type of emotion you've never seen before from him.

"Congratulations, world champion. I am so proud of you." You said as you reached for his cheek, laying s gentle peck on the warm skin of his face.

His bright smile appeared second later as he kissed your forehead. Even though Lando was feeling emotional there was still something very important that he had to do. And that made him nervous, so nervous he barely found words to speak.

"Thank you baby. I love you so much, I couldn't have done it without your support. Thank you thank you thank you." Lando said, burying his head between your neck and collarbone, breathing in the nice floral smell of your perfume that made him go crazy every time his nose caught it in the air around.

You stood there, one of your hands buried in his messy curls that you adored so much while the other hugged Lando around his waist.

A few moments later you boyfriend spoke again, his voice quiet, coming from his hiding spot next to your neck.

"Y/N, there's something I want to show you," Lando said, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he looked at you. "Come, sit in the car."

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but you complied, taking his hand as he helped you slide into the driver's seat of his race car. This was something unusual as he'd never done this before or even suggested it. You even though it was forbidden as it might seem as tampering with the car in the steward's eyes.

The seat felt surprisingly comfortable, yet alien. You had always admired the car from a distance, never imagining yourself inside it. Around you, the mechanics and team members exchanged knowing smiles.

"What's going on, Lando?" you asked, your heart pounding. You looked around both confused and worried. Being the center of attention wasn't exactly your favorite thing.

Lando stepped back, when suddenly, Max appeared out of nowhere holding the large sign which they use to announce their driver's finish positions. You squinted,trying to read it as Max slowly lifted it above his head so that the halo wouldn't be in your line of sight. The sign read, in bold letters: "WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

Your breath caught in your throat, your shaking hands flying to your mouth as tears welled up in your eyes. You looked back at Lando, who was now kneeling beside the car, a small red,velvet box in his hand.

"Baby, you are my rock, my best friend, and my greatest love and supprter," Lando said, his voice trembling with emotion as his own eyes got teary. "winning the championship means the world to me, but none of it compares to how much I love you. Will you marry me?"

Tears were streaming down your face by the time he finished talking as you nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, Lando, of course, I will!"

Everyone around started clapping and congratulating the newly engaged couple.

The crowd, having caught on to what was happening thanks to the live broadcast, erupted into cheers once more. The commentators, caught up in the moment, couldn't contain their excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, not only has Lando Norris won his first World Championship today, but he's also just proposed to his girlfriend! And she said yes! What a moment!"

Lando stood up, pulling you out of the car and straight into his arms. He slipped the ring onto your finger, and you shared a kiss that was broadcasted to millions of viewers around the world. The world seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the moment, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the softness of his lips.

Max, still holding the sign, laughed and joined in the celebrations. "Congratulations, you two! Looks like we have a double win today!"

The entire McLaren team gathered around, clapping and cheering for you and Lando. Surrounded by friends and teammates, you felt the warmth of their love and the joy of your shared moment. The ring on your finger sparkled under the bright lights of the garage, a perfect symbol of the new chapter you were about to begin together.

As the celebrations continued, Lando looked deeply into your eyes, waiting for your reaction to the stunt he just pulled, his heart full.

"I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Y/N."

"And I can't wait to spend mine with you, Lando," you replied, your smile brighter than ever. "It is very much your style, this whole thing. But that's one of the many reasons I love you." You said as you pecked his cheek once again.

In the midst of victory and love, Lando Norris's proposal had become a moment that neither you nor the world would ever forget. The memories of this day would be etched into your hearts forever, a beautiful beginning to your life together.

[n0tamused]

Hello! If requests are open, I would love yo request something

Would you be willing to write about Ratio comforting his s/o who's mental health is not the greatest (by which I mean awful)

Head canons, a little drabble, whatever you're most comfortable with

- 🦐

Contents: Dr. Ratio x GN reader, angst, turns to fluff, overworked and stressed reader, depression. Hope you enjoy this shrimp anon!<3

Words: 2275

Rises of the moon

‘I will not come in today, I’m sorry. I am still not well enough for work, but hopefully tomorrow I will be.’ 

You stared at the message yet to be sent, the phone feeling like a brick instead with the weight of it pulling you down into the ground and into the abyss. Talking was exhausting, yet sending the message seemed like an even more arduous task to complete. Your reputation waited, and you’d throw it away simply because you couldn’t type out a sentence good enough to send, a sentence that could save you some questioning and some dignity? 

Like a trap door your mind opened beneath you, your worst critic and the source of the distress. You felt like you were falling endlessly and hitting rock bottom all at once, making days and hours converge together until nothing but dust blinded you alongside your tears. 

‘I will not come in today. I am still not well enough for work, hopefully tomorrow I will be.’

The letters stared back at you.

‘Good morning, I will not be coming in this morning either, my health is not yet improved for the work environment. With kind regards- (Y/n)(L/n)’

Send, just send it, send. 

Before you can look at the message once more your hand grips the phone hard enough to press into the button at the side, making the screen go dark and after that you don't try to turn it on. Instead, you curled up on your side, your bed feeling like spare traces of comfort you could still grasp on with your phone getting lost amidst the blankets and pillows you hoarded up around you. Sleep had evaded you this night as well, overtaken by more important tasks of weeping over imperfect papers and reports. It’s been three days, today is the fourth. How much longer will they take that sorry excuse before they bring your integrity into question? You didn’t want to know.

Tomorrow, you told yourself. Tomorrow will be better (I’ll pretend).

After what felt like hours of laying in your bed, hoping to outlive the rumbling of your stomach, you finally dragged yourself out and roamed your home for some more, glancing at the trash can full of crumpled papers and the broken glass cup you accidentally pushed off the table the night before. Opening your fridge you could only relish in the cold breeze that licked up your neck and face, but the food held within looked no more appetizing than the night before. You stood there for a while longer, waiting if suddenly, by some chance, you may get a craving for a slice of cheese or perhaps a pepper instead.

Around half an hour later your ears were grated by the sudden ring of the bell, which snapped you out of whatever damp thought you had at the time. You weren’t expecting anyone - matter of fact, you told your close ones you needed space and time to heal from the ‘fever’ you told them about. 

Yet when your heavy feet delivered you to the door, you couldn’t say you were surprised by who was behind them. Greeted by the sight of damp purple hair and coral eyes, heavy with intent to get dry, you could only clear your throat before Veritas spoke up for you.

“I got your messages this morning. Quite late to send such notices for work, wouldn’t you say?”

“..What?” you blinked owlishly at him, completely lost for words. 

“Hm, what? You sent me messages you were feeling unwell, multiple of the same as well.. I thought it would do us both well to check in on you” Veritas stood looking down at you, letting all the cool air in as you remained glued to the door like a statue, heavy lidded eyes and ears struggling to process what he had said. You were sending the messages to your boss - but in your anguished stupor you have sent them all to him instead. The malicious feeling came back underneath your ribs and stabbed right up, and you could see Veritas’ eyes widen upon seeing your face morph into a frown-pout. 

“Here, let me in, will you? You don’t want to get even more sick, or get me sick as well?” he tried to urge as gently as he could, walking in when you stepped aside and putting down a grocery bag for just enough that it took him to take off his shoes. His umbrella was put in the corner, sopping wet and letting you know it was still raining. You stood stiff in the hall, shoulders wanting to push up to your cheeks while your hands crossed at the wrists down in front of you. You sighed quietly, watching him as he straightened up, looking over at you.

With a step he closed the distance between you, his hand reaching up already as he said “Come here..” and his palm pushed gently against your forehead. His touch was warm, and from how close he stood you could smell the damp smell of rain and autumn leaves. It was refreshing.

It was a quiet moment as he assessed you in the entry hallway. “Doesn’t appear you have a heightened temperature at all, but we’ll confirm that in a bit with a thermometer, just to be sure. Hmm.. you do look pale though. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Not yet, I was just about to make something” You smoothly lied, not wishing to bring more shame by allowing him to look sad or worried or angry at you if you told the truth.

“Good. I’ll make you something. Now, don’t just stand in the hallway, come inside. You act more of a guest in your home than I do..” he motioned with his hand while taking a step to the side to let you through, urging you to come by, and when you did his hand found its spot at your lower back as if to guide you in. He hummed something softly in his throat, no certain melody but it was a small sign of his focus, and perhaps the liberty he found in your home. “Would you like to sit down here, or be with me in the kitchen?” he asked and you can’t help but gawk a little with the way he addressed you so gently, warmly, all while you felt slimy and ready to crawl out of your skin.

“With you, I’d like to be with you in the kitchen”

He nodded, his eyes mellowing further as he motioned for you to come with him, his grocery bag rustling as he lifted it up to set it on the counter. You slipped into a high chair at the kitchen island, watching as he pulled out a whole chicken, celery, onions and carrots. In his orderly fashion he sorted them out in a line before him, and by now he was quite familiar with the placements of things within your home and had no trouble finding the plates, the cutting boards and the rest of the ingredients. He washed his hands before handling the ingredients directly. 

“Can I do something to help?” you muttered after the lump in your throat felt so huge, nearly about to pop out of your mouth. Sitting idle did more harm than good, it showed in your shoulders and eyes. Veritas looked your way and shook his head, coming a bit closer until he could lean down and plant his lips to your forehead warmly, letting his lips linger a moment longer. 

“You can sit there and relax, I got this” he told you in a softened tone, going back to his cutting board. 

Veritas was no fool, he never  was, and especially not with you. He knew this was no fever, even if he did end up making you stay still as he handed you the thermometer to check again after he let the chicken cook in a pot along with the vegetables and herbs, standing next to you until that fateful beep sounded over the simmering and bubbling water.  No fever.

While the chicken was cooking, making the smell waft in the air in delicious waves, Veritas opened you up to conservation, small talk mostly until you relaxed further, distracted by the endless flow of words. He told you about what happened in the time of your absence, and what he has been up to with the Guild and what shenanigans his student did too. The last topic got a giggle out of you, and Veritas seemed to glow at the sound. He smiled too, along with you.

Hunger seemed more natural and welcome now as a bit more life returned to your joints and you rose from your seat to pace around the kitchen, still tired but more.. alive, just that - alive. Alive and comfortable. You would occasionally glance into the pot, narrowly missing the gust of steam that jumped up from the pot. 

“Should be done about now.. let me see... hmm” Veritas nudged against you over the stove, wearing kitchen mittens and removing the pot off the heat, and you promptly turned it off  and watched what he did. 

Veritas had made this recipe once before, when you really did have a fever. ‘Healing chicken vegetable soup’ - he said it was called, a recipe he seemed to recall from younger years of his childhood. You wanted to learn to make it and try to make it, but it would seem he never got sick or that he let you do it. This dish was his in truth. 

What came of his meticulous work was a delicious plate of soup with cut chicken meat, not a bone in sight. It was soft on the throat, although you ended up adding a bit more seasoning for your own tongue while Veritas dined on the soup as it was. He was slow with it, bent on observing you eat. 

“I assume that it is to your liking?”

You nodded, mouth full to respond. 

“Good. I am glad of it. Sometimes you have to take the back seat to get the joy of life, no matter how long you remain in that station it will be well worth it once you get back into the driver’s seat” He told you, hoping to get to you without addressing the matter directly, knowing it may result in more harm than good and your mood was just beginning to look up.

“Yeah… I know, Veritas. Yet having spent so much time at the head of it all, taking the back seat feels like a punishment” you managed to say after nearly scalding your throat with how eagerly you swallowed your bite, wanting to converse with him.  

“It is not a punishment, especially not when you know you need such a change in perspective. You’re doing yourself a misdeed by rooting yourself to the place that drained you in the first place” 

“Speaking from experience?”

“Pft- now, don’t be so brazen with me after letting me see you so wilted” he bit back quickly, but he held no actual malice, only wasn’t prepared for your rebuttal. He cleared his throat and took a sip of the tea he prepared for you both. Veritas was human too, and you knew of his own trials and errors more than anyone else - of course he felt the same, but you didn’t need to force him to admit it.

You smiled at his jab, scooping up more soup. 

“Wilted? I have to thank you for the nourishment then, I am already feeling more.. revitalized” you told him and your look softened his own when you looked up at him. Color seeps back into your cheeks, and you don't wobble in your step or stumble. Your bones felt like bones again, not air. 

“I will take your thanks properly once you really feel better.. until then, I’d prefer if you ate well and actually took some of the advice I gave you.. I may have not said it but your message did worry me greatly..”

The words made you slow down in your motions and you looked at him in silent apology now, but he once again beat you to speaking. “Imagine - I had to cancel my classes. What will my students think now?”

“They must be thinking it’s the end of the world”

“Hah” His pearly whites show as he grins at your words and you nearly imitate him, but you smile regardless with what energy you got back. He is leaning back in his seat, arms crossed in an almost boyishly fashion, relaxed. “Perhaps, but I can easily make up for a missed class. Let them think what they will.. May this even get their mind spinning a little bit more if my absence is so heatedly understood”. 

By the time you were done sharing jabs and words, you had eaten more than you expected. The warmth of the tea and soup brings sleep to pull at your eyelids, beckoning you to close them. Veritas noticed you nearly nodding off at the table and was quick enough to come up to your side, hand on the opposite shoulder from where he stood. 

“It is time you go get to bed”

Had you had any more strength, you would have said you needed to get to working on those papers, but the memory of the same was lost in the night before, and all you could think of how comfortable the pillow will be when your heads falls onto it, and how warm Veritas’ arms will be when he lays down next to you.

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

A/n: the recipe is actually a greek recipe ehehhehee, I wanted a little easter egg

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Knightmare In Toronto

Chapter 1: First Meetings

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Next Chapter

You awoke to a scream.

Having just laid down for a midday nap after an arduous night shift, one can imagine the irritation you felt as you shot up from your place on the couch, grumbling groggily like an old person.

"I swear to fucking- Who the fuck are you?!"

That is, until you caught sight of the screamer: a short, medievally-dressed man who looked like he had accidentally wandered in from the Renaissance Faire or escaped from the jousting pits of the Medieval Times restaurant. A large sword sheathed in a blue scabbard hung from his back, which was why you scrambled up, grabbed a pillow, and brandished it at this medieval home invader. "Answer me!"

To his credit, the man raised his hands and backed away, his expression shocked and apprehensive. Good. "I- Ma'am- Where am I?!"

"What does it look like?" You snarled. "This is my house, dipshit!"

"There's got to be some misunderstanding," as he stammered an explanation, you took inventory of his increasingly odd outfit. His shirt-... tunic(?) looked like he had taken four pieces of different colored fabric and sewn them together, then slapped some brown tights and jester boots on and called it a day. He was also really short, no more than five foot two if you were being generous. "The portal never drops us in houses, always clearings or streams, but that was only once-"

What the fuck?

"Are you on drugs?"

The man blinked, looking at you like you'd grown a second head. "I can assure you I'm not-"

"Then why are you in my house?" You asked cautiously, lowering your pillow just a smidge. He didn't seem the type to chop you up and bury your bones, but one could never be too careful.

"Well, there's this portal-"

"Drugs."

"-No. But it usually drops us off outside," you watched apprehensively as he ran a hand through his stick-straight blonde hair, which was long enough that the only thing holding it back was the thick green bandana around his head. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what region we're in?"

...Region? This guy really was weird, but at least he hadn't tried anything funny with that sword of his. "Uh... Toronto."

It was almost funny how quickly the guy's face changed from inquisitive to downright baffled. "Excuse me, but I don't think I heard you right?"

As weird as having an intellectual conversation about location with a home intruder in your living room was, you couldn't say you were surprised; trouble always seemed to find you one way or another. "We're in Toronto," nothing. You pressed further. "You know, Canada."

"...What?"

The silence spoke volumes as you stared each other down, though you eventaully broke it with an exhausted sigh. "Listen, man, I'm just trying to get some sleep. I'll get you a map and you don't steal my throw blankets, deal?"

Without waiting for a response, you hightailed it to the kitchen of your two-story rambler and retrieved a map from the far cupboard. Your on-and-off job at a tourist company came with many perks, some of which being: yearly adventure passes to the 12-and-under under-the-sea theme park, Royal Ontario Museum tickets during the busiest time in touring season, and a full crate of maps that would never see the light of day.

Until now, that is.

The strange man was still in your living room when you sauntered back in, though he had turned his attention to your television, a box of an appliance you pilfered from a garage sale a few years back. He was poking it with a distinct air of confusion, which only cemented your belief that he was on some type of drug--it was almost like he had teleported here from the fucking medieval era instead of breaking in through your-... well, you didn't actually know where or how he had broken in, but you sure as hell would find out after this conundrum. You held out the map. "Here," you watched as he unfurled the thing, looking no less baffled than he had a minute ago. "I assume you can read?"

The man nodded, all traces of his earlier panic gone. "Thank you for your help. I'm Four.

"(Y/n)," you responded, half-wondering who on earth would name their kid that.

"Say, you wouldn't be able to tell me where the hero of this land is?"

"The... hero?" You echoed. "You mean the prime minister-?"

You would have put more thought into the depths of this insanity, but there was a loud crash in the kitchen that overwrote all desire to discretely call an ambulance for the poor guy. Four was hot on your heels as you rushed to the kitchen, having drawn his sword. "Watch the fuck where you're putting that," you tried to say, but a new voice shocked you into silence.

"Oww, Legend!" In the middle of your pristine floor was another blonde stranger, though he seemed no older than twelve or thirteen. A light blue tunic with gray sleeves hung down nearly to his knees, clothed in gaudy orange tights. Sky blue eyes turned to you and Four. "Where am I?"

Behind you, Four re-sheathed his sword. You breathed a sigh of relief, but it was for naught when the teenager practically sprung up to vigorously shake your hand. "Hi! I'm L- er, Wind! What's your name?"

You told him, feeling quite numb at his point.

"Cool name! You're so tall, I think you might be taller than Twilight and T..." you were already beginning to block him out, looking to Four for answers.

"I don't suppose you know anything about this?"

"I told you; portal," said Four, like that solved everything.

"I think I'm on drugs," you muttered, thinking back to that new Chinese restaurant you tried last night, at the same time Wind chimed in: "You told them?"

Four opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "Okay, I don't know who or why you are, but you need to leave. Now."

"Aww," Wind pouted. "But you haven't met everyone!"

Not that you'd say it to his face, but you didn't think you wanted to. "I'll be fine. And so will you. I gave your... friend a map."

"Oh, alright," said Wind, if not a bit dejected. One of your heartstrings twinged. "Thank you."

"Anytime," you turned to Four. "You'll be fine?"

"Should be," he sighed. "We've been in these kinds of situations before."

Okay, now you felt a bit bad. Sure, they had broken into your house and scared the living daylights out of you, but it wasn't like they had been rude. Despite the impossible circumstances, Four and Wind seemed like decent guys who ended up at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Wait," two sets of eyes turned to you. "...It would be cruel to make you leave without a bite to eat."

Both Four and Wind grin, and it's almost uncanny how similar they look. You offer a small smile, snag a small paper bag from the counter, and make a b-line for the middle cupboard, where a few packs of trail mix can be found. You shove all five in the bag, then add a few protein bars and tangerines for good measure. "Y'all don't have any food allergies, right?"

"Nope," says Four, right as Wind chimes: "Nu-uh!"

Cute, you think before you can stop yourself. "Good, hope you like tangerines and a whole lot of peanuts."

The brown paper crinkles as you fold it down, using a teal paperclip to secure it for good measure. You proudly hand the bag to Wind, who smiles like he just got his dream birthday present. Four nods to you, smiling in a far calmer manner. "We'll be going now, thanks for everything."

"Stay safe," is what you said, or, rather, what you would have said if the air above you hadn't inexplicably reformed in the form of a heavy object dropping down on you, knocking you to the ground as Wind's screams rang out. As you lay, prone and aching, on the unwashed floor, your last thought before unconsciousness was that you really needed to get rid of those maps.

