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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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Great Expectations 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes' class is your most difficult, but he's about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: It was a drabble then it weren't.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You're not certain. Not at first. But when are you ever confident in anything?

Yet you're assured by the dark curls and vibrant eyes, the slanted brows never devoid of judgment. More than anything, it's his posture that confirms his identity. Professor Holmes is staunch and indomitable even as he browses shelves of antique style pens; crystal, wood, and brass. He considers each as he would every word of a term paper.

You're doubt turns to what to do next. Do you say hello? Or pretend you don't see him? Would he know either way? You're fairly convinced he can't pick you out of the lecture hall.

So you do what you do best and fade into the scenery. You trail along the shelves and dip around the other side, putting your attention to the spools of thread, organized in a perfect spectrum of hues. As you mindlessly touch the thread, your mind wanders back around the row.

You would never expect to see the professor there, though honestly, you've never thought of him outside the classroom. You avoid that as much as you can, you stress enough over his unattainable standards. His is the only class which has you below an A.

You contemplate the silver twine. You've been looking for the very thing and yet the price is much above your budget. All that for some shine?

You move on, turning around to the balls of wool and needles arranged from thinnest to thickest. Your ears are pricked by the familiar timbre. The professor's voice carries as easily as in the lecture hall. You try not to listen but you can't help the instinctive decipher of each syllable.

"Are these genuine silver?" He asks, presumably of a passing associate.

"Um, I'm not sure, sir," the squeaky adolescent reply is met with an impatient sigh. "I work in the back."

"Work in the back doing what? Sorting stock? Do you not know what you put on the shelves?" Professor Holmes' disapproval is unmistakable.

His tone make you want to run. It is the same detest wrought into the feedback scribbled in the margins of your assignments. If it isn't perfect, it's not acceptable.

You should go. You don't have the money to waste on hobbies you don't have time for. Nor do you relish an encounter with the very man responsible for your lack of free time.

You make sure to walk toward the far end of the aisle and avoid any possible sighting. The very thing you meant to distract yourself chases you from your procrastination. Two days before your paper is due, and you've not even touched the readings due for that week's class discussion.

📕

You’re barely awake as you claim a seat in the melancholic lecture hall. The coeds are silent, only yawning between slurping from paper cups, or slumping dangerously over the narrow armrests. There’s a dour commiseration in the air; a sort of resignation.

Papers are handed in and yet the outcome is almost assured; Professor Holmes will surely find at least a dozen reasons to dock marks. Sometimes it seems even the font can draw his ire. Yet, there is more to be done. He will expect a lively discussion before that three-hour block is done and if he doesn’t get it, you will all sweat for it.

You flutter through your notebook. Unlike your other courses, the paper is crinkled and the writing is erratic. Each week sees you with at least another twenty pages added to the reading list. You don’t understand how anyone can keep up with it all; the work alone is as much as all your other classes combined.

You jump in your seat as his even-keeled voice rolls through the air. He hardly has to project as his baritone fills the large room. You look up and fumble for your pen. Professor Holmes doesn’t permit devices. The last person caught merely looking at their phone was dropped from the course.

You chew the end of the pen as he begins his introduction, but not without a sharp remark about your midterm papers. It’s as if he’s already made up his mind that you’ve all failed. There’s no bell curve in this class, just an impossible mountain.

“To make it simple,” his accent lilts off his tongue, “I’ve decided we will do things a bit differently this week. I will have you sort yourself into groups and each will discuss an assigned article. At the end, we will reconvene and you will nominate a member to present your conclusions. You may use our usual guiding questions for these purposes.”

You nod and furrow your brow thoughtfully. The idea of splitting into groups is daunting on its own. It’s one thing to put your hand up amid the wide sea of your peers but it’s another to parse yourself down into a smaller group amid strangers. Despite weeks of sitting side-by-side, you don’t really know anyone. They all seemed to have made friends before that and made no effort to find any more.

“Well, off you go,” Holmes flicks his fingers, “you’ve two minutes to arrange yourselves. I’m no kindergarten teacher, certainly you can figure it out.”

There’s a low murmur then a lull before anyone moves. You hear the chatter that connects the smaller pairings to each other; aren’t you in my econ class? Oh, you were at the Delta party? You gather your notebook and stand, searching for an in.

“Um,” you approach the nearest cluster of bodies, “room for one more?”

