#hand carved wooden spoon

[cucumberlover99]

It really is a doggy dog world.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.5k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, intentional harm (in the recent past), blood, angst, protective Johnny, hurt/comfort, pining, speedy relationship, etc.

A/N: Johnny sweaty and working the forge...that is all.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You groggily awoke to the steady sound of a hammer meeting metal and the scent of eggs. Warm bread makes your mouth water. Eyelids peeling back, your lashes flutter in even intervals as you groan in the back of your throat, content and unbothered in this soft bed of fur and cotton. For a moment you had forgotten everything that had transpired—the run and the rain slamming into your scalp.

Had it all been some dark dream? A trick? 

“Ow!” You hiss, hand darting out from the plush covers as a sharp pain darts through it. Your eyes blink on the bloody bandages, white now completely bled through with fresh crimson. 

Everything comes rushing back in a lightning-strike moment of realization. 

Quickly sitting up, your face moves all over the sun-lit room, rays of light leaking in through the opened shutters; past the glass of the windows, the nearly violent green of the near forest line meets your wide gaze. A small sound exits your throat, fingers sliding through the bear fur that had been once pulled up to your ears as you gather your senses. 

Johnny. The blacksmith.

Your eyes lock onto the small table across the room. 

As the hammering outside continues to ring in your eardrums, you tilt your head at the items sitting atop—slipping off the bed you go to tidy the fur but pause in your curiosity. A patch of blood from your wound stains the sheets and you slow at the sight, the air leaving your lungs.

“Oh,” you swallow down your slight nervousness, heart jumping for a moment as you bite your lip. 

You would have to tell Mr. MacTavsish—your brows furrow. 

Not Mr. MacTavish, he asked me to call him Johnny. A strange thing, now that you thought about it as you slowly back away and go to the table, gut rumbling at the sight of fresh eggs on bread. There was also a parcel covered in cloth sitting on the chair. 

Carefully tiptoeing, you grab the plate with a delicate hand, picking it up as you lick your lips. Had the man…made you breakfast? 

“What reality have I slipped into?” Your lips whisper, Johnny’s clothes hanging off of you heavily. Not only food but milk had been poured into a carved cup as well, and utensils placed on the table with care. Fork and knife on the right, spoon on the left; all forged and tempered. 

It was sweet, perhaps. Kind. 

You eat standing, bare feet taking you around the homestead as you listen to the blacksmith work outside. Your hands take up carved knick-knacks of animals, twirling them in a hand as you lick your lips before placing them back with all the care of a priceless possession. Chuckling at the poorly wooden face of a deer, you bring the last bits of food to your lips as you pass the window. 

Sucking in a swift breath, your body freezes. 

Perhaps it was the sudden freedom of your situation or even the want of true, honest, companionship, but you had suddenly never seen someone look as good as kind Johnny MacTavish as he worked his forge. 

The earth was still layered in dew and mist, the distance between the main home and the small hut that was holding anvil, tongs, the flame of the furnace itself, and a great number of hammers. One of which was being wielded with firm efficiency by the sweat-stained hands of Johnny—being brought down again and again to the molten form of what would be a fine sword. 

Clothed in a rolled-back white tunic, like the one from yesterday, and brown breaches, there was a leather apron tied ‘round his waist cinched tight. Lips parting, you watch with a guilty conscious for the frailness of your resolve; gaping at the sight. 

Johnny works like the dead might rise, not faltering or slowing in the abuse of the metal—twisting the rough shape of the blade and flipping it with one hand while the other hammers. How he doesn’t overheat you’d never know; letting out a slow breath as the sweat slips down his strong jaw and drips from his chin, mouth open with a far-off pant of air. 

Electricity of the same breed as last night sizzles down your spine like a finger caressing the knobs of bone, hairs standing on end as you quickly clear your throat against the burn of your face. You shift your body away, fearfully aware of the scent of Johnny’s clothes and the very bed you had slept in last night. 

“My parents will never allow me back into their home,” you utter, picking at your bandages. “I shall never even be seen in the very air near them.” 

But the true question was whether or not that was a good thing. While this freedom of yours was what you wanted, you were a woman of relative standing—having no family, no husband, and no money to your name was not ideal. In fact, it could very well be the death of you. 

You stand and lightly lick your fingers of crumbs. “At the very least,” the wood under your feet is warm from an only recently dead hearth, “this Blacksmith is quite good with meals. Such a peculiar man, hm?”

Smiling to yourself, you chuckle and push back the heat in your blood; this odd attraction to a working man. So different from Lord Wilkin. 

Not wanting to sink back into that hole quite yet, you remember Johnny’s hands slipping over yours as you take a final glance back out the window before heading back over to the table. Cobalt eyes meet yours in an instant of wide shyness through the glass. 

Staring at each other, the Blacksmith's legs shift from where they dig into the packed ground, large biceps tight as they hold the hammer and the dulling metal. 

Blinking quickly, you feel your heart skip beats at the soft contact. 

Smiling awkwardly, you raise the empty plate in display, chuckling as a wide, pleased, grin builds on Johnny’s face. He mocks a small bow, hammer going across his abdomen as his dirty cheeks peel back at his glee—you see his chest move with a deep laugh. Like the scent of lavender in your nose, you can call the sound of it to your ears as if he was in the house all this time. 

Quickly skittering away, you feel giddy, placing down your plate and taking a sip of milk before looking at the parcel. While your mind may be mingling with the blacksmith and the sweat of his body, curiosity was getting to you. And, mayhaps, a shyness at being caught.

It was covered in dark cloth, and when you touch it, the fabric immediately reminds you of a cloak—an expensive and finely spun wool dyed green. Lips parting, your hands pick it up and place it on the table; turning it over as you pull at the twine tie. 

Your heart seems to grow like a flower, the pedals opening and the stem becoming strong with a rush of admiration. 

“When did you do this, Blacksmith?” Your voice hits off the walls in a breathy gasp as the hammering picks back up outside. 

Smiling delicately, you pick up the fine linen of a chemise and the paired kirtle dyed deep blue. It wasn’t the most extravagant thing you’d worn by a long shot but as you step back and size it to your body, you decide that it was the most meaningful. 

When had he gotten up to ride into town and buy this for you? How much did it cost? 

How could this blacksmith be as chivalrous as a Knight? Not wanting you to be forced to wear his own clothes in a way unflattering to your status even if you didn’t truly care about all of that.

You had no answer, body vibrating with warmth as you slipped out of Johnny’s sleep clothes and slid the gifted items over your skin. They were slightly oversized for ease of the man’s mind, not knowing your measurements. With a small bronze clip, you situate the cloak before the boots at the door add to the already bursting emotions in your veins. 

Tears burned the back of your eyes, putting your fingers to your lips to hide the shaky inhale. All of this care after such horror was nearly unthinkable; by a complete stranger no less. 

Your own family had never been so generous. 

Taking up your now empty cup, you look to the water basin and let your ears twitch to the sound of physical labor; thinking, wanting to give even just a sliver of thanks back for this debt. As you lace your new boots, leather, you keep the memory of his calloused hands in the front of your skull with honied sanctity. 

You fill the cup and that’s that.

Cheeks heating, you bring the water with you as you exit the home, breathing down the scent of rain and pulling your cloak tighter to your neck at the slight chill. Closing the door, you make your way to Johnny who continues to work away, now a small distance from the anvil and setting the iron back into the fire to heat. 

His large back flexes and rolls with the movement.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the cup stays steady in your two hands as you see Johnny’s muscles momentarily tense, blue eyes turning to look over his shoulders. There’s a moment where something swirls in his eyes as he stares down at your new clothes, standing up to his full height quickly. You blink. “...I’m sorry, but besides an offer of fresh water I’m unable to repay you for the gifts.”

“Ah,” Johnny clears his throat, looking back to his forge before turning back to you with a bashful look. “Please, none of that. I needed to go off and grab more grain for my horse, see.” He chuckles. “But I’m glad they fit, Dearie, was a bit worried I’d asked the wrong size.” 

“They’re perfect,” you shake your head. “It was…far more than I deserve.” 

Brows furrow. For such a presence, he slips the cup out of your hands with more care than your husband-to-be had ever thought to handle you, nodding a deep thank you.

“Now why would you say something like that?” Your head tilts, lips thinning. You suppose it was right to make good on the deal you’d struck last night. 

Johnny takes a sip from the cup, waiting for your answer as one hand hangs from the neck of his apron, fast lungs steadily slowing. As you frown and gather your thoughts, you don’t notice his eyes narrowing, concerned. 

“Well, anyways,” he clears his throat, itching at his stubble to change the subject as you startle back to reality before you can form a sentence. “I suppose I’d better take a look at that cut of yours, then, eh? Wouldn’t want it to get infected, do we?” 

“That’s not…” He has already darted to a small chest in the corner of the open hut, cup placed on the anvil top before he opens the thing with a scratch of rusty hinges. “...necessary.” 

The blacksmith laughs, taking out fresh badges. 

“I don’t think gettin’ bedridden is in your plans, now is it? C’mon…I’ll be gentle.” Johnny winks with a smirk and your pulse flares; stuttering as he grasps your elbow—leading you out of the forge and to a small break in the trees. 

A stump and a dead firepit take form, and you’re plopped down to the wood with a small huff, a stiff look sent to the man who only smiles and raises an eyebrow. 

“Is my kindness wearin’ ya down, Little Lady?” 

“You’ll make me lose my head and I’ve only known you for, at most,” you emphasize as he kneels down and takes your bloody hand, “half a day.”

“Being generous,” Johnny hums, unwrapping your hand and once again looking you over. Bloody, but still alright. His fingers move to pick up dew from the grass and wipe away some of the crimson pigment as if an artist. “When one goes and nearly makes a man’s house crumble from the force of ‘er fists, it’s only customary for him to respect her.” Blue eyes gaze up to you and twinkle. “I’m just savin’ my own hide.” 

“How honorable,” you shake your head and turn to hide the full-face grin, moments later laughs slip your tongue. “They weren’t that loud,” your vise insists, “...were they?”

“Thought the world was ending,” Johnny says it was a fake expression of seriousness, re-wrapping your hand in clean cloth. “Damn near got to my knees and prayed.” 

You find great amusement in that, placing a hand over your mouth as your spine shakes with loud laughs. The scene is similar to the one from last night—the blacksmith offering jokes and merriment to get you to laugh. It's as if every time he succeeds he smiles just a smidge wider. Realizing this, you feel your lips twitch and you look away, embarrassed.

“...I promised you answers, did I not?” You decide to ask, deciding that getting this over soon was the best course of action; also the more courteous one. After so much giving, you had to share at least the reason for all of this. “I’m sorry.” Johnny frowns at you, tying another loose knot atop your palm before sitting back on the ground. 

On his bent knee, he rests his arm, hanging off loosely, while the other hand rests behind his back as a way to keep him upward. With all of this, with him, you'd entirely forgotten to mention the stained sheets. 

“There’s no need to apologize to me, Dearie, I won’t do anythin’. I promised you,” he smiles, “remember?” You blink softly at his strong face, those eyes studying you as your hands rest in your lap; curled over each other. 

“There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Johnny huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “Take your time, eh? I won’t be needin’ to travel back into town again until late evening.” Your hands curl slightly tighter, touched. 

The blacksmith watches you as you gather your thoughts, your face going stiff and new boots shuffling over the grass. Blue slides to your hand and his lips turn down. 

He’d be lying if he didn’t say he’d been up most of the night and working before the sun had risen—mind occupied by the woman that had been in his bed and the little information he had. Obviously, Lord Wilkin was looking for you; adamantly. 

Relentlessly. 

When he’d been in town there had been guards everywhere, checking every shop and house like beasts of metal and sharp words. You were the Lord’s bride, of course. As the tailor had asked him, a bit dejected, if he’d taken a wife as he’d bought you your chemise and kirtle, the woman had mentioned the wedding. 

“Little thing darted off during the Handfasting ceremony, I ‘erd. The Lord had only just put the knife to her palm before she yelled and fled. Oh, ya should have seen it, Mr. MacTavish. Like a bat from Hell, Lord help me. He’ll not stop till he’s found ‘er.”

Johnny’s stomach rolls, abdomen tightening as he shifts to release tension. Along the ground, his hand momentarily clenches. You hum under your breath, whispering out an easy, “Are we sure we should be outside for this?”

The man blinks in confusion. 

“Well, would…you prefer being inside?” You look nervous, fingers flinching over themselves and Johnny sits up straighter, letting his large hand carefully grasp your knee. Your innocently wide eyes lock with his own. He offers a comforting look. “It’s no difference to me—you decide. Whichever’s easier, eh?”

“It’s just,” you begin, the skin below your kirtle burning you in the best possible way. What was happening to you? “Well…My family rarely let me out.” Johnny’s body stills to a near stone carving. “Said I was to stay inside. I suppose I’m not overly used to it, you see.” 

It’s not impossible to understand the role that was placed on you. Arranged marriage, sold off to be a housewife for a large dowry paid up by the Lord. You’d been brought up to be tossed away at a moment's notice. The blacksmith’s jaw tightens, bone sharp through the flesh. 

“...Well,” his voice is a bit ragged—scratchy. You listen with nervousness in your chest, a slow infection of unease. “I’m not your family, am I? It’ll be good to get some sun, I think—let’s stay here for a little longer and then we can go back in when you’re ready. There’s no rush to things.” 

Letting you calm down, his thumb rubs a small circle before he pulls it away, perhaps realizing what he was doing before clearing his throat, cheeks alight. 

A small breeze pushes through the pines, a wind filled with the scent of fire and earth—dirt and dew. It was peaceful here, among the old spirits and the hidden trails. So different in the light than it was in the pouring rain. 

“I imagine you knew about the wedding?” You sigh, staring at your lap. “Lord Wilkin?” 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, speaking quietly. He doesn’t want to force you. “I did.”

“I was placed into the marriage two months ago by my parents, an agreement of land and money was traded for my hand.” Watching, the man’s eyes go sad, lids tilting. He stops the grunt in the back of his throat as you continue. “I had resigned myself to it, truly. Being of enough standing all I was needed for was marriage—”

“That’s utter shite.” Johnny growls, angry at the sentence. “They would just toss you away like that? To a bastard ten times your age?” 

You stare, brows tight. “I…I’m a daughter, am I not?” 

Johnny’s jaw goes slack, eyes sharp with horror as his gaze looks deeply into your vision, biceps tense with cooling sweat and dirt. Such a sight it was, two beings as different as a mountain and a valley; so near but starkly contrasted in the harsh strength of rock and the gentle sway of grassy low-land. Bears and deer, barn swallows that sit on rafters and golden eagles that soar tempests. 

The dark-haired man could never imagine raising a girl for nothing else than to be a man’s property—to sell as if a good and nothing more. Johnny turns his head away before he snaps at nothing, a low sound trapped in his chest. You never had a single choice.

Confused by his approach to this, you watch the side of his face as the man’s expression of anger slowly shifts back to a hidden seriousness. Eyes dark and his hand tightened into a fist. 

“I’m sorry, Dearie. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Johnny blinks, shaking his head. “Hope I didn’t scare ya.”

“No,” you motion a hand. “No, not at all.” 

“Good.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his head. “Ah, please, keep going. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise.” You smile tinily. 

“At the wedding, when it was near the end, they brought out the cloth and the knife for the Handfasting ceremony,” Johnny leans forward, and you look down at him on the ground. He lent a sort of silent vigor, you think to yourself. A comfort. “He dragged it along my skin and then he gripped my hand and forced the base of my palm harder into it.” 

Your words get smaller and hushed, flexing your damaged hand. “...I think…that he wanted it to leave a scar. I bolted off before they could tie the cloth.” 

Johnny stands and brings you into a hug, a hand coming to the back of your head and pressing your skull gently to his chest. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” He breathes, and you slowly wind your own hands around his waist; melting into him without even knowing it. Johnny’s scent encompasses you like a blanket, and your very bones seem to sprout flowers from the marrow as your eyes get watery, held in such a way that most people only dream about. 

When the first silent tears fall he doesn’t make a big deal out of it—only holds you more firm and sighs into your scalp. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, honest and truthful. Could you run? Go to another fiefdom? How far would you even be able to make it? No food, no horse, no supplies. 

You’d be found out in no time. 

Johnny moves back, tilting his head down to you and grasping your face with a single hand. “We’ll figure it out, Little Lady. By my word, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’ll never go back to that bastard of a Lord again.” A hard thumb pushes back your tears and blue eyes soften on you. “Can you trust me?” 

Can and not do. 

Even the simple alleviation of pressure from a word makes you care for this man even more than you should. The simmering attraction to not only his appearance but his steadfast heart; indomitable morals. 

“You, Johnny?” You sniffle, a grin twitching your lips up as the blacksmith’s face goes hot. “Yes, I can trust you.” Actions enough from last night had proven that. 

Johnny huffs and lets the blush on his face spread along his neck, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes for too long before he has to clear his throat and gaze to the side. Not knowing what overtakes you, you lightly press your lips to his cheek—feeling the heat and the slight gasp that escapes his lips. 

You giggle as he grunts a thanks, awkwardly shuffling on his feet as you both continue to hold one another. His grip travels down to your back as he raises a brow, trying to push past his beginning stutter as he speaks. “I’d tell ya that if you do that again, I might just have a fainting spell, Miss.”

“A fainting spell,” you tease, “from a kiss, Blacksmith?” 

“Aye—especially if it’s from such a Bonnie woman like you, see.” You both laugh, faces burning up, as serious topics and tears fade into the past. 

As you had said, where any other man would have been different, Johnny Mactavish had proven himself to be right and true. Even if you’d been impossibly tired last night, the small sliver of fear had still remained that something might happen to you here; in the presence of one man in the middle of the woods. No such fear remains. 

Like a great Lord of old, Johnny had offered sanctuary from a man of cruel and horrible intentions. But perhaps he’d offered far more than that, with how he’s staring at you. 

Your laughs steadily die down to a pulsing silence, hands around one another and faces only a few inches away. It’s bizarre how fast this had happened—these feelings brimming in the cup of your heart. A bowl overflowing with care and affection; of something else that cannot be named for fear it’s only a simple infatuation. A twin flame of red-hot fire that could rival Johnny’s forge. 

“I…don’t want to overstep,” the man says, and your eyes are drawn to his lips as they move—a small scar you’d yet to notice living on his chin, a stain of lighter flesh. You swallow stiffly and dart your gaze back to his as you feel his heart pounding in his ribcage. It wasn’t a mystery to wonder if your own is doing the same. “Y’should tell me to stop, Dearie.”

“To stop what,” you pull the words from the depths of your throat. “What are you planning on doing, Johnny?” He shivers as you say his name as if put under a spell. 

“Are you sure you’re not a witch, now?” You stifle a confused laugh, furrowing your brows with amusement.

“What?” 

“One half-day is all it took for you to chain me to your will,” he grasps the bottom of your chin and angles your head up; you go willingly. His eyes search yours for any hesitation or flighty emotions. All he finds is wide awe. “Most would call that witchery, Little Lady.”

“Then it seems your will is easily broken, Blacksmith.”

“Perhaps it is,” Johnny smirks, his breath puffing out along your parted lips. Your body vibrates with anticipation of what was to come, hearing his voice lower to a deep rasp. “Haven’t ya heard…? Blacksmiths have a weakness for runaway brides.” 

“Is that so? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” 

“Suppose I’ll just have to show you.” His lips are firm and his body runs hot. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you sigh into him as his hands dig into your gifted cloak, meeting him with every pass. Low purrs of satisfaction echo from his chest and make you shiver, nose pressing into his lower cheek. Playfully, his teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp; eyes pulling back to stare half-lidded as blue sparks with mischief. 

You should stop this—but you were starved for honest affection. Companionship, even. Johnny by far wasn’t the worst to throw your lott in with and he might just be the best possible to fill that role. Life in this era is fast and harsh; it’s unfair. You had to make quick decisions without thinking of the possible consequences. 

So as you blink up at the man who watches you closely, you place your fingers on the side of his face and tilt his lips back to yours with a small smile. His hand at the curve of your spine twitches, sliding along the cloak in minute increments as Johnny’s heart hammers like his tools. 

It’s as if the forge was still around the two of you—air hot and the feeling sticking to your skin like a brand of sin and forbidden magnetism. He shouldn’t have kissed you, but the hypnosis of the hammer was in his head; its rhythm and striking slam. You drew him in as the anvil does the iron. 

In this moment of contentment, there is a fast sound of something in the air, something that rattles the two of you out of your tender embrace to gaze with contorted faces through the thin line of trees. Panting and open.

Through the foliage back to the homestead is the rapid movement of hooves and the baying of hounds. 

It strikes you like a knife, eyelids moving far back as Johnny’s head snaps to the noise with something growing in the back of his expression. Calls; shouts. You know who it is, who’s found you out. You’d never heard it until it was too late.

“Johnny,” your voice says, fearful with wild eyes. 

“Stay behind me,” he says, monotone with red lips. Shadows of horses and guards are near the house. You stare up at him in shock. A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Nothin’ll happen to you.” His eyes dig past layers. 

There was no running from this. 

“Okay,” you whisper.

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[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy for the Devil ~ Part 6

A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! Warnings: Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!🔺, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw.

one. two. three. four. five.

Six. 六

Your dark mood lasts for days. You do not shirk your duties, but you definitely brood, hating everything, most of all yourself. A part of you hopes that Donaka decides you’re not worth the trouble after a glimpse of this other side of you. He does not prod you further, seemingly steering clear of you. He had his fun taking you down a peg–what more could he want with you? Surely he has better things to do… The more time goes on, the more certain you are that his proposition was mostly in your head.