That's a wrap! I hope you all enjoyed reading this as I did writing it, so be sure to reboot or leave a comment if you liked it!

All LU characters belong to JoJo!

[delfiore]

—MY DEAREST FRIEND AND ENEMY. (2/5)

pairing: ona batlle x fem!reader

synopsis: you and ona become much closer, but in the wrong way; an offer on the horizon threatens to tear you apart.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: description of collision in football

PART I, PART III, PART IV, PART V

Sports Illustrated: USWNT International Y/N Y/L/N Scores in First Game Back From Injury “Y/N Y/L/N will not stop scoring. The Man City star returns to action with a stunning header in a home game against Everton since picking up an injury this summer in the CONCACAF final against Canada. Though the U.S. emerged victorious thanks to Alex Morgan’s penalty kick, Y/L/N was forced off in the 68th minute with a torn hamstring. She was expected to be sidelined for 3 months. […]”

You skimmed through the article, waiting for your coffee to brew. It has been an arduous few months as you focused on rehabilitation. You were supposed to be match-fit at the start of the season, but the physios determined you needed at least a few more weeks before you could play. Your thigh still felt a bit tight every time you stretched them. Nonetheless, you were back to playing, that was all that mattered.

It was early November, and the winds were picking up in Manchester, and yet you were warm.

“Morning,” you said, smiling at the figure waddling into the living room.

Bratwurst was wagging his tail by her side, no doubt looking for more food as if you hadn’t fed him half an hour ago.

“Good morning,” Ona said, rubbing her eyes.

“Coffee?” You nodded towards the machine.

“No, I have to get to training. Thanks, though.”

“In my shirt?” You smirked at looked down at her top. Sure enough, it was the old T-shirt you lent her after you were done last night.

“Hah hah.” She mocked you, but then took off the shirt, leaving her top half completely bare, and threw it at your face. “Obviously not.”

You let your eyes travel freely, as she went back into your room and returned wearing the clothes she came in last night.

“Looks like you’re back to being your insufferable self.” She walked to where you sat, putting on her necklace. “Can’t even go on social media without seeing people praising your goal.”

“All in a day’s work,” you said, grinning.

Ona rolled her eyes and put on her shoes. “I’m glad you’re back, but I won’t go easy on you.”

You stood up and pecked her lips.

“I never asked you to,” you leaned closer, ducking your face into her neck. “Maybe when we’re alone.”

She snickered quietly and patted your cheek. “Try not to miss me too much. Bye-bye, Bratwurst.”

The pup sat by the door as he watched her close it behind her. Ever since she started spending time at your apartment, it felt like he liked her more, always following her around and snuggling with her as she gave him pets.

Ona had been coming over since the kiss at the end of last season with the premise of meaningless sex. You both had an arrangement, and you were committed to keeping to it. You were surprised when she suggested it, thinking her not to be the type, but Ona continues to surprise you.

You had only meant to meet up over dinner to talk about what happened, but the night ended with her hands tangled in your hair and your legs tangled in her sheets. The ups and downs these past few months never deterred you from seeing each other. In fact, Spain losing out in the Euros prompted her to come over and forget about it for a night. In a way, you both had each other.

Your teammates at Man City were especially amused whenever you’d forget to cover up and come to practice with marks on your neck.

“Who’s the unlucky gal this time, Y/N?”

“Have you been busy while you were injured?”

Every time, you would just shake your head with a grin because you’d never kiss and tell. Also, because Leila and Laia would flip out if they knew you’d been screwing their teammate on the national team.

Your arrangement worked for a while, both of you still too young and too committed to football to think about anything else. While a lot of your colleagues would disagree, it was the excuse you told yourself to fully admit that what you felt for Ona was beyond just carnal desires.

You were treading on dangerous waters, your feelings bubbling to the surface every time you saw the girl. It was much more challenging to keep them under wraps, especially when you had to play against her every couple of months. From what people knew about you two, you were rivals, and that was your relationship. Rumors of a romance surfaced too, amongst younger fans, but it was the result of baseless shipping. If only they knew.

Ona wasn’t an incredibly affectionate person, not by a mile. The only times you would catch her lowering her guard by the tiniest of margins were when she was tired, maybe then she’d let you cuddle her after sex. But you remembered when Spain was knocked out of the Euros way too soon, and she was crying on the phone to you. You had just won the CONCACAF with the US across the Atlantic, and yet all you wanted was to hold her.

And so that was what you did. Two days later, after you were dismissed from your international duties, you flew back to Manchester and waited for her. Ona liked to be the little spoon whenever she was sad, and you were very happy to oblige. If she was feeling generous, she would even thank you for it. As much as you wanted to, you never teased her about it, because you knew what you had was fragile, and a slight mention of it could topple everything to the ground.

That was how it was with your Spanish beauty.

“Wooooooow . . . You’ve got a handful,” said your teammate, Chloe, as she stood in your kitchen, eating your chips.

“Yup,” you pressed your lips thinly, grabbing some seasoning from the cupboard. “That’s my life right now.”

You proceeded to tell Chloe everything one day, omitting a few saucy details, of course.

“Have you tried talking to her about it?”

“That’s the thing, though. There’s nothing to talk about. I can’t just walk up to her and demand something that wasn’t part of the arrangement to begin with.”

“I know, but it’s clearly affecting you. You like her, don’t you?”

“No.” A few seconds of silence followed, and Chloe was looking at you with a glare. “Okay, I think she’s cute, like, really cute.”

“I think you should talk to her, Y/N,” Chloe said. “Worst case scenario, you lot stop whatever you’re doing with each other behind all of our backs. Best case scenario, you date her.”

You smirked, but nothing no usual quippy or smug remark came out. “I should try,” you spoke quietly.

Chloe nodded expectantly and continued eating her chips, now. “I can’t believe it. You tricked all of us! It was Batlle all this time!”

“I didn’t think you’d come tonight,” you whispered quietly into the room, sitting by the edge of your bed.

Ona was under the covers, on her phone. “Why? ‘Cause we played against each other?”

You nodded bashfully.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she set her phone down. “Or did you not want me to come?”

“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” You said, gesturing at the clothes strewn on the floor.

You let her study you for a moment, finding the ruffled sheets much more interesting instead.

“What’s wrong?” She said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re too quiet.” Her voice was low and calming. She reached out and caressed your hand. You wanted to bury your face in her neck and be done with the conversation instead.

“I was just wondering . . . would you like to come over a bit earlier from now on?”

Your question made her look at you with a puzzled expression. “Have I been staying too late?”

“No, no. I mean—you can stay as late as you want, but come a bit earlier. I can cook for us, and then we can just sit and . . . talk.”

You fumbled with your fingers, your eyes drifting up to her, seeing the realization dawn on her. She exhaled. “Okay, that sounds nice . . . but as friends, right?”

“Um . . . no?”

“Y/N,” Ona breathed. Her silence was killing you. Finally, she looked up. “That wasn’t our arrangement, and I’d like for it to stay as we’ve agreed. You’re okay with that, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, caressing her arm and flashing a smile. “It’s for the best.”

She nodded but watched you closely. “Come here,” she whispered.

You obliged, letting her pull you into her embrace. A searing kiss followed, leaving you to straddle her bare waist.

A short gasp left your lips. “Fuck me, Ona.” You pleaded quietly, hoping she’d fuck you until you forget the conversation ever happened. But you also hoped she’d go slow and make love to you, proving that she’d finally reciprocated your feelings.

You’ve decided that you wanted both. Maybe then, you’d finally get what you wanted.

You didn’t know that Ona was scared to let you in too, so she settled for sleeping with you.

You had been an obsession of hers for three years, a game she played besides having to focus on the actual game she was paid to play. But now, here she was—sleeping with someone who could possibly be her mortal enemy. She didn’t know when, but suddenly, she couldn’t bring herself to see you harmed.

She wanted you, but that was the selfish part of her speaking.

In the morning, you had expected her to be there, but your bedside was empty.

Ona moved through her days like a ghost. She didn’t expect it to be this hard three years ago when she first set foot in Manchester. She didn’t expect a forward to make her life this hard, or that she would fall in love with you. Every minute she spent tangled up in bed with you were minutes where nothing else outside that bedroom mattered, and it scared her.

It scared her that only you could make her feel that way, that something she had spent so hard working towards for herself, you did so easily for her.

She thinks of the nights after the Euros when she practically stayed over all day, and how you took care of her. She thinks of the cheeky winks you would send her way whenever she played against you, and the not-so-innocent brushes that you sneak in whenever she defended you. She think of your face when she shut you down, and how quickly your walls came back up.

She thinks of you the entire time she was on the Zoom call with her agent.

“You need to decide soon, Ona,” her agent had told her. “Barcelona doesn’t wait for anyone.”

It was a no-brainer, but she thinks of you all the time.

The referee blew the whistle and the 90 minutes were over. You collapsed on your knees as the Etihad erupted into cheers. Man City had reached the semifinals of the Women’s Champions League for the first time ever in the history of the women’s club. You would be playing Wolfsburg next, but you couldn’t care less about that right then. You just wanted to celebrate with your teammates.

You wished that you could celebrate with Ona too.

You sent her a text much later in the night, but she didn’t respond. Thinking it to be too late for her to come over, you went to bed, soaking in your victory.

But then, she didn’t respond the next day, then the day after that. A week later, she still hadn’t responded. Then the first leg of the semifinal came, and City drew 2-2 to Wolfsburg. You had given her space to deal with whatever she didn’t want you to know and knew double-texting made you look desperate, but you have had enough of the silence.

A vote of confidence would have been nice Sent 4:29pm

Nothing.

You weren’t going to put your life on hold for her. You wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

The week of the return leg, you had almost forgotten all about Ona from the amount of training you were doing.

“Okay, ladies. Gather around,” said Chris, the assistant coach. “This will be our last practice session before the Champions League game. We’re gonna do some passing to start with, then a set-piece practice, and we’ll close off with a 5v5 scrimmage. That sound good?”

You were starting to feel more confident than jittery. Your movements were sure and steady, so were your finishes. Big games never deterred you, but it was the added fact of Ona not responding to your text that caused you to check your phone every time you were able to.

“No phones, Y/N,” Chris said, and raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, Coach. Just checking news from family,” you lied. He extended his hand anyway, and you begrudgingly handed your phone over.

“I can’t have you distracted, Y/N. The match is tomorrow.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been good, though, haven’t I?” You grinned, taking a swig of water.

Practice ended later than scheduled, but you didn’t mind. You needed the extra preparation, and you were glad to have done that with your teammates. Chris finally gave you your phone back, like a naughty student, and you quickly checked your messages. Still nothing. It wasn’t like this was the biggest game of your life or anything.

Going to the news, flipping through articles upon articles on politics, your eyes landed on one about sports.

The Busby Babe: Ona Batlle Set For Barcelona Return “Manchester United and Spain star right back Ona Batlle is reportedly on the verge of completing a move back to Catalonia, rejoining Barcelona Femeni at the end of her contract with the Red Devils. […]”

The match of your life started. You were on the left wing as you always were, playing inverted so Laia would be running the flank. You scored one, but Wolfsburg got one back towards the end of the first half.

“Make those runs, ladies. If you see them coming at you, call out to your teammates. Use the third man to break free of the defense.” Gareth pointed at the board, showing hypothetical scenarios that the team could exploit for an opening.

“Hey,” Chloe sat next to you, her forehead glistening. “You alright?”

You uttered a small ‘yeah’ and closed your hand over her sweat-clad one over your knee. You couldn’t be distracted. You owed it to Chloe and everyone else on this team.

You were slamming your fist on the door, but you didn’t care. Your jaw clenched as you swayed on your feet waiting for her to open up.

“What the fuck, Y/N?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You stepped into her apartment.

Her face went pale. “How did you know?”

You let out a laugh. “You’re pathetic. You’re a coward for not even saying a single word.”

The ball was sent over long from deep aiming towards you. You called for Filippa for a one-two, but once you dribbled, you were tackled inside the box. You put your hand up at the referee but huffed in disbelief when she only shook her head and granted a corner.

Slapping your hand on the grass, you sprung up with a grunt. It must have looked like you were throwing a tantrum, but you couldn’t care less, you wanted to win.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“So you were just not gonna say anything at all?! You owe me that much to—”

“I don’t owe you anything, Y/N.” She snapped. She had never snapped at you before, not while off the pitch. “You know what we have is just sex. That’s all we ever had and that’s all we will ever have.”

Tears formed in your eyes. You felt like a kid again, being scolded and taken for granted. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but this isn’t some fantasyland,” Ona said firmly. “I told you what I wanted, and I thought you agreed.”

There was a period of struggle over the ball soon after, mostly in midfield. You were growing increasingly frustrated as passes continued being cut off just before they reached the attacking third.

“Come on, guys! Let’s finish this!” You called out to your teammates in an attempt to hype them up before a throw-in.

Your irritation mounted, but you told yourself to quickly snap out of it. I need to stay calm, my team needs me. It proved quite difficult when Lena Oberdorf slithered up from behind to mark you. She dug an elbow into your back to keep you at bay, and when you moved, she moved. So you pushed back, much harder than you anticipated. It set her off. Good, stay off me.

Soon, you heard the ref’s hurried whistle, as Lena shoved you back. “The fuck are you pushing for?!” Your opponent seethed, getting all up in your face to challenge you.

You were feeling bold, so you smirked at her. “Come closer, see what I’ll do. Or do you just want a piece of this, huh?”

It wasn’t your best quality, you admitted it, but you liked it when you set off an opponent. You didn’t care when Lena was hurling insults at you in German as she was being led away. What mattered was that you had gotten in her head, and it would be much easier to break her defense from now on. The referee blew her whistle again, and a few teammates of yours attempted to separate you from Lena.

“Sei ruhig, Mann. Bleib’ da drüben.” Be quiet, man. Stay over there. Waving at her dismissively, you saw the way her eyes looked like they would pop out of her sockets in fury, knowing she didn’t expect you to know German. You couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

“Last warning, Y/L/N.” The referee warned before continuing the match.

There would always be one player that completely drove the opposition crazy, and you would gladly be that asshole, so your teammates wouldn’t have to. You wanted to win.

“You kissed me first. I thought . . .”

“Please, don’t make this any harder than it already is,” Ona said quietly.

“I thought we had something, Ona,” you tried to steady your voice. You knew you sounded pathetic, but you never believed Ona could betray you in such a way.

She only pressed her lips thin. “We don’t. The only thing we have is our arrangement and however you feel about me on the pitch.”

Bunny scored in the 75th minute, and that would be the last goal for City in this match. The game went to extra time, and you could feel your teammates getting tired and sloppy in possession. You were tired too, but you wanted to keep fighting, anything to keep the thought of Ona out of your head.

You were so focused on the ball that you didn’t see a defender coming up beside you, her body colliding with yours in an attempt to redirect the ball. You fell to the ground with a thud, the stinging impact beginning to spread across your back. You felt the wind getting knocked out of you, your vision beginning to fade until all you could see were the lights atop the stadium, until those faded too.

The next thing you knew, you were on your side. Then the uncomfortable pain in your gut started to become more apparent, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. You gasped for air, just as a couple of your teammates knelt beside you.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Medic!” You heard a voice almost like Demi’s call out.

You didn’t know who knocked into you, you didn’t care anymore, because you had the overwhelming urge to throw up whilst still struggling to breathe.

“Can’t . . . breathe,” you wheezed out, tears starting to fill your eyes. You wanted to go home.

One of the medics shone a flashlight in your eyes. “Pupils are PEARL,” she said. “Okay, I need you to try and take deep breaths for me, alright, darling?”

You drew a shaky breath. There was a wheezing noise, in and out. In and out. The more you did, the easier it got. Your head was dizzy when you stood up, just as you heard applause ringing throughout the stadium.

Chloe appeared in front of you and offered her arm while a medic took your other as you walked toward the sideline.

“You’re alright, love,” she flashed you a warm smile and wiped away the stray tear that lingered on your cheek.

It was much too unfortunate, because you still had a lot more to give, but you were done for the night. Gareth knew it too, so he sent Hempo in to take your place.

You finally let the tears fall freely when the final whistle came.

“When do you leave?”

“In two weeks.”

A scornful laugh escaped you that you didn’t even bother to hide. “You didn’t even have the decency to tell me, not as your booty call, but as your friend.”

But you were kidding yourself. You knew Ona and you were never friends, never quite lovers either. Only two people floating around in a sexual limbo who were too scared to admit to themselves what was right in front of them. Now she was leaving, and you would never get the chance.

It didn’t matter anymore, any of it. You had a Champions League semifinal to play.

ESPN: Wolfsburg Grabs Victory in Extra Time to Reach Women’s Champions League Final “[…]”

a/n: it was so heartwarming to see the support for jenni and the players :’) it’s abt fuckin time man let’s hope this continues until rubiales and vilda’s resignation

[cellophaine]

Sad Girl (Part III)

Read Part I, Part II

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Sappy confession. Happy ending.

Author's Note: I'm alive.

GIF Credit

As you joined the street-level crowd from the subway, you pulled your scarf higher as the bitter wind swept over your face. You quickened your pace in the hope of getting out of the cold sooner as if you could catch up with the darkening sky. The interview had taken longer than you anticipated, and you still had to write up the report and have it on your boss' desk by 9 AM the next morning. He had been a thorn in your side, consistently pushing your buttons. He always insisted on having paper copies of every report. "It makes your report more meaningful," he said, "otherwise you're just repeating someone else's words." It took all the professionalism in you not to reach across his cluttered desk and slap him then.

By the time you reached the office, the sky had dulled into a dark grey, and the lamp posts cast their warm glow onto the street. You said goodnight to the exiting coworkers and rushed through the doors to see that Gwen, the receptionist, was leaving, too. She called out to you as you walked past the reception.

"Hey! There's something for you on your desk."

You nodded.

"Thank you."

"Doesn't say who it's from though."

You thought for a moment; a small smile crept onto the corner of your lips.

"I think I might have an idea."

Gwen gave you an understanding look and headed out. You approached your cubby in anticipation and were greeted with a sweet floral smell emanating from the bouquet that sat next to your keyboard. You took it in your hand and marvelled. It was a peculiar combination, one you couldn't really find at flower shops, held together by a simple ribbon of blue cloth. No crinkly wrapping paper. The light shade of blue hyacinth went so well with the bluebells, coupled with orange peonies and a single olive branch, which created a harmony pleasing to the eyes and nose. The piece of paper nestled in the bouquet only indicated your name in a neat font, but other than that, nothing. Still, it brought a smile to your face, a speck of joy on an arduous day. You pulled out your phone and typed out a quick text before sending it off.

Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful.

You still had a soft smile on your face by the time you got ready to write the report. Your phone vibrated, signaling a text message.

What flowers?

Your brows scrunched together in puzzlement. You took a photo and sent it off. Not a minute later, you got a response.

Wasn't from me.

A slight hollowness carved itself into your throat. You texted back.

Oh. Are you sure?

The response came quickly.

Dead serious. You might have a secret admirer ;)

Never mind then.

You set your phone down only to have the phone vibrate again.

Wannna go out tonight? Me and my buddies are going to this new club on Fifth Ave.

You sighed, dreading the idea of having to stay at work late. But you didn't like the sound of going out either.

I'm alright. Just a little tired tonight. Have fun though!

The read receipt and a heart popped up on your last message. That was it. You turned your phone to silent mode before opening a new document; your recorder and notepad were ready by your side.

By the time your report was put on your boss' desk, it was already 9:30. You exhaled heavily, feeling the weight on your shoulders chip away. You took the flowers with you and nodded to the security guard on your way out. It was late, and you didn't feel like cooking, so you made a detour to the soup and sandwich shop around the corner and placed an order. You sat down on the bench by the window, allowing the gush of heat from the radiator to warm your legs. There was music coming from across the narrow street; its volume changed as people filtered in and out. People were smoking outside, chatting animatedly with one another. It stirred something in you. You worked late on a Thursday night, getting takeout by yourself because you couldn't even fathom the thought of whipping up a simple meal. You opened your last message with Andy, wondering if it was too late to change your mind.