It’s as if you’re invisible. You wince and clear your throat. Before you can try again, a deeper ahem comes from behind you. You crane to see over your shoulder. Professor Holmes stands at the end of the row, one brow arched as he crosses his arms. His old-fashioned vest strains as his chest bulges against the buttons.

“Eh, she’s in need of a group. Have some manners.”

You’re surprised by his intervention, but grateful. You try to smile but it’s probably more of a pathetic simper, “thank you, professor.” You nod and turn back to the other students.

“Uh, sorry, yeah, can I tag along?” You ask.

They shrug, none of them daring to ignore Professor Holmes. You sit at the edge of the group, heat speckling up your back in embarrassment. The others as good as ignore you as they go back to complaining about their papers.

“I didn’t sleep,” a blond you think is named Ethan mutters, “fucker had me tearing out my hair.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to go to a Barbie party but I need this class,” a pretty redhead rolls her eyes.

There’s at least ten other students circled between three rows. You glance around at the others as they bow and chatter in kind. You shuffle your notebook in your lap and lean in, trying to seem involved.

“Right then, you,” Holmes points to your group, “take Jones et al,” he moves his finger towards the next group, “Halloway,” he continues down the list of readings as silence pervades the space.

It isn’t until he bids you to start that anyone dares speak again. The professor paces at the front of the room, hands in his pockets, as his longs stride take him from one end to the other. As you watch him, he seems to sense it, and his blue eyes meet your own. He hardly reacts before he puts his attention back to his repetitive route.

“Alright, so Jones et al,” you redirect your attention as your peers continue their griping over lost sleep and shitty coffee. “So uh, we should go over main arguments first--”

“Didn’t read it,” Ethan scoffs and two girls giggle.

“I don’t know how that tight ass thinks we have all day for the stuffy bullshit,” another guy snorts. “Some of us get laid.”

You blanch and chew your lip. You look around and receive only agitation and indifference.

“Since you’re such a smarty pants, why don’t you do the presentation, huh?” The redhead chirps, “you always have so much to say.”

You frown. You only put in what you need to get a decent mark. You’re hoping the discussion grade can save you from your disastrous first assignment. Besides, aren’t you all facing the same foe? Shouldn’t you be allies?

“Well, we should talk about the article a bit. Did anyone else read it?” You insist.

You don’t get an answer, only scoffs and sneers. Shoot. You look down at your notebook and shrink into yourself. It’s just like high school. You’re the one building the diorama by yourself until midnight. You’re the one doing all the talking in the class debate.

You scribble notes in the margins as the other garble on about some party and the new cafe opening up at the Student Centre. You keep a hand on your neck as the heat builds under your skin. You should’ve just stayed on your own, not that you have much of a choice. None of them even want to acknowledge you.

Professor Holmes calls time and you pop your head up, catching your glasses before they can bounce off your nose. You fix them as the lecture hall hushes and you all twist and turn to see the professor. He walks up the centre aisle and points to the group in the very back.

“You, come on,” he demands.

There’s crinkling of paper and scratchy coughs. A guy in a polo sweater stands with a cluster of lined paper in hand. He reads out with fractured syllables as if he can’t make out the writing. Professor Holmes sighs and you glance over at his scowl. He’s not impressed.

“Right, and beyond the obvious, what were your final reflections? Did you have a single thought about the author’s narrative on the consequences of the railway on colonized communities?” He pauses and waits, tapping his clefted chin. Silence. “Mm, absolutely compelling,” he remarks dryly.

You gulp as your group fidgets. Holmes jabs a finger at another group, calling out a student by name, “thank you for volunteering.”

The woman with the buzzcut stands, looking nervous as she peers around her group members. She sways and wets her lips, playing with the ring around her lower lip. She laughs nervously before she begins, pausing and umming and ahhing.

“Enough rambling,” Holmes shakes his head and turns toward your group. Your eyes go wide as the rest peek over at you. You rise as the professor stands just at the end of the rows. “Ethan, you seemed to be doing most of the talking, let’s hear it.”

Ethan grimaces and sends you a look. He shakes his head. You shrug. You don’t know what to do. You offer your notebook and Holmes clucks.

“I’m sure he can do it himself, he’s a big boy,” Holmes insists, “let’s hear your take on Jones et al. They have some rather interesting arguments about the cultural significance of the Silk Road, did they not?”

Ethan exhales and stands, a tick in his jaw as he faces the professor. You chew your cheek as he stutters, “well, what we were talking about was that... er, the Silk Road... um...”