Amusingly, it’s little Mrs. Wong who gets you out of your funk, yelling at you in Cantonese and smacking you with a wooden spoon when (maybe?) you didn’t move out of her way fast enough in the kitchen. You are determined that someday she’s going to let you call her Auntie, but apparently you still have some distance to cover. Her temper is like a firecracker, loud but shortlived. She’s adorable and terrifying, and it’s all so ridiculous that you cannot stop laughing as you flee, and the shroud of your depression lifts again like the sun penetrating through the clouds.

The absurdity of life has always saved you in times like this. What do you have to be sad about, anyway? You are healthy, you are housed, and you are fed in this beautiful place. You are having an adventure. So what, if your diabolically handsome employer does not approve of you? You’re just here to clean his floors, for fuck’s sake. 

Maybe Donaka Mark is rich, but that doesn’t mean he has all the answers to the mysteries of life. You find your mental state improves, when it seems like he’s ignoring you. 

Flirting with the cute gardener’s assistant doesn’t hurt your state of mind either. His name is Jun, he has an infectious laugh, and he offers to show you around the city on your next day off. Thinking some down time with someone your age will do you good, you are set to meet him at the bus stop down the hill from Mr. Mark’s house. 

However, he never shows. You try not to take it too hard, but it still bums you out. 

He does not return with the gardener the next week either, and then you start to worry. The kind old man who tends Donaka Mark’s plants just shrugged at your inquiry and said, “He quit.” 

It seems odd, but you brush it off. You suppose you’ll just have to explore the city on your own. You ask for the day off for your birthday, wanting to go do the touristy things, like ride the historic ferry and take the tram up to Victoria Peak. Maybe visit a temple, do some shopping at the Night Market, and definitely indulge in some local eats. Something about living in Hong Kong has you dreaming about noodles. It’s an affliction. You want to try them all. 

On your day there is a little carved wooden box on the table where you usually partake your breakfast in the common area of the servants’ quarters. You’re not sure why your heart falls to your feet with something like dread, but somehow you just know that Mr. Mark has not forgotten about you after all. 

With a forbidden thrill you flip the lid carefully, finding a domed-link silver filigree and enamel bracelet set with dreamy jade cabochons. The little details are exquisite, and you’re instantly enchanted. When you look carefully at the bauble, you realize the stylized blue designs aren’t flowers–they’re bats.

He remembered that conversation you’d had, that very first day. It warms you to your toes, and maybe scares you too. He's good to the staff, but you don't think he usually buys them jewelry.

Goddammit.

You just know, deep down, that you shouldn’t accept it. You even set it back down in the box again, just looking at it with hands on your hips. 

But therein lies the crux of temptation: you want it. It’s pretty and well made, not cheap tourist junk, and…he’d put thought into this gift for you. 

This bait for you, you remind yourself. It’s still hard for you to believe that he’s propositioning you, if for anything, because a man like him could have a supermodel on each arm if he wanted. What the fuck would he want with a girl like you?

Maybe…it’s just an apology?

Not likely, but surely he’s not going to expect you to sleep with him for a silver bracelet??

You have a problem, and possibly, a screw loose. You know this is a flame you should not play with. You are toeing the line, dangerously close to falling in.

What if…you just wear it today, then give it back? It’s not like he’ll know. You doubt you’ll even see him today.

It feels like a guilty secret, as you pick it up again, clasp it on your wrist, and set out for your big day. You like the weight of the heavy silver on your skin–worse yet, you like knowing that Mr. Mark selected this bauble just for you. It feels…like a badge of honor, and you know it’s stupid, to feel proud of yourself for catching the attention of a man like him–but you can’t help it.

You are smart, but sometimes? Your heart is really really stupid.

You do not return to the house until well past after dusk, nearly midnight. You made a day of it, actually able to enjoy the city since Mr. Mark pays so well. You will remember the hand pulled noodles with beef you had for dinner in the Night Market for the rest of your life, they were so delicious. Watching the chef stretch them out from a lump of dough was like a religious experience. 

Having your fortune told in the Night Market was memorable too, but maybe a little unsettling. Squatted on a stool in the older woman’s stall, you paid 100HK dollars for her to look at your right hand and frown. She told you that money would never be a problem for you, but the men in your life would always cause you difficulty. Looking at your relationship with your father and every man after that, you reckon she was probably right. You know you should take it with a grain of salt, but you can’t quite shake the hum of unease in the back of your mind.

On tired feet you walk through the garden, around to the entrance to the servant’s quarters. 

"Did you have a nice day?" asks a voice from the shadows. You start, then realize Mr. Mark is sitting on the carved stone bench, on the path to the servants' wing of the house, tucked back in the manicured trees. 

Fuck.

Immediately you tuck your wrist behind your back.

“Mr. Mark?”

“Come here.”

His voice is deliberately neutral–you can’t quite gauge his mood as you approach, feeling like a teenager caught staying out past her curfew. You have no way of knowing he has been waiting for hours, growing more and more annoyed that you are away from him, not under his watchful gaze, where you belong.

He knows where you were, if not exactly what you did. Unbeknownst to you, there is a tiny tracker inserted in your new bracelet you wear with such foolish avarice. 

“Well?”

“Yes, I had a wonderful day,” you confirm, coming to stand before him, committed now even if you are walking into the lion’s den. You find it odd he’s waiting up for you, but it is a beautiful night to be out in the garden. A cool breeze is coming off the water, lifting your hair.

“Let’s see it then.” He points at your hand so casually held behind you, and you know you are caught out.

Almost guiltily, you extend your arm to show off your new acquisition in situ. 

He props your hand with just the tips of his fingers, his touch maddeningly light on your sensitive palm as he turns your wrist to inspect the bracelet, sending a thrill down your arm. He likes seeing the gift that he selected upon you.

“It suits you,” he finally assesses, though you still can’t tell if he’s displeased. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” you answer, barely above a whisper, feeling as though you are sealing something between you as you admit it. 

“Well, that’s convincing.”

Your heart feels like a sea urchin lodging in your throat. You’re not sure what it is about this man that makes you want to please him–and tell him to fuck off–all in the same breath. 

Then he gets to the fun part–for him. “You shouldn’t have stayed out so late alone,” he scolds you. 

You cant your head and press your lips, holding in the smart remark that burns on your tongue as his coal-black eyes bore into you, settling for, "I didn't mean to worry you…but it is my day off. I think I'm free to do what I want." You just can't stop yourself from adding the last bit, and you wonder from his darkening expression if it will be your undoing.

He imagines in that moment what it would be like to reach out and put you over his knee. Instead, he stands abruptly, startling you into taking a step backwards. 

He likes that. 

It irks him, that you dare defy him, like he doesn’t know what’s best for you. If you insist on acting so tough, he’s tempted to throw you over his shoulder and show you just how little it would take to actually break you. 

"Were you drinking?" he asks darkly, hating the thought of you out in a bar, with other men, enjoying yourself. Laughing, like you were with the young gardener not so long ago. The moment he saw that on his camera feed that he constantly watches of you, Donaka saw red. You should not give your joy to others so freely. You sprinkle it around everywhere you go, and he covets it all for himself.

That boy had to go.

"No," you defend, and you’re telling the truth. "I just...walked around." There was plenty to see in Kowloon district. 

Donaka takes another step closer, his body almost pressing against yours, the heat of it warming you. He watches your reaction as he speaks, his voice low and firm. “You should have let me arrange a driver for you.”

This again. It feels as though he wants to cloister you away from experiencing the world, by shoving you in a car. "Donaka..." you sigh, slipping into using his first name for the first time ever, because you’re tired, and your feet hurt, and he is standing very close, talking to you like he has a say in what you do…

It’s maddening and arousing all at once, rubbing with a velvet touch against some long long cavewoman instinct in your brain, and if you’re not careful this just might be the night he outmaneuvers you. 

Donaka’s eyes narrow at hearing you dare to be so familiar with him, even if deep down he secretly loves it. He takes another step into you, crowding you against the stone wall, caging you in with an arm. He’s blocking your path to a quick exit into the servants’ quarters, you can’t help but notice. Your heart pounds in your ears–but you’re not half as afraid as you should be of this man. 

“Hong Kong is pretty safe, as it goes…” you continue to protest around the sound of your heart drumming in your ears, earning a scoff. 

“You have no idea, the sorts of things that could happen to a girl like you in this city.”

You can’t help but think you’re not sure if you feel safe here at home now. 

“If something happened…I would have called you,” you offer up, appealing to his ego as protector, the role he’s apparently decided to take on for himself without asking you. 

However, he sees right through you, rolling those beautiful dark eyes. “You should have let me take you out,” he suggests in a low tone that curls your toes in your sandals. He says it like it had been some option on your menu that you’d rejected. Never in a million years would it have even occurred to you to ask. 

You find yourself doing your best impression of a fish out of water, like the ones you’d seen stacked like cord wood in the market. His other hand lifts to touch your chin lightly, closing your mouth. “Would you have liked that?” 

You honestly don't know the answer to that. 

This man fascinates you and repulses you. He's handsome and commanding and oh so forbidding. He scares you, but he draws you like a moth to a flame. Having these little flirtatious interactions around the house are one thing. Going out with him would be...something else entirely. The thought of what it could mean to socialize with a man like him, where you are so far from being equals, makes you uneasy. It's much safer to just...write about what might have been in your journal, later. 

"I'm not sure that would be appropriate," you finally answer breathily.

His smile for you is nothing less than the wolf baring its teeth. “Why not?”

"You're my boss..." you try to defend. You scare the shit out of me is the real answer you don't dare say aloud.

Donaka can’t help the dark laugh that falls from his lips at your answer, the way you flounder as you grasp for a defense, utterly drowning. A part of him wants to claim you right here and now, for being such a sweet, soft, naive little thing in his claws. 

He leans down closer to you, his head dipping down to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Is that the best excuse you’ve got?”

For a moment, you think your soul might evacuate from your body. 

"Pretty sure it's a good one," you barely manage to reply above a whisper.

“You still don’t understand what I’m offering you, do you?” he asks, his voice deceptively gentle, a dagger clothed in velvet.

You love it how he makes you out to be the obtuse one, when he is the one who has spoken so cryptically.

“I…might,” you answer. You’re not a complete innocent, or a total philistine.

What would a VIP experience on the arm of Donaka Mark be like? Although he can be charming when he wants to be, it makes you feel more anxious than intrigued. You imagine a dinner at some high-end restaurant you could never afford. Somewhere people go to be seen, more than to eat, though the food would undoubtedly be amazing. Somewhere you would feel incredibly out of place. Then what? A ride in one of his ugly but wicked fast sports cars? A night of hedonism at some exclusive club for millionaires only? And what would he expect as payment for all this? You can’t even say you wouldn’t be willing to give it. You want this man with a voracity that is–frankly–terrifying to you. 

You’ve never felt anything like it. 

What you wouldn’t like is the inevitable aftermath of later: he's offering you the opportunity to give yourself up–then get thrown away, with the enjoyment of some perks in between. You could repeat your mother’s history all over again, a thing you always swore up, down, and sideways you would never do.

Donaka watches all these thoughts play across your face, without a word aloud to accompany them. You just stare, unable to speak, and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Say one sentence of the novel you just wrote in your head out loud,” he challenges.

You open your mouth to try, but nothing comes out. All you can do is look up at him with what you are sure is a pathetic expression on your face, paralyzed. He is so close, and your eyes fixate for a long, damning moment on his mouth. In the end you have to close your eyes against that laser-like stare, shaking your head.

“You know something I find interesting about you,” he goes on. You open your eyes, though your tongue is still tied. “I think if I made you choose between an Hermès purse or that cheap bauble on your wrist this morning, you still would have chosen the bracelet, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, maybe not to your advantage. Then you feel a little relieved, glad it didn’t cost a fortune.

“Comparatively cheap,” he clarifies, as though he doesn't want you to feel too at ease. How did he know? 

You narrow your eyes, lifting your wrist towards him. “Maybe…you should take it back.”

You think you might die of a heart attack, when he folds your smaller hand in his, and kisses your knuckles lightly. “It’s too late for that.”

You’re not sure what that means, but as he strokes your thumb lightly with his, you start to tremble.

“Sir…” 

He pins you with his stare, looming over you, but makes no move, waiting. 

“It’s getting late…and I have to work tomorrow.”

He lifts an eyebrow, smirking down at you. “And whose fault is that?”

“Mine…though it’s starting to be yours.”

He snorts. “Then ask me for the day off again,” he dares you. When you answer him with yet more paralyzed silence he gets frustrated, tilting your face up with his huge hand engulfing your jaw. For a man who works in tech…his fingers are calloused, and strong, and your legs just might go out from underneath you.  “Ask me. Say it out loud, y/n. Tell me what’s going on, behind those big eyes.”

You, however, just shake your head against his masterful grip. “You don’t want to know.” 

“I like secrets, y/n. I want to know everything.” You suppose that is his bread and butter, with his security business and all his cameras…you don’t know why it never occurred to you before now, that it could be a personal obsession, as much as professional. 

You’re tempted. God, are you tempted, with this beast of a man looming over you, touching you, looking through you with those piercing dark eyes. Like he wants to eat you as much as he wants to fuck you… 

Somehow you know if you dare go down that path…there will be no turning back. 

You choose the coward’s road.

“Please…I think…it would be best…to call it a night.”

He weighs you with a heavy gaze for so long that you start to doubt he will let you go–in the darkest dungeon of your heart, you know that a part of you doesn’t want him to. It would be convenient, if he would make the choice for you. Let you taste the forbidden fruit with none of the blame…

You are losing your goddamned mind over this man. You need to stop.  

You never really know why in the end he releases you, pushing back from the wall to give you space. You side-step towards the door of the servant’s quarters, afraid for the predatory look he’s paying you, that he might change his mind.

 "Good night, Mr. Mark," you say quietly, before disappearing into the little building where you sleep. A rush of frustration flares inside him as you scamper away–again. He narrowly resists the urge to kick down your door and show you who you belong to.

“Good night,” he answers back through gritted teeth, only the crickets left to hear him. He’ll have your secrets, one way or another. He can genuinely say he tried–a first, in so long he can’t remember when. For what happens next…you will only have yourself to blame.

[ihearthes]

Abbey Road Studios:

A Harry Styles Meet Cute

Author: @ihearthes

Pairing: Harry x Original Unnamed Female Character

Rating: Fluffy Meet Cute

Word Count: 3439

“You’re shitting me?” I gaped at my manager. “THE Abbey Road Studios? How did you…? When am I…? What the actual fuck?” 

Her grin across the desk was wider than a grand piano. “When I talked to the publishers about the audiobook, I assured them that being in the quintessential studio where the Beatles recorded The End would lead to a more inspired audiobook recording of your book The End.” 

Leaping out of my chair, I rushed around her desk and hugged her tighter than a guitar string nearing its breaking point. Her laughter was rich, the hearty kind that could be served with both a spoon and a fork. Maybe even a knife thrown in for good measure. 

“I’ll make you proud,” I vowed before releasing her and returning to the other side of the sparse wooden desk with its ornate carvings on each of the four legs.

“You already have,” she grinned. “After all, you have the most popular music podcast in the world.” Her statement was a major overstatement. Although my 2 year old podcast Time Machine Tunes was growing, it was barely in the top 100 music podcasts. Maggie was convinced the book would drive more listeners my way. “This book is going to be the icing on the cake of your popularity. You’re going places, kid.” 

While I could have managed without the ‘kid’ tacked onto every sentence the 72-year-old American dynamo spoke about me, I was keenly aware that I still had a long way to go in establishing my career as a historical music writer. Without Maggie fighting on my behalf, I would still be shopping my manuscript to publishers. Meticulously researched despite the subjects not honouring me with an interview, my book was garnering buzz from the musical world before the final manuscript was even sent to the publisher. 

“If you’ve heard the author’s podcast, you’ll understand her fascination with the greatest band of all time. You’ve heard the stories of how they ended, but this book delves more deeply into the stories surrounding their breakup,” read the promotional blurb written by Cameron Crowe. 

Maggie never would tell me how she managed to convince the great Cameron Crowe to write a blurb for my book, but I suspect it had something to do with the past she never mentions, likely involving a stint as a groupie in the late sixties. 

Days later, the popular zebra crossing was laid out before me with a steady stream of fans lined up to record their personal rendition of the most famous band photograph ever taken. I took a deep breath. In one tote bag, I carried my favourite teas, biscuits, and a bag of fresh fruit. The other tote bag held a copy of my bound manuscript with notes written in the margins of how I want to sound when I read certain parts of the text aloud. Places to pause were marked in pink highlighter. Sentences to be spoken with more emphasis were underlined. The usual. 

This is how I prepare for my podcast, so I shouldn't have felt as strange as I did. At the bottom steps of the studio, I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and whispering to myself, “Just act normal.” 

My fingers pressed on the wooden door, and it surprisingly opened at my touch. Inside was a reception desk with a stony-faced twenty-something female sitting behind it, tapping lightly on the keyboard keys, and a security guard wearing a uniform that must have weighed double the young man wearing it. 

“No tours. The shop is next door, Miss,” the receptionist politely used her pen to point the way. 

Gulping air, I nodded, then spoke in a rush. “I’m here to record. I mean, I have an appointment. I mean I’ve – my manager, really – has reserved a studio for me.” 

So much for acting normal. 

“Which studio?” 

“The Front Room?” I ventured. 

She tapped her pen on the book in front of her before shrewdly surveying me from head to toe. “Oh yes. Hand over your ID please so we can verify your identity.” 

I fumbled my way through my pocketbook, seeking the one item that always seemed to fall to the bottom, no matter how large or small my bag might be. Just as I felt the leather of the small wallet touch my fingers, it slipped away again until I finally had to set the bag on her desk to more effectively dig through it. In triumph, I finally withdrew the offending item, raising it above my head. 

The security guard simply stared at me until I freed my licence from its card slot, handing it over with a flourish. With a brusque nod, he took it from me with two fingers, exiting the room to another office. 

“Should I – follow him?” I inquired, my voice a combination of shaky and firm. 

“No.” Her reply was curt. 

Minutes later, he emerged, handing me back my licence before directing me to another door. “That’s the Front Room. The team is waiting for you.” 

My insides quivered like a bowl of elderflower jelly as I took the steps necessary to walk to the identified door. 

“Ta!” I waved to the front office team before opening the studio door and stepping inside. Closing the door behind me, I slumped against it, eyes closed, and whispered, “You daft git.” Because of course I would see them again. Soon probably. And every day for the week while I would be recording. 

“Excuse me?” The voice caused me to stand up straight. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean you.” My eyes took in the slight man standing before me in blue jeans and a cosy oversized jumper. His curls were ringlets that reached his shoulders, and his beard was neat and trim. 

“Who did you mean?” 

Wincing, I frowned, my face cycling through about five different expressions before settling on a smile that, I hoped, lit up my whole face. “Me. I meant me. I’m —” Freezing, I held out my hand to this man, briefly forgetting my name. 

“I know who you are. I’m Sean, your engineer.” 

“Oh! It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for helping me.” 

Sheepishly, he shuffled his feet. “Don’t thank me too profusely. This is my first time doing this on my own.” 

“Congratulations!” My voice squeaked out a little too loudly. “This is my first time recording in a real studio. My podcast is normally recorded in a tiny room at home that I’ve converted into a studio.” 

“I’ve heard your podcast,” Sean reveals. “My partner and I never miss an episode.” 

Grasping my hands together, I hold them over my heart. “Really? Thank you so much. It’s my baby.” 

“One of these days you’re going to need a producer, you know. You can’t keep doing it all on your own. Not if you want to get bigger. And you’ll need a recordist. And an engineer too.” 

“Oh.” My voice was tiny. His words felt like a scolding and a dismissal of my teensy podcast and my dream to grow it into something larger. 

“No, no. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He was quick to correct my assumptions. “You’ll continue to expand your audience, and more people will want to be part of your team. It’s the natural evolution of recording. Unless you’re not any good – which I’ve already said you are.” 

Choosing to take him at his encouraging word, I set my totes on the sofa in the control room. “Sean, I’m confident we’re going to get along just fine this week.” 

“I’m sorry that you’ve just got me. It’s usually a bigger team here for the Front Room, but…” His voice trailed off, and I focused on his face. 

“But?” 

“It’s nothing.” He mindlessly picked some lint off of the immaculate sound board. “Some of the rest of the team thought it was sacrilegious for you to come into Abbey Road Studios to share your book about how THEY ended.” 

The emphasis on the pronoun made it clear who he meant. “Ah, I see. They refused to work with me even though they had no idea what the book actually says or how much research I did?”

His shoulders raised and lowered, and his eyes roamed the floor. “Like I said, I’m sorry.” 

The reluctance of the rest of the team set like a stone in my stomach, but I shook off the negativity. Oh well. Fuck them. 

“Their loss,” I grinned. 

He smiled back at me. “Agreed. Let’s do this.” Sean gestured around the space, pointing out everything I needed to know, and I unpacked my totes in preparation for the day. “Nice selection of teas,” he commented. 

“My throat gets dry sometimes.” 

As if he needed my explanation. He had worked with loads of people who probably needed tea to lubricate their throats, so it couldn’t be unusual. Why I felt like I needed to justify every bit of my practice was beyond me. I was a professional after all. 

A professional who had no idea what she was doing in a fancy studio like this. 

Apparently I was feeling a twinge of imposter syndrome. 

“Shall I heat some water now?” Sean asked as I unpacked the manuscript with all of its sticky notes resembling the jagged cliffs of Dover. It was really sweet of him to offer, so I agreed. The control room wasn’t very big; other than the sofa, it housed a couple of plants and, of course, the prominent sound board. Sean flicked the switch on the electric kettle to the left of his console and turned back to where I was standing, my manuscript tucked to my chest as though it contained a pirate’s treasure. 

“Let’s get you into the booth,” he said, leading me through the only other door in the small studio. “We mostly do music here, as I’m sure you know. But I think I’ve got things set up well for an audiobook. I brought in this small desk and a chair. If you don’t like the chair, I can find another one. Oh, and I found this.” He directed my attention to a book stand. Sheepishly, he smiled. “I was worried a music stand would be too flimsy.” 