You met Andy through Mindy when her workplace went out for happy hour. It was just shy of two weeks after you cut things off with Matt. He was a nice, easy-going guy who tried to include you in conversations throughout the night. Mindy's forms of suggestion came in the subtle look of her eyes, the slight inclines of her head, and often, a jab of her elbow. It annoyed you how much she tried to look out for you even though you didn't need her help, but at the end of the night, the triumphant was hers. Andy asked for your number, and you agreed out of an obligation you felt for Mindy's relentless effort for you to move on. It had been two months since the first date, with many dates between then and now, and all you could say about it could be summed up in one word: fine. You didn't feel a spark. Andy could be charming at times, funny, and generous. You liked him, but your heart didn't beat wildly for him. He wasn't anything like Matt. Andy was the one you should want.

So why did you still feel a sense of hesitation?

You looked at the bouquet, your curiosity piqued. Taking out your phone, you typed in the flower combination laid on the narrow counter. Scrolling through the array of articles, you noticed the keywords they shared in common.

Apology. Ask for forgiveness. Wrongdoings.

You read and read, and the realization seeped in. The clarification didn't give you any relief, only mild irritation. Matt fucking Murdock. Who gave him the right to remind you of his presence when it still lingered around? It was an undeniable indication of how much you were still so helplessly captivated by your history with him, thinking about him like he was an old wound that ached every now and then to remind you that you had always had it and that you could never be rid of it. Memories of Matt, just like the pain, were a part of you now, and you couldn't bury them or try to forget them. You had to live with them, and hopefully, when it was finally enough time had passed, you could look back at the memories with fondness, a sweet bitterness over someone you couldn't have, but you had long accepted the fact.

For the moment, the fondness was replaced by irritation. With dinner in your hand, you walked out of the door, leaving the bouquet in the trash can of the quaint restaurant.

Over the next six months, so much changed, but the one constant thing that did not was Matt's attempts to reach you and still give you the distance you needed. Once a week, on the same day, a bouquet of flowers was delivered to your desk. They never included the sender, only the recipient, and always had the same connotation.

I'm sorry.

You had to admit it was sweet. It also earned you looks of admiration and teasing from your coworkers, who were cooing over the fact that your boyfriend was such a sweetheart. For the few times someone mentioned it, you had to clarify. Andy wasn't your boyfriend anymore, and he hadn't been for the last two months.

When you broke up with Andy, it came as a surprise to him. He thought everything was going well, but your perception of the relationship was the opposite. You weren't into him; you were into the idea of having him as a placeholder for Matt. It was the cruel truth. Being with Andy didn't make you happy, and you doubted it would be any different if you were with someone else. You wanted more. You wanted the thing that you couldn't have with Matt, and at this point, you had settled for the fact that it would never be yours. But for now, you were okay with being by yourself. You wanted to be alone in your own existence and accepted the fact that when the right time came, it would come with the right person. For the first time in a long time, you felt the burden that clouded your head fall away like a crumbling infrastructure.

You quit your job despite your boss's pathetic attempts to stop you from leaving, promising you a promotion that would make you his right-hand woman. It was more work for just a little more money, and it wasn't worth it. To your luck, shortly after leaving the newspaper, you got hired as a junior staff writer for an independent publishing house. You still got to enjoy parts of the work you liked before, with better pay and a more relaxed schedule. You had more time to enjoy what you couldn't before.

Gwen still kept in touch with you, telling you about the bouquet of flowers showing up a few days after you left. And then, after that week, none at all. You figured Matt had a way of finding out about your new workplace since, shortly after the change, new bouquets were delivered to your desk promptly as if nothing had changed only except for the fact that you stopped throwing them away. You had started to enjoy them. Who knew there were so many ways to apologize to someone with flowers?

You thought you would cross paths with him eventually, but you didn't know it would be a peculiar chance encounter like this.

The gloomy sky haunted the skyline of New York City all day, teasing with little drops here and there. The air was heavy, as if it was holding itself in anticipation of a great storm. You prayed it wouldn't rain before you got home, but as you were halfway there, the sky parted, and the downpour was vicious. You couldn't see too far in front of you, and out of desperation, you ran up the stairs of the nearest shelter. You stood awkwardly on the small porch of the building as heavy droplets railed on the pavement in a frantic rhythm. You leaned a shoulder on the wall, exhausted and drenched, looking helplessly out into the downpour that showed no sign of stopping soon. Water dripped from your lashes, and with each blink, you saw a moving silhouette formed in the misty veil. Your heart beat faster and faster as the silhouette approached until he became someone you knew too well. Emerged from the rain was Matt, his breathing heavy, but you doubted it was from running from the rain, for his footsteps slowed, hesitant as he sensed that the porch he was approaching wasn't vacant. And the space was occupied by none other than the woman that haunted his fitful sleep and waking daydreams.

For a long moment, you could only stare. The water clung to him like how every piece of your existence that used to long for his approval and touch did. And Matt seemed to do the same thing. You couldn't bring yourself to break the silence. Your eyes were wide open as if you were afraid his presence was only something your mind made up. That he wasn't real. And just like that, you were starstruck again. Just like the first time you saw him after you realized that you loved him. In the gradual slip of the initial shock, you took in the newness in his familiar appearance. His hair was a little longer than when you saw him last, prompting the little curls at the nape of his neck. His dripping briefcase did its best to shield his face from the rain, but you could see the strays followed the slopes and rises of his handsome features. His lips parted, pulling in a deep, slow inhale. He looked like a man who was in disbelief, and truth be told, you felt the same way. Only now did you realize how much you'd missed him.

"What are you doing here?"

You croaked and cleared your throat when you realized your voice was barely a notch above a whisper. Matt shook himself out of the trance, clearing his throat.

"This is, uhm– my office."

"Oh!"

In a fit of panic, you didn't realize that it was the Nelson, Murdock and Page office. What kind of cruelty had fate forced upon you? You sighed, an apology on your lips as you put your bag above your head.

"I'm so sorry, I will go–"

Before you could launch yourself into the pouring rain, Matt stopped you with a hand on your elbow.

"No, please. Stay."

And because he knew you so well, he could sense your hesitation.

"You can get warm upstairs and wait until it's better out there."

You watched the way the tips of his ears had turned into a darker shade of pink. This anticipation reminded you of the time when, with just a look, you knew you had fallen for him. You swallowed and managed to croak a soft "okay." Matt nodded, a little breathless himself, as if he was relieved that you agreed to stay. He pulled out the key and unlocked the door before holding it open for you to step inside. You walked the stairs, remembering the last time you were here. Your heart was in fragments, barely held together by your nerves, by the time you reached the final steps.

You roamed your eyes around the office as Matt turned on the old heater along the wall. It looked about the same, but now there was a monstera adding a touch of green to the space. You shrugged off your damp coat, and Matt took it out of your hands. The gesture felt so natural, you thought to yourself as you watched him hang the coat next to his by the door. He had stripped down to a simple white dress shirt and black slack, and you averted your eyes at the sight of his torso visible under the wet shirt as if you hadn't seen him naked before. He threw his tie on the desk and came out of his office with a throw blanket. He held it out until you took it. It looked handmade and felt soft to the touch. Matt pulled a chair out for you in front of the heater. You thanked him and put your bag by your feet after taking the seat. A brief moment of silence followed, and Matt immediately assumed his position as the gracious host.

"Do you want some tea? We have the kind that … that you like."

A shiver ran through you. A cup of tea didn't sound too bad.

"Please. If you don't mind."

He waved his hand dismissively and walked towards the kitchen. You listened to the sound of him rummaging around in the small room. Feeling awkward just sitting there and not being useful, you called out.

"Do you need some help?"

"I got it. You stay warm."

You settled against the chair, wrapping yourself in the blanket. Feeling the gentle and warm brush of the radiator on your legs, you shivered slightly. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you tried to calm yourself down by focusing on the monstera leaves instead of the presence of the man who once broke your heart.

Matt came back to the room with a steaming mug, and you took it gratefully. It looked like he didn't make any for himself. You took a sip, allowing the tea to burn your tongue.

"How have you been?"

His question knocked at the mutual understanding of your situation. You weren't exactly friends, and you were long past the point of lovers. But it didn't have to be awkward. With so much history between you, all the memories twisted and turned and took off, swirling furiously like the storm outside. But there was a blessing in it. The storm was out of your reach, and right here, right now, you were safe. The person who lapped up crumbs of attention from the man who never explicitly gave them was a part of you. But not anymore. You could start fresh.

"I'm fine. I figured you knew about my new job?"

Matt dipped his head sheepishly as if to hide his expression of being caught.

"I did. Are you enjoying it?"

"I am. It's a lot less stressful when I don't have to answer my boss' unreasonable demands. I get more freedom in what I do. The pay is much better, too."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I'm glad. It seemed like you had a bad time at the newspaper."

"Yeah, I did."

You nodded, feeling a brief wash of melancholy at the mention of your old job.

"I know the flowers come from you."

There was no point in avoiding the subject. Your heart was on the verge of exploding, but you had to. You both knew it was coming.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for overstepping. Just say the word, and I'll stop any kind of contact with you."

When you didn't respond, he continued with his face angled towards you. The window behind him cast sharp shadows on his face, and from this point of view, you could see the agony on his face.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I just … I had to try to show how sorry I was. How sorry I still am."

"I know."

You sighed.

"As much as I would like to blame it all on you, it was on me as well."

At that, Matt sat up straighter and protested.

"That's not true–"

Your hand sprung out to hold his hand, keeping him there. Matt stilled as if your touch had paralyzed him.

"Please, listen to me."

You went on despite the slight shake in your voice.

"I let my expectations run wild even though we were clear from the start. It was a mutual benefit arrangement."

His other hand came to rest on top of yours. Warmth seeped from the palms of his hands, and you wished you were enveloped in his embrace instead.

"I stepped over the line myself. I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. I gave you mixed signals and lied to you about my own feelings."

You inhaled deeply. 

"What feelings?"

"I really thought it was better to keep you at arm's length and not let myself … feel things for you, but I did anyway. I should have been honest with you. But I thought I wasn't deserving of someone like you."

Your heart rattled in the cage that was your chest.

"What are you saying, Matt?"

A sorrowful relief caressed his face.

"I love you. I regret not saying that to you every day we were apart."

You felt as if all the air was pulled out of your lungs.

"Don't lie to me, please. I don't want you to just– just say what I want to hear. I'd rather never have you than to have you unwillingly."

Matt placed your hand on his heart, letting you feel the rhythm underneath your palm. Erratic, wild and uncontrollable, just like yours.

"I only want you. I think about you all the time. I'm miserable when you're not around."

"I don't know what to say …"

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed it with a tenderness you had missed dearly.

"That's okay. Take your time. I'll wait for you as long as you need."

He paused briefly, then continued as if it took great strength for him to utter the words.

"Even if you no longer feel the same, it's okay, too."

You couldn't conceal the wide smile in your voice.

"I mean, telling a girl that you love her before going on a first date with her? Mindy wouldn't like that."

Matt chuckled, the sound warm like the honey he put in your tea.

"Was Mindy the one …?"

"Yup. She doesn't like you at all."

"I deserve that."

You caressed his face, feeling the stubble along his jawline. There was a feeling you thought you would never get again, but now, you were basking in its glow.

"Can we … can we take it slow?"

His lips found the palm of your hand, kissing it tenderly.

"Of course. Anything you want."

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[dimigo-cromwell]

First time holding hands

Writing type: Prompt

Pairing: Neuvillette x GN!Reader

Tags: A little blood because of a small cut caused by the criminals evil tomato-chan and dull Knife-san

"Will we ever hold hands?"

In the bustling city of Fontaine, Neuvillette's stature as a figure of authority loomed large, casting a shadow over the possibility of any intimate gestures, let alone the simple act of holding hands. His position dictated a certain decorum, where such displays were often misconstrued: holding hands in public? A gesture ripe with implications. In court? A subtle yet potentially damning manoeuvrer. The eyes of the people remained ever watchful, scrutinizing his every move.

Despite the familiarity with the concept of hand-holding, Neuvillette found himself seldom experiencing it first-hand. His hands, nimble and skilled, were in constant motion, tirelessly attending to the demands of his role. They navigated through stacks of papers with precision, deftly wielded pens to inscribe legal documents, and executed myriad tasks with efficiency. But the touch of another's hand, the warmth of human connection? Such moments were a rarity in his meticulously structured existence.

Perhaps the only beings in Teyvat to have felt his touch repeatedly are the Melusines, but with humans, such occasions are scarce. He observes others intertwining hands in displays of affection, solidarity, and camaraderie, while his own hands remain largely untouched by such connections.

And amidst the chaos of his responsibilities, amidst the relentless rhythm of his duties, his thoughts often wandered to you, his hands subconsciously yearning for a touch they had yet to fully experience.

On a particularly arduous day, weary from the weight of his obligations, Neuvillette found himself drawn to your presence. Shedding the trappings of his status - coat, shoes, and finally, gloves - he entered your shared space, a silent apology lingering on his lips for his absence.

Approaching you from behind, his hands instinctively reached for the glasses you struggled to retrieve. Yet, before he could fulfil the simple task, your hands intercepted his, a gentle interruption to his solitary rhythm.

"No need," you insisted softly, acknowledging the burdens he bore. "Let me help."

As your hands briefly connected, an unexpected warmth suffused through him. The texture of your skin, the delicate pressure of your touch - sensations alien yet strangely comforting.

Embarrassment tinged his cheeks as he cleared his throat, the unexpected intimacy momentarily unsettling. Yet, your reassurance dissolved his unease, your understanding a balm to his weary soul.

With practised grace, he set about arranging the table, a silent testament to his gratitude for your unwavering support.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. A small mishap befell you, a minor injury disrupting the tranquillity of the moment. Concern etched his features as he hastened to your side, his hands reaching out instinctively.

"Are you hurt?" he inquired softly, his gaze fixed on the tiny wound.

A nod was all the confirmation he needed, prompting him to retrieve a band-aid from a nearby drawer.

"May I?" he asked, extending his hand for yours, a silent request for permission.

With gentle precision, he tended to your injury, his hands deftly manoeuvring to apply the makeshift remedy.

As your fingers intertwined, a fleeting sense of connection blossomed between you, an unspoken acknowledgment of the bond shared in that brief moment.

"It's nothing," he murmured, his touch lingering a fraction longer than necessary.

A smile graced your lips, a silent expression of gratitude for his care. In that simple gesture, amidst the quiet intimacy of the moment, a flicker of something indefinable passed between you.

The mundane clamour of the kitchen interrupted the fragile equilibrium, drawing you both back to reality. With a reluctant release, you attended to the errant stove, while Neuvillette lingered, his thoughts still tethered to the warmth of your touch.

As you resumed your tasks, a newfound awareness lingered in the air, a subtle shift in the dynamics of your relationship. It was not the grandiose romance of epic tales, but rather a quiet acknowledgment of the significance found in the simplest of gestures.

And as the evening unfolded, amidst the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversation, the memory of that fleeting touch remained etched in both your minds, a poignant reminder of the unspoken bond that bound you together.

Maybe this is not the perfect definition of holding hands, but it is worth more then words can describe

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

7. 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓮

The governess had begun her tutelage several weeks ago, immersing (Y/n) in a world of etiquette, reading, writing, and history. (Y/n)'s nights unfolded like the pages of a meticulously crafted novel as the governess wove a tapestry of refinement and knowledge around her. In the vast library that echoed with the whispers of ancient books, (Y/n) delved into the intricacies of literature, guided by the cold and rigorous teacher.

To make things more intense, she had been attending dance lessons with the vampire. As twilight enveloped the mansion, (Y/n) exchanged her quill for dance shoes, stepping into a realm where elegance and danger danced in tandem. The vampire nobleman led her through a series of intricate steps under the flickering candlelight of the chandelier. Each movement was a symphony of precision. The vampire was truly a demanding instructor. After each lesson, her feet ached, and the simple act of walking became an arduous task. The nobleman had relentlessly drilled her in dance, squeezing months of instruction into mere weeks.

Before the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its last golden rays upon the world, he roused (Y/n) from her slumber with an urgency that hinted at the gravity of the impending event. In the soft glow of dawn, he requested that she don her most exquisite evening gown, a garment he had purchased just for these types of occasions.They were to attend a grand ball, a rare outing that (Y/n) was looking forward to after her time of confinement within the manor's walls.

Following a soothing bath, a maid arrived to assist her in dressing. The process was notably more time-consuming tonight due to the intricate hairstyle and the numerous layers of her dress. Her gown was an exquisite blend of black and crimson, exuding an air of sophistication. She wore long gloves that extended up to her elbows, and a glistening ruby necklace adorned her neck. A red bow adorned her hair, and she completed the look with dainty satin red shoes.

"We will be departing soon, child," she heard the vampire call from the corridor outside her bedroom. "You ought to be prepa—" His sentence hung in the air, unfinished, as he stepped into the room and abruptly came to a standstill, his eyes fixated on (Y/n).

(Y/n) flinched as she wondered if she had inadvertently done something wrong, causing the vampire's sudden pause. He, however, broke the silence with an unexpected smile—a genuine one that reached the depths of his crimson-tinged eyes.

The vampire closed the distance between them, his movements deliberate yet filled with an odd warmth. A fondness colored his words as he addressed her. "Oh, my dear doll," he beamed, his voice full of fondness. "Crimson suits you impeccably. Smile for me," he gushed, his fingers delicately cupping her face, as if sculpting a moment in time.

His reaction was entirely unexpected, and she had never witnessed him being so effusive. The vampire's gaze, once intense and inscrutable, softened into something akin to paternal affection. With a subtle nod, (Y/n) complied, summoning a hesitant yet genuine smile to grace her features. She attempted to swat his hands away, but his genuine enthusiasm was uncontainable as he continued to coo and lavish her with compliments.

The vampire's smile widened, his satisfaction evident. "There, my dear, that is the spirit," he praised, his tone a melodic cadence that echoed in the room. “You look so much better when you behave.”

The vampire's outfit matched hers as he was wearing a red and black frock coat paired with a high-collared vest with silver buttons. As accessories, he wore short cream-white satin gloves and a single-layer jabot with a ruby brooch.

They eventually left the manor, once the man had stopped gushing about her clothing. As (Y/n) walked out. The moon was bright in the cloudless sky and stars shone brightly. The night was a bit chilly and she felt a cold breeze in the air.

A grand black carriage and a coachman were waiting for them by the entrance. She marveled at the beautiful horses. They were tall and imposing, one was black and the other was white. (Y/n) tried approaching them, then the vampire slapped her hand away and tutted. She glared, rubbing her hand to soothe it as they entered the carriage.

As the carriage journeyed toward their destination, (Y/n) couldn't help but confess, "I've never been to a ball before," she admitted with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, her eyes reflecting the glint of uncertainty. "I hope I won't make a fool out of myself."

"Do not concern yourself with such matters," the nobleman dismissed with a lazy, yet elegant wave of his hand. "You've learned everything you need to know, and you shall fit in perfectly."

Her gaze met his, finding solace in the conviction of his words. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, a flicker of gratitude for the guidance he had provided in the weeks leading up to this momentous night. With a subtle nod, (Y/n) redirected her eyes on the road for the rest of the journey.

The carriage came to a regal halt in front of the grand estate. It loomed like a castle in the moonlit night. (Y/n), stepping out onto the cobblestone courtyard, couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu as the estate's dark and gloomy façade reminded her of the mansion where she had resided for the previous months. As she was observing the place, she wondered if all aristocratic residences were eerie.