“Yes, yes, you made some rather intriguing arguments about the Gammas, didn’t you? And how you have so many important things to do, eh? Well, Ethan, if you can’t keep up, you don’t have to bluster,” Holmes reproaches, “your boasting does suggest incompetence over importance.”

Ethan chokes. There’s a low titter of laughter from further back as the rest of your group stares at their hands. You hug your note book and lower your head as well.

“Come on, then,” Holmes wags his fingers and calls your name, “stand up. Let’s hear something coherent.”

“Oh, uh,” you lift your chin as Ethan falls into his chair with a snarl. You get up and focus on your notebook. You swallow tightly before you get your vision to clear, “typically when we think of the, er, Silk Road, er, we fixate on, uh, on uh, on the movement of goods such as dyes and, and, and rice...” you can’t help your stuttering. You just know the professor will have your throat next, “but Jones et all argue that, ummmm, um, the movement of peoples and contact between various cultures is just as... as important--”

“Ah, yes, someone has done their work,” Holmes proclaims with a clap.

“All of you. One thousand words on your groups assigned article by the end of the week. You may drop them off at my office.”

“What?” Several students burst out in shock.

“It is an individual effort, yes? Not a group project. You have until Friday at 6pm.”

“Professor,” a woman whines from the back.

“Would you like a thousand more words?” He turns to face the lecture hall completely, “no, alright then. I can be generous. You may go early so that you can catch up on your readings.”

He smirks and tilts his head smugly. He spins on his heel and strides down the low steps to the front podium. You glance down at your notebook and slowly flip the cover.

“Fucking browner,” Ethan growls.

#sherlock holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #series #great expectations #au #professor au #modern au #enola holmes #fic #dark fic #dark!fic

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milkweedman · 5 months ago

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hello! need help learning how to do a thing and it's your area of expertise so im squirrelling into your ask box (dad joke, sorry.) ANYWAY

i have a lot of jeans that i really really like. however, my most worn jeans tend to, uh. rip in the seat after some time. either near the ass, or at the crotch. this is super irritating, and i don't like tossing the jeans just because of that but i have no idea how to fix them or what to do about this.

i vaguely remember you posting on here about jeans wear and tear as well. sorry if im asking you something that you have already answered, but just wanted to know - what's a good way of mending jeans ripped in the crotch area?

better yet, how do i reinforce my jeans that are showing the warning signs of ripping at the crotch?

My jeans literally just ripped a couple days ago and ive been wearing sweatpants to work out if laziness, so you have good timing 🐿

There might be many ways to do this (and there's definitely NEATER ways to do this) but here's how I fix mine:

They just sort of wore right through. Luckily I was able to catch it before they started ripping too. The sooner you catch a hole the better--and noticing before it rips is best.

You will need a sewing needle (for jeans I like the shortest sharpest needle with a small eye but use whatever needle is comfortable), scissors, a strip of scrap fabric, and some thread. Ideally thread in the same color as your jeans, but I'm using one that will stand out so you can see the repair. Also, nobody will see this later so it doesn't really matter. Pins will also help keep things neat but aren't strictly necessary.

The strip of fabric should be big enough to cover the entire area that wears out, doubled over, on this leg. You can of course just patch the hole, but then you'll grow a new hole a centimeter to the left, so its less work to just do this now.

For preventative measures (sewing a patch on before there is a hole) the process is exactly the same. Just patch the area you know will wear out.

Step 1: turn the pants inside out. fold your patch and pin it in place. We want a doubled patch because a single layer might wear through as well. If you don't have pins, you can use a spare needle or just set it over the repair site.

Like so. If you want these to look nice, keep everything neat and straight. I just want these mended and don't care how it looks one iota, so mine will be messy.

Step 2: thread your needle with doubled thread. A single thread can and probably will wear through here.

Step 3: put your non dominant hand down the leg you're fixing. Your hand should be under the patch supporting while you sew. If you have an embroidery hoop or something leg-sized to put there to hold things taut, that's even better.

Step 4: start sewing the patch down. First we just want to secure it before we do any reinforcing. You could use any stitch here ( whipstitch would probably be good, backstitch is good as well) but I just use a simple running stitch. Go around the entire patch, removing pins if present as you go. Keep your stitches loose here, or at least not tight.

Step 5: reinforcing ! This part can be done on either side, and the front is going to look way neater than the back. If this is in matching thread I'd go ahead and work on the inside because the messy outside won't be seen. If it's contrasting thread you may want to work on the outside, so that at least you have a good pattern. I don't care either way, so I'll work on the inside as it's a little easier. Like I said, this repair really won't be seen when wearing the pants, so the aesthetics aren't very important imo.