His simple preparations were touching, and my gratitude was boundless. 

My arse settled into the chair, and I sighed at how luxurious it felt on my bum. “Perfect!” I proclaimed, placing the first chapter of the manuscript on the book holder. 

“Great! Let’s try some different microphones and test your voice.” 

An hour plus a few minutes later, we had finalised the microphone choice as well as the calibration of the sound board controls with my voice. My cup of tea was to my right and my coloured pencils were to my left so I could easily grab them to indicate changes to my delivery. 

To record, Sean closed the door between the control room and the booth, but I could see him through the full sized soundproof glass inset on the door between us. During the first couple of hours, he would encouragingly nod to me at times. Or he would grimace, and I would know I had to read a section differently. Or louder. Or softer. Or with more expression. 

“Uh, this first chapter will probably take a long time to record,” Sean shuffled his feet as we finished our morning tea. “Don’t panic. Once we get into a groove, the rest of the book will go much faster. It’s just that we have to, you know…” 

“I understand,” I commented, nodding graciously. “It’s fine. As long as we get finished with the book by the end of the week…” 

“Oh, that won’t be hard.” He flapped his hand at me. “We might even have time on the last day to record a few of your upcoming podcasts.” 

“Really?” I was intrigued at the thought.

“But only if we don’t get too distracted.” 

Ha! What could possibly distract me from my work? 

I found out the answer to that question that very afternoon. 

Sean and I were finally recording chapter two, our bellies full of the lunch he’d convinced a studio runner to take away from a nearby Indian restaurant. The remnants, half-full boxes of rice and curry with naan bread, covered the top of the coffee table by the sofa. 

We had switched out the comfy chair for a wooden stool so that I could sit upright, practise my best posture and, most importantly, not fall asleep after the heavy meal. Sean played the roles of engineer, recordist, and director with joy and a skill that I came to both appreciate and disparage as the early afternoon flew by. 

 When I looked up from the script in front of me as we were in the middle of chapter three, I was surprised to find Sean turned towards the main studio door, his lips moving as though he were talking to someone. 

“Hey!” My voice expressed my gentle offence in his headphones. “I thought we were a team, but you’re not even listening!” 

He shook his head, removing his headphones and punching the button for his microphone. 

“Take five. There are a couple of fans of yours out here who want to meet you. I think you might recognize one of them.” 

Ugh. Fine. 

Standing from the stool, I stretched my arms over my head, my vintage Beatles t-shirt rising and revealing my belly button. Through the large window between the booth and control room, I watched as Sean stood, his head bobbing up and down and a grin on his face. 

When I could stall no more, I opened the door, leaning against the door jamb as I examined the two men standing by the studio door.

“Hi,” said one. 

My jaw dropped as the other man’s face came into focus. Holy shit. How was he here? Had Sean joked about him being a fan? He must have been because there was no way… 

“Jeff Azoff,” I breathed, attempting to speak coherently. “You’re Jeff Fucking Azoff.”

“Yes” was his smooth answer. “And I’m sure you know who this is…” He gestured to the man with him, and I shifted my gaze briefly to him. While extremely handsome, his face didn’t ring any bells, but I decided I’d better be polite and go along with the implication that I should know him by sight. 

“Nice to meet you,” I muttered, quickly turning back to THE Jeff Azoff. “How did you…? I mean, holy shit. The number of times your father’s name has appeared in my research is staggering. Did you grow up surrounded by all of those musicians? REO Speedwagon? Dan Fogelberg? The fucking Eagles?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. 

Man of few words. 

“What was it like? Oh wow. What I would give to pick your brain. Did I hear Sean correctly? You’re a fan? You listen to my pod?” 

Once more, he bobbed his head in answer to my multiple questions. And then he tried to hoist me off on his friend again. 

“Harry has worked with some other great artists,” Jeff began, nodding towards his companion. 

Dismissively, I waved my hand in the direction of the handsome man who simply grinned, an extraordinary dimple appearing. 

“YOU know my podcast?” I demanded of Mr. Azoff.

“Yes.” 

Holy shit. Confident I would need to pry any future responses out of him, I placed my hands on my hips. 

“You’ve heard my series about the Eagles then?” 

“Indeed.” 

“And? What did you think? Are you going to tell me everything I got wrong?” 

“No, but I really think you might want to talk to Harry about…” 

I interrupted. Whoever this Harry was, I was much more curious about this man’s take on my podcast. “Has your father heard my podcast?” My voice may have squeaked a little when I asked the question. 

A nod was the only reply I got before he turned back to the bloke with him. 

“Is this weird for you?” 

“No.” The handsome man appeared to be amused as his lips twitched to the side, and his eye crinkles magically appeared. “Unique, but not weird.” 

Narrowing my focus on the handsome one, I squinted. “You’re a musician recording here?” 

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he grinned. “I’m Harry.” When my face still showed no signs of recognition, he added in a smooth voice with a northern accent, “You might have heard of me. My music has won a few awards. Harry Styles.” 

The blood drained from my face. I had been freaking out over Jeff Azoff when the muse to Stevie Nicks was standing in front of me? It was Harry who grasped my elbow when I started to fall over from a lack of oxygen, gently guiding me to the sofa. 

“Maybe some water?” he asked Sean who rushed into the booth to grab my water bottle, handing it to Harry quickly. 

“Sip it slowly,” the Grammy winner said, and I ignored his instructions, nearly choking as I sucked water into my lungs. “Hey, hey. Easy there.” Glancing at Azoff, Harry laughed, “This feels more normal.” 

“You –” I choked, coughing between words. “You – know – Stevie – Fucking – Nicks.” 

Curiosity furrowed his brow. “That’s why you nearly passed out? Because I know Stevie?” 

“You not only know her.” My voice was filled with incredulity and awe. “You’re her muse. You’ve performed with her – and with Fleetwood Mac. And you were the one who inducted her. Holy fuck. You must have done something right in life.” Stopping, I swallowed. “Holy fuck. I must have done something right in my life.” 

He had settled on the sofa next to me, his face a mass of confusion. His head was tilted, and his lips were pursed as he scratched at his head. 

But I didn’t have time to wait for him to catch up. “You can introduce me! Fleetwood Mac is my next podcast series, and if this book does well, I might write a full book about them. I’ve been engaged in a deep dive of reading about their time as a band. I’ve read everything I can find – official or not. In fact, there is a stack of books on my nightstand about Stevie and Mick and the rest. You have to introduce me. It would mean the world to me.” 

My pleading must have broken through his confusion, and he cleared his throat. “You want me to vouch for you to Stevie? I don't really know anything about you.” 

“But you listen to my podcast, right?” My head swivelled between Harry and Jeff. “Oh! You could read my book. See what my style is. I swear I would do right by Stevie. I’m so disappointed that I didn’t get to meet Christine before she… Anyway, I’ll do anything for an introduction. What do you need from me?” 

“Anything?” Harry humoured me. 

“Yes.” Swallowing, I nodded eagerly. 

“You’re saying I could read your book? The one that’s not yet published? The one you’re recording now?” 

My head bobbed like a cormorant. 

“The one that’s about The End? That book?” 

I hadn’t stopped my silly affirming as my head continued to move in the same up and down pattern. 

“And maybe Jeff could read it too? And my friend Paul?” 

My head froze, mid-bob. “Paul? Sir Paul? Sir Paul Fucking McCartney?” 

Harry laughed, a delightful tinkling sound, his head rearing back with his joy. “Does everyone in your world have the same middle name?” 

“Huh?” 

“Fucking. Jeff Fucking Azoff. Harry Fucking Styles. Stevie Fucking Nicks. Sir Paul Fucking McCartney.” 

Slapping my hand over my eyes and forehead, I groaned. “Please don’t tease me or joke with me. I’ve been trying to get Sir Paul to talk to me and read the manuscript since I started writing it. Not a single response to my queries.” 

“Hmmm…” Harry murmured, tilting his head to one side. “So if you would do anything to meet Stevie, what would you be willing to do to meet Paul?” 

“Name your price.” I was hoping he wouldn’t ask for much. All I had was the flat I shared with a friend from uni and a wardrobe of vintage clothing I’d carefully culled from a variety of charity shops.

“I get to be there when you meet them.” My head whipped up so that our eyes connected. “Plus five dinner dates with me.” 

My eyes narrowed, “In addition to any meals we share with Stevie or Paul?” 

Nervously, he licked his lips and glanced at Azoff who shrugged, seemingly disinterested. 

“Yes.” 

Author's Note: This really is just an introduction to these characters as part of a series on Meet Cutes. Who hasn't dreamed of meeting Harry Styles somewhere? Live vicariously through these women who randomly run into Harry Styles as part of their normal lives. How might one chance meeting change their lives forever?

[thetxtdevil]

Witch's Brew

Taehyun x Reader

summary: a simple fairytale of a witch in the woods doing her duties of potion making with her raven familiar. however the familiar isn't just a bird to help with her responsibilities...

content: smut w/ plot, witch f.reader, familiar/demon taehyun/terry, dom taehyun, mentions of masturbation, begging, oral (fem receiving), slight spanking, bulge kink, let me know if i'm forgetting anything

word count: 3k

"a drop of vampires’ white blood, two tears of a siren, herbs from the troll's garden, water from the still stream"

your hands wave in circular motions over a big charcoal cauldron. your face glows the numerous hues from your potion. along side you a raven perched on a back of a wooden chair watching closely to the boiling concoction.

"here are the makings of the weeping soup!"

the potion's boiling bubbles get more abundant. the steam turns into weeping ghost like figures reflecting the name. a grin appears on you face and with wide eyes you look at the weeping soup with hunger. as it is your dinner for tonight.

"terry, darling, would you fetch me a ladle?"

the raven you spoke to croaks back to you and flies away. coming back as soon as you turn to the two bowls on the cauldron's side table. picking one up you raise your hand up the dark bird flies over and drops the spoon with its talons into your lifted hand. you scoop up the soup pouring it into the beautifully carved bowl and set it down. you then grab a smaller bowl and do the same but you place it down in-front of the raven.

the raven gurgles with contentment. you give him a big smile as you pick up your bowl and walk over to your sofa. extending your finger towards the tv, a flicker of electricity turns on the box and you watch with delight.

you were a witch raised by a coven of witches. you knew all things magic and the creatures who live amongst the magic. you excelled in potion making however, you fell behind the great skill of memorizing and brightness. you are smart, not a lot of witches could understand the art of potions but sometimes you could get a little... distracted.

your mother would find you in tears after you accidentally tipped over a bowl of bubbling liquid on the floor or the time a potion exploded in your face because you forgot to add a pinch of wolves fur.

this fact made your 16th birthday exciting as it is the age when a witch receives their familiar. familiars were demons that would obey you along with help you and they usually took the form of an animal. the day of your 16th birthday your coven dug up a black crystal that shimmered hues of blue and silver. you were beyond excited to see what your new friend would be.

you place it on your night stand next to your bed that night. you stared at it with big eyes until you fell asleep. drifting off you find yourself in a dream like state. everything was dark with white and grey smoke that formed shapes. you follow the patterns of the smoke and then you see the smoke stops you by forming a shape of a young man.

he was unreal. the figure had sculpted muscles, his teeth were bright and beautiful, encapsulated by sweet lips.

"who are you?"

"i am taehyun."

"kiss me" you blurted out

the man smiles at you but doesn't do anything. taehyun's body starts to fade away and you rush towards him but it was too late. you wake up with a loud sound of a bird's call. you wince at the sound along with the sun hitting your eyes. you look over to see that your black crystal has been replaced with a beautiful black raven.

you were a fully grown witch now. you had a few years with your familiar you named terry and graduated earning the title of potioneer. it was time to move on, your coven didn't want you to leave, but you knew you had to do it besides your house was only 10 minutes away if you take a broomstick.

your house was a classic witches' cottage. small, wooden, with vines overgrowing it. yet it had the necessary advancements of modern day living: a working toilet and shower, heater, ac, wifi. it was all you and terry needed.

one morning after it rained all night, the sun was rising making the grass and vines shine. terry flew over the fields of freshly watered grass scavenging items for your future potions as you were still asleep. as the raven was enjoying the smell of earth he notices a women running. terry isn't too worried about her until he sees the lady heading towards the cottages. terry soars to the window of your bedroom. he croaks loudly making sure you wake up.

"huh? what?"

you're a mess waking up by terry's noises. and that's when you hear a loud knock at the door. terry flys up on the cottage’s roof to over hear the two. you open the door to see a familiar face from your coven.

terry on the roof leans down. he's protective of you and doesn't want any intruders messing around.

"y/n! y/n! you have to help us our coven was cursed and a plague is spreading!"

"what? how did this happen?"

"one of the younglings was blamed for stealing a flower from another's coven's garden and they were not too fond of that"

you were stunned. witches are known to be cruel but to put a curse upon a whole coven because of a small thing was medieval.

"we have repelled the curse but people are still sick. i know you're good at making potions so i thought you could make a cure"

there was no way you could say no. this was your family it was your duty to use your abilities to help. so thats what you plan to do. you pack a basket of food and simple potions for the women to take back until you make a cure for the plague.

terry and you are off on your task. you take a trip to the mystical farmer's market trying to find ingredients: rosemary, pixie dust, lavendar, four leaf clovers, anything that would show signs of health. terry flies over a rock shop croaking at you.

"no terry i don't think stones would be useful"

he caws again, you ignore until terry lands on your shoulder and nips your ear.

"ow, ok, if you insist"

you walk over to the rock booth looking over the great selection. you pick up a amethyst and a rose quartz. you were about to settle on those two until you found a rock that resembled the crystal you received when getting your familiar. you smiled looking at terry, his raven head tilting so his eyes can look at you. you buy the rock and thought to yourself even though you're not going to use it, it was nice to have as decoration.

after a million of tries and fails you start to give up hope. ingredients were everywhere, some burnt and ripped. the raven watches cry out of frustration. you crash on your sofa to rest your head. terry flies over laying a blanket on top of your tired body.

"y/n... y/n!"

your eyes open to darkness. your look around to see smoke like shapes you've seen before. looking beside you, you see the man from you dream a long time ago.

"taehyun?"

"hi"

"hi... what are you doing in my dreams again"

"you're giving up hope which means you're giving up on your coven"

"i know but i'm having a hard time" you lean your head down

"you need to try again" the man rubs his pointed nose on your cheek lovingly

"but i've done everything"

"not the stone"

"the stone?" that damn stone terry wanted you to buy "will you finally kiss me if i use it"

just like before taehyun smiles at you and he wraps his body around you until his body turned into fog. a slight "i will." was the last thing you heard from him.

you wake up feeling a little more rested. turning your head to the work table your see your raven perched next to that black stone. you got up to take a good look at the stone, it even had the same shimmer of blue and silver the familiar crystal had. you look at your empty cauldron and then back at the stone. you lifted the stone and threw it at the bottom of the cauldron breaking it into smaller pieces.

the opened rock blasted bright light that filled the dim cottage. terry started to croak at the scene and fly up to grab more ingredients. both you and terry started throwing things in the cauldron like the broken rock's light opened your minds. after hours of spell casting and stirring, the potion was made. this was going to work you could feel it in your potion making bones.

even though it was nighttime you did not want to wait for the next day to deliver the cure. the coven has been waiting patiently and you didn't want to fail them. you wrap yourself in your purple cloak, putting a heavy bowl of potion in a basket, you straddle your broomstick and fly to your old home.

terry arrives before you croaking loudly to awaken the coven. the ones who were less sick came out to greet and praise you. they lead you to the child who was hit hard by the curse. you pour a cup of the white illuminated liquid and give it to the child. terry and you watch closely as the youngling blooms like a flower as soon as she gulps the potion. you turn to look at terry with the biggest smile and the whole coven gathers to get the trusted potion.

you arrive at the cottage after spending time at your first home. you were exhausted, you could feel the heaviness of the dark bags you had under your eyes. but you told yourself that you saved the day. you waddle to your bed and sink into it. the beautiful raven watched from the window as you close you eyes to rest.

as usual the sunrise awakens your tired eyes. you try to turn your body away from the sun's gaze but you then realize there's something in your way. this something was bigger than you, and had their arm around your waist. you freak out leaping out of bed.

"what the hell terry where are you when i need you?" you thought to yourself. looking at the sleeping intruder you found yourself dizzy from the fact that it wasn't a stranger, it was taehyun, a very naked taehyun at that. you climb back on your bed to get a closer look at the beautiful man.

in your dreams taehyun was only shades of white and blurry but now he was very real and detailed. tan skin that glowed in the sun, his muscles seemed more defined in real life, his face was soft yet structural. your hand instinctively strokes his hair, admiring it you realize he had black hair with strands of dark blue and silver.

taehyun slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times to grasp his environment. he looks at you and smiles.

"hi y/n"

"h-hi"

his voice was sweet yet raspy. you lay your head down so you were looking at him at the same level. he smiles just like he has in your dreams.

"so you're real" you poke his bare shoulder

he huffs a laugh "you mean you haven't figured out?"

you look at him confused

"i'm the demon who helps you"

your eye bulge out of your eyes "terry?!"

he laughs at you while pushing you disheveled hair out of your face.

"you're supposed to obey me so everytime time i've asked you to kiss me you were supposed to"

"you're very persistent on that, but that was only a dream"

you frown. you've been so obsessed with the appearance of this man, now that he his real and right in front of you the more you actually want to touch him.

"i did promise that i would kiss you if you used that stone"

"you sure did" you smile

taehyun lifts his head and leans in to kiss you slowly. your mind was exploding the handsome man from your dreams was finally kissing you. the kiss lasted for a while until you finally understood that this was terry your raven. the raven that has seen you naked when you get dressed, the raven whose seen you do some questionable things because you live alone. you lean away from taehyun's kiss and rub your forehead.

"hey what's wrong?"

tae turns your head towards him so he can read you. your blush gave away your embarrassed thoughts to tae.

"yes I've been with you all this time, but i pledged to be with you forever"

the statement felt caring and comforting. you smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and pushed into another deep kiss with the man. this time it felt heated. tae shifts from his spot to hover you. his hands roamed your body softly as if he thought you'd break if he pushed too hard. he kisses your face, jaw, and nips at your ear

"do you just want me to kiss you or do you want more?"

"more" you whine

"more what?"

"more of you, i want you and anything... please"

he smirks at you politeness and does what he is told. kissing you he reaches to the little tied bow holding the collar of your dress and loosens it. he leaves your lips to leave a trail of sloppy kisses down your neck and chest. tae finds himself a little impatient with you dress since there was no easy way to take it off other than tearing it apart. the sound of torn fabric fills your ears.

"terry!" you gasp

taehyun doesn't say anything as he goes back to kissing your body. he had a destination in mind something he's thought of everytime you touched yourself thinking you were alone. stopping himself right above your clothed pussy he looks up at you. your eyes are on him without saying anything he can tell that you were begging him to do something.

just like your poor dress he grabs the thin cloth covering your sweet parts and rips it off. before you could scold the man tae dives his face into your pussy. lapping all the juicy you made just from him kissing you. you grab and pull his raven black hair as you moan loudly. tae pushes a finger in your cunt thrusting it along his tongue. he enjoyed this, eating you out like you never fed the raven. he purposely moans to send vibrations to your core. he replaces his tongue with another finger and starts to suck on your clit. he glaces at his witch whose back was arched with eyes squeezed shut. he reaches his other hand from you thighs to your breast. groping and pinching he was determined for you to cum the hardest you've ever had.

"i- i'm... ugh..."

your body was shaking you couldn't get the words out hot from taehyun's touches. tae didn't want to stop his tongue on your cunt so he hummed. this put you to your last breaking point cumming onto tae as he laps the cum all up.

taehyun lifts his torso up, now on his knees between your legs. he takes the time to look at the sinful sight. your clothes were ripped and the holes were only showing off the part that are usually covered. plush legs spread just for him, breasts moving up and down breathing hard from the orgasm, you had dried up tears on you blushed face. it was beautiful to the demon.

he watched your eyes drift down to his exposed member. the size and bulkiness was enough to make you wet again. tae smirks and hovers over you again to peck your lips.

"say it."

"use that pretty cock and fuck me already"

taehyun shivers at your dirty command. he kisses you one more time before straighting up again.

"flip over and ass up"

with no questions asked you turn your body and lifted your ass straight to tae's face wiggling it a bit. he lifts his hand up to smack down the plush flesh. you squeak at the action which again excites taehyun. he bends over your body giving you a kiss on the shell of your ear whispering

"i like the sounds you make for me will you make more with my dick ruining your cunt?"

you moan a yes dropping you head down as you feel his big erection against your soaking heat. his hands grip your hips as he pushes into your tight walls. tae throws his head back gasping at the feeling. he waits there letting you adjust only for you to start rocking your hips back and forth. tae then takes the lead thrusting into your core faster and faster listening to every noise you make.

you felt beyond good, way better than anything else. you then felt his hand on your belly pushing down. you gasp at what his intention were to feel his bulge that he was creating.

"can- you fill me up?"

tae smirks "as you wish"

tae's thrust became quicker and you joined by moving your hips. his hand still on your belly then drifts towards your clit. the heated feeling came back to you making your tight wall clench around tae. both of you lose your rhythm tae's motions on your clit becomes rushed which help you to your second climax which in turn helps tae to his. your cum now everywhere you whimper at the overstimulation of the man still going. tae keeps his word by blasting inside you covering every bit of your walls white.

he slumps over your torso sweaty flesh clinging to one another. tae snuggles you, head in the crease of your neck giving a few kisses here and there while lightly rubbing shapes onto you're skin.

"if you were terry this whole time why couldn't you have helped me out?"

"helped you with your potions or with your poor fingering skills?" he nips your ear again.

you both smile to yourselves and eventually fall asleep again.