They approached the entrance gates, where vigilant guards admitted them upon presentation of the vampire's invitation. Proceeding toward the colossal entrance doors, they were momentarily halted by a figure standing next to a butler.

"Duke de Beauvoir," he greeted politely. A subtle hush fell upon the conversation as he leaned in, adding in a voice barely above a whisper, "Madame Rossignol has been eagerly anticipating your arrival."

With the vampire's hand resting on (Y/n)'s shoulder, she only faintly registered the conversation, her mind wandering elsewhere. The duke's lips tightened as he responded, an undercurrent of frustration palpable in his tone, "This woman is quite persistent."

"As you are aware," the other nobleman continued, "with your companion's frequent absences, people are starting to inquire."

He squeezed (Y/n)'s shoulder absentmindedly. "I wasn't aware you had taken up the habit of conversing with coffee-sisters*, Marquis de Sauge," he inquired with an icy demeanor, his gaze piercing through the veil of polite exchanges.

The marquis, momentarily taken aback, appeared somewhat affronted. "Not at all," he hastily clarified. "I merely wanted to inform you that Madame Rossignol still maintains her interest."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the duke's expression. "I am not interested in that harlot," he responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Thank you for the warning, Marquis de Sauge," he stated, effectively closing the conversation and dismissing the man, who seemed to have received the unspoken message.

The butler approached, extending a red ribbon to the vampire. He declined it, squeezing (Y/n)'s shoulder once more. "She is accompanying me," he declared firmly, a possessive edge in his tone that piqued (Y/n)'s intrigue.

The butler nodded, replacing the red ribbon with a black one. The vampire graciously accepted it and turned to her. He tied it in a delicate bow around her neck, ensuring it was neither too tight nor too loose.

His face morphed into a somber expression and he said darkly : "Under no circumstances are you to remove this."

She nodded, gulping slightly. She entered beside him, taking her first steps into this breathtaking place. This place was truly a sight to behold. (Y/n) stepped through the opulent doors of the grand ballroom, her heart aflutter with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The ballroom itself was a masterpiece. Crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the throngs of elegantly dressed guests. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries that told the stories of the aristocracy's history, each thread spun with tales of grandeur and wealth. The very air seemed to shimmer with anticipation, carrying the faint scent of delicate perfumes and fine wines.

The strains of a waltz filled the room, courtesy of a live orchestra that played with such precision and grace that (Y/n) felt as though she had stepped into a world of magic. The dancers, resplendent in their lavish attire, twirled and swayed in perfect harmony, their graceful movements a testament to the elegance that defined high society.

(Y/n) couldn't help but be overblown by the sheer spectacle of it all. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as the rich and powerful whirled around her, their laughter and conversation like music in itself. She, a mere peasant girl, now stood on the cusp of a life she had only ever imagined, surrounded by beauty, refinement, and the intoxicating allure of the ballroom.

Yet, (Y/n) couldn't shake a growing unease that had settled within her. After mere seconds, she understood why. The guests, who had appeared so elegant and refined, now seemed to be hiding a dark secret. Their movements, appearing graceful and enchanting, were too fluid and eerily silent, their smiles revealing an unsettling gleam in their eyes. The orchestra's melodies that had filled her heart with wonder now carried an ominous undertone, a discordant symphony that sent shivers down her spine. The red drinks were served by servants and then there were the sharp, incisive glances exchanged between the guests, a silent communication that betrayed their shared, hidden nature.

Her heart pounded with terror as the grand ballroom transformed into a surreal nightmare, the once-elegant figures now revealed as creatures of the night. (Y/n)'s grip tightened on the duke's arm, her fingers clinging to him in a desperate bid for reassurance. Trembling, she sought refuge, instinctively hiding behind him as if the vampire's presence could shield her from his kind.

"They're..." The word caught in her throat, the unspeakable truth lingering in the air.

In a hushed tone that cut through the disconcerting whispers of the undead gathering, he whispered, "They will know you are meant to be treated properly." His fingers, gentle as a whisper, traced the black ribbon around her neck. It was a silent promise of protection.

______________

*: A 19th-century term for “malignant gossipers,” according to this website.

[true-blue-sonic]

Espilver week day 2: Celebration

After the War to Take Back the Planet, some questions need to be asked before the celebration can begin in full.

☆☆☆☆☆

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Carefully Espio zigzags his way through the city, or what’s left of it. The fires of war have been put out, and the worst of the broken infrastructure has been pushed to the side or got a haphazard warning sign thrown before it. If he were to ignore that, it would almost seem like any place that Eggman has attacked just once before getting fought off; but Espio knows better. Suffering has happened in these streets, and Eggman had attacked far more often than just once. Geysers from burst sewer pipes still fill the air with sprays of water, rubble still clutters the streets and in the lower parts of the city the Death Egg robots stand frozen, as if their burning red eyes can come alive again any second as they begin their senseless destructing once more. There is so, so much that needs to be done to repair this place, and the whole world, after Eggman and his six-month tyranny.

Perhaps that’s why Silver’s not looking happy.

“Hey, Espio,” the hedgehog murmurs, a wellspring of familiarity after this long, arduous time of uncertainty and terror. Shooting him a little smile the chameleon walks over. Sure, to the unknowing eye Silver stands just like he always does: head held high with his fiery passion, shoulders squared up and arms drawn over each other, and sharp golden eyes peeking backwards with that little gleam in them that says he could and would kill if he has to.

But only Silver’s closest friends are reserved the softening of his face, the way his posture relaxes just a bit, the tiny smile taking shape on his lips that makes his whole being so much more gentle as Espio draws near.

Only Espio is reserved the way Silver’s head presses against his.

“We did it,” the chameleon states. World-weariness strikes him the very second he does: after so, so long, after so much heartbreak and struggling. “It feels almost unreal, doesn’t it?”

“…I guess.” Soft fur shrugs against Espio’s shoulder, a hand carefully coils around his. For a second, that is how they rest, with Silver’s touch warm as the sun and Espio’s steady as a rock… but the hedgehog purses his lips soon after. “There’s so much that needs to be done, though,” he adds, the gentle look on his face making way for that unshakeable seriousness Espio always appreciates in him. “We need to get started immediately. The people must have a home to return to.”

At least Silver’s the same as always, Espio smiles to himself. Despite everything, his beloved’s mind is still solely looking at others, never himself. “That is indeed true,” the chameleon quietly muses, “but not yet, dear Silver. Give yourself a moment to breathe, and celebrate.”

The hand holding his tenses. “Celebrate what, that Knuckles disbanded the Resistance just like that?! How are we going to help-”

Silver’s protest falls silent in the throes of Espio’s mouth as the chameleon presses their lips together.

“Hmpf!” gets muttered into the kiss, most agitated, and Espio’s fingers have found themselves behind madly-wriggling ears before they can help it. Also that is familiar, strange as that sounds: but a fire-forged friendship had made easy way to collaborations with just the two of them, out in the field together or toiling away in their hideout, and that had made easy way for something more. Something Espio doesn’t exactly know or understand yet, but something all the same.

A something where this isn’t the first kiss he’s stolen like that.

“Tenshi, I know. I know,” he murmurs, pulling away again with a twinge of regret. “It feels wrong, to cheer and feast when there’s so much that needs to be done still. But we must acknowledge the successes too. We did before, did we not?”

Silver’s not the blushing type, mercifully, and thus his reaction stays limited to a flustered shrug of his shoulders. “Sure did. Just like this.”

“And this is the largest victory we ever could have gained in this war. We won.”

“We won…” Silver pensively speaks, as if the words refuse to roll off his tongue with the ease he says anything and everything else. “That… is true. We won. That part is over now.”

“And let us celebrate its closure before we move on to the next.” Though, Espio knows well enough Silver is unable to let it rest for too long; but so is he himself, itching to tackle the problem of the world being in shambles and solve it as quick as he can. Anything to make their lives go back to normal. Anything to have the space and freedom to explore this something with Silver right at his side.

Speaking of…

“Silver…” Espio pipes up, though he’s not really sure if he wants to. If he does not ask he cannot know, and if he does not know he cannot be heartbroken before it happens, Silver’s return to the future. Because Silver, in his eternal selflessness, has not one but two timelines carried on his shoulders. He has always returned to the one he was born in, after every finished adventure or wrapped-up competition. Espio cannot imagine it’ll be different this time.

And it hurts. It hurts so much, being unable to know when Silver will return. If everything is okay in his era, and being unable to help if it isn’t. Silver won’t let him, in his pride.

But Espio loves him, pride and all, and he cannot in good conscience keep Silver here where he wants him when that is not what his beloved desires. “What about your home to return to?” the chameleon dances around the topic.

A heated frown is his response. “I can’t just go back to the future when the world’s like this!” Silver all but growls, a mad gesture to the rubble and geysers around them following. “If this doesn’t get cleaned up, our future won’t be either. I need to help here.”

Slowly Espio draws a breath. “Does that mean… you are staying?”

“For as long as I need to,” gets sighed back at him, Silver’s fingers tensing in Espio’s grip so tautly it hurts. “It might be a lifetime, with all the damage Eggman inflicted. But I don’t care. I need to give everything I have to the world.”

“Yet Knuckles disbanded the Resistance… though I am sure you can sleep in our hideout for a while longer, if you need somewhere to stay.” But as he says that, Espio’s face twists. That just doesn’t feel right: people will leave, everyone slowly trickling back to the places they love and rebuilding those until everything is like it was. And Silver will be left in the silence, certainly working himself to the bone for others’ happiness and refusing to accept anything in turn.

The mere thought makes Espio’s heart heavy.

He can’t place it, not exactly. But the idea Silver will be just by himself, toiling away for the good of the world, while…

While being alone, the chameleon realises. Because there are others that Espio has his duty bound to: he’d sworn his services not to Silver but the Chaotix. Charmy remains his chipper self despite the past six months, but Espio wants to be right on top of things in case there’s questions or frightened thoughts Vector won’t be able to deal with so well. And Espio himself has those thoughts as well, as does Vector, he knows… but that does mean Espio won’t be there with Silver, to help him process all that happened too and lend a hand to make their future one Silver deserves.

Unless…

“You know,” the chameleon adds, slowly, tentatively, not sure yet where the sentence will take him, “the Chaotix always… we always have space for a friend. In our Agency.”

Silver’s brow furrows. “A sleepover?”

“Of a sort,” Espio nods. He couldn’t be going behind Vector’s back more with such an inquiry, but the knowledge that the crocodile is a weak-hearted sap under his boisterous exterior is shared by all. No way he’d not let Silver stay, if Espio brings it up in the right way. Charmy will be delighted to have a friend around he can fly with, Vector will be happy with some extra help they don’t need to pay for, and Espio…

Espio needs to find a way to actually put this into words.

Which is harder than thought, with just how distracting the touch of Silver’s fur is against his body now that he’s paying attention to it.

“But after everything that happened, I…” Espio’s spiel begins ever so tentatively… before faltering. “Hm. I would, you know…”

A sparkle of mischief surfaces in golden eyes, yet another side of Silver so few people know he possesses. “You would?” the hedgehog repeats, the cheekiest of grins forming on those incorrigible lips of his.

Opening his mouth Espio draws a deep breath, thumb mindlessly running over Silver’s hand. He must be honest; he cannot let Silver slip away like that, without that something between them having been given the chance to become clearer. “I… would… like to keep you near me,” the chameleon admits, a quiet whisper amidst the watery rushes of the geysers around them. “Just for a while longer. After spending so long in your company, I’d feel… strange, if you weren’t around.”

“It is gonna be weird to be without everybody after so long, that’s true.” Slowly Silver nods, as something more pensive forms on his face. It makes the smile on there disappear…

Espio’s hand has trailed up over Silver’s back before he realises. One stroke two stroke three, thumb lovingly brushing over the quills and fingers caressing through the downy fur riddled between; no wonder the hedgehog’s promptly quite oozy in his grasp. “Do you want me to stay because it’s weird if we’re no longer together? After being around each other constantly for six months? It was quite some time,” gets murmured against Espio’s neck, the chameleon swallowing. Silver is always so forthright with his words…

And yet, it is true.

“Yes,” Espio whispers. “I’d miss you terribly. There’d always be something that is absent around me, I’m sure.” And the natural follow-up question weighs on his tongue like lead, yet he must ask… “And would you… feel the same?”

Silver stays quiet, the seconds ticking by as his face twists against Espio’s shoulder. He’s thinking, the chameleon knows, his own breath hitching in his chest and his hopes not daring to soar lest they crash…!

But a chuckle follows, and the way Silver’s head rubs against Espio’s chin makes his knees be like jelly. “I would,” follows, strong and firm with an unwavering conviction behind it. “I’ve gotten too used to you telling me to be careful. And being there for me when I’m hurt.”

“And I’ve gotten too used to being worried out of my mind for your safety. That is probably the compromising they talk about when it comes to relationships,” the chameleon dryly teases back. It elicits a full laugh, Silver’s arms wrapping around him and pulling him so close, so taut, Espio cannot do anything else than press kiss after kiss into Silver’s temple while the other purrs and nuzzles his cheek.

“Love you,” Silver whispers between it, Espio’s heart hitching. He finds it hard to say to this day, and yet…

“I love you too, tenshi. You’ll be staying with us?”

“At least until the world is fixed. And we’ll see what happens after.”

Wistfully Espio smiles. That gives him lots of time, at least; the world surely won’t just be repaired in a few days or weeks. And maybe, when they’ve finally finished that gargantuan task, he and Silver will have become so much closer still; maybe his beloved will stay forever, then. Or maybe they’ll be more okay with leaving each other for short amounts of time. But now, none of that matters: all that is important is that they did it, and that they must bask in their achievements for as long as they want. “Also, if you’re at our place, you can participate in the celebrations,” the chameleon brings up, a snort following.

“Vector’s throwing a party, I take it?”

“Certainly. There’ll be music and stuff, food if we can spare it, some games… Everyone is invited.”

“That includes us both.” With a final nuzzle Silver pulls away, Espio’s hand floating up to curl around the hedgehog’s. “Then let’s go,” the other grins; and Silver always looks so much more radiant when happy, Espio falling right in line beside him.

Towards their victory, and their future together, and the celebrations they deserve.

@espilver-week ^-^

[k0gamis]

Shinkane Week Day 5: untitled draft

@shinkaneweek

By this point in his life, Kogami was grateful for moments where he could spend his time doing what makes him happy. Perhaps that was a considerably mediocre sentiment, some trite cliche from an old man's novel, but after long years of hunting and fighting demons and monsters and everything in between, it worked for him.

His hands moved on their own as he gathered all he would need for the weekend, packing everything neatly into an overnight bag. An alert on his wrist grabbed his attention, a call from his boss – so much for his time off.

“What is it?” he asked straight away, immediately resuming his packing while he waited for the bad news.

“Don’t hate me,” came Frederica’s apologetic but firm greeting. Whatever she wanted, it seemed there was no getting out of it. Kogami groaned inwardly. It seemed he wouldn’t be making it to Tokyo in time for dinner.

***

The car ride was long, but he didn’t mind it. He liked the time alone to think, to picture the weekend ahead of him and all that would encompass it, and when nightfall had completely ettled around him with still too much time left to go before his arrival, Kogami gave her a call.

“You’re late,” she greeted, as soon as she picked up. He could tell by her tone that she wasn’t upset; these days her own work hours were long and arduous, so she was probably still working.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she said, her sweet voice as kind as ever. If he could listen to nothing else for the rest of his life, he'd die a happy man. “I had reports to catch up on, anyway.”

A mental picture came to mind then,  Akane sitting at her desk and typing away dutifully at the keys. He missed her hands. If he listened hard enough, Kogami could hear the very taps he pictured in the background. 

“Are you hungry?” Her reply came in a knowing hum, long past the point of marveling at how he always could tell when food was on her mind. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered asking anymore – especially when his tardiness all but guaranteed her answer. 

After a brisk tapping of his fingers on the GPS to add her favorite food stop in his route, Kogami asked, “Whose office are you stuck in this time?"

Akane, still clacking away at her keyboard,  was quiet for the slightest of moments, though it was so quick that he had to wonder if it was his imagination.

“Same as last,” she said.

His fingers clenched silently against the steering wheel, eyes narrowing at the skyline. 

"Aren't you too old to be getting jealous of something so trivial?”

"I'm not jealous." 

Despite her attempt to stifle it, Kogami could hear her snicker on the other end of the call.

"Right, and I'm not starving." The car was on auto-pilot, but he laid his foot on the accelerator anyway, pushing the speed up a notch. "You should be more grateful, you know. We wouldn't be able to do this at all if not for him."

He had nothing to say to that, and Akane seemed to take pity on him then as she changed the subject.

“How close are you?”

“Thirty minutes."

“Alright,” she said, and in her voice he could hear her smile. He couldn't wait to see it in person. “I’ll be finished by then.”

***

Walking in and out of the Ministry of Welfare’s building with leisure was something Kogami couldn't get used to. The memory of that privilege from his Inspector days was too long ago to resurface in any sense of familiarity, far buried beneath the cold walls of this prison and the mockery of waltzing into a locked paddy wagon in order to venture outside. Those days, too, were well behind him now, yet they hovered in looming as he stepped off the elevator, another ghost of his past that he'd likely never be rid of.

The smell of takeout dangling from his hands caught Akane’s attention before anything else, too focused on proofreading to hear the doors slide open or his heavy footsteps approaching her desk from behind. 

“Twenty-six minutes,” Akane announced, though her eyes stayed fixed on the screen. “Impressive.” Kogami smiled, then ruffled the top of her head in greeting.

While he waited for Akane to wrap up work, Kogami took his place in one of the exorbitantly upscale armchairs in the middle of the room, setting the bagged food down on a table far too luxurious for his taste. And when she was finally finished, Akane leaned back in her seat and stretched the ache from her arms, then stood to do the same with her legs. In that moment Kogami took note of the consequential upward shift of her skirt from sitting down for so long, revealing a sliver more of her thighs than usual, and he felt guilty a moment later when he realized he had been staring, as if willing the hosiery to disappear from her skin. 

But she didn't bother to fix it, either, as she strode from the chair at her desk to the armchair across from him. It humored him to think she noticed his fixed gaze and decided to let him have the little treat – but knowing her, it was more likely the painfully casual air about her within his long-awaited company that made her pay no mind to it. Still, his mind liked to consider the alternative, considering what would eventually become of their night, as it always did.

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century, poly, shifters x human romance - Chapter Seven (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Contents: some passing comments comparing two different female body types in a negative way, and some measurement taking and a dress fitting that leaves Nel a little breathless. Who knew Mr. Nancarrow had it in him to be so smooth. Mr. Darcy hand-flex fans, be warned...

Wordcount: 3931

Catch up here: Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw)

Edmund flushed at Nel’s boldly obvious compliment, but was saved any further embarrassment by Mr. Fordyce announcing that it was Nel’s turn, and that he would have to take Nel’s measurements since he didn’t have them in his records as he did Winnie’s.

This time it was Nel whose face turned hot, but she met Edmund’s gaze again as he stepped forwards, rested his cane against the nearby table gently enough not to cause the arrangement of dried flowers in the centre even to quiver, and then he carefully passed the ribbon of paper around her waist. He kept his eyes down, but his long, delicate fingers moved with nimble grace as he held the paper and snipped the tailor’s marks in it which would correspond to the various locations of the measurements.

“And now inhale,” he murmured, and she obliged, letting her ribs inflate naturally. She could feel his knuckles pressing ever so slightly against her body through the fabric of the thinner, less structured dress she’d chosen for that day, and she tried not to shiver.

They had begun at her waist, but a moment later she found herself scowling at Mr. Fordyce when he made Edmund kneel down on the hard wooden floorboards to measure the length of her leg.

Edmund got down alright, if stiffly, but he gasped and sucked in a sharp breath as he pushed himself upright with his cane, and he went rigid with another sudden inhale, eyes screwed shut and head bowed forwards as he breathed through a stab of pain. For a lurching moment when he raised his head again she thought he was going to pass out as all the colour drained from his face.

Clearly mortified, he looked like he was going to struggle through it despite the fact that he seemed to have been robbed of his faculties for a moment, but Nel abruptly turned to Mr. Fordyce and made a calculated assumption about the egotistical, self-important little man. "It must be such work for you to keep up with constantly changing fashions when you’re so far from Town here in Polgarrack," Nel said, and Mr. Fordyce immediately puffed up like a show pigeon under scrutiny, and graced her with a condescending smile.

"Oh, indeed, Miss Bywater, it is certainly not without its challenges. But!” he went on, brandishing his forefinger in the air as if lecturing a small and rather resentful child, “A successful tailor must be a true artist, and he must find something new and extraordinary at every turn for his patrons. So, I do make frequent journeys to Town to make my observations. That way, you see, the nobility situated further from Town are still provided with the very latest in taste and elegance without the inconvenience of a journey so long and arduous."

He pursed his wet lips and then went on while Edmund's face was a blank, porcelain mask of pain beside her, his shoulders turned slightly to hide his face from Mr. Fordyce who was currently standing perched on a small footstool near the window for a vantage point to ‘better view the proportions of the lady for whom he would have to work a miracle’. Or so he claimed. Nel just thought he felt short and didn't like pontificating at someone who was taller than him, even if only by an inch or two.

She tried not to let her face show her distaste at the master tailor’s outrageously overblown opinion of himself, but in this case, it was buying Edmund time to recover. “What a sacrifice you make for your art,” she said flatly, and he missed the sarcasm entirely.

"Indeed. A tailor ought to have a quick eye; to steal the very cut of a sleeve in passing at the merest of glances, Miss Bywater,” he intoned in an almost sing-song voice, conspiratorially leaning a little closer from his little footstool. She hoped he toppled off it. “Any common bungler may cut out a shape when he has the pattern on the table before him, but a good workman will take it by his eye in the merest passing of a carriage…" He flourished his hand as if he’d magicked something spectacular into existence at that very moment. All she saw was spittle and hot air.

"Extraordinary indeed," she said blandly, studiously keeping her eyes off Mr. Nancarrow while trying to gauge whether it was necessary to indulge Mr. Fordyce's nauseating pomposity any further. He still looked like he might appreciate a few minutes more, so she pulled out a rather higher card from her metaphorical hand. "You must truly be a master of your craft then, Mr. Fordyce, if the rose-petal gown you made for Lady Penrose's birthday in August is anything to judge. Truly, I had never seen its like before, not even when I attended the Russells’ Christmas Ball with Lord and Lady Mercer and their son last year in London." She wondered if she’d taken her flattery a step too far with that last, but he drank it up like sweet summer wine.

His watery eyes lit up at the mention of Lord and Lady Russell’s exclusive gathering, and, as she had suspected, Nel rose just a fraction in his estimation by mentioning such connections. Not that she gave a single one of Old Flint’s trumpeting farts what this man thought of her and her station in Society, but it was buying Edmund time, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier now.

"Oh," Fordyce said in a different voice, simpering just a little. “The… The Russells’ Christmas Ball? And… Lord and Lady Mercer you say?” His eyes practically glinted. “Their young son is a most eligible bachelor, I believe,” he said, apparently unaware of the impudence of such a comment. “And you were with them in Town?”

She nodded. “They’re close family friends.” Never mind that said eligible bachelor had spent the majority of that particular night scandalously secreted away in an upstairs bedroom with an Admiral’s nephew when he’d promised to dance with Nel instead. The cad, she thought with a fond and barely-disguised smile. She knew William would get a good laugh out of hearing all about the ridiculous Mr. Fordyce, and she made a note to herself to include an account of this exchange in the letter she’d intended to pen to him that afternoon.

"Yes, well, the gown I made for Lady Penrose’s birthday is one of my finer pieces, I’ll admit,” Mr. Fordyce blustered, returning to her original compliment. “Perhaps a little too fine for someone of your particular… stature," he added with a vague gesture at her figure, and she bit back a sudden, wild urge to laugh indecorously. "The young Lady Penrose does have such exceptionally delicate wrists, after all," he said, and consulted his notes rather ostentatiously and unnecessarily in order to add, "And such a minuscule waist. Still, a tailor such as I must be able to cut out not only for the handsome and well shaped, but to bestow a good shape where nature has not designed it quite so to suit the fashions of the day."

If Nel hadn't been keeping half an eye on Edmund, who now looked far more horrified by his master's words than by his own physical discomfort, she might have taken offence, but what a conceited little man like Fordyce thought of the proportions of her waist was of relatively little importance to her in the grander scheme of things. If Will had been in the room, she’d have met his eye and the two would have dissolved into uncontrollable hysterics.

All that mattered now though was that her plan to distract the master tailor for a time had worked. Stoking the already puffed-up man’s ego had kept him occupied long enough that whatever pain had been exacerbated by being forced to bend Edmund’s bad knee to the hard floorboards had dissipated back to something more manageable, and a minute later, he very lightly touched Nel at her elbow as he moved around her on the pretence of taking another measurement.

‘Thank you’, he mouthed, blinking rapidly and barely meeting her gaze. He was still the colour of fresh parchment, but he was no longer clenching his teeth like he thought he might be sick. She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him by acting so presumptuously.

“Forgive me, Mr. Fordyce,” she smiled sweetly to the older man. “I do believe I interrupted the proceedings with my questions.”

“Oh, yes,” the man chirped, blinking like an owl surprised by the arrival of daylight. He’d clearly not noticed at all. “Yes. Well, if you could hold out your arms while Mr. Nancarrow passes the tape around your chest.”

Her heart skipped a beat at that, and while Edmund was methodical and nothing but proper, he did let his dark eyes flick briefly to her face as he closed the tape snugly around her breasts. Her breath caught. Beneath the fabric of her dress, she felt her nipples tighten and she licked her lower lip just a little, sinking her teeth in before resuming a perfectly blank expression. Never in her life had she been touched like that by a man. Her previous mantua maker in Sussex had been a woman after all, as would have been the case here, had Winnie’s not recently relocated.

If Edmund’s gaze had dropped to her mouth for the briefest of moments, she pretended not to have noticed, nor to wonder what it might mean, if anything.

“Inhale again,” Edmund said in a low, sweet voice, his eyes flicking fleetingly back up to her eyes.

Slowly, she obliged and felt the paper tape stretch taut against her bodice as her breasts lifted with her breath. She felt the tension go out of the line as he let the paper slide between his fingertips to measure the slack. All the while, his hands remained steady as a surgeon’s, and she tried not to stare at the elegance of his long fingers where they held the paper securely against her chest in order to snip more little cuts in the paper to mark the dimensions.

“Exhale,” he whispered, and she did, shakily. “Thank you, Miss Bywater.”

“Nel,” she whispered back, but he only inclined his head in a way that said he could, regrettably, never call her something so familiar in such a charged setting. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or frustrated, and found herself oscillating between the two.

Then the moment ended and she almost swayed.

Edmund stepped back, dropped his eyes, and crossed the room to hand Mr. Fordyce the tape. Its coded marks at various lengths indicated that the full set of measurements had been taken, and that the appointment was drawing to a close.

Mr. Fordyce let his eyes flick along the length of it — no doubt noting all the places where her circumference was less elegant than Winnie’s — and folded it carefully up into an envelope. “My thanks, Miss Bywater. I think we can make something with that. Come, Mr. Nancarrow. We must leave these elegant ladies in peace to begin our work.”

Winnie, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room the whole time and pretending to work on her embroidery, rose gracefully and thanked Mr. Fordyce with just a little hint of frost in her usually sweet tone, and said that she looked forward to seeing their creations soon.

“I shall work on your dress personally,” Mr. Fordyce said as he bowed over Winnie’s hand. Nel thought that, given half the chance, he might just slobber all over it for the honour of sampling her ‘delicate wrists’ again, and shuddered. Winnie withdrew her hand almost immediately.

The way he had worded his comment though made Nel wonder if that meant that Edmund was going to make her dress, and her eyes darted questioningly to him.

He was watching her, and one corner of his lips lifted.

That was all, but in that moment, she knew it would be the case. His hands would have touched every inch of the dress she would wear to the ball in Plymouth, and her heart skipped and soared as if she would feel the ghost of his touch when she wore the dress itself. In a way, he would be closer to her that night than any man would even if she danced with them, because the fabric would rest against her very skin. Well, against her chemise and stays, but still, it was closer than any other man would get. Her core heated at the thought and she hoped her face didn’t betray her as the gentlemen bowed and left.

In the silence of their departure, Winnie arched an eyebrow at Nel. “Well, that was an interesting morning,” she said.

“Indeed,” Nel replied carefully.

“Since the ball is only a couple of months away, you must learn to dance properly,” Winnie added as she crossed to the window and watched their small carriage draw away from the front of the house. The shapes were made a dark blur by the rain. “I’ll teach you myself.”

“And what if I have no intention of dancing?”

Her chest still felt tight and her lungs seemed full of sea foam after Edmund had touched her, and imagined she could feel the warmth of his hands lingering through the fabric of her dress. It was most distracting.

“And I do know how to dance,” she added petulantly as she flopped into the other chair by the fire and picked up her own embroidery hoop, scowling at the wonky patterns on it. Had that been a strawberry or a carrot she’d been working on? “It was the local dances at the harvest celebrations that left me stumped. I can dance a passable minuet or quadrille as well as the next country gentleman’s daughter. I just choose not to.”

“You cannot sit the whole ball out and refuse to dance,” Winnie groaned, turning back to face her. “You’ll draw attention to yourself.” And, by extension, she might embarrass the Lady Winnifred Penrose.

“I’ll draw more attention to myself by dancing,” Nel said with a sullen expression as she began to pick rather savagely at her lumpy embroidery with a tiny pair of scissors. Lord, what if Edmund had happened to see it? He’d have thought it was the work of a small child with a knitting needle and ball of garden twine. “It’ll be like watching a bear in a skirt,” she muttered glumly.

Winnie snorted an extremely undignified laugh into her hand, and the two women promptly dissolved into giggles. “I’ll remind you of that when we’re at the ball,” Winnie snickered.

“Oh you’d better not,” Nel groaned. “If I get the giggles in public, it’s uncontrollable, and it’s even worse when it’s a formal setting.”

“You managed fairly well at the Lammas Dance when Old Flint did his best to reduce everyone to hysterics.”

That just brought back memories of meeting Edmund’s dark eyes again, and the feel of Locryn’s huge, rough palms against hers, and clamping around her waist, lifting her high and laughing in his rich, gruff bass as he turned her, and then of her crushing idiocy in almost letting herself kiss the man in public and in front of his lover. No matter that Edmund had said all was forgiven and forgotten; she would never erase that night from her mind.

When the gowns had been made, Mr. Fordyce returned with Edmund for a final fitting in late November, and Nel tried to ignore the odd fluttering in her stomach at the thought of Mr. Nancarrow seeing her in something that was not only a lot finer than her usual redingote dresses, but in something which he himself had made to fit her body.

As Winnie’s maid helped her into it upstairs, while Winnie was downstairs having any final alterations noted, Nel silently scolded herself. ‘Edmund Nancarrow is not going to look at you with even the faintest whiff of interest beyond that of a professional tailor doing his job. Mr. Nancarrow, like Will, is only interested in men’. The memory of the heat in his eyes made her assertions fracture and crumble like fragile cliffs into the insistent sea below. Mr. Nancarrow was probably not only interested in men, but she could tell herself that for the time being all the same.

With her expression set in a rather sour grimace, she thanked Liddy and walked towards the staircase which would lead her down to the drawing room.

The dress was really lovely, and although it wasn’t nearly as complicated and showy as Winnifred's, it had its own elegance and richness that Nel loved more than Winnie’s. The fabric was a warm, green silk damask that shone in the light like a cut and polished emerald, with peonies and curled leaves and fruits shimmering subtly like frost on a windowpane. The sleeves ended just below her elbow in a soft spray of intricate white lace, and there was a small trim of lace around the low, square neckline that was so delicate and fine, it reminded her of the patterns of sparkling sea foam on the sand. The bodice snugged in around the waist, and fastened almost invisibly up the front in a series of minuscule, gold hooks and eyes, while the skirts fell away in a fountain of heavy, forest green fabric to the floor. It would be finished with a delicate, muslin scarf around her shoulders, secured with a silk peony. There were even matching shoes, which were surprisingly easy on the feet, even if the heel was a little higher than those she was used to.

Nel actually felt comfortable in herself as she moved about in it, which she rarely did when dressing up for dances, and she tried to draw on that confidence as she descended the stairs carefully, one hand on the bannister in case she stumbled.

She met Winnie just coming out from her fitting, wearing her own, cream and peach confection which she somehow managed to make look spectacular. Nel was sure that she would have looked like an upturned peach cobbler if she’d put that on.  

Her friend paused in the doorway when she saw her and gasped. “Nel!” she cried out. “Oh you look beautiful. The fit is perfect! And that colour! Why, I declare that the all gentry of Wessex will be prostrating themselves at your feet!”

Nel shook her head with a little blush, a dark curl escaping from the tight arrangement pinned at the back of her head above the collar and out of the way of the tailors’ fingers, and she continued down the stairs.

“Lady Winnifred,” came Mr. Nancarrow’s warm tenor from the other side of the doorway into the drawing room. “Forgive me, but you dropped —”

He stepped across the threshold and into sight, holding a muslin kerchief between the slender fingers of his right hand, but he looked over to his left and caught sight of Nel on the staircase.

The kerchief fluttered forgotten to the floorboards.

His lips parted and she watched him inhale slowly.

No, Mr. Nancarrow was most definitely not only interested in men.

There was no way Nel could still try to believe it after seeing that expression on his face, and she tried to hide a smile.

Winnie turned to glance at him and artfully hid her own little smile before dropping easily to retrieve the abandoned kerchief. She rose and leaned fleetingly in to whisper something in Mr. Nancarrow’s ear before flitting back towards the foot of the stairs just as Nel reached the last step.

Edmund immediately turned red from his collar to his ears, and swallowed visibly. He shot Nel one last glance and ducked back into the drawing room without a word.

Nel raised an eyebrow. “What did you say to him?”

Winnie just squeezed her shoulder. “Prostrating,” she whispered with feeling, and flitted away upstairs like one of the Fair Folk.

When Nel entered the drawing room, Edmund was standing beside Mr. Fordyce with his eyes on the floor and a lingering warmth to his face, but as she crossed to them and Mr. Fordyce declared that the creation was truly a triumph, Mr. Nancarrow raised his dark eyes at last and offered her a very small smile and a single, slow nod.

That one, gentle expression from him was more affirmation than any amount of twittering drivel from Mr. Fordyce as he paced around her and appraised her like an expensive piece of Wedgewood pottery on a plinth.

She watched Edmund take a step away from Mr. Fordyce as the man trotted around behind her and then went back towards the window to leave Edmund to make any adjustments, since he had been the one to make the dress and not Fordyce himself.

Edmund’s dark cane made a now-familiar clunk on the floorboards, and it sounded unusually loud to her while all the other sounds in the room seemed to fade.

“If I may?” he said to her in a soft undertone while the master tailor paced about near the window, utterly absorbed in the sound of his own voice. Nel had no idea what he was saying or if it was even addressed to her.

Edmund’s dark gaze had snagged momentarily at a piece of lace trim around the neck of her gown and he gestured towards it.

She glanced down and saw the problem, and then nodded.

“Of course,” she whispered, tilting her head a little in the opposite direction. It exposed her throat and collarbones, and gave him all the access he would need to free the lace from where it was folded over on itself. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird in her throat and she was sure that Edmund would see it thudding frantically against her skin.

And while Fordyce blathered on to his own reflection in the window about the fact that the cut of the dress and the padding were more important than the underlying body, and how his assistant had clearly understood this when making the patterns for the dress from Nel’s measurements, Edmund slid his fingertips carefully against the exposed skin of her chest.

Goosebumps prickled to life in their trailing wake.

Her breath hitched and she tried not to gasp.

Gently, he withdrew the tiny fold of lace that had been tucked under between the neckline of her bodice and her skin, and smoothed it flat again with his fingertips.

Nel exhaled shakily, angled a little away from him. If she’d had to look at him in that moment, she wasn’t sure she could have weathered the heat in his dark brown eyes. Her whole body thrummed like the rigging of a ship in a gale, and if he kept it up much longer, she would founder on the shore.

Wearing the dress he had made — had touched in every stitch and hem and seam — Nel did feel as though his hands were on her already, around her waist, on her hips, her shoulders, the small of her spine. There wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t prickling.

His knuckles brushed her collarbones as he withdrew his touch. Nel ached all over for him to linger, but he didn’t, and when he was done, he took half a step back and smiled.

“Perfect,” he breathed, meeting her gaze directly.

___

Nel's dress, for those interested. It's a little early for the period, but shhh. It's gorgeous.

:3

I hope you’re still enjoying it, and I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[hyper-fixates]

The Death of Peace of Mind

Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish.

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 1.9k

Tags/warnings: masturbation/use of sex toys, explicit language, sexting…?, objectification, possessive/obsessive simon, depictions of sex work, simon’s head is empty yet he has so many thoughts (let me know if anything was missed!)

Summary: Camboy!Soap AU - Simon is Soap’s most dedicated and loyal subscriber.

Notes: i never thought i’d write soapghost tbh. however, do not take this as factual or use it as educational! this world is different for everyone in many ways :) enjoy!

Simon Riley is a calm and collected man until he opens his laptop on Sunday nights.

The days on base are starting to blend together as he quickly approaches his requested leave, desperate for some prolonged peace and quiet to soothe and recharge after months on end of constant impassioned interactions with no time to decompress.

He is drained.

Simon quickly opens a new private tab, typing the desired website into the search bar and pressing the return button a little harder than necessary.

He navigates the explicit site with embarrassing ease, immediately clicking out of the onslaught of clickbait pop-ups he’s started to memorize by now. Various thumbnails of pleasure-filled faces consume his probably too-bright screen until he finds his subscriptions tab to the left under his profile.

A single rational thought isn’t able to find a way to his brain as he lands upon what he’s been waiting for all day. All week.

Too many arduous days on base have made him unsettled and irritable. This is his cure...at least for the next seven days until the cycle inevitably repeats itself.

Subscriptions: Soap_Strokes [live show happening now!]

Simon clicks the username and is redirected to the livestream before he can even think to get his dick out.

He should feel...dirty? Remorseful? Maybe sympathetic for himself, for how much he enjoys something he knows he probably shouldn’t. He hasn’t quite made time yet to think through his ethics regarding this hobby.

He knows he needs to unwind. He knows he needs a good wank. He knows who can give him that.

GhostWithTheMost has joined.

Simon’s alert eyes skitter across the screen as he assesses the violently colourful, and clearly custom, page layout Soap has set-up for his weekly shows. Indistinct music is playing in the background of Soap’s room, but it’s nothing that will be able to hide or cover the erotic sounds of self-pleasure.

Simon finds the small live chat at the bottom of the screen already running rampant with poor excuses for compliments and sexual declarations that hold no real value anywhere besides here.

Then his eyes find Soap—the man who has made his weekends slightly more bearable and his cock painfully hard on too many occasions, now included.

Soap’s pretty. A real, true “pretty boy” if Simon ever saw one. A perfect specimen in his (correct) opinion. Toned muscles, well-groomed body, soft yet defined features with the light shadow of stubble, a wavy and very overgrown mohawk that’s still kept short on the sides, a small septum ring, and barbells through each nipple that glint with every breath he takes.

Simon felt like he had found God when he accidentally browsed his way into one of Soap’s shows. When he joined, Soap was busy sliding a small black prostate massager in and out of his hole at a desperate pace, his other hand firmly squeezing the base of his twitching cock to torture himself. His cheeks and neck had fallen victim to a deep pink blush, either from arousal or effort, but it was the intensity of the scene that caught Simon.