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

[mlmxreader]

Wood Carvings | Kili x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Kili

15 "As long as I'm with you, I'm happy"

18 "You don't have to say anything" ❞

: ̗̀➛ You and Kili get to have some one on one time for once.

: ̗̀➛ N/A

↳ @arthurmorgansballsack

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The fires burned low, creating a soft crackle that was more akin to a hum than anything else, hardly disturbing the vast woodland surrounding you; it was dark, with the skies an obsidian colour and the stars glittering with silver and steel, the lonely moon sat upon its throne with a slight frown.

The trees were tall and thick, bursting with such great life despite their leaves rotting on the ground below and creating homes for beetles and ants and spiders and woodlice; amongst the proud and steady branches, birds slept soundly as they nestled in their nests and snuggled in for the night.

The trees stood guard and watched proudly, just like the tales of old that had said that, once, there had been huge giants that looked like trees who protected forests and each of its species; those that protected tall and slender trees were tall and slender themselves, and those that protected towering and fat trees with thick roots were towering and fat with thick feet.

But those were just tales from an older time; there were no guardians of the forests and the woodlands anymore. The bushes were thick with life, as well, though; with their spiky arms, they were tipped with berries of black, red, blue and green.

Sweet berries that were protected by brave little spiders who were brown and black with stripes on their backs; the spiders seemed aware of who was friend, who was foe, and who was food as they scuttled away from the berries or closer to them depending on who reached for them.

Trolls didn't dare to go near there, and neither did orcs, for fear that the old stories from an older time were true; dwarves would be on edge, fearing that those giant trees would rise up again.

But in a far off land, there was home. It was so close, yet so far.

Almost able to be sniffed out like the smell of those sweet breads with the dried currents inside them that were always baked on a Sunday by the master of the house; she would grin as she put them down, humming songs of old as she went about baking those sweet breads.

They were a staple of the culture.

Just like the wooden spoons that hung up on the wall of the kitchen; they were carved with dragons and dogs and hearts and words in an old language. An ancient language.

Just like the horse's head skeleton that sat in the attic ready for the new year along with its brilliant white sheet and its plant decorations.

Just like the old songs in the old language that the children would sing when they took part of choir until they were older; most of them would continue singing well into their old age, just like the master of the house.

Home.

The smell of soup made with leeks and herbs dense in the air on cold nights, and the hustle and bustle of the mines throughout the day. It was difficult not to miss home when amongst the woodlands, but when you looked beside you at Kili, it didn't feel so bad.

You could still remember when Gandalf had sought out your employment. An miner by trade, you were more than used to long days in the darkness; a pickaxe in your hand, you could withstand any kind of weather and you had the strength needed for what he required.

He had a burglar, that much was true, but he also needed someone who would be able to help the brothers if they needed it. Somehow, Gandalf had learned about you; from your grandmother - the master of the house - he had learned that you had spent the best part of your life down the mines.

Covered in soot and coal, used to the roar of fires and the harsh weather that came with such a job; it was an important role back home, he knew that, and it had forged part of the identity of the people. But through the owner of the mines, Gandalf had also learned of your other skills; you spoke the old language just as well as you did the language of men.

That old language was said to soothe dragons to sleep, and to cool their tempers; he had heard stories about it. The old and ancient language that was as old as dragons themselves; spoken for thousands of years, it was soft on the tongue and quick in the throat.

Gandalf had heard that it was able to work on dragons of any kinds - from fire drakes to the one that he knew rested within your home. It slept in the mountains, a great red beast with thick armoured scales, much bigger than any other dragon, and much more agile and tough, too.

Along its back, it was covered in thick armoured spikes, with a spear-shaped tip on its tail and its tongue. Its claws could tear apart a mountain with ease, and its great red teeth could easily rip through any building in Middle Earth; with its four legs on the ground, it could extend its massive wings and cause devastating hurricanes and awful winds.

But it stayed asleep in the mountains, waiting.

Waiting for the call of its people to sing for its aid; only then would it stir.

The armour that had been worn by those within your lineage was made of that dragon's scales; it would shed them once every hundred years, and when mixed and forged with steal, the armour was unbreakable. Bright crimson in colour, with a large dragon engraved upon the breastplate.

The sword that your forefathers had passed down was made of the dragon's teeth; it would shed them along with its claws once every ten years, and the people would use them to make weapons. Arrows, bows, axes, maces, pickaxes, swords, daggers.

They were the sharpest in all of Middle Earth, and scarce to come by. Families were protective of their armour and their weapons, as they knew how valuable such a thing would be.

Gandalf hired you, knowing all of that, and although you weren't sure about leaving home at first, when you looked at Kili beside you, you knew that it was worth it.

He was leaning on your helmet as he laid on his side with his arm propped up on the dense scaled armour; he smiled when he looked at you.

His raven hair looked beautiful in the moonlight; dark spiced rum in a glass on a winter's evening, but twice as warm. His eyes seemed to sparkle with the silver steel of the stars, and his smile ripped all the homesickness away from you.

You smiled back, swallowing thickly as you hummed.

"What are you thinking about?"

You shrugged, daring to turn your gaze back to the woodland around you. "Home."

"Do you miss it?" He asked quietly.

You nodded slowly, daring to laugh softly. "I miss it, sure, but... when I'm next to you, it don't feel so bad."

"I should hope not," Kili laughed quietly. "We've spent enough time together."

You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving him onto his back. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

It took everything in him not to laugh loudly as he stared up at you. "Tell me about it - your home."

"We're a proud people, like you lot," you started, "we've had our culture and traditions for thousands of years, maybe more. Our language is older than yours, and we're... we're an alright bunch, really. It's hard not to miss the coal mines and the sweet breads, though..."

Kili hummed. "You said about spoons not too long ago."

"Oh, the spoons," you grinned, nodding for a moment. "We carve our wooden spoons for those we love. Family, friends, lovers. Anyone we love more than life itself - we carve spoons for them."

"And me?" He asked, raising a brow. "Would you carve a spoon for me?"

"I'd carve you a thousand spoons," you whispered softly. "I love you beyond the point of creation."

He smiled, nearly grinning; a familiar warmth in his chest, one that always went with him whenever you smiled his way or laughed at his jokes. His hands shook slightly as he struggled to bite back his glee. "You would?"

"I would," you agreed. "I would carve you spoons with your name in my language, ones with bows and arrows. I'd carve ones with Dwarvish runes. Ones that have the same pattern as your braids. I'd carve you spoons with anything, if only I had the wood..."

"Give me a moment," he murmured, getting up and humming to himself.

You watched him wander away, assuming that he just wanted some of the ripe berries from the nearby bushes; you cringed when he almost kicked Thorin's foot, and again when he nearly kicked Bilbo in the head. You didn't think anything of it, staring out at the woodland as you waited.

Kili grinned to himself as he searched the trees for branches that had fallen off; gathering them in his arms as he beamed and wondered if you would ever teach him how to carve them, too, if he managed to get enough wood.

He picked the ones that were fit for the part - branches that weren't too long but not too short, ones that were fatter than they were thin - and cradled them in his arms as he gleefully gathered up whatever he could carry.

More than happy with himself as he brought them back to you eagerly and set them beside you where he had been laid.

"I got some wood," Kili told you with a beaming smile. "Do you think you could teach me how to carve them?"

"Do you have a knife?" You asked, and when he produced one that he had stolen from his brother earlier, you did you best not to laugh. "Alright, grab a branch. You know what a spoon looks like, don't you?"

"I do," he nodded, his hands shaking as he tried to control his excitement. "I'm going to carve yours with a tree... is that possible?"

"Anything is," you told him, guiding his hand slightly. "Go more gentle at the tip, you don't want the handle to be too thin. Remember, most of the carving is on the handle."

Kili nodded, meeting your eyes as he hummed. "I love you - you don't have to stay anything back, I know you do, too."

"I love you, too," you murmured. "You're... you're part of my home, and as long as I'm with you, I'm happy."

"I'm glad the wizard hired you."

"Me, too," you smiled, shaking your head. "Don't be afraid to carve the end of the spoon too thin - it's not meant to be used for eating."

[seospicybin]

DON'T THEY KNOW IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD?

PART II

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Part I

Synopsis: Making a contact with an ancient object, you meet a demon who takes form of the man you desired and forces you to commit terrible acts to stop the world from ending. (13,1k words)

Author's note: I recommend listening to this track while you're reading this fic. Happy Haloween!

Based on an episode of Black Mirror. Content warnings: Violence, gore, mentions of abuse, assaults and graphic imagery. Reader’s discretion is advised!

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo

-

Save one or billions?

Minho's number one rule may be to not leave an eyewitness but your number one rule is to not kill innocent people. Clearly, the man is merely there in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and certainly not expecting to meet a sculptor who turns a murderer at night.

You turn around to run away through the front door but Minho stops you.

"No, no, no," he strongly against your plan to flee.

He fiercely looks at you and says, "No witnesses. You have to kill him!"

You shake your head and refuse to do what he told you. All you want to do is run but Minho holds his ground, not allowing you to leave.

"He's seen you. You have to kill him!" He persists and steers your body to come at the man whose face turns pale once he realizes the horror he's about to face.

The man starts throwing you with anything in his reach, a bag of bread, a pack of sliced cheese, a half-empty bottle of soda, a spoon.

"Go away! Get out of my house!" He says while keeps throwing things at you, sending a bag of chips flying around the kitchen.

"Do it! It's him or you!" Minho urges you.

With one hand steadily covering your face from objects being thrown at you, you rummage inside your bag to take out your hammer to use it once more for the night.

Getting a good grip on it, you aim it at him while he keeps maintaining a safe space from you by swaying a chopping board in front of you.

"Get out, please!" He demands.

He then kicks you quite hard on the leg and with the strength a grown man has, it's enough to send you fall onto the ground. You see the hammer is still in your hand but the bad thing is the man is trying to escape through the kitchen door.

You drag yourself and hurriedly stop him from getting to the door by catching him by the legs, sending him crash down onto the floor.

The fight continues on the floor, the two of you struggling to survive. You try to hit him with the hammer while he gently grips your hand by the wrist to not let you hurt him.

You notice that his other hand is groping the floor, reaching for the bread knife lying inches away from his fingertips.

He only needs to get it and there's a big chance that he can easily stab you with it. You decide to drop the hammer and race him to get the bread knife before him.

You can feel the wooden handle of the knife on your fingers and close to gripping it, he flips you over on the floor to get the knife.

Before he can take it from you, you use all of the strength you have left to flip over, sending him farther from the knife and you can get a hold of it.

Relentlessly, he turns over not knowing that you're holding the knife, and stabs himself right onto it. You can feel the knife piercing through the flesh and right into his chest.

With the knife going all the way in, he still manages to crawl to sit and leans his back against the wall. He's groaning as he looks down at the knife impaled his chest.

You can only watch as he holds the knife and tries to take it out of him, despite you knowing that he shouldn't do it, you do nothing to stop him.

"I'm so sorry," you sob as he finally grabs the handle and slowly pulls the knife out.

Blood is gushing from the wound, soaking his sky blue shirt with crimson red color. Painful groans are escaping his parted mouth followed by a blob of thick, sticky blood.

"I'm so–" your choked sob gets in the way.

"Sorry," you finish with a shaky voice.

You get up from the floor and take two steps back, looking at him helplessly trying to stay alive. The man looks at you and you can see in his eyes that life is slowly leaving him.

The silence that takes over is deafening and the hands on your shoulders are putting some senses back into you.

"Come on. Let's go!" Minho whispers, reminding you that it's time to leave, not wanting to risk another person finding you like this.

Taking one last look at the lifeless body sitting against the wall, you gather your senses and eye the bloodied knife, collecting it along with your hammer as you make your way out of the door like you haven't just killed two men.

-

No matter how long you stand under the shower, the blood is still on your hands.

You sit on the end of the bed in your bathrobe, drops of water dripping from the end of your hair as your head looks down and your hands gripping the edge of the bed frame.

You're in complete shock at what you just did. Killing Tim was the plan, there was no remorse in killing him because you know he deserved it.

But the man, you don't even know his name to begin with, he got killed just because he saw you. You did that.

You look up and Minho is standing right in front of you, "Who was he?"

He sighs before answering your question, "That would be Tim's brother, Kurt."

"What was he like?" You ask, almost inaudible.

He gets quiet and you glare at him to demand an answer, "You know stuff," you say.

You intensely look into the two orbs in his eyes and ask, "Was he a good or bad person?"

He clasped both hands in front of him, "He was... ordinary."

You feel bile rising inside you, feeling sick of yourself for killing an innocent man. You grip the bed frame tighter until your knuckles turn pale.

"I know it's not what you want to hear but..." Minho says, talking in a soft tone and takes a seat next to you on the bed.

"What's done is done and on the plus side, you scored two tonight," he shares, always has a way of looking at the brighter side of evil things you did.

"I think you've done it, look!" He shows you the talisman.

Those two lines should have disappeared since you killed two men tonight which should release you from the binding contract. You feel a little hopeful that maybe you have done it, you have stopped the world from ending.

Minho is just as confused too. He taps the glass as if that would fix it. His face turns sour, realizing that something is wrong.

He holds a finger, at you. "Wait for one– No, two seconds!"

Minho walks over to the landline phone that you only use to call the concierge or to ask for any services available in the building.

He enters 666 on the dialing numbers and presses the phone close to his ear, "It's me, Minho, yep," he speaks to the phone.

"Yeah, uh... I got a talisman circa 1925 but it failed to register one of the sacrifices," He informs while looking closely at the pocket watch.

"Two kills but only one's been recorded," he turns to look at you and flashes you an uneasy smile.

His face tells that he's receiving bad news, "I mean, yeah, but..."

He puts a hand against the wall, needing to hold on to something, "We can't just, ugh... no, I get it, I get it," he says, defeated.

He slams the phone shut and tilts his head up as he lets out a deep sigh. After a while, he turns around to face you and delivers the news, "Tim didn't count."

You feel all hope has exited your body and feel betrayed, "What? Why?"

"He's a murderer. Makes him ineligible. That's what they're saying," he explains with a strained facial expression.

Isn't that the point? You killed him because he was a murderer, he deserved it.

"But we've been picking people who deserve it," you state the only truth you know.

Minho nervously smiles, "Well, you're not supposed to do it that way. It's just..."

He leans against the wall and continues talking, "I thought you'd find it easier that way."

You drop your head and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to asses everything. You need to process the fact that you need to kill another man.

"I'm sorry," Minho sincerely apologizes.

He then sits next to you, turning his body to face you as he explains, "Look, basically anyone who's already been directly responsible for the death of another human being, they're off limits."

He gets concerned by how you're so quiet and afraid that you would change your mind by the slight changes in the rules of the game.

"As far as my boss is concerned, they're playing for the home team," he reassures you.

Suddenly, you don't see the point of doing it anymore. Kill an innocent has certainly way out of your boundary and you can't find it in you to do another one.

"We're actually lucky, you know. His brother turned up thus made your effort didn't go to waste," he calmly concludes.

Lucky? You wouldn't call killing an innocent man lucky. Tonight, his words don't quite comfort you like they usually do. You feel played and maybe it is his trick just to make you do his evil deeds.

It's like you finally came to your senses, you don't see how it benefits you because it's going to be a win for him either way.

You shot up from the bed and sharply pointed your index finger at him.

"Fuck you!" You curse him.

"Go fuck yourself!" You curse louder.

Minho just sits there and takes it all in like you didn't just spew your thick, hot rage on his face and it pisses you off more.

"This is all right for you, huh?"

He lightly shakes his head, "No, it isn't."

He has it easy because he doesn't need to do the heavy workload, he just needs to be there and keep tabs on you.

"No blood on your hands. You're just watching," you lay out the facts with rage bubbling inside of you.

Minho seems to decide to let you finish talking, knowing that you need to get it all out.

"This is entertainment for you!"

You're the only one doomed in this contract, not to mention, that you accidentally put your blood on the talisman and he forced you to permit entry. It's one sick game that he likes to play.

"If the Apocalypse does come, you'll have one big, fun finale!"

"That would be upending the whole place—"

"Yeah, you failed your initiation and got told off," you easily resolve because you don't see why it's so frowned upon. Shouldn't they be happy that the evil won?

"If I fail my initiation..."

You cut through his sentence again, "Get kicked out of the demon school? How sad!" You mock him with a sinister laugh.

"More like cast out," Minho corrects.

You shrug his words away, "Whatever."

The silence takes over for a moment until Minho speaks and fills the air with his light, whispery voice.

"Cast out into a boundless cosmic void and doomed to spend eternity in a vacuum of infinite nothingness."

You look at him as he stares at the thing he describes in his words flashes right in front of him.

"Absence of matter, time, space, light, and sound. I would endure a profound, palpable, and ever-present lack of existence..."

Hearing that makes you feel cold inside and the way he speaks as if he's been feeling that emptiness already makes you empathize with him.

"Alone in perpetuity, forever more," he finishes with a blank stare at you.

It's something that you can easily relate to. Your whole life you've been alone, living in your head because no one cares for you except for the art you made. You can see why Minho spoke with so much sorrow in his voice.

All these times, his fear has been hiding behind his indifference.

You swallow air, then say, "That sounds like my life..."

He watches as you approach him and sit next to him. He closes his eyes as if what he's about to say next is too painful.

"To be honest, I'm scared," he honestly says.

You take his hand and let him rest his head on your chest, you caressingly cradle his head, protecting him any way you can.

Minho turns his head and looks at you, letting you see everything in his eyes. In that moment, you can see that he's afraid, lost, and lonely, feelings that are way too familiar to you and you find comfort in knowing that you find yourself in him.

You slowly lean in and kiss him, letting him know that he's not the only one living such a life.

Something flickers inside you the second your lips meet his in a kiss that feels like a long time coming, it's ever-consuming, taking over.

Minho returns the kiss passionately, allowing you to let go of the worries that chained you and hold you down.

For tonight, you let yourself free.

-

FOUR DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

The sliver of sunlight shines through the cracks of the blinds and hits you right in the eyes, waking you from your deep slumber.

You're lying on your side and feel another body next to you, taking a moment before turning your head in the other direction and seeing Minho there.

Sharing the bed with him feels natural. It's as if you've been sleeping with him for years that he belongs there, lying right next to you.

He reaches for the strand of hair falling over your face and endearingly tucks it behind your ear, then places his hand there, holding the side of your face.

"Morning," he softly says.

For a split second, it feels possible to connect to another human being without feeling afraid that you'll be misjudged. He knows you, he knows the darkest thing you ever done that you don't feel the need to hide yourself anymore.

Then the truth hits.

This is not what normal people have. Normal people don't kill, they're following the rules and stay on the safe side.

You inhale air and close your eyes for a second, "So, one more victim then?"

He drags his hand down to your neck. His thumb tenderly rubs your jaw, "Yeah, the only thing for it," he answers.

There's only one thing crossed your head at that moment, "I can't kill another total innocent," you remark.

Minho takes a breath and slides his hand down to your shoulder, "It's just murderers we have to avoid," he reminds you.

"You mean people like me," you sadly say.

You roll over and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as the truth once again sinks in: You're a murderer.

"My whole life... I never wished harm on anyone," you sigh with so much remorse and guilt.

When you think Minho would do the look-at-the-brighter-side-of-evil-things, he scoffs at your words. You look at him and he is chuckling at you.

You sit on the bed and turn at him, "I-I didn’t," you persist.

Minho also gets up and puts his hands around his knees, smirking.

"Uh..." he scratches the back of his head.

"You couldn't have summoned me for my trial if you hadn't," he says with the smirk still plastered on his face.

You look away and think it over. Were you thinking of hurting someone that night?

"Well, you had to be corruptible not beyond corruption," he further explains.

He then reaches for your hand and holds it, "You know what? You must have had some dark force inside you when you touched the talisman," he says.

That gets you shooting a death glare at him, feeling offended that he takes you as that kind of person.

"There's no shame in it," he assures you with a squeeze on your hand.

That night, you were indeed feeling so much anger and you remember channeling all of that anger on your work. You know exactly what and who happened.

"No, go on," Minho encourages.

He then leans in, not stopping until his head meets yours. With gleaming eyes and whispery voice, he asks, "Who pissed you off?"

-

"There she is!" Kim exclaims.

"Don't you just stand there!" She gets up from her chair and welcomes you with a hug.

It was supposed to be a celebration dinner that she promised, but you see that she invited the director of the gallery with her.

She hugs you and keeps her hand on your shoulder as she pulls away, "You look..." she pauses as she takes a look up and down at you.

Since she said it would be just her and you, you casually dressed in jeans and a blouse.

Kim leans in and quietly asks, "Did you wash your hair?"

She then peers over at Jeff, the gallery director then looks back at you, "Let's sit!"

The waiter pulls a chair for you and prepares another set of cutlery for you on the table.

"She's nice," Minho appears behind you.

He walks over to Kim's chair and looks down at her, "She's a front runner for the..." he mimics throat slitting with his hand on his neck.

He stands behind her chair and continues talking, "Do you know that she takes a bigger cut on your art sales than the one written on the contract?"

You ignore him by taking the napkin and putting it on your lap, at the same time, Jeff talks to you.

"Kim said you're already working on new sculptures?" He asks.

You nod and take a sip of water before answering. Well, you're busy stopping the apocalypse from coming.

"Yeah, I am," you shortly answer.

"Oh, she loves working. There's no way of stopping her from doing what she loves," Kim says with an extra wide smile and false compliments.

Jeff asks the waiter to refill everyone's glass with more wine even though he can do it himself with the bottle sitting not so far from his grasp.

Minho props a hand against Jeff's chair and points at both Kim and him, "These two just fucked earlier in his office," he shares.

That's not the information you needed to know. You kind of guessed why they're so overly friendly with each other, you just didn't expect that Kim would screw a married man.