This didn’t look like a man simply performing for others and their money, it looked genuine and passionate. Maybe that was the goal. A professional at the job, then. He had Simon fooled, if so.

Simon was instantly enthralled with his seemingly effortless beauty and physique. So much so, that he forgot to do what he was there to do: get off.

Soap’s own abrupt, and loud, orgasm was the thing that brought Simon back to reality that night, and he didn’t realize what he had just experienced until Soap ended the stream breathless and with a stomach covered in cum.

Soap left Simon in the darkness of his room, staring dumbfounded at the now empty screen of his laptop, blue-balled by no fault but his own, and with immensely scattered thoughts that couldn’t form into something coherent.

He was completely under the spell of whoever this man was when he’s in front of a camera. Soap. Simon later made himself cum to the sounds of whimpers that already housed themselves deep within his memory.

Now, Soap takes up the majority of Simon’s screen, already naked and partially spread with a cheeky smile on his lips, like usual, as he silently pretends to read through some of the “flattering” comments.

thekingcock commented: I’d fuck you so good baby !!!

Gazzy_xo commented: sexy sexy sexyy. I really need a taste of you

MrPriceAlmighty commented: im so hard already. Can’t wait another second

Soap is situated comfortably on his bed with his camera angled straight on, shooting between his parted legs and obnoxiously highlighting the huge Scottish flag pinned above his bed, yet everything is still framed perfectly. His cock rests semi-hard against his defined stomach while he teasingly runs his fingertips along the insides of his thighs to maintain viewership.

Simon takes this “opening lull” as a chance to organize himself. He manages to pull himself out of his trance of devouring Soap with his thoughtless gaze.

Laptop: placed on the small table in front of him.

Pants: off.

Briefs: also off.

Cock: out (and hard).

He sits back on his couch, laptop mere inches away and potentially damaging his retinas if they haven’t been already from times previous, and he confidently clicks the DONATE button flashing in the top left of Soap’s page.

The default amount he set goes through in seconds.

GhostWithTheMost donated £5!

A small ping echoes throughout Simon’s dark room as it goes through to Soap’s side of the screen, the donation popping up in the corner for everyone else watching to see.

He sees Soap’s attention move from the comments to the sound. “Ah, the ghost wants to get started, aye? Alright, let’s fucking go.” Another smile blooms across Soap’s face.

Simon reaches for his cock at the same time Soap reaches for his. But for Soap it was a mindless gesture—maybe instinct—just to keep it in place as he leans closer to the camera to press some buttons on his keyboard.

Simon notes how biteable and lickable his shoulders and neck look from this perspective.

“Prices are going up now. You control me and what you want to see.” Soap flashes a quick wink as four bold lines appear at the top right of the page:

15 SECONDS - £30

45 SECONDS - £80

2 MINUTES - £250

10 MINUTES - £500

“The show ends when I cum, so...don’t make it too quick.” He teasingly glares at the camera with a light chuckle that makes Simon turn his volume up a few notches.

He wonders how fast he could make Soap cum. A shiver crawls up his spine and his cock throbs at the thought.

Simon is willing to lose (and has lost) as much as it takes to see Soap cum, but he squints at the list, noticing that the prices aren’t what they usually average out to.

Has Soap just become that popular? Simon frowns at the idea. It feels like Soap is a secret between him and a handful of people, and he wants it to stay that way. It makes it feel more special, even if it isn’t. He likes the delusion.

Soap repositions his camera, angling it higher and tilting slightly downward so watchers will have a better view of the entirety of him, not just his cock and hole. He ducks to shift something into frame, and Simon very quickly realizes this isn’t going to be like Soap’s other shows.

Simon fixates his glare on the sizeable dildo that has been brought centre-frame in front of Soap’s bed. It’s very pink and very big, probably bigger than him, ribbed with prominent veins near the head. He follows the thin silver rod it’s attached to until it disappears out of frame.

It’s a goddamn fuck machine. A fucking machine. A machine that fucks you.

An excited-anxious feeling fills Simon’s gut, and a light sweat breaks out over his neck at the knowledge of Soap being in possession of one of these realistic and elaborate toys.

This is not how this is supposed to go, Simon thinks.

Well, technically yes, it is.

But to this extent? Technically, also yes. It’s Soap’s job. Two weeks ago, it was a translucent jelly stroker that Simon wished was his hand. Last week, anal beads and a body-wand that Simon wished was his cock and tongue instead.

And now this.

Soap slides back onto his bed with a bottle of lube in hand with that shameless smile on his face again. He sets himself back into the position he took before—leaning back on his elbows with his legs spread for everyone, and even the Holy Spirit, to see.

“In case you all haven’t put it together yet, donations control the amount of time the machine will fuck me for. You donate thirty, it’ll automatically fuck me for fifteen seconds, and so on,” he trails off, popping open the cap of the lube and squeezing a generous amount onto his cock and stomach.

Simon’s mouth has fallen open and gone dry. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he whispers into the darkness like a prayer that will save him from whatever he is about to experience.

His fist starts slow movements over his cock. Not even some spit needed to aid him; the amount of pre-cum leaking from him already should be embarrassing.

Soap tosses the bottle aside, takes that same hand, and rubs it over his now hard cock to spread the lube around and down to his hole. A heavy sigh releases itself from his throat as he presses two fingers in himself immediately, pumping them a few times before going back to carefully stroking his length. The slick sounds of his hand tugging on his cock has Simon adjusting his volume higher again.

Is it bad that Simon can tell he had a plug in before the show to better prepare for the dildo? Definitely bad.

Soap indulges the audience with this light foreplay until more donations begin to roll in. “A-ah, as soon as donations hit one-hundred, it’ll be the machines turn.” A breathy laugh is pulled from him on a particularly good downstroke of his fist, eyes fluttering for a moment as he shudders.

Simon is about to risk it all. He looks at the donation meter total: £75.

With his left hand, he clicks the DONATE button again, this time changing the amount before sending.

GhostWithTheMost donated £25!

The meter flashes as it hits its first milestone. £100!

Soap glances over to his monitor, hand never slowing or leaving his wet cock, and his lips turn up into another mischievous smile. “The ghost saving you all once again, huh?” His accent almost slurs the sentence to something unintelligible.

Soap lets out a soft moan as he pulls his hand away, gathering the excess lube on it and leaning forward to stroke the dildo waiting for him. “Thanks, ghosty. Dinnae know how much longer I could wait.” Another smile for the camera.

No. A smile for Simon.

It’s easy for Simon to forget that he’s not the only one watching this right now, but he forgot that fact as soon as Soap acknowledged his presence earlier.

Simon watches how Soap’s hand works the silicone, making sure to cover its entirety with the leftover lube. “Bastard,” Simon growls, still pumping himself with a lose fist just to ease some of the ache that’s settled deep in his cock.

Simon notices a light pink has already begun to paint Soap’s cheeks as he falls back onto the bed with wild eyes, some of his unruly mohawk flopping onto his forehead in divine strands.

Simon knows better than to screenshot something of this nature, but fuck, if his self-restraint is ever being tested right now.

[wildbluesorbit]

London: Holiday Prelude || JTK

18+MDNI

Paring: Jakexreader(f)

LONDON SERIES MASTERPOST

A/N: Howdy! Here to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with twist on the London menu: A TIME JUMP! This is how I envision the first meeting between Jake and the reader unraveled. This one is very fluff (which is a bit off brand for this series) and is my gift to all readers who have remained loyal amongst the endless angst. I'm aware, holiday editions are normally posted before the holidays, but I have chronically delayed holiday spirit that doesn’t spark until about a week before Christmas which is when I started this. My holidays got a bit more hectic than I expected so I didn’t finish till just now, but I figured I’d pos. Also, know that my particular style of writing is shaped by an editing process of which requires time I did not have, so baby this is ROUGH. Anyways, I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think.

Summary || Before the storm, there was a calm. Your first interaction with Jake is less than ideal, but you give him a redeeming chance only to spark something more.

Content Warnings || holiday [stress], workload stress, slight verbal aggression, holiday party setting, depictions of affectionate displays

Word Count || 6.6k

– December 24th, London, UK –

Your arduous typing is disrupted by the groan of your office door as it’s hesitantly eased open. You rigorously resume your work, not even averting your eyes to make note of who has disturbed you. You already know it's your colleague. You know they have trouble for you. And you know it's a problem you don’t currently have the attention span nor time for. 

Eyes still pinned to the numbers on your computer screen, you address the damsel in distress dawdling in the doorway behind you, “Is it urgent? I’m on a deadline.”

“Um- There’s a customer out here who I have tried my best to help with the knowledge I have,” she remorsefully squeaks.

You mellow your tone as you can hear desperation shrouding her every word, “Tell them I’m unavailable.” 

“I did- He insisted he speak to some form of management,” she huffs exasperatedly.

You come to a stopping point in your numbers game and begrudgingly pry your hands from your keyboard. You spring from your chair and propel yourself through the doorway, already eager to crawl back to the stillness of your office. Your footsteps echo against the hallway of dark offices and storage rooms in a unison stride to your coworker a pace behind you; two valiant knights on their quest to the front of the store. 

Preparing yourself for battle, you dig for your finest customer service armor as it's buried beneath all the enervating adversities and blows of running the shop; a duty you normally carry so effortlessly and gracefully, but this year you had been the only manager who volunteered to work the holiday week. Your workload alone is enough to spook the average person, but the extra weight you foolishly decided to take on this year is a different beast. You have half a heart to gift yourself hair dye this Christmas as you’re already convinced the New Year would find you prematurely gray. 

“Alright, let’s see the prick who is harassing my-,” your finishing thought never arrives as you swing the door open to reveal the store.

Any and all resentment is momentarily tamed by the endless sight of musical paraphernalia. Every last inch of the walls are shrine to the greats; posters, pins, buttons, stickers, clothing, books, CDs, tapes, cassettes, and of course aisles and aisles of record vinyl LPs; all seem to celebrate your great escape from the confinement of your office. 

Your eyes adjust to the warm lighting that coats everything and everyone bustling about isles, faces beaming with joy as they discover new treasures to call their own; treasures you ordered and stocked the shelves with yourself. 

You take a deep inhale of the healing sight in front of you. You never tire of walking through this door after a long day; a portal to your favorite realm. Your spirit beams as you recognize the classic rock sonic of The Dire Straits pouring through the speakers at way too loud a volume. You find it almost impossible to be upset within these walls. Almost.

Though you want nothing more than to idly wander around the store, you redirect your focus to the task at hand; eyes scouring the floor for the customer that so desperately needs your attention. Within an instant, you undoubtedly deem a man within your gaze responsible for your unnecessary ordeals; no guidance from your coworker is required to know exactly who summoned you from your hideaway. 

He is an ornate scene; one that confiscates and pleases your attention all at once. He stands, bare chest proud and puffed, fingers fidgeting with the facial hair that roofs his protruding pout as he devoutly scans through titles of the nearby books. His narrow shoulders are cloaked by long chestnut waves that frame delicate facial features and a prominent nose. He’s rather small in stature, yet strong in physique. 

The pretty man is bewitching in the way he seems to have just hopped out of some antecedent reality; a walking, talking antique. Doused in all black, he wears a blazer and waistcoat with nothing underneath to properly clothe his tan skin except chunky chains weighed down by a ridiculous amount of pendants; all silver to match his oversized hoop earrings, reflectively gleaming as he saunters through trespassing sunlight. His torso is paired with black pleated trousers and seasoned black boots. This man looks as if he woke up and couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a pirate or a rockstar. 

“You know, Halloween was almost two months ago,” you heedlessly blurt as soon as his golden brown eyes collect yours.

“Real original,” the customer retorts with a smirk and a slight shake of his head, “definitely never heard that one before.”  

His American accent nearly startles you; his features certainly tell an origin story of Central Europe, yet his phrasing is not harsh enough to miss the hint of something not quite American in his raspy tone.

You quickly steer away from your cheeky dig and towards a more professional rapport.

“What can I help you with today Mr.?”

“Jacob Kiszka,” he extends his hand to shake yours, “but you can call me Jake.”

The Jake Kiszka. You have definitely heard his name before. A guitarist whose discography is infamously compared to and even deemed gross appropriation of classic rock legends; and whose romantic track record has an even worse stench. 

You prematurely take the sincere offer of his hand before weakly falling back to your satirical ways, “Wow, lucky me- I’ve only heard stories of The Illustrious Jake Kiszka.”

He is not oblivious to your sarcasm but decides to take the cocky route anyway, “Oh- A fan, huh? Glad to know my reputation precedes me.”

“I never said they were good stories,” your hand repels from the guitarist’s calloused grasp and attaches to your hip, “but what brings you to my store?”

“This is the only place in town not playing Christmas music,” his eyes flit around the store trying to commit every last detail to memory as if his knowledge might be tested later and questions you with an intimacy he hasn’t yet earned, “So this is your kingdom, huh?”

“I don’t own it, just run it, but yes- this place is my baby and I’m its sales manager,” you briefly answer out of the scarce supply of decorum you currently possess and efficiently reroute to the reason for his visit, “but I doubt you came all this way just to escape the holiday spirit.” 

“Well, I am currently in town and in dire need of a last-minute Christmas gift, and you came highly recommended as far as rare LP sets go,” his features stretch into a ponderous tightlipped smile. 

The musician either isn’t receiving your assertion of pace or blatantly holds no regard for it as he digresses once again.

You aren’t certain whether his narrative is spoken to you, himself, or some unseen force, “But this really is some marvelous little store you run here. I have to admit I'm a bit envious. Somedays, I swear I would trade it all in for a simple quiet life like this.”

Simple? Quiet? Who the hell does this man think he is to come in the day before Christmas and casually spend your time and patience, only to then reduce your entire world to simple and quiet?!

Your fists discreetly curl behind the secrecy of your back as you scrupulously monitor your highly explosive tone, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Kiszka, but maybe we can hurry this along. I have lots of work in my simple quiet life to return to.”

Instantly, his entire physique cowers to a posture of mortification and regret. If your composure hadn’t already been so far spent, you might have even felt a strand of empathy or reprieve for him.

His face takes on a shameful shade of pink as fragments of an apology trip over one another, “No- No- That’s definitely not what I meant- Of course, the work you do here is very important. The responsibility of granting access-”

You wave him off, bestowing him clemency in hopes of ending this interaction as fast as possible, “It’s fine, but I really do have lots of work to return to, so just follow me.”

You hastily string him to the glass cases in the back of the store, a stream of clicking and clacking trails behind you with every heavy-footed step of his boots. His footsteps gradually sound less and less, his pace a relaxed rhythm compared to yours. You impatiently arrive at your destination of high-valued items and turn to see he is only leisurely tracing your path, still gazing about the store as if he is in an art gallery.  

You inhale. You’ve dealt with worse. Today would not be the day you lose your patience with a customer. 

Once he finally rejoins you at the display case, you begin the tour of each LP, explaining its contents, history, value, rarity, and your favorite details about it. Showmanly, you set a scene of necessity for each set as to speed his decision process along by targeting his obvious lack of impulse control. 

You’re about done appraising almost five sets when a lack of opinions, theories, and questions registers from his silence. You transfer your vision to learn your audience had not at all been concentrating on your dissertation, those amber eyes studying you right back; eyes reflecting not a strand of cognizance for your vain words, pronouncing your breath wasted.

Your abrupt eye contact seems to burst his trance, clearly not expecting you to break from your sale. 

“Are you hearing a word I’m saying or-,” you fuss, condemning any remaining attempts at professionalism. 

His features reveal comprehension, your confrontation certainly registers but his ample lips only vacillate in a dumbfounded silence.

You flatly attempt to jumpstart his verbal reflexes, “Mr. Kiszka?”

Pressure-buildup from every imprisoned word rattling around his head with no escape, erupts all at once, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I heard you- It's just- When I asked for help today- I didn’t expect someone so-”

A brittle tone emerges before you can even take the time to contemplate what he is trying to articulate, “Young? A woman? A different stigma that probably has nothing to do with my knowledge of music or ability to manage a business?”

“No it's not that- It's just- you-,” he hesitates to catch the breath he forgot to take and decidedly abandons his current thought to expedite his next, as if they might trample over each other if he doesn’t, “This is very inappropriate but I seem to keep putting my foot in my mouth and I would appreciate it if you let me make it up to you over drinks tonight. Also, please call me Jake.”

His unanticipated proposition hitches your breath and widens your eyes, “You’re right, that is very inappropriate.”    

He quickly shrinks yet doesn’t withdraw his offer, “My brothers will be there too if that makes you feel a bit better, but your expertise so far fascinates me, and I would love to discuss more with you.”

Asking you out. After insults. After disrespect. After no regard for your time-poor schedule. He is asking you out.

You take it back. You have not dealt with worse. This is definitely the worst. 

Panic and indignation concoct a bitter climb in pitch, “Unfortunately, Mr. Kiszka, there’s still so much that requires my attention before the year’s end. I’m as busy as someone with a simple and quiet life can possibly be. That leaves no time for idle pints with random guys in pubs. So will you be purchasing anything today?”

“No- of course- you’re right- I’m terribly sorry- I do need to get something,” his attention finally converts to the vinyl with an oncoming frown, “but nothing here stands out to me. I know you certainly don’t owe me any favors but is there any way you can show me anything else? You know- the good stuff?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you blatantly feed him a white lie, “Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

You know exactly what he’s referring to. However, the thought of sharing another second with this infuriating stranger threatens to ignite fire to your dwindling composure. So, you tuck away all opportunities that would admit him to take any step that isn’t towards the door. 

He drives his agenda one last time, “You know? The treasures that never see the shelf? Surely, you have a secret stash. Every great store has one.”

“I guess we’re just not that great of a store then,” the shit-eating grin that smears across your face wards off any other inquiries he might probe for, “I can assure you this is the best we have. Maybe next time, do all your Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve.”

You are immediately pricked by a pang of guilt. Even you can admit you are being impudently cruel; for which you expect at least a return of assailment. Yet it never arrives. 

Instead, his eyebrows turned upwards just above a sheepish smirk and a diffident man takes the place of the obnoxiously charismatic rockstar once before you. He just might genuinely grieve the score of your transaction. As if he knows something you don’t. As if he knows in some other time or place this narrative was supposed to take a different course and he is now mourning a great failure.

“Okay- well, I can take a hint,” he meekly forfeits, “I apologize for wasting your time. Thank you so much for your help.”

You can’t seem to wrap your fingers around any response, lost somewhere amongst the spate of regret that you might have misjudged him based on presumptions. Your mouth runs dry and you’re only able to blankly stare back at him.

In your silence, he impulsively shoves his hand into his coat pocket and shimmies out some small notebook. He flips through pages and pages of scattered notes and highlights and even some light sketches before he finds the first blank sheet. He materializes a pen from the same pocket that had been sheltering the notebook and quickly scribbles before tearing out the page, folding it in quarters, and gifting it to you. 

You’re not sure why, but you find your hand an open landing for the paper. Unconvincingly, you reassure yourself it's because you know little resistance will only usher him out of your store sooner. 

As soon as he successfully rids himself of the note, you witness a bashful movement emerge upon his face in what you swear is the biggest and prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. You aren’t allotted time to admire or commit it to memory as its life spans less than a second, quickly shrinking till it's gone.

He bids you a rushed, “Take care, Merry Christmas,” before he turns on his heels and rapidly weaves his way through the isles till he disappears past the glass doors without so much as another word or last glance. 

Your eyes gravitate back towards the paper in your hand. You inspect the folded thing before you decide reading its contents would hold no worthwhile benefit and absentmindedly place it in your own pocket. 

— December 26th —

You mentally file through your checklist: The doors are locked, the drawer counted, and the lights turned off. Your colleague took care of the floor prep portion of closing duties before she left; you stayed way too late to finish your end-of-year reports. But you can’t seem to shake the feeling that you are forgetting something.