You quietly sigh while watching the waiter carefully pour wine into your glass without spilling a drop.

"Thank you," you mutter in gratitude.

"Should we start by making a toast?" Jeff suggests.

Kim enthusiastically agrees to his idea, being the first person to lift her wine glass and you have to follow suit, taking your glass in your hand for the toast.

"To our talented artist," Jeff says as he glances at you, then looks the other way, "And to the hardworking art dealer!"

In which Kim smiles and blushes at his words. The second after everyone clinked the wine glasses together, you take a long gulp of your wine in the hope of washing down the sour taste in your mouth.

Once the food is served on the table, you keep yourself busy by stuffing your mouth with food, not wanting to engage in a conversation with them.

You don't mind that you're now only there as a cover for their affair yet you were wrong to think that's the worst thing that happens tonight.

A waiter comes to your table and pulls the chair next to you for someone else. You turn your head to see who else Kim invited to the dinner.

"I apologize for being late," Nick says, taking off his coat with help from the waiter.

"Oh, please! We're more than pleased to know you're still willing to come and have dinner with us," Kim says with yet another fake, bright smile.

If this is her idea of torturing you, she won big. There's nothing that agonizes you more than sitting with these people at the same table.

"You come just right on time, no worries," Jeff says, also pleased by his presence.

Nick sits on the chair next to yours and looks at you when he says, "Yeah, I came just in time for desserts."

You sip your wine to avoid talking to him but that doesn't stop him from talking to you.

"How are you?"

"Good," you shortly answer.

He nods even though looks dissatisfied by your short answer. He takes a sip of his wine as Jeff starts talking to him.

"Thank you for letting us keep the sculptures until exhibitions end," Jeff says.

He waves him off and puts down his wine glass, "No problem at all."

Kim leans on the table at you, "He's the one who bought all of your sculptures," she informs.

"Really?" You innocently ask.

Kim laughs in response but you sense the scornful in that laugh, "She's still in awe," she puts it politely for everyone to

As an artist, you would love for someone appreciative of your art as the one who bought it, not someone who solely has the power to buy it. You know which one is Nick, worse is, he bought them just to impress you.

"Must be busy campaigning, huh?" Jeff says as he digs into his dessert.

Nick lets out a low chuckle yet not denying it. You've been busy stopping the end of the world from coming and not been keeping up with the news.

"Campaigning for what?" You innocently ask again.

Kim leers at you and places a hand on yours, "Nick is running for congress, honey," she says with a strained smile.

"Ah," you swallow a piece of cake down and your throat feels like closing up.

"Young and smart, oh... anyone would be lucky to be with you, Nick," Kim praises with her eyes oozing with admiration.

She looks at you to seek your agreement, "Amazing, isn't he?"

You don't see what is amazing about that when he uses his family's wealth to back his political campaign but surely, you can't be honest about it.

"Yeah," you half-heartedly answer.

Nick seems to be delighted that you show a tad interest in him a smile rises on his face.

The waiter has taken all the plates away and everyone is draining the wine bottle with more conversation that you're not part of and you don't want to be a part of it anyway.

"Nick's brother and I went to the same private school," Jeff boasts of his connection with Nick's family.

"Oh, really?" Kim asks with her saccharine smile.

"We still play golf together now and then, right Nick?"

"Yes," Nick confirms.

"Fuck me," Minho comments as he sits on the table behind Nick.

Nick thinks that you're looking at him and asks, "I've been meaning to ask you," he says.

You gently put your coffee cup down on the saucer, "yes?"

"Our family has this villa, we're renovating it now and I'm wondering if I can personally request you to make a sculpture or two..."

It's a mystery how you manage to have not puked at this point. These subtle bragging and power moves, they're suffocating you.

"I'm not sure," you vaguely answer.

"She's busy working on her new series," Kim answers for you and you feel thankful that you don't have to reject him.

"But maybe if she manages to finish it sooner, she'll reconsider the offer," she adds, shattering the kind thought you have for her just now.

Jeff pats Nick on the shoulder and says, "I can't wait to hear your big speech at the city hall!"

"Oh, please!" Nick politely smiles and leans back in his seat, "Jeff has been kind enough to lend me his villa as our temporary office."

Jeff laughs while squeezing his shoulder, not sure who they're trying to impress beside Kim.

"Oh, fuck me some more!" Minho groans with a dramatic eye roll.

Even when it's time to leave, Nick and Jeff get into a little argument about who should be paying for dinner tonight and the fight has to happen in front of you and Kim.

You're itching to pull out your credit card just to get it over with but you don't want to make a dent on two grown men's egos.

"Thank you for dinner," Kim says to Nick as the winner of the argument.

You meekly follow suit, "Thank you!"

"It's my pleasure," he says with a smile that showcases his perfect white teeth.

Even Minho has disappeared from the scene, probably fed up with everything.

"Can I give you ladies a ride home?" Nick offers as he fixes the collar of his coat.

"I would love to!" Kim eagerly answers, "But since our homes are on the same way, I'm getting a ride home from Jeff."

She holds her purse by the other hand and pulls you close to her side, "but she'll take the lift home, right babe?"

When Kim says, it has to happen or else it's going to end badly.

-

Despite that he can afford a chauffeur, Nick drives his own car.

You've been meaning to ask if he knows where you live because you don't enjoy spending more time with him but how to do that without initiating a talk with him.

"You live in the Crystal Palace, right?" Nick asks.

Should you be grateful that he knows where you live or spooked? But one thing you know for sure is that Kim tells him about it.

"Yes," you answer.

"Isn't the owner just passed away a few days ago?"

"Yes."

"My grandfather knew him when he was still working as the company's mailman," he says.

That's news to you because what did a mailman do that led him to own one of the most luxurious apartment buildings in the city?

"Oh, I never knew that," you weakly say.

"I know, right? One day he just... turned wealthy," he says, gobsmacked by the simplest of mysteries.

He puts one hand down and places it on the space between you and him, "Guess, we'll never know," he says.

He stops the car right near the entrance of the apartment building and you quickly gather your bag, don't want to waste time to exit his car.

"Thank you for the lift home," you tell him, your hand pushing open the handle of the car door.

Nick grabs your elbow and stops you from stepping out, he catches you off guard to place a kiss on your cheek.

"I had a great night," he says, then lets you go.

You don't wait for another second to get out of his car and wipe his kiss off your cheek until your cheek is raw by the excessive rubbing you do on the elevator ride up to your floor.

"So, have you decided yet?" Minho reappears in your apartment.

You toss your bag and take off your coat, "What?"

"Are you going to kill Kim or do you have your eyes on someone else?"

Going to your bedroom, you open your laptop and type a name on the search engine. The results come in under a second and you scan every article there is about this person.

"Oh?" Minho lowly gasps from behind you.

You lean back on your chair and stare at Nick's photo on the laptop screen, "What's his future?"

Not getting an answer from Minho, you swivel your chair to face him, "Can you show me his future"

He seems to hesitate when he has no problem showing you everyone else's. After a moment of consideration, he finally answers, "Yeah, but let's not."

You lean forward on the chair and press him, "Show me right now!" You demand.

He takes a step back and puts a space in between, refusing to do what you ask.

You get up from your chair and stand in front of him, "Show me or I'll confess to everyone and then it's over," you threaten him.

Not letting him get away, you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing your words, "And then you're fucked," you enunciated the doom lingers on those words.

Minho clicks his tongue to try to diminish the threat in your words but it falls short on itself. He knows that he has to cooperate with you for this to work.

"Show me!" You pressure him with a squeeze on his shoulder.

He takes your hand away and now putting his hands on your shoulders, steers you back to your chair, then sits you down.

"Alright, I'll show you," he says, turning the chair the other way. He covers your eyes with his hand to show you what you want.

It's like a movie playing in the back of your head and each scene is taken from war, apocalyptic movies. Getting a seat at the congress is just the beginning, from there Nick will climb the power ladder and become the worst of evil.

Minho snaps you out of it and you gasp as if you've been pulled out of water.

"He's a fucking satan!" You say out of spite and that is the first thing that crosses your head.

"No, he's not one of us, not literally," Minho denies.

You turn your chair to see as he sees him sitting at the end of the bed, "They do like him, they're fans of his work, you might say."

When you thought Nick couldn't be more vile, the future Nick is far worse than you imagined. From what you saw through Minho's vision, you're assured of your decision.

"He's got to go. He's next," you remark.

You see Minho's face turns dim as if someone flipped the switch off, "Uh-oh, they're not going to like that."

Not accepting that Minho refuses to get behind your decision, you come up with your own defenses. You walk up to him and stand firm on your ground, "The only rule is to avoid murderers. You said that!"

He licks his lips which are as red as his hair and lets out an exasperated sigh, "Right. But he's responsible for an impressive number of juicy deaths—"

You cut him off with the current fact, "Not yet he isn't."

"But he–he... he likes to assault women," he argues.

You tip your head and come up with a reply, "But hasn't killed one, though, has he?"

"I mean, he killed a dog with a rock when he was 11," he shares information that he doesn't really favor him.

"Animals don't count!" You remind him of that, "That was one of the first things you said."

Minho seems to be struggling to come up with another excuse. It's the right opportunity for you to push him to the edge and give in.

"Is he qualified or not?" You corner him with the important question there is.

"Technically, yeah. But..." He meekly answers with a defeated sigh.

"He's the one. That's that," you end the conversation there.

With or without Minho's approval, you're going to kill Nicholas de Ville and stop the end of the world.

-

THREE DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

"Miss Kim is in a meeting with Director Lane," The assistant says as you're about to push into Kim's office.

You turn around with your hand still lingers on the handle of the door.

"I know," you calmly reply.

"You don't mind if I wait in her office, right?" You ask the assistant.

Knowing Kim's traits, you're not surprised that she changes her assistant every few months. Must be hard to find someone who can handle her.

She seems to hesitate to let you in. You let go of the door and hold your bag in front of you. The occasion calls to use your power.

"You know who I am, right?"

"Y-yes," she stammers.

You walk up to her table and look her right in the eyes, "Are you?"

She nervously swallows air and gets up from her chair, "I don't think Miss Kim would mind letting you wait in her office," she says.

You maintain the gaze with her then smile, "Right."

Before you push inside, you stand in the doorway and request, "And can I have a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," the assistant replies.

"With cream, no sugar," you add.

"Yes," she answers.

"Why are you still standing there?" You ask with a subtle glare.

She fumbles to get out of her desk, "Right away, Miss!"

The coffee is just an excuse to send her assistant away so you can get on Kim's desk and search for something on her computer.

To cut time, you use the search box and type in what you're looking for. It takes a few seconds until the desired result appears on the screen, and you take a picture of it with your phone.

"Playing spies, aren't we?" Minho asks as he plays with a figurine on Kim's desk.

Hearing footsteps outside, you hurriedly sit on the sofa and pretend to play with your phone.

"Your coffee, Miss!" The assistant says, serving the steaming hot coffee on the glass table.

She holds the tray close to her chest and informs, "Miss Kim is on her way back and will be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you," you mutter.

Right after the assistant left, Kim came into the office, looking like she just ran a whole yard in her exquisite, pencil skirt.

"Oh, you're here!" Kim exclaims as she steadies herself with her hand on the handle of the door.

"That's what you called sex hair!" Minho shares as he sits next to you.

It takes no genius to know that the so-called meeting means so much more than that. The tousled hair, the untucked shirt, and the folded collar of her blazer are enough to explain what happened in the meeting. You lift your coffee cup and blow on it before taking a small, careful sip.

"What's up? How's it going?" She nervously asks, putting her notebook and phone on her desk as she quietly fixes her hair.

You swallow your coffee first before answering, "I came here to return the paperwork," you answer.

You take them out of your bag and place them on the table, "And also to taste the coffee your new assistant made," you add with a smile.

You seem so calm and collected that Kim takes it as unusual. She stops fixing her appearance and leans against her desk, her eyes are scanning you.

"Are you okay, babe?"

You smile at her and coyly answer, "Never been better!"

Your words only worry her instead of the opposite, she's nodding yet her eyes remain suspicious.

"I have to go back and work on my sculpture," you get up from your sofa and take your bag with you.

You walk up to her and look at her, looking at her face that would usually make you feel the slightest bit of distress. However, as you keep looking at her, you realize that there's no need for you to fear her. With or without her, you'll manage to live because she needs you more than you need her.

Kim senses that you're analyzing her in your head and you see that her cool exterior starts to crumble.

"Is something wrong?" She stammers

You smile at her and sling the strap of your bag on your shoulder, "I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting."

She rubs her neck and chuckles, "The meeting was close to finish anyway," she says.

"Jeff must be satisfied, huh?"

She rapidly blinks her eyes, "Pardon?"

"Satisfied with your amazing work," you put a context to your words.

She dryly chuckles and flips her hair to the back, "Yeah, I guess?"

"I'll let you get back to work," you say and make your way to the door.

You stop by the doorway and look at her, you point at her lips to tell her, "You might want to fix your smudged lipstick."

Kim's hand flies to her lips, cluelessly wiping the excess lipstick on her lips. You leave the room with a triumphant smile.

"You make good coffee but I suggest you work for someone else," you tell Kim's assistant on your way out.

-

After spending most of the day to prepare the technicalities.

You come back to your apartment to create the perfect plan for tomorrow. You lay out the city map in the living room.

With the address of Jeff's villa you stole from Kim's computer, you can look for the right place to execute your plan.

"After Nick finishes his speech at the city hall, he's got to head for Jeff's villa which is here," you mark the place with a marker.

You look at the distance between city hall and Jeff's villa, guessing which way Nick will likely take with his car.

"So... whichever way he goes, he's heading out of the city," you mutter.

A country road means it's less crowded therefore, it's an advantage for you.

"I'm thinking... I wait outside the city hall, then I follow him from there," you look at Minho.

You expect an opinion or two since you should be working together on this but he's too busy worrying about other things, worrying Nick is more like it.

Instead of solving it for you, he asks you another question, "What if he's not alone?"

You stack your hands on the table and look at him, "Is he going to be alone? You tell me," you ask him back.

He acts like he doesn't have the power to know everything, "Well, yeah but..."

You point at the map with the marker, "All I have to do is follow him and intercept him somewhere along—"

"Didn’t you hear me?" Minho suddenly stops you midsentence.

He waits until you look at him before continuing to talk, "They're not going to like it," he says for the umpteenth time.

You have enough of him reminding you of it but you have decided therefore, you will not back out of your decision just because he told you so.

"It's within the rules so they can suck it," you dare him.

Minho runs out of things to defend himself and this will be the last time you let him try to change your mind.

"It's him or no one," you sternly tell him.

With two days left and a plan you created, you don't see why you should back down now. Nick is the perfect target, he needs to be killed.

You sit face him on the floor and urge him to pick a side with the most important question of all, "Do you want to fail your initiation or not?"

Minho knows that he doesn't have much of options, he either helps you with your plan or lets it blow and obliterate everything.

From his silence, you know what the answer is.

-

TWO DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

It feels right to kill him.

At this point, you can't tell what's right and wrong anymore. But killing Nick feels like the right decision, you'll not only save the world from ending, but you also save the world from a doomed future.

You've been waiting outside the city hall in the used car you bought yesterday and have your eyes on Nick's car that is parked not far from yours.

Your hands are steadily holding the steering wheel, knowing that Nick is going to come out of the city hall soon.

When he does, you grip the steering wheel and your hand is ready to turn the key in the ignition.

You watch as Nick talks to someone else before getting into his car. You turn your car engine a minute after him and drive, trailing not far behind him.

You look to the side, at Minho who has been so quiet sitting on the passenger's side, and give him the one last chance to say something.

"You've changed," he says and you're not sure if he is disappointed or impressed.

Minho is simply running out of things to say to change your mind. What he can do now is go along with the plan.

You wait until you're entering the quieter country road to pick up the speed, getting closer to Nick's car.

You step on the gas and align your car with his, before hitting the back of his car, almost sending his car out of the road.

Aware of what you're trying to do, Nick drives faster and you catch up to him by not letting go of the gas, pushing the car to its limit.

To get momentum, you slow down your car to give you space to hit his car harder. You brace yourself for impact and crash your car with him.

There's a loud banging sound and you hurriedly step on the brake, not risking your life until you know for sure that he's dead.

Your car swerves before the brake stopping the car from hitting the tree even though you ended up hitting your head on the steering wheel.

You look through your rearview mirror, Nick's car is turning over on the side of the road.

"Let's just go!" Minho says.

You shake your head, "I need to make sure that he's dead."

Ignoring Minho who keeps telling you to flee the scene, you get out of your car and check Nick's car. The car is upside down, you have to kneel to see if he's still showing signs of life.

There's only one way to make sure of that. You walk to your car and open the trunk, you retrieve the gallon of kerosene you bought.

"What are you doing?" Minho asks in a panicked voice.

"I'm making sure that he's dead," you answer.

You pour it all over Nick's car and stand a few meters away as you look for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The bursting flame swaying away with your shaky breath you let out through your parted mouth.

"And he doesn't deserve an easy death," you add.

You toss the lighter and the inflammable catches it fast, setting the car on blazing fire. Your eyes are filled with glowing embers, reflecting the hatred you have for him.

-

The last thing to do is to get rid of the car.

You drive it to the nearest junkyard and have it crushed with the machine by paying the worker there. You fetch a bus from there and throw all of the clothes you're wearing into the bin a block away from your apartment building.

Nothing feels as good as knowing that you've done the worst of things for the greater good of humankind.

You come home to see Minho is already inside, leaning against the back of the sofa with his arms crossed.

"You did it!" He says with disappointment tainted his triumphant smile.

With the adrenaline still pumping, you come up to him and not stopping until your body crashes into him. That's enough of arguing, talking, scheming, plotting, and not enough physical contact.

After everything you've done, you learn that fear is nothing to you but something that's been holding you back. You don't want to let fear dominate you anymore, you want to take back your life into your own hands.

Without hesitating, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, close enough that you can land your lips on his.

Something explodes inside of you the second both of your lips collide in a rapturous kiss.

The two of you stayed like that, encased in a moment that slowly set the fuse on your desire.

You gasp as you pull away from the kiss and you look at him, finding comfort in what once was a scary pair of eyes. He looks back at you with his arms locked around you.

Gosh! He's so beautiful, even more beautiful than the one you created in your head. Using your hand, you tenderly touch his face, you run your finger down his sharp nose and remember sculpting it.

And these lips, oh... you remember how hard and cold it felt under your touch but now, it feels warm and soft, like a flower under the sun.

"Just let me—" You let your desire finish your words.

You lean in and kiss him again, tasting his lips that get even sweeter with each kiss and with each kiss, your hand gets curious.

You let them explore his clothed body but that's not enough.

Minho gently pushes you away, breaking the kiss and putting a space between your bodies. For a second you thought he refused to do this and instead of that, he takes all of his clothes off right in front of you, exposing his body that is you eager to explore. It takes you a moment to take everything in.

Minho has to take your hand and put it on his body, letting you know that it's okay to touch him.

"You're beautiful," you breathlessly say, overwhelmed by what you're seeing.

You whimper at how perfect he is, smooth and warm. His muscles are firm yet you touch him with so much tenderness, afraid that you would break him.

"You're ethereal..." you dreamily sigh.

Minho puts his hand around your neck and tilts your head to kiss you. As he puts you in a spell with his kiss, his hands are swiftly removing your clothes and let them fall onto the floor.

Slowly, he draws your body close until your body meets his, skin-to-skin with nothing in between.

-

It's unclear what has gotten into you but you like it.

You like how confident you are, how carefree yet in control you are. Other than that, you like how Minho looks at you as you sit, straddling him on the bed.

Aligning his cock with your entrance, you slowly lower yourself down his length while letting a long, breathless moan out of your parted open mouth.

You mewl feeling his cock filling you to the hilt, keep mewling as you're adjusting yourself to his size.

Minho places his hand on your chest, right on your beating heart then slowly drags it down, then to the side to hold you by the waist.

Then out of the blue, he chuckles at you.

You open your eyes and place a hand on his chest, "What?" You ask as you look down at him.

He places his other hand on your waist, "I haven't permitted your entry yet," he says.

You break into laughter and lean in, stopping him from laughing with a kiss.

"Say yes, say yes, say yes," you say with each you plant on his face.

Minho is smirking under you, not answering your question just to annoy you.

You catch his lips in yours and bite on his lower lip before you let it go, "You're not going to say yes?"

Still not getting an answer, you place both hands on his chest and slowly, roll your hips in circular motions. You're lowly moaning feeling his whole length inside you.

You look down at Minho and he has his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanning out so beautifully along his eyelids, and his mouth is slightly parted open, you hear him lowly whimpering as you keep rolling your hips with his cock inside you.

Now moving your hips back and forth, Minho is grunting, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs. You keep your hips moving and keeping a steady pace.

Driven by the desire, your body is taking over and picking up the pace. You plant your foot on the bed, launching him deeper inside you and earning a groan from him.

Minho grabs you by the waist, trying to slow you down but you don't seem to be the one in control of it, you keep chasing for that high.

You throw your head to the back while keep taking his cock, in and out of you at a quick pace, getting you closer and closer...

"Oh..." you let out a broken moan.

You keep moving despite the immense pleasure that clouds your mind and dulls your senses. Your hands are grasping at nothing but clawing at his warm, smooth skin.

Minho catches you as you collapse into his arms, putting his arms around you with your head resting on his chest. He put all of your hair to the side, allowing him to place a kiss on your neck.

"Yes," he whispers into your ear.

You weakly chuckle at his late response. You look at him and say, "Too late."

Yet he tightens his hold around you and begins to buck his hips from under you, making you moan with your head buried in his neck.

Minho presses his mouth close to your ear and whispers, "I said yes nonetheless."

-

ONE DAY TO THE END OF THE WORLD

Today is going to be a good day.

You can just tell from the moment you open your eyes. You have to squint for a moment to adjust to the light and see the bright, beautiful day through the window.

You stay lying on the bed while looking at the morning sky and as you gather your senses, the recollections of last night come into your mind. What you touched, you tasted, you kissed... and without you intending to, your hand is wandering to places where he laid his hand on you.

It reminds you of the company you're with and you turn on the bed to see nothing but a crumpled sheet next to you.

You clutch the duvet close to your chest to shield your naked body from the cool, morning air.

"Minho?"

There's no answer but your call that is echoing in your empty apartment. Wrapping yourself with it, you get up from the bed to look for him.

"Minho?"

Still no answer and the first thought that runs through your head is that he's gone. The contract is finished, therefore, there's no need for him to stay.

Tears pool in your eyes as you keep looking for him from room to room, dragging your duvet across the floor wherever you go. You're getting hopeless the more you search and not finding him there.

Fear is spreading inside you, telling you to give up and stop hoping. You return to the living room and finally find him there, standing in the middle of the room.

You rush to come up to him and break into tears as you bury your head in his chest, "Where have you been? I've been looking for you!"

Minho holds you, putting his arms around you, and tangles his hand in your hair. He places a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"I have to make sure of it," he says.

With teary eyes, you look up at him, "Make sure of what?"

He takes something from the inside pocket of his black coat, it's the pocket watch and he opens it to show that the line hasn't gone yet.

Another kind of fear spreads all over your body and you feel cold all of a sudden. You slowly let go of him and take the pocket watch from him, looking at it in disbelief.

"But I–I killed him..." your voice breaks at the end of the sentence.

Minho turns his head to the side and magically turns on the TV. It's a broadcast of the morning news with the anchor in the middle of reading breaking news.

"...running for congress, Nicholas de Ville of the de Ville family got into a fatal accident on his way to a private residence where his campaign base is located. The car was on fire when the emergency service came and luckily managed to pull him out a moment before it exploded. Nicholas de Ville is now getting intensive medical care at the Unity Hospital. It is announced that he suffers from third-degree burn and a broken—"

You stop listening to the news and look at Minho, "Why—"

A moment ago, everything was so perfect, so right, and now... you're at a loss for words. You should have checked thoroughly, you should have stayed there and made sure he was dead.

"I have to finish it," you remark with your eyes still prickled with both tears and fear.

Minho sighs and puts his hands on your shoulders, "Just let it go," he says.

You take a step back, sending his hands to slide off of you and drop to his sides.

"Nick has to die," you persist.

Before Minho can try to change your mind again. You go back to your room and toss the duvet, you get dressed as quickly as you can.

Minho is trailing behind you as you make your way out of your apartment "We gave today to find someone else—"

You shut the door closed to stop him from talking. You should have taken him out with your own hands and that's what you're going to do today.

This time, you're going to do it right.

-

The studio looks like an abandoned place when you haven't visited it for a few days.

You came here to retrieve something. You make your way to carving tools and you remember throwing away the one you used to kill Tim into the river, along with the bread knife.

You have a selection of hammers but the sight of the sharp end of the chisel catches the light and reflects it to your eyes.

Your hand is reaching for it but before you get a hold of it, the doorbell rings.

No one visited your studio except for Kim but she wouldn't come this early, not on a Friday morning. You check through the window and see a man standing outside your gate.

"He's a police," Minho informs.

The police may catch up to something at this point but to your surprise, you don't feel scared at all. Maybe the scariest thing for you at the moment is letting Nick live and giving him the chance to rule the world to only stir it into its doom.

It's either now or later. You calm yourself down and put on your game face before opening the gate.

"I'm Detective Leon from the police department," he says, showing you his badge, "I'm just making some routine inquiries."

You keep the door open just enough to show yourself that you're unarmed.

"Do you mind if I have a word?" He asks.

"Yeah," you answer.

Then you realize that you're saying the wrong thing, "I mean, no, I don't mind," you correct yourself and put on a courteous smile.

He nods and asks, "Inside?"

You don't want to let him inside, not when he can see that you have all your carving tools on display.

"Invite him and kill him," Minho comments from the back of the door.

Not letting him in would only add suspicion, you open the door wider to let him in, "Yeah. Please, come in!"

With his salt-and-pepper hair and beer belly, Detective Leon looks too old to be a police detective, he should be retired already.

He walks around your studio and now is observing your far-from-finished sculpture.

"Would you like something to drink?" You offer as you make your way to the kitchen.

He is now standing close to the table full of your carving tools, "Oh, no. I won't keep you," he kindly refuses.

"Like I said, it's just a routine," he adds with an unsettling smile.

"Okay."

Yet you proceed to try to make a cup of tea as to seem you're going on about your day like normal people.

"Were you at the bar on the Monday night?" He asks.

You open your drawer and see the knife blinking at you, tempting you to pick it up.

"It'll be an easy kill. He was gonna have a heart attack next year anyway," Minho encourages you to take the chance.

You almost forget the question and retract yourself back, "Yes, I was," you honestly answer.

"Regular, are you?" He asks.

You put your hand inside the drawer and take a spoon instead, turning to face him so as to not be seen as rude.

"Nah. I wouldn't say that," you reply.

"How often are you in there?"

You lean against the kitchen counter with your hand ready at the handle of the drawer

"It's not like he has any family. No one is going to miss him," Minho whispers from behind you.

You close your eyes to remain composed, "To be honest, that night was the first time."

"First time?" He asks in disbelief.

He stands next to a block of stone and lowly chuckles, "Isn't it just around the corner?"

You don't see why it's something unbelievable? It may sound suspicious but you tell him the truth.

"Well, I don't drink. Not usually," you tell him and that is also the truth.

"But you did that night," he points out and the one corner of his mouth curls into a subtle smirk.

You quietly exhale air to maintain your composure, "I was busy working on my sculpture and I'm not meant to drink. I was... having a creative block, you might say," you're eyeing the unfinished sculpture standing close to him.

Detective Leons also looks at it, touching the rough edges of it.

"I don't have alcohol in the studio or anything, but... I needed it that night," you lie. You needed the courage that night and that's why you drank.

Detective Leon walks and stands in the middle of the room "Well, we all need to let off steam every now and then," he says.

He shows sympathy just so he can earn your trust, to allow him to dig deeper until something slips out of your mouth. You catch his eyes and hold his gaze for a moment, not long enough to see the anxiety stirring inside you.

"Thank you," you mutter.

You dare to look at him and casually ask, "What's this about anyway?"

It's been a while yet you only asked about his intention to come here just now.

"Well, you've probably heard about Tim and Kurt Shaw," he answers.

Now that you know which murder he linked you to, you get more cautious with everything you say to him.

"Who?" You play innocent.

He walks up to you and leans against the end of the kitchen counter, "Tim and Kurt Shaw."

It's no use to play dumb, detective Leon probably knows by now that you went to the same school with Tim.

"I know Tim Shaw but Kurt... I don't know him," you lie.

You're well aware he's analyzing every gesture and word you said and he gets quiet after getting an answer from you. After a moment, he talks again, "Tim Shaw was there at the bar that night, did you see him?"

"Yes," you shortly answer, stalling would only make you seem suspicious.

"I wasn't sure it was him at first and when I did, I came to greet him, you know as a friend from art school," you further explain with a thin smile at the end.

"Did you see him after that?" He asks, getting more specific with his questions as if he has decided that you're the one he's looking for.

"No," you coyly answer, "I went back here and continued working on my sculpture.

He gets closer to you yet maintains a respectful space in between, "So you didn't see him after?"

"No," you tell him without showing flinching and blinking your eyes.

This time, he looks right into your eyes and you can't avoid it, or else he knows you're hiding something.

You walk him back to the gate and open the gate for him, "So sorry, I wasn't much of a help," you tell him.

He stands in the doorway and gives you his card, "Well, if you recall anything, please let us know."

You take it from him and smile, "Have a lovely day!"

Detective Leon takes one last look at you and exits the gate, you're more than glad to slam it closed.

"Well, one good liar, aren't you?" Minho comments from the top of the stairs.

"I'm impressed," he adds as you walk past him to get back inside the studio.

"He didn't buy it though," Minho informs.

You make your way to grab a chisel and put it inside your coat pocket, "Better hurry then!"

You hail a taxi the moment you're out of the gate and get into the back while clutching your chest, feeling the cold chisel inside your coat pocket.

"The cop is following us," Minho says.

You can worry about the police later. You have an urgent task and you have to get it done as fast as you can.

You look away from Minho and tell the taxi driver where to go, "Unity Hospital, please!"

-

Taking a look at the map of the hospital, you guide yourself through the hallways of the hospital.

"It's not too late to find someone else," Minho urges you to change your mind.

"Oh, shut up!" You snap at him, it's his fault to talk at such a dire time.

You take a turn to the right that leads you to where you're heading and there it is. It's not hard to find where he is, a rich family like him would be staying in the VIP room.

The hardest part of it is to enter it, you have to sneak your way in.

Seeing that you hit a dead-end, Minho takes this as his last endeavor to turn it all around, "I'm just saying it'd be much easier for me if you found someone else," he explains.

Minho seems to not get it yet that it's not about stopping the end of the world anymore. It would be pointless if Nick is still alive, he has to die no matter what.

You turn your head at him and intensely stare into his eyes, "If you're not going to help, then piss off!"

He looks at you, doubting that you dismiss him.

"I mean it," you tell him, feeling fed up with everything and you don't need him to keep interrupting you.

He sees it now that you want him to go, "Fine!"

With a snap of his fingers, he disappears right in front of you, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind him.

You manage to grab a medical mask from the nurse station and put it on, pretending as a mere relative of a patient.

Looking around the hall and making sure the coast is clear, you let yourself into the room with his name written outside the door.

There he is, lying on the bed with his body wrapped in gauze. You get closer to see his face, the burned skin around his eyes that is now closed, you guess he must be heavily sedated.

You hate to give him the easy way out but this is your chance to end everything for good.

You stand close to his unconscious body and take the chisel out of your coat pocket, pressing the sharp end to his neck.

This is not the good time to hesitate but you can feel your determination shrinks in each passing second, ultimately because Minho isn't here.

You take a deep breath and press the chisel deep into his neck. All it takes is one good stab at it, poke it real hard, and make a hole in his throat.

You lift your chisel and decide to aim it at his heart, taking one long breath, you put all of your strength into—

"Stop!" Someone shouts with the door wide open.

Your head snaps to see Detective Leon aiming his gun at you and taking cautious steps toward you.

The time is closing in and if you get caught now, you won't get another chance. You make another attempt but Detective Leon takes another step toward you, taking a good aim of his gun at you.

"I said stop!" He orders you.

You put away the chisel but keep holding it, gripping it tight until your knuckles turn pale and cold.

"I have to do it," your voice is quivering as your anxiety rises inside you.

"It's not right!" Detective Leon says, taking another careful step to get close to you.

You point your chisel at Nick's body and desperately say, "If I don't do this by midnight..." A choked sob gets in the middle of your sentence.

Standing right across from you, Detective Leon pushes his gun right at your face. He stares straight into your eyes that were filled with suspicion now filled with a slight terror and repulsion.

"Put it down!" He orders you

You quickly wipe away the tears rolling down your cheek with your hand, "There'll be fire... everywhere," you continue your words.

For the umpteenth time, he urges you with his gun steadily pointed at you, "Put it down!"

Giving in means that you've given up on everything and wasted away all of your endeavors but at the same time, you just want it to end.

"I... I can't!" You resist with your heart filled with despair.

As your eyes get blurry with tears, you wipe them away only to get caught off guard. Detective Leon successfully got ahold of you.

You keep crying as you get pushed to the wall and he puts your arms together behind your back, putting you in handcuffs.

"Minho, I'm sorry..." you mutter even though you know he's not there.

-

After hours of being locked in the interrogation room and refusing to talk without the presence of a lawyer like Kim ordered you through the phone, they let you go.

It feels good to let go of the cold of metal handcuffs around your wrists, but it's not yet the time to let out a breath of relief.

Kim sits you down on the dining table while she sits next to the lawyer, drilling you with questions about everything you've done.

You're too busy looking at the clock, seeing that it's getting closer and closer to the end. You turn your head and realize that the lawyer asked you a question, but you're too distracted to hear him.

"Pardon?"

He fixes his sitting position and clears his throat "You have to kill three people?"

You've been holding your glass of water with both hands on the table, watching the droplets of condensation dripping down the back of your hands.

"Yes," you weakly answer.

"You're saying you were only targetting people who have done something wrong?"

"Yes," you answer, "Except for Tim's brother."

You take a moment to recall his name, "Uhm... Kurt?"

The lawyer is fiddling with the stack of papers as he further asks you more questions.

"And each time you sacrificed someone, it got registered on the talisman? Is that right?"

You nod again, "Yes, but they said Tim didn't count."

The lawyer clears his throat again, but this time, he does it while glancing at Kim. He then takes a ziploc bag of your things that got confiscated when you were at the police department.

He takes the pocket watch out of the bag and slides it across the table, "Is this the talisman?"

You let go of the glass of water to take the pocket watch, opening it to find the watch is dead and the glass cracked. It appears to people that it's just an old pocket watch and nothing more.

"Before, it had numbers on it and that sort of changed when you looked at it..." your words are trailing off the second you realize how crazy you sound.

The lawyer stacks his hands on the table, "And the demon who told you to do all this?"

"Yes."

"And what did he look like?"

"A monster at first, then he turned into the man of one of my sculptures," you shortly answer.

"He looked like the man you carved? Like your sculpture you made?"

You nod.

A moment passes in silence as the lawyer exchanges a look with Kim.

"So the demon..."

"His name is Minho," you keep holding the pocket watch, hoping that it'll summon him and assure you that it is all real.

You can hear the lawyer letting out a big sigh before asking the next question, "And if you don't do what he told you..."

He sighs again as he writes something on his note, "It'll be the end of the world?"

Instead of answering it verbally, you nod.

"He didn't just tell me," You say.

You hold the pocket watch inside the palm of your hand and put all of your fingers on it, "He showed me what it would be like."

The vision Minho made you see is still vivid and you can see it replaying in the back of your head, "I felt the flames. I smelled people burning..."

The lawyer seems to have given up trying to get something that would help you avoid getting sentenced to life for what you did.

He turns to Kim and quietly whispers, "Her mind's gone, that's for sure."

It's Kim's turn to draw a big sigh and sits straighter on the chair, "You may leave now. It's late, we can continue this tomorrow," she says to him.

The lawyer collects his papers and pens, putting them into his briefcase, looking impatient to get out of here.

Kim has been eerily quiet. She comes back after sending off the lawyer, she then drinks her glass of water just so she can fill the glass with liquor next.

"I tried to stop it, Kim," you tell her.

She looks at you as she drains her first drink and refills it with more liquor.

"Honest I did," you assure her, feeling like a failure that you let down everyone, billions of them.

"Enough!" Kim snaps, throwing the glass she's holding at the wall and it's breaking into pieces, glimmering under the fluorescent light.

"You have to trust me. You have—"

Kim slams her hands down on the table, "Enough with this nonsense!"

You understand that it's a lot to take in, not to mention that she's upset and tired. You try again even though you know it's going to be another fruitless effort, "I know that you think I'm crazy, Kim, listen to me..."

"No!" She cuts you off with another slam of hands on the table.

"I told you to take your medicine!" She screams at you until her voice is strained.

You admit that you haven't taken your medicine the last few days but that doesn't mean you made everything up. You remember taking them and still seeing Minho which doesn't prove that you made it all up.

Then it hits you that the reason why she always reminds you to take your meds is not because she cares, it's because she thinks you are crazy.

"You're just like everyone else..." you meekly say.

You didn't know you're crying until you touch your cheeks and they are wet with tears, "You think I'm crazy..."

Kim doesn't say anything but goes to your room and returns with your bottle of pills in her hand. She uncaps the bottle and lets the contents spill onto the table.

"If you had taken all of these pills..." she says, letting the empty bottle roll across the dining table, "All of these wouldn't have happened!"

You take the bottle and see your name written on it, seeing all the pills scattered on the table, you realize how many days you have gone without them.

This is when your reality starts to distort. You don't what's real or not anymore. Did you make it all up? And if it's real then where's Minho?

"I—" You look around for any signs of him, of his figure, or the sight of his red hair.

"I'm not..." you pause to wipe the tears pooling in your eyes, "...not lying."

The only way to prove everything is by showing Kim that you have only a few minutes left until the world is burning and comes to an end.

You look at the clock on the wall and the time shows that you only have less than two minutes to midnight, "Not long now," you mutter.

You look at Kim and tell her, "Know that I tried to stop it."

Kim grips the edge of the table and lets out a long sing, having enough of all of it, "Just... stop," she says through her gritted teeth.

"It's coming..."

You clasp your hands together in front of you and push it close to your mouth, nothing prepares you for what's coming. You close your eyes as you keep listening to the ticking of the clock that intensifies with each passing second.

Tick, tick, tick...

-

THE END OF THE WORLD

It's midnight and you open your eyes to look at the clock to make sure of it.

The needle has ticked past midnight and you look around to see that nothing happens. You hesitate to get up from your chair and look through the window to see that the world looks exactly how it usually looks like.

A single tear escapes the corner of your eyes and rolls down your cheek, you feel faint all of a sudden. Other than that, you feel like questioning everything you know.

Are you crazy just like everyone said you are? You ask yourself.

Your legs are wobbling, you collapse onto the chair as the answer hits you.

Maybe you are crazy.

Kim turns away, possibly holding herself back from screaming at you and telling you how right she was all along.

When she turns around to face you again, she looks frustrated by you and the whole situation, but mostly by you to the point that she can't look at your face anymore.

She walks to the sofa to retrieve her handbag and then stands at the end of the dining table, "I'll... see you tomorrow," she says.

She then heads to the door and the sound of her closing the door echoes in the big space, leaving you to process everything on your own.

A moment later, you get up from your chair and walk over to the window, looking at the world that seems so small to you from up here.

And tonight, the view makes you feel smaller than you already are.

Then you hear sirens blaring in the distance. You turn around and see him there, sitting on the chair you sat on earlier with his hands on the table.

"Hey..." Minho says with an apparent sadness in his eyes.

It doesn't matter anymore whether people think you're crazy or not, now that the world is ending, you're just glad that he's there with you.

"I failed," you can hear your heart breaking inside your chest as you said it.

He inhales air and then lets it out, "Yeah, well... me too so that's that," he says.

He turns the chair to face you and puts his leg over the other, "Just got word that they're casting me out."

Minho doesn't look like he's delivering bad news with a smirk dancing on his face, "so... eternal oblivion it is," he finishes.

To say that you're disappointed with yourself would be an understatement, you are devastated. Not only that you failed the billions of people from raging flames, but also Minho.

"I'm so sorry," you sincerely tell him.

Minho gets quiet. He then gets up from his chair and walks up to you. He looks at your face and stares deeply into your eyes, he seems to have something to say to you.

You look back at him and patiently wait for him to say whatever he wants to say to you.

"Do you want to come with me?" He asks.

"What?" You ask in utter confusion.

"That's where I've been, checking the small print," he says, placing his hands on each side of his waists, "The rules don't cover it."

He takes a step closer toward you and continues speaking, "There's another loophole, apparently."

He looks at the view outside as the world slowly stirs into chaos with the sounds of sirens blaring everywhere, exactly like he showed you that night.

"They don't say anything about a human companion," he explains, then slyly smiles before talking again, "So, I mean... you could come with."

The offer comes so sudden and you remember how he talks about this place that he tried so hard to not fail his initiation.

"To eternal oblivion?" You ask for confirmation.

He scrunches his nose, "It's much worse than that," he says.

The sheer enthusiasm you have fades away with his answer, perhaps it would be bearable when you have him with you, wherever it is.

"It's with me," Minho adds with a playful smirk.

Well, the choice is here or there, but you can't have him here. You look at the world then at him.

"I'll give it a go," you say with a smile.

A smile rises on his face too, a smile that shines brighter than the fire that is about to engulf the whole world. He takes another step, closing in the gap between your bodies.

At the same time, an explosion occurred at the end of the horizon and it's so bright it's blinding you.

Now you know that it's the end of the world from how everything falls into place and in the end, nothing matters anymore. It doesn't matter that they choose not to trust you and think you're crazy.

What matters now is the one that sticks with you to the very end.

Minho takes your hand and intertwines it with yours, "It's going to be alright now."

You look at him and hold his hand back, everywhere it is, you can't wait to spend eternity with him.

Together, you're walking hand-in-hand, leaving the world as it goes up in flames and into the oblivion you go, forever more.

-

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[the-glacian]

Something, Everything

Written for @bucktommyweek DAY 1: Date Night.