Your phone! You realize as you pat down your pockets you don’t have your phone. 

You race to your office through the dark void store to see your abandoned device sitting on top of your desk. As you grab your phone, the little forsaken folded paper you forgot you had placed on the work area earns your attention. Whether you set it aside for two days in a veto or for safekeeping is beyond you.

Now having endured your irrationally aggravated haze that always shrouds end-of-year stress, the only thing that remains is a flare of burning curiosity. 

You resist your own inquisitive demands and desert the mysterious note once more to hesitate towards the door, each step becoming more burdensome the further you trudge from your office.

Did you misconstrue him, seduced by mere whispers floating in the wind? Did you indignantly vilify him deceived by your own occupational duress? Despite being verbally clumsy, he was endearingly unconventional, and he clearly carried some remorse for your interaction.

You’re even baffled by the rumination this small piece of paper has conjured. Customers come and go, but you can’t seem to justify why he has become an unwelcome stowaway in your mind.

For the past two days, you’ve been choking on the bitter taste of rueful pining that you can’t seem to wash down. Suffocating under abrasive waves of what might have been if you’d only had patience to spare, till you can no longer deny your craving. 

You find your limbs and retrace the progress you’ve just made. You restively unfold the note to read confirmation of the exact information you imagined was inked into the little white sheet.  

Please, please, call me Jake.  And pretty please reconsider those drinks. (248)434.5508

You are alarmed by the giggle that sounds past your giddy smile, penetrating the silence of an otherwise lifeless building. Your chest is ambushed by an aching weight as your sight darts across the hall to the storage housing the “secret stash” as he put it.

You suddenly have no idea why you’d been so hard on him; just that you’re now certain of your looming resentment. You’re not sure if it’s this reasoning, or the way he looked stunned by you, or even the shape of his giant childish smile you can’t seem to recall, that drives your thumb as you dubiously dial the phone number on the paper. 

Each ring of another number entered descends you further on your fall from professionalism and floods your head with panic. As soon as the dial tone begins to ring against your ear you’re immersed into a fit of denial, convincing yourself his answer is an unlikely outcome; despite this being his phone number and you are, in fact, calling it. 

“Hello,” his vaguely familiar rasp becomes one of undeniable recognition.

Neglecting to even consider what you might say if he did answer, you awkwardly blurt, “Hey, Mr.- Jake-,” it occurs to you that you never properly introduced yourself, “It’s the girl with a simple quiet life.”

You possess no control over your hand as it impulsively smacks against your forehead amid your poor choice of words.

You’re mortified he might have heard your reflex as he giggles through the line, “Hey, pretty girl. I was hoping you might call.”

— December 31st —

You aimlessly pace about the bathroom, your platform loafers suctioning with every sticky step on the tile. You survey the sting of your angry nail plates, red and visible from an anxious nail-biting fit. 

A jiggle of the doorknob and a harsh knock on the door interrupts your examination. 

“Just a minute,” your voice shakes trying to overpower the blaring music.

You possess no concept of how long you’ve been hiding out from the party just beyond the bathroom door. You had been wading through a sea of strangers for almost an hour looking for Jake before you finally became overwhelmed, retreating to a random bedroom and locking yourself inside its bathroom. You’re beginning to question Jake’s attendance at the very party he invited you to.

Another bang at the door.

You squeak in panic, “One second!”

You run your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them as you shuffle over to the mirror to perform a last-second evaluation. You straighten the collar of your little black button-down dress and readjust your pantyhose so the hem isn’t visible from your dress’s high-thigh split. You quickly retrieve your wine-red lipstick to featherly dap it over your lips in reapplication and sloppily attempt to recoil any broken curls before you're startled by another thud on the door.

You growl as you stomp over to the entryway, “Who the fuck?! I said hold-”

You swing the door open to gather those wide honey eyes framed by pretty chestnut waves.

The weight lifted from your chest is quickly chased by the embarrassment of your reaction, “Jake?!” 

The both of you, relieved to see the other, spill your words out in unison, “Where have you been? I was looking for you!” 

You aren’t sure whether the uncontrollable giggle you let out is induced by amusement or nerves. Jake only gives you a peculiar smirk while scanning you up and down. 

He slightly tilts his head and tries to interrogate you through a chuckle, “How long have you been hiding in here?”

You’re only able to bat your eyes at him, clueless as to how to save yourself. The way he reads the situation with such accuracy makes you question whether you have the words “socially celibate” written on your forehead; which isn’t true about you at all. You are usually a social butterfly but something about Jake makes you want to gasp for air. 

“I’m not hiding,” you blurt the lie straight through your teeth. 

“It's blatantly obvious you're hiding,” he playfully rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway, listing the factors that clue him in, “this is not the most accessible bathroom. There’s a bit of wandering you have to do in order to end up here.”

You attempt to redirect his heat back on him, “Well, what are you doing in here?”

His brows draw together in confusion, “You mean…in my bedroom?”

If your face wasn’t beaming pink before it certainly is now.

That night on the phone he had apologized profusely. After you reciprocated the remorse, he insisted on making up for the misunderstanding in person and invited you to a New Year’s Eve party. You spent the hours of that night learning bits and pieces about each other over the phone, yet not once did he make you aware it was his party. 

“I mean you invited me, but you failed to mention you own the place,” you shake your head and light-heartedly chide.

There’s a lot of attention that comes with being the host; attention you couldn’t compete with being that you have known Jake for all of five minutes. You have half a mind to make up some excuse to escape now and be done with this. 

Jake’s words soothe your storming thoughts, “I’m just glad you’re here and I found you. It's almost midnight and I was starting to think you flaked.”

From where your abrupt banter appears you’re not certain, just that you’re pleased with its arrival, “Wow, all these guests and those pretty eyes were searching for little old me? I’m flattered.”

“I was only concerned you might be hiding in a bathroom somewhere,” he teases back.

You roll your eyes and exit the bathroom. Only now do your inhibitions hush, admitting you to espy Jake dressed essentially in the same ensemble as your first meeting, the sore difference being the color palette. However, this single change is not one of subtlety, as you discover navy blue is certainly Jake’s color.

Jake instructs you to reenter the party and he’ll come find you in a few before disappearing into his own bathroom. 

You almost scoff out loud. There is no way you are subjecting yourself back to that lion's den alone. You instead idle about his room. 

You presume this bedroom is the master due to its excessive space and height. Two walls of a deep timber green meet one of exposed cobblestone, where the head of the bed is positioned, and another wall that is made completely of bookshelves. Mounted on these walls are frames of various historic maps and sketches and what you assume to be sailing routes. The decor is accented by espresso wooden floors and leather furniture; everything within your line of sight could certainly tell stories of a life dating well before your own. 

You wonder how it hadn’t occurred to you before, this room might belong to him; Jake is almost the room personified in its rustic aesthetic.

You saunter over to the wall of books, extending your reach to them. The pads of your fingers ridge against the embroidered spines of various vintage books as you skim through their titles; from which you determine the wall displays are most likely of a piratical lore. 

As you scale the bookshelf you run into a bar cart. Surely, he won’t miss a sip of liquor as much as you’re in need of one. You grab a cocktail glass from its rack and start with an easy pour of sparkling water. You aren’t sure which liquor to choose as they are all top shelf but land on tequila, mixing in an extra shot to take off the edge. You dress your drink with the squeeze of a lime and drop it in with a plop of ice, the residual juice left on your fingers begins to sting at your bitten fingernails. You take a moment to admire the symphony of each bubble fizzing its way to the top while ice chimes against your glass; the mere song of a tequila soda already easing your nerves. 

As you sip on your elixir and further snoop, you notice there are not many pictures in the room. The few you do find tell the story of four siblings. Although, you struggle to pick Jake out amongst the bunch, having it narrowed down between two in every photo. 

A whisper from somewhere just beyond your shoulder shatters your sleuthing trance, “Nosy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your drink nearly escapes your glass from the jolt his ambush sends through you.

He further teases you, “Ah, now you’re going to spill stolen liquor on my floors too?”

“It’s not stolen if you owe me a drink, sir,” you quip, referring to his offer of your first encounter. 

He playfully reclaims your drink from you while declaring, “Let’s see how good of a cocktail you can mix-,” he takes a swig and speaks through a stifled cough, “whoa, bit stiff there! I suppose you may just be able to keep up with me.”

You are on the verge of investigating the family pictures when his phone rings. He frowns, yet still retrieves the device from his pocket to read the notification. However, his eyes break from their summon within a second, elated to receive yours once again. 

Jake almost pounces on you, giddy to usher you back to the party, “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people!” 

You tail him down the hall to the main part of the house until you reach the outskirts of crowd congestion. He shifts his lead to your side, his arm still extended to precede you, parting the way through traffic. 

Parading through the guests, almost everyone attempts to greet their beloved host, stepping in front of or trying to walk between you. 

You feel Jake’s broad hand lightly rest against the small of your back in an attempt to stay tethered, your skin waking to the sudden warmth and weight of his touch. 

As you travel deeper into the heart of the crowd, it only multiplies in its density. Jake's fingers delicately travel from your back, over your hip, and wrap into your waist. He tugs you into his side, practically walking hip to hip; a measure taken to make certain you remain by his side.

Ordinarily, touch from any stranger is an unbearable concept you desperately flee from, but Jake’s hands are ones you’ve never known. He grabs you like he is certain your skin is his to touch. Simultaneously, it's assertive and amenable and affectionate. It grants status in a house full of strangers. You know you’ll only grieve its absence. Yet, you fear how you already crave more. 

Your buffer’s escort sees you into the kitchen and immediately draws towards a group of three men: two of a tall lean stature and the other petite like Jake. He walks before you and seizes their attention from whatever concentration previously held it.

You shadow Jake, shifting behind him so there is as little space as possible without physically touching him; weary of your new appetite. 

Even inches away from the men’s huddle, you can barely hear over the roar of the overcrowded house and the blaring music; your only indication of Jake speaking is the wave of his hands and the three boys’ responding laughter. 

You lean as an attempt to hear their conversation when someone stumbles past you, knocking you straight into Jake’s backside and sending him into a light stumble. 

Like some bashful toddler hiding from scary stranger danger, you stand straight and peek over Jake’s shoulder to see three wide-eyed men gaping at you. Jake loops his hand around your arm and casts you dead front and center as if you are a surprise gift he’d been concealing behind his back this whole time. 

He lightly rests his hands on your shoulders and leans towards your ear, you gauge he’s close not by sight, but by the warm sensation of his words tickling your skin, “These are my brothers,” then reverts his attention to the other men, “guys, this is who I was telling you about.”

You formally introduce yourself and one by one they do the same: Sam, whom you recognize from the pictures and assume is related to Jake, Danny, whom you’ve never seen before but seems to possess the same familial chemistry, and finally Josh, who you now identify as the other face you couldn’t differentiate from Jake’s in the photos; you know they must be brothers. 

You turn to confirm your suspicions with Jake and find he is no longer behind you. Eyes apprehensively detailing the scene, you scour till you recover him at the bar topping off your drink. You know he means well but the last thing you want is to be stranded.

As if he can access your thought flow, the man who earlier introduced himself as Josh is standing next to you now and gingerly places his fingers on your bicep to reassure you, “Don’t worry, you're in good hands.”

As your insecurity is driven away, curiosity remains, “So, what has Jake told you exactly?”

“Well- really, only that he came into your store and bugged the shit out of you-,” across from you,  a slightly tipsy and loose-lipped Sam is silenced by Josh nudging him, “ow?!”

“He told us that you hold an interesting perspective and a vast knowledge in the world of music,” Josh earns the title of damage control, “in addition to your immunity to his charms.”

When Josh laughs, it is a grand thing, his whole body participating in his colossal giddy smile. You can’t help but receive the glee he is emitting.

Only now does it occur to you, that pretty smile has graced you once before. It's the same one Jake wore for a mere second, of which the imageless memory has been bugging you for a week. Their wide smile seems to exist in exactly the same shape yet live in different lights: Josh’s a bit more generous and Jake’s a bit more significant.

It isn’t until now that you’re able to delineate all the same features about their face, noting now that they aren’t similarities at all but replicas. Only now can you see they’re twins. 

“Stop scaring her,” Jake’s voice rasps from behind you as a fresh drink is placed in your hand. 

“If you haven’t done that already, I’m not sure what will,” Josh collects Jake’s warning with a banter of his own. 

Suddenly, the boys’ are uprooted by a slow bluesy ballad sounding throughout the house; not a conventional party tune but after all it’s not your party. One after another, each brother’s face lights with recognition of a happening and disappears from the kitchen to the heart of the house, dragging along a someone as their chosen company. You witness every bystander in the kitchen mimic the strange migration. You never imagined a change of song could so dramatically alter the behavior of a room. 

Immediately, consciousness of an unknown tenses in your muscles. Your eyes storm Jake for clarification, yet the coy grin that he produces does nothing to soothe your skies. 

“So it's kind of a Kiszka New Year’s Eve party tradition,” his hand finds the back of his neck as if he is trying to thread together bad news, “to have a last dance just before midnight.”

“Oh,” your chest drops at a much less severe diagnosis than you anticipated. 

Jake distances himself a step from you to offer his hand and bashfully beams, “Care to be my final dance in these last fleeting moments of a year’s dying life?”

“I- um- actually,” you panic grasping for any declination, only to find a confession in reach, “I can’t dance. Well, not slowly anyway.”

He feigns shock, “A beautiful girl of your musical knowledge and you don’t know how to dance?!”

Despite the urge to run far and fast the moment Jake calls you beautiful, you charge to your own rescue, “No one ever taught me!”

He raises an interrogative eyebrow, “You promise that’s the only reason?”

You give Jake a confused nod while also averting your eyes in shame, so you aren’t aware when he lunges to snatch your hand from its comfort zone by your side. 

“It’s never too late to learn,” Jake chimes while tugging you from the kitchen.

The unforeseen tow renders you almost tripping over your own feet, docking your sweating glass of courage on the nearest counter. 

You’re dragged into a tempest of strangers waltzing about until Jake decides your destination in the eye, a center spectacle accessible for anyone to gawk at. 

Jake plants you in position by steading your shoulders. You pay him no mind as your consciousness is currently employed by the surrounding cloud of people. He lifts your arms by the wrists, resting them around his shoulders before drawing in close to place his hands on your waist. You’re once again consumed by the warm weight of his heavy hands that spell you starving for more. 

“Jake-,” you begin to fret, suddenly feeling like you might burst into tears. 

“Shh- It’s okay- Look- Look, it’s simple,” he consoles you like an eager child. 

Jake motions your sight to follow his to the floor as he steps out with his left foot. Paralyzed by your own nerves, Jake doesn’t give up when you completely miss his cue to mimic his movement. You barely process the light chuckle that leaves him as he retraces his step back to starting stance.

Nimbly, his palm delineates your pelvis as his grip runs from your waist to your hip. Jake then replicates his previous action, this time firmly swatting your right side to follow; the slight impact sends an unsolicited shudder down your spine that you pray goes unnoticed. 

Hesitantly, you pursue his step. Then again with your left. Retrace. Repeat. Again. Then again. And again. Until you are swaying along with the rhythm.

Jake's eyes have since left the floor, amused at the sight of concentration you are. He allows you a moment of beginner’s peace before disturbing your count.

“I think you’ve pretty much got it,” his finger lands under your chin to lift your hanging head back to eye level again, rejoining his honey-brown gaze, “you can look at me now.”

You recognize something perennial in his tired eyes and all at once you’re aware the road to unwind is undoubtedly a long one, but whether it routes through pleasure or pain is beyond your discernment; the only thing of which you're certain, is at this moment he became ineradicably and irrevocably undeniable. 

After a few confident strides, you courageously let your head fall to Jake’s shoulder, only tripping over your instructor’s feet a few times but he doesn’t appear to mind. If you were rhythmically inclined you suppose you might even enjoy slow dancing, swaying about solely to remain blissfully close to your pretty dance partner as the rest of the reality seems to wane from existence. 

You swear hours pass before the melody finally fades out, yet Jake and you take your time to rejoin the rest of the world, lingering in your bubble; a countdown to midnight being the hammer that eventually breaks your glass.

TEN! NINE!

You hastily revert back to your own, excusing yourself from any rejection or inquiry by joining the chant. 

EIGHT! SEVEN!

Rather than dwell, your abrupt modesty strikes Jake endeared. He simply restructures himself, respecting your space, with a regaling smirk as he now jumps into the sequence. 

SIX! FIVE!  

Achingly aware that you’re the one who broke it, you’re assailed by a twinge of loss, fighting the appetite to feel him pressed against you once more. 

FOUR! 

That is until you feel Jake’s slight caress against your wrist. At first, you assume it’s an accident. The remaining life of the current year dwindling provokes the roaring crowd to compact, dancing and hugging, in hopes for a better year. 

THREE!

Yet, Jake’s touch doesn’t retract. His fingers dawdle about your skin, dancing down till he climbs into your palm. 

TWO!

His vast hand is extensively more than you’re able to hold, so his calluses tickle as he swiftly rakes them against your skin to interlock his fingers in yours; the bond devoted and interminable.

ONE!

You expect a confession from Jake as he cranes his head to fall in close to yours, but instead, feel a pink blaze rise to your cheeks as he delicately places his pretty plump pout just before the corner of your mouth; the sensation of his facial hair, prickly against your skin, being one you’d like to know further. 

As he pulls back to revel in your bemusement, you’re finally caught in that beautiful beaming smile for the second time. Your ache to witness the entrancing sight again hadn’t registered until it surfaced long enough for you to savor it this time; your hope for the year to come instantly blossoms from Jake’s smile. 

“Happy New Year,” his blessing is barely audible over the cheers of a new era.

Some unseen and unfamiliar force greater than lust, commandeers your limbs diminishing all conscious control as you impulsively cling onto his lapel and yank him back into your orbit.

Recklessly, you devour those pompous pink lips into your own. Jake doesn’t hesitate to consume the small of your back and dip of your waist within the swallowing grip of his palms. His mouth emulates your hunger, letting your kiss flourish and thrive against your lips. You give into your need for an air supply only when you feel the shape of that giant ass smile break the seal of your embrace. Nimbly, you press a small pucker to Jake’s dimples while they exist. 

You remain within the gravity of your shared breaths, giggling your wish against his smile, “Happy New Year, Mr. Kiszka!”

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[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Dying Light [Chapter Four] Live or Die [Bi-Han/Sub-Zero]

Tag list: @genesiswrld, @cherryblossomly, @dilf-destroyer-04, @louis2gobrrn, @umbransister

Warning(s): family drama, female reader insert, uncertainty, Bi-Han being Bi-Han (and perhaps a little nice), ambush, violence, death, gore, sadness, fear of the unknown.

No Minors Allowed!!

For an instant, upon waking up, you forget that you did not go to bed alone. The shift of the mattress sends a jolt of fear down your spine and you turn in haste to see Bi-Han rising from the bed.

You sigh in relief.

That's right. I'm married now. 

This statement feels odd. You are not convinced that it will ever feel right on your tongue. Lying on your back, you stretch your tense muscles, and then reluctantly you leave the warm confines of the bed.

You have no idea what time it is but if Bi-Han is awake, then it must be early in the morning. He looks like the type to have an internal clock. Whether this turns out to be a hindrance or not later is uncertain. A few more hours of sleep would be nice though. 

Sauntering over to the vanity, you sit down to get ready. Bi-Han, in the meantime, disappears behind the divider to redress; the innocent action elicits the memory of his bare chest.

I have never seen a man so big. Is that all muscle?

Ignoring the desire to touch him and find out, you continue with the task at hand. Yet, the silence feels more awkward to you than it should. You know that you should talk to him, but you do not know about what. 