“God I hope so,” Tommy says with that smirk he doesn’t bother hiding behind his next sip of wine.  And Buck can’t help matching it with his own.  It quickly transforms into a full-blown smile he can barely keep in check. Or the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to erupt from within – relief that Bobby’s life doesn’t hang in the balance, contentment that for once there’s no emergency to rush to, rapture from carving out a moment for himself in the midst of it all.  There’s something else too. Some awareness he isn’t yet prepared to articulate, laced with an animalistic response in the pit of his belly that has little to do with the fact that he hasn’t touched his food yet. “You do, don’t you?” He counters, piling more salad onto his plate to control his nerves. Doesn’t draw attention to the fact that his voice comes with a rasp. Unfazed and impressed at the same time, Tommy arches an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. “It’s a shame to let the food you prepared go to waste,” he says with an affectation of candidness. Then, as a matter of fact, “Otherwise I’d show you.” Gripping the wooden spoon like a lifeline, Buck almost chokes on empty air.  The words evolve into images in his mind, acquiring a life of their own and shooting straight down below the waistband of his pants. All the blood in his body seems adamant to keep up, and it’s a challenge not to expose his blatant excitement.  “There’s always room for dessert,” he retaliates. In another scenario, he’d be proud of himself for a comeback, but his mouth is parched and Tommy’s lips are damp with traces of wine, shaping something that gets smothered by the white noise in Buck’s ears. And all he wants right then and there is to kiss Tommy senseless. To drag him upstairs and claim his front row in that auspicious show of naked bodies and not-fully-realised kinks. Or, fuck the bedroom. The table’s likely resilient enough to witness blasphemy or bear the brunt of two men’s carnal escapades. The spoons slip from his hands as his erection twitches with interest, and he can’t pretend to care for the food anymore. Buck swallows and blinks the image away. “How hungry are you?” He forces out. Or gasps , rather. Tommy’s eyes flash with understanding. “Very,” he says, and he’s already disposed of his glass, having started folding his napkin with a look that suggests Buck’s in for a ride of his life.  Pouncing from one emergency to another is his second nature, but he’s never scrambled out of a chair any faster. It’s not until after midnight that they finally share a plate of cold lasagna while sitting cross-legged side by side on the kitchen floor. There’s the same bottle of wine between them that they take turns drinking from between mouthfuls. The conversation veers from dredging up the past to the tentative plans for the future, and Buck can only imagine the solemn look on Tommy’s face softening in the half-light filtering through the window from the street lamp outside. He doesn’t need to see it to feel every shift resonating inside with the now-familiar pulse of awareness. In the end, it’s less romantic than Buck has initially planned for their date night.  But with their bellies finally full, the bottle drained and the long day slowly making itself felt, he lets his head fall on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy props his cheek on the top, the hum of his voice a soothing melody.  And as Buck fights the sealing embrace of sleep, he can’t help thinking it’s better .

🔗 also on AO3 🔗

[ltwilliammowett]

Life on board a 17th century warship

The sailing crew was divided into two watches under the two lieutenants, each working for four hours while the other rested. While off duty, they were expected to stay below decks and out of the way, but could be called to work at any time if all hands were required, such as when anchoring or making a major sail change. When below, they probably tried to sleep as much as they could, since the four-hour schedule is not natural and quickly leads to fatigue. When not sleeping, they probably used much of the time off watch to mend their clothes and shoes, but they might relax with games, music or a popular new pastime, smoking, although this was only allowed in the cookroom.

War Ships 17th Century, by Jefferys, Charles W. 1942 in: The Picture Gallery of Canadian History Volume 1, p.99

Food was also prepared in the cookroom, a brick-lined hearth in front of the mainmast in the hold, and carried up to the gundecks in buckets, where it was doled out into big wooden bowls. Depending on the ship, food could also be prepared in the galley, which was located in the forecastle or midships.

Each man had his own wooden spoon, and some had wooden plates, but most ate from the bowl shared by a mess, a group of six or seven men who ate and lived together. They drank weak beer, "ship's ale," from a shared wooden tankard. The base of the diet was salted meat for protein and dried peas and bread for carbohydrates. Barrels full of bones found in the hold show that the meat was mostly beef, with a little pork and mutton, as well as fish and poultry. Interessting fact was that some of the crew were prepared to supplement this, as fishing equipment and hunting weapons were found in shipwrecks like the Vasa, as well as the bones of roe deer, moose, and grouse. The skeletons of chickens suggest that a few fresh eggs were available.

As in other navies, they did not issue uniforms in that time, the men had to buy or make their own clothes. In some cases cloth was provided as part of their salary, but the typical sailor's clothing was the same as the clothing they arrived in from the farm or town: a linen shirt, a short, skirted woollen doublet (jacket), wool trousers that ended below the knee, woollen socks, and leather shoes. Many had broad-brimmed hats or conical caps. The cloth varied from coarse homespun to imported dyed fabrics, but almost all sailors sewed strips of contrasting cloth or even lace down the outside seams of their trousers in imitation of the clothing worn by the well-to-do. Clothes had to be hard-wearing, since most people could not afford more than one set.

The senior officers lived aft in the cabins of the sterncastle, where they had more space, glass windows, proper furniture, and ate their meals from pewter or earthenware table service. They had finer clothes, but as more than one visitor to Sweden from the continent remarked, it was difficult to tell the nobles from the peasants, since they dressed alike. The officers also had to share their accommodation, sleeping in pairs in narrow double beds, but the cabins were built to resemble the interior of houses ashore. The great cabin, where the king or an admiral would stay, was fitted out like a room in the royal palace, with fine panelling and carved sculptures that emphasised the power of the people who lived there.

The 17th century was a violent period, and both on shore and at sea brutal punishments were prescribed for even minor crimes. Conscripts often came from rough backgrounds, but discipline was essential for the smooth and safe functioning of a ship. In crowded conditions, small disagreements could easily blow up into fights, grumbling could turn to mutiny. Officers had to earn the trust of the men they commanded, but needed the option of punishment for the intractable. The articles of war specified that a person causing a fire was to be cast into the same fire, a person starting a fight was to be stabbed through the hand with a knife, blasphemers and those speaking ill of the king or his officers were to be keelhauled, murderers should be tied to their victims and thrown in the sea. In practice, a captain who had to use these punishments too often risked losing the respect of his men and his fellow captains and could not rule for long.

[cressidagrey]

New Pursuits - Chapter 3: Wood carving

Summary:

The shadows decide that Azriel needs a hobby.

5 times when said hobby-related shenanigans didn’t end so well…and the one time where it may end up better than Azriel could ever have imagined.

Warnings:

Rhys bashing, the shadows steal some stuff, Cassian has no skill in wood carving.

(super pretty dividers thanks to @saradika)

The shadows had more ideas for him over the following weeks. 

It was a rather wide range:

Sometimes he had outright said no. (He was not going to buy himself a doll house. That was just creepy…also what exactly was he supposed to do with these dolls? Play? Play what?)

Sometimes it was completely impractical (He was not going to travel to the Winter Court only to try out riding on a reindeer. He didn’t care if the shadows thought it sounded like a grand old time…)

Sometimes it just didn’t work out (Most card games only worked if there was more than one person, and no, the shadows didn’t count, especially not when they snuck behind him to see his cards…Dirty cheaters, they were) 

Sometimes they just reminded him of something he didn’t want to be reminded himself of (He was not going to start a flower garden on his balcony. That was Ela…no. He was not going down that route.) 

Sometimes it was too fucking dangerous. (Journaling. He didn’t even need to explain why it maybe wasn’t a good idea for the fucking Spymaster of the Night Court to have a diary.) 

And sometimes he had tried it out and very quickly realised that it was doing absolutely nothing for him. (One evening spent in the park bird watching. He was never going to get that time back.) 

Though to be honest…the shadows had been right about one thing. 

He was no longer moping. 

They had gotten him out of his funk. If only to playfully argue with them about whatever new suggestion they had for him. 

And so, even when Elain and Lucien spent the summer growing closer, and Rhys kept him ridiculously busy with the kind of work that he  could  delegate if Rhys would just fucking let him…

It was fine. Azriel was fine. At least he liked to pretend that. 

Wasn’t it something like “Don’t cry over spilt milk”?  

The milk had been spilt that Solstice. And Az wasn’t going to cry over it. It was fine. He would get over himself. 

Rhys would get what he wanted, Elain would be happy…and Azriel…Azriel was going to find something to do. 

What’s your next suggestion?  He asked the shadows that morning as he dressed for another full day of…work. 

What would you like to do?  The shadows asked curiously, obviously pleased with his request. 

Something with my hands,  he requested after a moment. 

Hands. He would like something with his hands.  

He stared at them for a moment, at the horrendous, gnarly scars that covered them, that wrapped around them until there was no normal skin anywhere in sight.

He could pretend that they weren’t covered in blood…that they were good for something other than giving unfathomable pain…

Wood carving?  came the suggestion just seconds later. 

Huh. 

Sure.  Azriel agreed. Wood carving. Why not. 

So that evening, he came to his room in the House of Wind only to find his desk set with a couple of blocks of wood…and a pretty set of carving knives. 

He had seen knives like these used before. When he visited his mother at Rosehall and she in turn visited an old friend of hers, Garvan. 

Garvan had a little shop at the market of Rosehall, selling all the things he whittled and carved…spoons and bowls and whatever other wooden object anybody wanted to buy…sometimes he even carved furniture. He also had an intricately carved wooden leg, which was the reason why he had even made it to Rosehall in the first place. 

That reminded him, he should write his mother a letter. She had been quiet over the last few months, but that wasn’t out of the usual. He was sure she had found something to occupy her time. She always kept busy. And the one shadow that he kept with her, that never told him anything more than that she was fine…well, that always calming. 

Do I want to know from where you stole the knives?   He asked with a sigh. 

No…

Alright. What am I supposed to make?  Azriel asked as he sat down at the table. 

Linden Wood is easiest for beginners,  the shadows explained.  And all the books suggest you should start with something easy! Like a sheep! 

He wasn’t quite sure in what world a sheep could be considered to be something easy to carve but…oh well. What could go wrong? 

A lot…like the sheep having legs of three different lengths and toppling over anytime he tried to get it to stand on its own…That was sheep number 1. By the time Sheep Number 3 rolled around, it actually could stand. And if he narrowed his eyes, he could pretend that it actually looked like a sheep. And not like a misshapen blob of wood.

Quite frankly, of all the hobbies he had yet tried out…this one seemed to be the most successful. There was just one problem...

What am I supposed to do with them, once I am finished?  he asked. He had 3 sheep. None of them was good enough that he could give them to anybody as a gift without it resulting in laughter. And even if they were good enough, who wanted a carved sheep out of wood as a gift? Maybe Baby Nyx? Though he would probably gnaw at it. 

Or he would have a whole nursery shelf with intricately carved wooden animal toys made by some artisan in the Rainbow of Velaris. That was probably more likely. 

Put them on your shelves to display!  The shadows suggested brightly. Right.   

So you want me to make a whole shelf of misshapen farm animals?  He asked drily. He already had 3 sheep. Now he just needed a couple of cows, a donkey and a chicken and he had a whole farm.  

If it makes you happy, Master!  Always enthusiastic.  Make a donkey next!

There was a knock at the door. 

“It’s open!” he called, fully well knowing that it was going to be Cassian, who strolled into the room, blinked twice and then came to investigate. 

“So we are whittling now?“ he asked with a bright grin, picking up one of the sheep Azriel had made. 

“Yes.  Would you like one?” Azriel asked him, only half joking. “I don’t think I have room to display all of them."

“Is that a sheep?” Cassian asked, cocking his head to the side.

He just nodded, surprised that it was actually recognisable. 

“Is that the first time you have done this?”  Cassian asked curiously. They had…learned to whittle in the way that they had learned how to fashion spears from sticks to spit a poor rabbits so that they weren’t gonna starve. But that was it. They had never learned…art in that way. Illyirans weren’t the most artistic folk in any sense of the imagination. 

They were outliers of course…Like Rhys’ mother, like his mother…but everything soft and beautiful these two had loved had been snuffed out of them during their times in the warcamps. 

“Yes.”

“You are good at it,” Cassian complimented him. “I don’t think I would be able to make anything that’s actually recognisable. Let me try.” 

And so his brother came to sit beside him and the two of them spent the better part of an hour adding to Azriel’s collection of misshapen farm animals. 

Cassian had absolutely zero talent at it. Repeatedly and accidentally knicking a finger with the sharp knives and making a sheep that had a distinct similarity to a potato. 

“…What are you two doing?” Nesta’s voice came from the door, and he looked up to find her standing there, her arms crossed, wearing one of these silky robes she was partial to. Even her hair wasn't intricately braided into a crown for once but fell to her waist in caramel-coloured waves. She raised an eyebrow at her mate

“Wood carving,” Cassian said proudly. “Do you want a sheep, Nes?” he asked, holding out the wooden lump to her. 

Nesta stared at him. “No, Cassian, I do not want a sheep,”  she said with a sigh. “You could come to bed though…I want that.” 

Azriel already settled in for a long and sleepless night only because these two were never going to learn how to be quiet. Though…if he got to carve a cow to go with his sheep and donkeys…maybe that wasn’t all too bad. 

“So, is this hobby going to stick around?” Cassian asked as he rose to meet his mate at the door. 

Azriel shrugged. “Maybe it is.” Granted there were only so many animal figurines he could make but…well. It was something. 

 Even when the only thing he was good at was using a knife. 

So he kept on carving…until he nearly carved off his finger, as he tried to remove one stubborn bit of wood with too much enthusiasm.

Maybe it wasn't going to stick around after all.

[bewitchedme-body-and-soul]

logan relationship alphabet

warnings: not edited, canon typical violence, cursing, mentions of nsfw subjects, mentions of breeding, mentions of scent kink, if there’s more feel free to let me know

due to 18+ themes minors please do not interact

a/n: ty to @humanalien01 for dealing with my rambles about him and helping me make decisions

A = Arguments(How often do you two argue? Who apologizes first? How do they make up? etc)

not very often do the two of you fight, but when you do, it’s definitely bad. He can be very stubborn and headstrong and a royal pain in the ass.

he apologizes first usually he can’t handle knowing you’re mad at him

he’d probably bring you a gift, something you love but not very expensive to make it up to you

B = Bedtime Routine(Do they prefer to be the big spoon or little spoon? Favourite sleeping position? etc)

he feels like he’s either a big spoon or you’re laying on top of him (pretty boy has anxiety so you’re like a weighted blanket for him), but definitely skin on skin contact in some way

C = Cook(Do they cook? Can they cook? What type of food do they like to cook for their partner?)

he’s not a great cook but he’s not the worst, don’t expect really fancy dishes, but he will make you breakfast often, typically eggs and bacon or sausage

D = DIY(Do they like to make gifts for their partner? Are they good at general DIY around the house? Do they enjoy doing it? )

he absolutely does, definitely the type to carve you little wooden figures & nicknacks. he’ll ask kitty or rouge for help if he thinks it needs painting but he tries his best to do it all by himself. he’s big on “it’s the thought that counts”

E = Effort(How much effort do they put into their relationship?)

he puts as much effort as he can muster, he’s so thankful for you and doesn’t want to do anything to make you hate him

F = First Date(Where do you go on your first date? How does it go etc?)

i see him as being someone who wants to spend the first date getting to know you, he probably also asks one of the female xmen (most likely rouge) on ideas especially more modern ideas, most likely sets up a picnic & sets up pillows and blankets in the back of his pick-up

G = Gifts(What kind of gifts do they gift their partner? What kind of gifts do they receive? etc)

probably gifts you simple but meaningful things, eventually he gifts you his dog tags

he’d love anything and everything you’d gift him, he’s so in love with you, you could gift him a rock that you thought was pretty and he be grateful

H = Honeymoon(Where do they go on Honeymoon? Details on the honeymoon etc.)

if you don’t have a dream do it, he’d most likely suggest a cabin in the canadian mountains with no-one around to bother the two of you, he just wants to spend time with you and bask in your presence

I = Intimacy(What do like they like? Where do they like to be intimate? Are they experienced etc?)

he’s over 200 years old, he definitely has experience. but intimacy is still hard for him, it takes time but he loves the slow and quiet moments with you, where it’s just the two of you cuddled up

J = Jealously(How jealous are they? How often do they get jealous? How they react? etc)

usually no, but sometimes he will, but it will take a lot to get him there but once he does he’ll pull you close and stare the other person down until they leave. it’s worse if they were making you uncomfortable, then he’d throw hands

K = Kink(Do they have any particular kinks?)

he definitely has a breeding kink, but he’s scared to actually get you pregnant because he doesn’t believe he’d be a good father

it’s canon and widely known that he has a strong sense of smell, there for he probably has at least a small scent kink, he loves the way you smell and especially when you smell like him so he makes a point for you to always smell like him

L = Long Distance(How do they cope with Long Distance? How they prefer to keep in contact? etc)

he’d hate it but if it was necessary he’d suffer through it. he’d be sure to text, call, and face-time as often as possible and ask about your day, he’d want to hear every detail

M = Marriage(Do they want to get married? Their wedding etc.)

he didn’t want to get married for a long time, until he met you and then shortly there after he changed his mind, and couldn’t wait to marry you

his wedding would be at the manor, charles would be officiant, if you’re alright with it i can see him asking other x-men to be in the wedding as well. like hank as his best man, rouge as the flower girl, & kurt as ring barer. he’d probably also want to invite his students, after-all the x-men and the rest of those at the institute are his family

N = Night’s Out(Where do they take their partner on nights out? How often do nights out happen?)

probably takes you to bars or restaurants, and occasionally accompanied by a movie

as often as he can swing, he believes you should treat your partner to dates as often as possible, because you shouldn’t stop wooing them just because you are in a relationship

O = Often(How often do you see each other? How many times a week? etc)

he makes a point to see you as often as he can, multiple times a week, if you’re an x men or teach at the school he’d ask for you both to share a room (if you were okay with it as well obviously)

if you weren’t an x-men or teacher, he would probably leave and see you after classes unless he had a mission, then he’d give you a call and tell you how much he loved you, just in case he couldn’t come back to you

P = Public Displays of Affection(Do they like PDA? Do they have boundaries etc.)

he’s okay with pda but he’s not one that he’ll full on make out with you in public, he’ll hold your hand, have his arm around your shoulders or waist, and give you kisses, but that’s about the extent of the pda.

Q = Quiet(Why do they get quiet? How does their partner solve it?)

he gets quiet when he gets in his head, which is usually after nightmares, or someone made a comment about how he’s undeserving of you.

some simple reassurance & snuggles solves this, tell him how much you love him, and how safe you feel around him.

R = Reunion(How they like to reunite with their partner?)

he’ll hold you tight and press a kiss to the crown of your head when he first sees you, he’ll then shove his face in your neck and inhale deeply. as i said before he loves your scent and while he was away he found himself missing it

S = Surprise(Do they like surprises? What kind of surprises do they like to get etc?)

he hates surprises..usually, he hates the waiting, now that being said he’s okay if they’re from you, because he trusts you with his entire mind, body and soul

if you text him or tell him you have a surprise for him, it’s an almost guarantee that he’ll make a dirty joke about it, he’d probably ask what color the lingerie set was that you’re gonna wear (good luck walking tomorrow if that actually was the surprise)

T = Texts(How often do they text? How do they react when they receive texts from their partner?)

he is absolutely god awful at texting. except with you. he’ll leave almost everyone on ‘read’ or ‘delivered’ never you though, he always responds as fast as he can. so when you hear everyone complain about him never answering you can’t help but giggle because you don’t have to deal with that

U = Unity(How well do they work with their partner? Do they make a good team?)

i feel like you’d work well, he’d be sure to always check in and protect you

V = Vacation(Favourite vacation spot to take their partner?)

again, canadian mountains, this man’s ideal vacation is just the two of you, away from everyone and everything unbothered

W = When(At what point do they move into together? What kind of place? etc)

if you’re a teacher at the institute or x-men & live in the mansion, i can see it being a few months in maybe like 6

if you aren’t either of those, it maybe closer to a year, it’ll probably start out with an apartment but eventually he wants to get a cabin for the two of you (and any kids you may have)

X = X-ray(What is their favourite body part on their partner?)

i definitely think he’s an ass/thighs man, but also a tummy kinda guy, he loves being able to grab you

Y = you(A random headcanon about your relationship.)

he’s so gentle with you for someone labeled as an “animal” and a “killing machine”

Z =Zoom(Zoom into the future, what does your future look like?)

the two of you, in a cabin somewhere in the woods (most likely canadian mountains), unbothered, he’s mostly retired from x-men duties (he’d still go on missions if they needed him contrary to what he says), occasionally someone from the team will visit, maybe some animals and a garden (he wants to go into town as little as possible).

maybe even a few kids if that’s what you wanted, as many as you wanted, and if they eventually showed signs of developing mutations he’ll be sure to assure them that there’s nothing wrong with them no matter what anyone may say. hell teach them to control their power, and if it’s too much for just him he’ll ask xavier for help. he’d also be sure too teach them that they should use their gifts to help people & never cause unnecessary harm

[pomegranatecrab]

Rhodey/Tony/Steve, anyone?

Steve buys an apartment with his back pay.

It’s small, but it has two bedrooms. He converts one into a studio, and he should be comforted by the peeling paint and faded colour, covered in thousands of little fallacies, so very akin to the room he shared with his mother, where he would count each mark and stain while he was in bed, struggling to breath. Instead, the memories that the walls incite are sour.

There’s nothing stopping him from moving the minimal furniture out into the hallway, and sanding back the walls by hand. The man at the store had suggested an electric one, a round device that he had politely turned down. When he strips down the walls, Steve is still at a loss. No colour feels right for the room. There’s two windows where Steve is considering putting a house plant between, yet, no inspiration strikes. A spattering of dust floats in the air, a thick smell permeating the room. Steve opens a window, and frowns when someone knocks on the door.

He’s never met the man on the other side before. Tall, dark skin and carrying himself strongly. A wry smile paints his lips.

“Steve Rogers?” He offers a hand, the other hooked in the tag of a six pack of beers. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony’s talked a lot about you.”

Steve blinks.

“Tony Stark?”

James nods, peering shamelessly past Steve and into the living room. “Still moving in?”

Steve steps aside, nodding stiffly. The beers are from a brand he doesn’t recognise, and James is dressed casually, but his rigid posture gives him away.

“Army?”

“Airforce,” James says, peeling off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door. “No work talk, I’m off duty.” He eyes the lack of TV critically.

“Do you have any board games?”

Steve would have felt like a killjoy, if not for the gleam in James’ eye, casual and easy-going. Like a wave could crash in and he’d simply ride it to shore.

“I have a pair of dice,” Steve says.

It’s one of the only things, along with his shield, that they let him take from his own belongings. A nice wooden pair that Bucky had carved for him, right down to the uneven dots adorning each side.

“Perfect,” James says.

He steps into the connecting kitchen, running an admiring hand over the arched doorway, a coil of rich timber that reminds Steve of the sprawling houses that he’d seen in movies at the theatre.

“Have you considered removing this cupboard? It’d make good space for a breakfast nook.” He peers around the back of it, considering. “Built in, but it wouldn’t take too much rewiring. Tony and I can help you out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve replies, eyeing the unit critically. It would be nice to have the place feel less crowded, unique, even. It’s probably the last thing he needs, but a construction project might keep his mind occupied, at least. There were only so many times that he could think about drawing instead of picking up a pencil, and only so many laps he could take around the park.

James nods, and swipes a cup from the dish rack, rinsing it once beneath the tap before placing it in the middle of the counter. Steve watches as he takes a beer, expertly popping it open with a spoon.

“How’d you do that?”

“My sister taught me,” James says, sliding a beer over to Steve, “it’s simple physics. You just hold your hand slightly over the cap, and voilà.”

Steve tips his head, impressed.

“Now, you roll the dice,” James demonstrates, “and whatever number I get, in this case six, I have to get this cap in the glass six times in a row. If I don’t, I drink. If I do, you drink.”

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve asks.

He’s also certain he won’t miss, no matter how high he rolls.

“Yeah, but it’s friday and I can,” James replies, almost cheekily, though his face is deceptively grave.

“You can laugh,” James says after a beat, composure finally cracking.

“At funny things,” Steve retorts, relaxing, the tension held in his shoulders eased by the friendliness, the firm hold of comradely, on offer to him.

“Call me Jim, or Rhodey.”

They spend a good couple of hours playing, until Steve swallows the last of his beer, and Rhodey checks his watch.

Steve’s heart sinks. His day no longer felt droll and empty with Rhodey’s visit. It had been nice, at least, while it lasted.

“What’s your phone number?” Rhodey asks, pulling out a sleek little rectangle with a smooth surface. It alights at his touch, and Steve spots a vaguely familiar face, belatedly realising that it was Tony Stark, beaming up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have a phone.”

He had been given one when he woke up, but left it on a park bench when it hadn’t stopped incessantly ringing.

And he had no idea what a data plan was, or why he was supposed to get one.

Rhodey smiles.

“I’m sure Tony will help you out there. Here’s my address. You should stop by on Sunday. We’re having a barbecue.”

He’s out the door with another kind smile and firm handshake, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne behind him.

—-

By the time Sunday rolls around, he still hasn’t decided on a colour for his studio, or if he really does want a breakfast nook in his kitchen.

What he has decided, after a great deal of going back and forth with himself, is that he will attend the barbecue that Rhodey invited him to. Steve refuses to think about Bucky, or his mother; dead for decades while he experiences the future. He doesn’t think of quiet dinners with his mother, or sitting in dense forests with Bucky, his small fingers expertly carving the skin from a rabbit, roasting it over the fire, a fond suspire caught in Steve’s throat as Bucky complained about boredom, wishing for Nazi’s to gut or superior officers to prank. Mostly, he remembers the smell of bodies. The nauseating amount of blood had been like drowning in a sea of pennies, a thick, overwhelming metallic smell, a horrible collision with urine and excrement.

He thinks of Bucky, who didn’t even make it to sixteen.

He pulls on his shoes, and thinks of how he had to warn Bucky about keeping his feet as dry as possible in his boots, to never assume that it was mud, or something wet in his socks. He had heard too many stories from the first war about flesh peeling off, rotting and grotesque.

Steve ignores the military uniform hanging neatly in his closet and opts for jeans and a white t-shirt, pulls the punnet of strawberries from the fridge that he was sure were going to be laughed at, before beginning the long walk to Rhodey’s residence.

Rhodey lives in an incredibly beautiful two-story house, with a sprawling property that Steve figured would cost more than he would ever see in his lifetime. There’s a small porch at the front, adorned with plants hanging from the ceiling, a mat at the door and a small, ornate table with a package of bird feed on it.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when it’s opened almost instantly.

Rhodey grins at him, wiping his hands on a yellow apron.

“Steve! Glad you could make it. Are those for the barbecue? Perfect, they’ll go perfectly with the charcuterie board.”

Relieved, Steve hands off the strawberries, peeling off his shoes and placing them in the neat little shelf by the door, already filled with a variety of joggers, leather shoes and a strange pair with holes throughout them.

The air smells like steak, sausages and something spicy.

Rhodey leads him briskly through a wide hallway with gleaming wooden floors into a large kitchen, where Tony Stark stands, arms akimbo.

“I thought flambéing would be easier than it looked,” Tony says, with a winning smile.

It’s not the wet, dormant smile of a greedy businessman; his blue eyes are warm, and he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows, a faint flush working his way up to his neck. He looks very normal.

“Just do us all a favour and stick to chopping, a severed finger would be better than cleaning the gunk in that pan,” Rhodey replies.

Tony shrugs, and turns to face Steve properly.

“Hi, Steve. Nice to properly meet you,” Tony says, offering a hand.

His palm is calloused and warm, with long, bony fingers that his mother would say are perfect for the piano.

“I hear you’re in the midst of a construction project.” Tony opens the punnet of strawberries, and opens a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a beautiful wooden board, covered in rich oils that paint the surface into a bubbling ocean. Rhodey passes him a package of brie and a small knife, which all get neatly organised on the board.

“Maybe,” Steve says, scratching at the back of his neck.

There’s a cool breeze trailing in from the deck, the huge doors thrown open, curtains flapping gently.

A British voice, possibly belonging to the pale set of legs lounging half out of sight on a chaise longue, rings out.

“Master Anthony! I’m sure somewhere along the way I drilled some manners into that head of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Tony says, whisking the small platter out the door. “I don’t recall.”

Steve follows, assured by Rhodey’s benign smile as he inches around the barbeque. Rhodey lifts the lid, smoke escaping the confines and filling the air, and pokes at the sausages sizzling away alongside a row of vegetables.

“I enjoy my days off, but I don’t enjoy watching your abysmal attempt at cooking,” the older gentleman says, arranging his feet on a small table.

“Jarvis,” Rhodey replies, “stop flirting.”

Jarvis sniffs.

“Anthony, I wasn’t joking about your manners.”

Tony claps a hand over his shoulder, grinning. “Jarvis, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jarvis. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”

“You were just as stubborn about those as you are about bread,” Jarvis demurred.

“I’m not a snob for not eating white bread,” Tony defends immediately, handing a cracker piled with olives, tomatoes and cheese over to Steve.

The cheese had an interesting layer of crust, a creamy, white texture underneath.

“Are too,” Rhodey says, “you couldn’t see the looks of disgust sent my way when I dared to grill cheese on white bread.”

“There’s a perfect way to make grilled cheese, Rhodey,” Tony says, “it’s a sacred art.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and Tony grins widely at him, nodding towards the cracker.

“That’s brie. It’s okay if you don’t like it, it can be a bit rich.”

He eats it in one bite, the rich flavours exploding across his tongue immediately. Steve had been used to stale, thin waifs for crackers, and in the army, hardtack, eaten in the dark to remain ignorant about the presence of weevils. These crackers were crumbly, with hints of thyme and garlic, and complimented the tangy tomato and olives, the interesting taste of the brie eluding his palate until the last minute.

“I don’t mind it,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to try any other new food, Steve?” Rhodey asks, smiling charmingly, one hand pressing warmly against the small of Tony’s back as he shuffles past, offering another loaded cracker to Jarvis, before holding the other to Rhodey’s lips.

“Not really.” Steve scratches his head, darting his eyes between the three of them, no judgement in their eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Tony clicks his fingers. “We can remedy that, Steve. Can’t have you going to any old Cantonese restaurant. I know a place. Tiny, no signage, just a window filled with roasted duck. Best you’ll get in the city.”

Rhodey wipes his hands on his apron, a dab of oil on his lip from the olives, wiped daintily off by Tony’s gentle finger. He sucks the remnants off, and turns to gaze at Steve inquiringly.

“It’s a date, right?”

Rhodey nods, before Steve can even open his mouth.

“We’ll pick you up Wednesday night. That work for you?”

Steve, who so far had a grand total of zero friends in the future, nods reluctantly. It sounded better than sitting alone, firmly telling himself he doesn’t need company, or someone to write letters to, or listen to music with, or go to a baseball game with.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says, forcing what he hopes is a personable smile on his face.

Tony and Rhodey angle identical grins at him, exchanging a silent, pleased glance.

Steve blames the blazing sun for the prick of heat that spreads rapidly down his neck.

[3gremlins]

between blackwall** and davrin, i'm choosing to believe there's this cottage industry of warden carpentry/wood carving. like sure wardens are known for fighting darkspawn, but did you know they also make great furniture and wooden knick knacks? maybe it's how they actually support themselves it's not like killing darkspawn pays well? at all? (like the shakers and the oneidans and various other religious "utopian" communities mostly known *now* for making specific things like furniture and spoons b/c they still had to get food/supplies from the secular world. not that wardens are a religious community tho they are an isolated community w/particular rules so not too far off in other ways) warden made chessboards and hand carved spoons are in high demand across orlais and even the snobbiest ferelden nobility swear by their warden-made armchairs and tables. buyers must not mind the prevalent griffon theme across all the warden made objects **tho you could argue that blackwall is not a warden at the time when he's doing all the woodworking in inquisition- i have two theories for this: 1) due to his exposure/proximity to orlesian nobility circles, ranier had heard tell of the wardens prowess in woodworking. his woodworking is part of his "i'm definitely a grey warden" cover. or 2) The side business in woodworking and handicrafts started because of Blackwall/Ranier finally officially joining their ranks and has thrived in the last 10 years.

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac #14 : Shrinked Monkey King

Today Wukong visits Mac home inside of the wall and they wrestled together like cubs.

Sun Wukong was looking at one of Macaque's gates in wonder. He was in the living room, leaning on his wooden couch. Summer was in full swing, the sun burning brighter than ever, and while the weather wasn't as bad as it could be, it was still pretty hot. The sage looked back at Macaque, who was floating inside of a bowl filled with cool water, and wondered if he should voice his desire. The lil guy looked good, he was dressed in some leaves (at Wukong's request), letting himself float in the shallow wooden bowl, serene as ever.

“You're enjoying yourself?”Snorted Wukong, fondness melting in his tone.

“Yeah, best idea you ever had.” Mumbled Macaque, a smile blooming on his lips. Wukong cooed a bit when he heard a hint of a purr stumble out of Macaque's lips.

The sage hesitated a little before shrinking himself, he didn't do it that often, mainly because he was still trying to control this power and he couldn't stay shrinked for long. Once properly shrinked (his clothes shrinking with him) he climbed the table and leaned on Macaque's wooden bowl. The black-furred monkey opened one eye and glanced at him, his eyes widened when he caught sight of the shrinked sage.

“Hey.” Chuckled Wukong, snorting at the lil guy's bewildered expression. Macaque blinked a few times before jumping on his feet (splashing some water around) and walking over Wukong. The black-furred monkey smiled when he noticed he was slightly taller than the sage.

“I'm taller.” Mumbled Macaque with a proud expression, Wukong fondly rolled his eyes at this.

“Because I let you be taller.” Huffed Wukong. “I was wondering… maybe you could make me visit your home? In the walls, I mean.”

“You're curious?” Chuckled the black-furred monkey, Wukong averted his eyes, cheeks reddening.

“A bit.”

Macaque got out of his bowl of freshwater and ruffled his own hair. He reached out to Wukong, his hand making a gimmie motion. The sage huffed, amused and slightly frustrated to be ordered around, and created a towel with one of his hair to put it in his palm. The black-furred monkey took the towel and dried up his fur, he then put the towel on his shoulders and stretched. He looked like a walking urchin with his fur sticking in all directions, Wukong found it endearing.

“Alright then, let's go.” Chuckled Macaque as he put an arm over Wukong and affectionately ruffled his hair, relishing in the fact Wukong was now his size.

“Hey, hey, my perfect hair!” Whined the sage in-between chuckles. Macaque ignored his whining and dragged him to one of his gates.

Sun Wukong went through one of the gates with curiosity, the inside of the walls was rather dark, lightened by various cracks that draw serpents of lights on their path. It was also rather narrow, Wukong couldn't be beside Macaque and stretch himself without hitting one wall. The sage followed the lil guy as he walked with ease inside of the wall, probably already used to the darkness. Macaque began to walk on nails studded in the wall, using them like stairs, Wukong readily followed after him. Macaque's chamber was embedded in the wall, a little wooden box hidden in the stones, lightened by wavering serpents of light. Macaque proudly showed his front door (a square cut in the wooden box) and turned towards Wukong with a huffed chest. Sun Wukong tied his tail on his waist to stop it from wagging, the lil guy was truly adorable.

The sage curiously entered the wooden box. The floor was lined with soft tissue, the walls covered in plants and flowers, there were some cupboards carved in the wooden walls filled with cut pieces of fruits and different vials. A spoon was put in one corner, it was tall enough to almost reach the roof. Sun Wukong passed before the silverware and chuckled at his distorted figure, he made silly faces and giggled at his reflection.

“Having fun?” Chuckled Macaque as he leaned on Wukong.

“Yeah that's fun. So that's your lair?” He asked as he twirled on himself and went to look at everything, he smiled at the doodles carved on the walls and chirped excitedly at the sight of a bed, or at least something resembling a bed. It was a nest made of hay and flowers carefully weaved together. Macaque sat on the nest and patted his side, Wukong immediately jumped on it. It was bouncy and soft, moreover it was drenched in Macaque's scent.

“I have multiple lairs though, that's the one in the living room’s wall.”

“Really?” Chuckled Wukong as he buried his snout in the tissue covering the nest. Macaque chuckled at his behavior.

“How come you don't shrink more often?”

“I can't stay like this for long.” Replied Wukong as he turned towards Macaque.

“Mh, then I have to enjoy this while it lasts!” Chuckled Macaque as he pounced on Wukong and began to tickle him. The sage hurled in laughter, curling on himself.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha, w-wait ! Ha ha ha ha!” Wheezed Wukong as he was being assaulted by tickles. He tried to battle Macaque for a while, fighting against his hold on him. They stumbled in the bed, trying to pin the other down, chirps and trills escaping their lips. Macaque was usually not this playful, but seeing Wukong being his size was thrilling and he wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. They tumbled like cubs, hollering in laughter.

Macaque stopped tickling the sage after a bit and collapsed beside him on the nest, breath heaving. He looked up at the ceiling with a smile.

“You're okay there?” Asked the black-furred monkey when he calmed down a bit. Wukong giggled, still filled with adrenaline, and turned towards Macaque with a beaming smile.

“I'm more than okay!”Chuckled the sage with flushed cheeks and a beating heart. His gaze was guided downward and he looked at the lil guy's tail, he shyly guided his own tail towards the black-furred limb. He nervously flicked his tail on top of Macaque's and waited for a little. When he saw that Macaque wasn't bothered, he slowly tried to intertwine the two limbs.

He beamed when he felt Macaque tail squeeze his own and intertwine a little tighter. When he turned towards the lil guy he saw him looking at the ceiling with red-dusted cheeks and chuckled.

They both stayed on the nest, tail intertwined, gaze lost on the ceiling with silly smiles on their lips.

+ cut scenes

SWK *after an hour of chatting and holding tails* : Oh shoot, my shrinking is fading! 😅

Macaque : Like, right now ? 😨

SWK *with limbs already getting bigger* : Yeaaah 🥲

Macaque : Wukong I swear if you destroy my lair I'm gonna hide all the peaches on the island! 😠

SWK : 😭

SWK *later that night* : We held tails! 🤭🥰

Macaque *later that night* : Ew, now my bed smell like him 😑

Also Macaque *Jump on his bed and roll around in it, enjoying Wukong's smell*: 😆

The wind : 👀

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[oneforthemunny]

Thinkin' about carving pumpkins with Cowboy Eddie. (And by "carving pumpkins", I mean you draw faces on them and make him do all the dirty work. 😂)

"You're shittin' me." Eddie laughed, shaking his head when he looked at the pumpkin you passed him.

You frowned, looking at the Sharpie stenciled outline. "No." You pouted lightly. "What? What's wrong with it?"

Eddie blinked, scoffing lightly in amusement before bumming his cigarette in the tray on the porch. "Nothin', baby." He muttered, a dimpled grin that made you frown.

"You're making fun of me." You glared at him. "What? What's wrong with my pumpkin?"

"Nothin', baby. You just said it was gonna be easy." Eddie grinned, digging in his pant pocket for his pocket knife.

"This is easy." You insisted.

"Says you, darlin', 'm the one cuttin' it." Eddie smirked, taking the pumpkin from you, settling it between his legs.

"It's star eyes! That's it!" You gawk, throwing a hand out towards the outlined eyes of the pumpkin. "How is that any different from a regular one?"

"Because," Eddie grinned, far too amused for your liking. "Regular one is just a triangle."

"So?" You scoff, rolling your eyes at him lightly. "That's basically a triangle."

"That so?"

"Yeah," You hum, looking over at your design. "It's, like, a bunch of triangles."

Eddie howled in laughter, eyes shining when they looked over at you, the light from the porch illuminating your silhouette. You looked so pretty. He'd carve a million fucking pumpkins if you wanted him to.

"I got it." Eddie flicked the knife open.

You frowned. "I think you need a bigger knife."

"I think you need to let me work." Eddie countered, a light glare that had your tummy flipping in excitement. "Go get that scooper spoon thing." He nodded behind you, sawing through the pumpkin.

You reached towards the plastic, orange scooper, past the newspaper you laid out and the tiny carving tools that came with it- the ones Eddie scoffed at when you showed him. "Gonna need somethin' sharper than that, baby."

"You gonna get the guts out?" Eddie's eyes flicked to yours, biting back his grin of amusement when your nose crinkled.

"No."

"So he's keepin' them in?"

"No, Eddie." You huffed, voice coasting on a whine. "You scoop them out."

"You got me doin' all the work?" Eddie laughed, eyes shining up at yours.

"You said you would help me!" You countered. "And I'm not touching that. It'll get under my nails." You snarled, shaking your head in disgust, lips puckered like you ate something sour.

Eddie laughed, pulling the top off with the stringy contents, seeds and "guts" with them. "So they gotta go under my nails, huh?"

"You don't have nails." You nodded at his short, trimmed nails. Eddie barely had any, and you didn't blame him, not working with animals all day.

Eddie stopped, looking over at you with a goofy, lopsided grin. "Alright, I guess I'll do it f'ya." He purred. "If you do somethin' for me?"

You frowned lightly. "What?"

"Gimme a kiss now, maybe some head after it's done." He shrugged casually.

You fought back a grin and an eye roll. Fair enough, you were gonna do that anyways.

"Fine." You groan, feigning irritation, leaning towards him on the wooden planks of the porch.

Eddie's lips enveloped yours easily, tongue slipping past your teeth cheekily, until you were giggling, pulling back with a raised brow. "Gotta finish the pumpkin if you want me to suck you off." You nodded towards the pumpkin in between his legs, smug at how he blushed under the moonlight.

[weekendviking]

Further adventures in Experimental Archaeology.

So, throughout my many years as a reenactor and aspiring bang the rocks together experimental archaeology adjacent loon, it's always interesting to be at the cutting (or bruised, bleeding or dazed) edge.

So when this paper crossed various blogs, we couldn't resist:

Collins, R., & Sands, R. (2023). Touch wood: Luck, protection, power or pleasure? A wooden phallus from Vindolanda Roman fort. Antiquity, 1-17. doi:10.15184/aqy.2023.11

After reading the various hot takes, a few of us decided that it was worth trying out the various non bodily penetrative possible uses of the item to see if we could match the wear patterns.

Construction: We don't have readily available European Ash where we are, so the green roundwood to hand this weekend was Poplar, of which I'd felled a sapling to supply billets for the spoon carvers. I roughed out the taper with a side axe, and then used one of the early medieval utility knives I made earlier in the week to whittle the phallus down to about the dimensions described, but a little larger to account for the variously cited 5-8% shrinkage of ash as it dries, and a little more for post burial archaeological shrinkage.

Part of the build montage:

It was very quick to make - around two hours from first cut to finished object. Would take a little longer in seasoned wood or hardwood.

Because the different possible uses of the object may leave different wear patterns, more than one will need to be made. First proposal: It's a Pestle, and any wear patterns are from the pounding of food or mineral materials, rather than the pounding of the denizens of Vindolanda.

As we were about to cook the evening meal, some coarse salt needed to be ground, with a spare bowl standing in for the mortar, and the freshly carved phallus as pestle:

It works really well as a pestle, and reduced 4-8mm grainsize coarse salt down to a sub millimeter size in a minute or two, and was a comfortable shape to use, with the slope of the glans against the base of one's palm, and thumb and middle finger on the underside of the shaft, forefinger on the top near the bulge of the base for control.

While a single use isn't going to show much wear, because this is fresh green poplar, the base quickly started rounding, with a distinct patch of abrasion obscuring the tooling marks from my whittling knife:

I'll continue to use this in my kitchen mortar for a few weeks, and see if it develops any more distinctive wear patterns. Just from this weekend's use, one could see a little wear and high points on the shaft beginning to pick up use marks from my hands, mostly just discolouration from soot and so forth on my hands from being busy around an open fire cooking site:

This is an ongoing project, and there will be further iterations, with each replica only used for one tool type, to see if the wear patterns are specific to the different uses:

Drop Spindle, to see if it functions as a dealgan type drop spindle. Personally, I think the detailing on the glans section is a little light to provide an effective tye point for use as a drop spindle.

Mallet, for woodworking, driving chisels, etc. Probably unlikely, as this would leave very distinct impact marks on the flared base, especially if it was used while still greenwood.

Darning mushroom, for repairing knitwear. Some of us think this is quite likely, so it's a hot favourite.

Further details will be posted here :-)