“What is Arctika like?” You ask hesitantly. It is the first question that comes to mind.  

“Cold,” Bi-Han merely states. 

You hum, already aware. It reminds you though that you need to dress suitably for the trip.

“Is it that bad?” 

At this point, all you want is to continue a conversation with him to avoid the awkward silence. It honestly feels like the morning after a heated tryst that both of you want to forget. 

“You will not find solace in Arctika if you are not fond of the cold,” Bi-Han states.

  

You sigh. The same can be said about this marriage. Deciding that you look fine enough, you saunter over to the closet for a warm outfit. In your hunt, a makeup kit sitting on the top shelf that your mother had gifted you suddenly catches your attention. 

“You had best get used to this. Men are fickle. A beautiful woman will keep their interest. You do not want your soon-to-be husband to drag in strays, do you?”

You frown. Is this the sort of thing that matters to your husband? A woman dolled up to his liking. You suppose a little makeup can not hurt. You take the kit down, carrying it and the outfit back to your vanity. 

“I'm changing,” you state, as you carry the items back to the vanity. While it is true that you are married, you do not want to expose yourself to Bi-Han, at least not if you can help it. 

Quickly, you change, and then you sit down to put on the makeup. 

Out of respect for you, or so you assume, you hear Bi-Han clear his throat. A moment later, he emerges from behind the divider, dressed in his twilight blue tabard and silver-lined mask. Tied to his sash is a jewelry bag, embellished with the double happiness symbol. The only reason you acknowledge it is because during the ceremony it was used to store the red line that connected your hair with his.

Why is he wearing it though? 

Your face heats up, and to make matters worse, Bi-Han is observing you as you paint your lips, as though you are showing off your magic to him again. It is uncomfortable. But it reminds you that you need to tie your amulet onto your person before you leave.

Once done, you stand and saunter over to him.

“If you are hungry, breakfast should be about ready. I will join you later in the courtyard when your brothers arrive.”

You step toward the door, but a hand on your arm halts you; the grip is rather rough. Turning, you glance at Bi-Han in confusion.

“The route to Arctika is arduous. I suggest you eat.”

You understand his concerns, if they are concerns that he is expressing. Wincing at his grip, you remove his hand from your arm. 

“I need to oversee some things first, then I will eat.”

Bi-Han narrows his eyes but he does not remark. Instead, he pushes past you and leaves the room. You sigh. At least you can relax for a moment. His presence makes you feel a bit uneasy.

Right. Well–

You glance around the room. Since it is last minute, there is a lot you must leave behind. For the next hour, you and a handful of servants carefully go through your room, selecting what must go.

When you are satisfied, you allow them to pack the items as you excuse yourself. Walking to the dining room, a retainer emerges, rushing toward the front door. You raise a brow but as your parents and Bi-Han walk out, your curiosity is sated.

They must be here.

An air of unease surrounds you, but you follow quietly behind Bi-Han to the inner courtyard where a group of Lin Kuei trudges in, toting chests. Two men wearing masks, dressed in similar attire to the Grandmaster led them; one wore dark grayish-blue while the other wore dark orange with brown tones. The latter looks more like Bi-Han, you note. 

Approaching, they both bow. 

“My brothers,” Bi-Han points out. “Kuai Liang and Tomas.”

The brother with a tattoo of a scorpion on his bicep stands first, motioning to the crates.  

“These gifts are from our clan to yours in honor of the union.” 

“The Lin Kuei hope you appreciate them,” Tomas finishes. 

Your father grins. 

“Indeed we do.”

You nearly turn up your eyes. Not even a thank you for their efforts, even if the bridal gifts were expected. You step out from behind Bi-Han and offer a smile. 

“Thank you for the gifts.”

Kuai Liang nods briefly in gratitude, while Tomas lifts his brows. You are not sure you are what they had expected, but in the end, it does not matter. 

With the pleasantries aside, the Lin Kuei haul the chests into the main house, overseen by the retainers. Bi-Han leaves your side to talk with his brothers, giving you the chance to say goodbye. Your heart races as you face your parents.

“I hope this union is what you truly want.”

Your father frowns. 

“You are doing our clan a tremendous honor. Do not choose now to act like a brat.”

Is he serious? You glance at your mother, who despite appearing sympathetic, does not come to your defense. Tears burn your eyes. 

 “This is no longer my clan. You both are to blame for that.”

I hope the money is put to good use because it will not last forever, you opt not to mention. You are sure that they already know this, however.

Turning your back to them, you stand straight, trying not to show them your sorrow. As much as you want to go off on them, you know it will not matter. Their minds are made. You belong to Bi-Han and the Lin Kuei now. 

Speaking of the Lin Kuei, Kuai Liang approaches you and bows. 

“If your affairs are in order, Madam, I will escort you to the carriage.” 

Your face heats up. He does not need to call you madam, but you understand why he must. 

“My belongings–”

“Tomas will see to them,” Kuai Liang interrupts. 

You are grateful. 

“I'm done here.” 

The tattooed man nods and motions for you to follow him. He leads you from the courtyard to the gate where a horse-drawn carriage sits. You hum. Is this how you will make it to Arctika?

“Your belongings will be loaded momentarily, then we will depart,” Kuai Liang mentions.

You nod. In the meantime, you hesitantly approach the chestnut-colored Heihe and pat it on the chest. It is a gorgeous horse. It does not take your mind off the confrontation with your parents but it is a welcomed distraction. 

Kuai Liang waits silently by your side for the remainder of the time until the carriage is loaded, then once the Grandmaster and the newly recruited fighters emerge, he leaves you to attend to other matters. 

You are shocked to see your master walk out with them. She gives you a sincere smile as she approaches. 

“You should not stress yourself–”

“Hush child,” she interrupts. “I am not so feeble that I can not come to wish you a safe journey.”

You smile, then out of respect, you give her one last bow. 

“Thank you for everything. I will not forget what you have taught me.” 

She laughs. 

“Be sure that you do not.” She pauses to reach into the sash around her waist, taking out a book. “Take this with you. It will provide some entertainment for you on your way to your new home.”

You frown. Why do you feel uneasy? Perhaps it is because of the reality of the situation. 

My new home.

Taking the book from her, you fake a smile. 

“Thank you.” 

The sound of footsteps directs your attention to Bi-Han. He spares your teacher a look, then presses something wrapped in a cloth into your hands. It looks like a dining cloth from the table and something warm resonates from inside. You raise a curious brow, but he does not clarify.

“We are departing. The carriage is ready,” Bi-Han states. 

You peek around him to see the door to the carriage open. Does he want you to get inside?

“I don't mind walking.”

Bi-Han knits his brows. 

“Go. We are expected at the temple before sundown.”

Is this his way of saying ‘Don't argue with me’? You sigh. Smiling at your master, you saunter towards the carriage and slide inside near the window; the door closes behind you, and moments later, the small vehicle starts to move. You spare your former home no second glance, but your stomach twists at the thought of leaving it behind. 

To take your mind off it, you open the cloth that Bi-Han gave you. Inside are three lukewarm stuffed buns. 

He was serious about me eating.

Your face heats up. You aren't sure how to feel about this. Regardless, when you get the chance, you suppose you should thank him.

–

At noon, despite the sun being at its highest, the temperature is cold, though not enough that you can not tolerate it. The rocky terrain soon vanishes beneath a snow-covered landscape within a vast forest. It is stunning.

You want to get out and have a look, but it was not long ago that Bi-Han stopped the group for a rest. The next stop would be hours from now so for the being, while the weather is nice, you choose to open the window and read. 

The crunch of snow draws your attention to Tomas, who treks alongside the carriage. He looks focused, so you return to your book, slowly being drawn into the story. 

“What are you reading?” His youthful voice suddenly asks a few pages in. “I don't mean to interrupt.”

“Erotic romance. Are you a fan?” You tease, grinning.  

He laughs. Even though he is wearing a mask, you can tell that he is smiling. 

“I can not say I have read erotic romance.” 

“Some of the plots are terribly cliche but humorously so,” you state. 

Tomas hums.

“Humorously? I am interested.”

Even if he isn't, it is nice to have a conversation with someone where you can easily joke and laugh. The last few days have been stressful. Looking him over, you note how unique his mask is compared to the simple and elegant design of the ones his brothers have on.

“I like your mask.”

Tomas widens his eyes. 

“You do?”

You nod.

“It reminds me of a gas mask from a fantasy or horror novel.”

“It does,” Tomas agrees. He pauses as if he is debating something, then he hums. “It suits my character.”

You raise a curious brow. How so? Before you can ask, the carriage suddenly jerks with such force that you are nearly tossed to the floor. 

“Are you unharmed?” Tomas asks in concern, peeking through the window. 

You situate yourself in the seat and nod, despite the prickle of fear surging through your body. The sound of snow crunching in all directions seems to indicate that something is wrong. 

“What happened?”

“Something alarmed the horse,” Tomas answers. “Stay here.”

He leaves your side; the crunch of the snow beneath his feet gradually fades away until there is nothing but silence. You peer out the window but you can not see anyone or anything. It's too quiet. The whistle of the wind in your ears is all you can hear. 

Then all at once, an inhuman scream echoes out, sending chills down your spine. What is that? The carriage jerks again, but this time it tilts straight back, tossing you into the seat. You groan in discomfort, then ease your way to the door, tossing it open. 

What meets you is a bloodbath. Your eyes widen in shock. Assassins in white tabards emerge from the snow, attacking the Lin Kuei. It is an ambush. 

You step out into the snow, turning to check on the state of the carriage but the horse is missing. Someone must have cut it loose. This is not good. 

Searching for someone familiar amongst the cluster of people, you locate Tomas first. He seems to be faring well on his own against three foes, but what surprises you more is the plume of black smoke that surrounds him. It works as a screen as he quickly weaves in and out, slashing them with a karambit.

Does he know magic?

The echo of your name reaching above the sound of combat diverts your attention. You recognize the voice as Kuai Liangs’, but before you can turn to him, a chain weapon coils around your neck, cutting off your airway. You grab at the chain, struggling to breathe, but it only tightens; the opposite end is held by an assassin in white, slowly pulling you in. Panic settles in. 

I don't– 

It's live or die, you realize. These men in white have no issue killing. At least two of your clansmen, from what you could tell, are dead; two men you are sure once trained with. 

Stay alive.

You shakily raise your hand, drawing a circle with your finger. A portal opens above the man and then sinks when prompted to, devouring his body from the waist up. Then you close it off. A jet of blood shoots from his severed torso and paints the snow around him red; his lower half along the chain falls.

Once you are free, you take a moment to catch your breath. That could have been much worse. No sooner than you stand, though, another man charges at you, swinging a jian at your throat. You manage to dodge, but the blade catches your shirt, slicing a long but shallow gash across your upper chest. It stings terribly; you tighten your jaw in pain. 

When the man in white strikes at you again, you grab his wrist and use his momentum to yank him to the ground, disarming him. With the jian in tow, you raise it above his head, in an attempt to stab him, but someone grabs you and tosses you off him and into the snow. You glare at the second man.

At least they support one another. 

You drop into a portal beneath you, coming out behind the second attacker. Leaping onto his back, you stab him in the throat and then, before he goes down, you jump into another portal, linking it to one in front of the other man. You emerge with a spinning kick and strike him in the head. He thankfully does not get back up.

That was exhausting. 

You figure it will do you some good to have a weapon on hand, so you trek over to the man you struck down with the jian, yanking it from his neck with a wet squelch. You curl your nose in disgust; his blood is all over your hands. 

Lost in your thoughts, you do not hear the soft footsteps closing in until it is too late. The man that you thought you had knocked out grabs your upper arm and yanks you around. But before either of you can react, a projectile pierces him in the temple, spraying you with blood.

In horror, you stare at the spear of ice that killed him. What the hell? You divert your eyes, noticing Bi-Han not far away. His arms from his gauntlet up are covered in ice.

Can he too–

A high-pitched whistle echoes across the mountains and the few assassins who are still alive quickly flee. This is not a good sign. It means that they were merely testing the Lin Kuei. But why? You sigh. What sort of feud did you get thrown into? 

Shoving the jian in your sash, you gauge the damage. It appears that five of the fifteen fighters from your clan were slain, along with three of the Lin Kuei. And to make matters worse, the carriage is now without a horse. Walking over to the nearest deceased clansman, you lean down beside them, ignoring the chill of the snow as it seeps into your clothes. 

“I'm sorry…I–”

You pause, not sure what to say. Should you vow to avenge them? Hunt down every last assassin in white until there are none left.

This feud is not ours. 

You honestly wish this were true. The moment you married Bi-Han, your clan waged war with his enemies. But what can you do?

“Are you unharmed?” The voice of Kuai Liang asks. 

You face him, humming. 

“I am alive.”

He knits his brows and leans down beside you, looking you over. 

“That cut requires bandaging.” 

It does not hurt much anymore, but that is not saying much. You can hardly feel your fingers. Bringing your hands together, you rub them in an attempt to warm them. 

“Allow me,” Kuai Liang states. 

You raise a brow, watching as he lifts his hand. Suddenly, it ignites, and a warm flame dances across his skin. 

“All of you can do magic,” you point out.

Why did your parents not tell you? Or Bi-Han for that matter.           

“I'm awed that you know magic,” Kuai Liang states. 

You have no doubt. This fact seemed to shock Bi-Han as well. Bringing your hands up to the flame, you sigh. 

“Those men who attacked us. Did you recognize them?”

Kuai Liang knits his brows.

“I am–”

Before he can answer, Bi-Han storms over. 

“We are regrouping and tracking those responsible.” 

“Brother, the weather will only worsen,” Kuai Liang mentions. “We have injured people who need medical attention.”

Bi-Han raises his hand, pointing at him. 

“You would deny this opportunity to avenge our fallen.” 

“We are not prepared,” Kuai Liang simply states.

He turns his eyes to you and so too does Bi-Han. With his anger in check, you assume he notices the cut. His brows knit and he leans down to examine it further. 

“Join Tomas and those capable of walking in gathering the injured. We haven't the force to pull the carriage, so it remains with the dead.”

You frown. All of your things are lost to the snow. A part of you wants to rebuke but you understand. They are minor needs after all. You can always buy more. 

Kuai Liang extinguishes his fire, much to your dismay, and quietly stands, rushing off to do as told. You remain seated in the snow; your eyes drift down to the lifeless body beside you. It is not until you feel Bi-Han’s cold fingers on your neck, do you look at him. 

“Your awareness needs practice,” he states. 

You frown. Is this his way of showing concern?

“I have never had to kill a person before until I met you.”

It is not an attack, you just felt as if Bi-Han should know. 

His eyes narrow, but he does not remark on your statement. Standing, he looks around as though he is trying to avoid looking at you.  

“Can you walk?” Bi-Han asks. “It would be irksome to have to tote you up the mountain.”

“I'm sure those big muscles can handle it, but to answer your question, I can walk just fine,” you answer.

Bi-Han raises his brow, glancing at you. 

“You have the energy to jest.” 

You nearly snort. No, but it takes your mind off the unnecessary deaths for a moment. It does not take long for the reality of the situation to sink back in, however. 

“Do you think they will attack again?”

“Not today,” Bi-Han answers honestly. “But whatever frightened the horse just might. The birds are far too quiet.”

That inhuman scream did not come from the assassins? Your eyes widen in fear. What could have caused it? Standing, you glance around. It is true, there are no birds in the area. 

“Let us not remain here longer than we have to,” Bi-Han mentions. 

You agree. Whatever is out here, you hope it does not make itself known. 

For the rest of the journey, you can not shake the eerie feeling that something is on the hunt. If only you knew how right you were.

[obsolescent]

Kinktober Day 5

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Prompt: Familiar scent

Author’s Note: Is this inspired partly by the fact that I got Leon’s perfume the other day? Perhaps, but I am big on smell in my own life and love smelling things, especially if it’s something dear to me so I was eager to do this prompt all around hehe. Also so sorry I am lagging on these, but I hope you enjoy!

Content Warnings: No gendered language for reader, trans!Leon, masturbation, oral sex, domestic bliss.

Kinktober Masterlist

“Honey?” Leon calls out, entering the house and shutting the door behind him. When the only reply he receives is his voice echoing back to him in the empty home, he frowns. Hoping to have surprised you, he expected you to be home around this time. It was 6:45 in the evening, past the time you left work for the day. He let out a disappointed sigh, removing his dirtied boots before trudging to the bathroom to remove the rest of his ruined clothing.

He had just gotten back from another arduous mission, the ones that always make him want to hold you closer and never let you leave the house again. Knowing that it’s just not feasible to ask of you or even consider, he shakes his head at those thoughts, not wanting to lose himself in that type of thinking. He lets out a groan as he bends down to remove his socks, before moving to turn the shower on.

He rushes through, scrubbing the grime off of his body to the best of his ability at the moment, having sustained some serious bruising on his side, it would be a challenge for a regular person to even stand after the things Leon went through, thankfully it just limits some of his mobility for the time being. Turning the faucet off and stepping out, he quickly towels off before heading to your bedroom, not bothering to put on any clothing, sleep–and you–the only thing occupying his mind currently. 

He collapses onto the bed, rolling to your side, crawling into the sheets and burying his face into your pillow. He inhales deeply, your scent relaxing him further, yet he remains annoyingly awake. He groans, grabbing your pillow and bringing it into his embrace, he lays on his back while staring at the ceiling. Continuing to take in your smell, his clit begins to stiffen.

‘Oh. That’s why’. He thinks to himself, feeling himself beginning to throb. He reaches down, hand grasping himself and beginning to rub in tight circles. He whimpers, pulling your pillow towards his face, increasing his speed. Imagining it’s you who’s touching him, he spreads his legs wider, reaching further to delve inside. Fingers crooking, palm hitting his throbbing clit, he’s nearing the end while stuttering out your name.

“This is a very pleasant surprise,” your voice cutting through the pleasure, he gasps and his eyes fly open. Startled, he closes his legs and sits up, watching you come further into the bedroom. “Aw, missed me so much, huh?” You teased, beginning to rid yourself of your clothing as you walked closer to the bed. He nods, reaching his hands out for you for which you happily obliged, crawling onto the bed and into his embrace.

“Missed you so much,” you whisper into his ear, pulling back and kissing him deeper. Leon moans, clutching onto your upper arms as you ease him to lay back down. “Let me take care of you, pretty boy.” He makes a noise in the back of his throat at the pet name, burying his nose into your neck and taking you in. You’re here now, that’s all he could ask for. 

You pull away from him and pepper kisses down his body, kissing over new abrasions and bruises, softly rubbing his aching muscles and you descend further. His muscles begin to loosen up, pleasure coursing through his being. All at once, you grab the back of his thighs and push them up, diving in to lick from his hole to his clit, sucking it in your mouth.

A moan tears through him, back arching. “F-fuck, feels so good, baby, love you so much, missed you so much,” he babbles, his hand reaching down to grab at your head, pulling you closer to his core. You breathe him in, his natural scent mixed with the soap from his recent shower has you groaning yourself. 

Dropping one of his thighs to slide two fingers into him, quickly picking up the rhythm he likes as well as hitting the spot you know drives him mad, Leon’s eyes roll back into his head as his thighs begin trembling. “M’so close, don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop,” words almost incomprehensible from how fast he’s rambling, hips rocking up into your face, he cums with a cry of your name. His clit rhythmically jumps in your mouth, walls clenching tightly against your fingers, he’s seeing heaven. 

Keeping your ministrations going until he pats your head, you pull away, climbing up his body and pulling him into you. Leon cups your face and pulls you into a sleepy, yet passionate lip lock. With your own hand tracing his sharp jawline, you whisper, “Welcome home, my beloved.”

Tags: @roseglazedlens, @neondogs, @caramlizedtomatoes, @cheezbites, @dwkfan, @httpsuguru, @scar-crossedlvrs, @xxacademy (Sorry I forgot them when I first posted this, oops)