To reinforce, I will stitch plus signs/x's over the entire patch. You can do them one at a time or sew all the horizontal lines, then sew vertically to intersect. It's up to you, I like doing them one at a time though.

Yes, they're very bad. Yes this will still extend the life of these pants several months at least. Yes it would be even more effective if I took the time to be neater.

On top on the right image is the patch I did on the other side when they started shredding 5 or 6 months ago. The fabric on the front is only just now starting to fail again, so they will need another round of mending. I will probably extend the patch down the leg a little but mostly just sew more. When you add a layer of thread over fabric, now you have to wear through all of the thread before you start wearing down the fabric again. That's largely how these patches work.

A much much neater and more aesthetic form of this basic idea is sashiko sewing. It's a great way to mend things like jeans (I just don't care about my jeans being anything other than usable so I save my effort and creativity for where I will enjoy it).

Here's the front. I highly doubt anyone will ever see the yellow but I sharpied it black (can also do blue on most shades of blue jeans) and now it stands out less.

One last thing--if, when you look at the front again, you see there are some damaged areas standing proud, sew over those until they have compacted back down and are smooth again. This is important--whatever stands the highest will wear first. So your repairs should be sitting on top, standing higher than the damaged fabric. Otherwise this is all for naught.

Some tips:

A canvas fabric is better. Go for something thick and with some weight to it if you can--immobilizing the repair site will also help some with how long the repair will last.

Similarly colored thread will render this almost invisible. Almost invisible means hard to work on... so make sure your patch is a different color so you're not mending like black thread on black fabric. Save your eyes.

Smaller stitches are better if you have the time/coordination. Large stitches can snag in the wash and also aren't as effective here.

That said, chicken scratch looking garbage will absolutely still make your pants wearable again, as you can see.

If the physical act of moving the needle is going terribly, it's because it's the wrong needle for the job. For jeans, you want a short needle as thin as possible with a small eye. I switched halfway thru this mend because I found a better needle and it was way easier after that.

That's all I got, good luck with your pants ! I usually can double or triple my jeans life this way

#there are absolutely better/neater tutorials out there but i hope this gets the point across #lmk if you have any questions #mending #jeans repair #sewing

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hidefdoritos · 5 months ago

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How do you decide what to do to fix clothing that needs mending(like what type of mend a tear or hole needs)? And when is something too far gone to fix?

Hey, thanks for asking great questions!

So the two main ways of repairing holes are (1) covering them with more thread or (2) patching. Generally, "more thread" is good for little holes that aren't very worn out, and "patching" is good for big holes and lots of wear! Plus there's a third type I call "preventative mending": fixing things before they have the chance to wear out.

Descriptions of how the mends look and how they were done are in the alt texts.

Examples of "more thread" mends:

A tiny hole on sturdy fabric. Needs more thread!

Some end results. The first one is just back and forth mending. The second mend was larger, so I wove over it. Personally, this is the largest darning I like to do. (It's easier for me to make a patch than to essentially weave my own fabric over a big hole.)

Examples of "patching" mends:

These jeans recently wore through. (I intended to do my DIY ripstop on the thighs, but life kept happening.) The hole is maybe the size of a quarter, but the fabric all around it is also very weak and worn. The line marks where the fabric is strong enough to hold a patch.

Here's the inside and outside of some jeans I've been working on for a few years. I started by actually doing the DIY ripstop. When that was really disintegrating, I put patches on the inside. As the outside disintegrates more, I'll use my machine to do "more thread" mends. That'll anchor the mend to the patch and keep the patch from showing through to the outside world.

Example of a "preventative mend"

I've had these jeans for a couple years. Pockets and belt loops tear often, and I don't like showing my boxers to the world. So, before the threads can tear apart all the way, I'm putting a second layer behind them to spread out the strain and create a little extra protection.

When is something too far gone to fix?

Part of me wants to answer "never," but that's not the case.

Once upon a time, I went to a barn sale, and I found the old owner's favorite pair of jeans. "Tattered" doesn't begin to describe them. Every pocket was tearing away, all the belt loops were popped, the knees were gone, the cuffs were just threads, and every inch of them looked well-worn and well-loved. Repairs, at this point, would take a week.

It's too far gone when the effort required is more than you're able to give.

I got them for something like a quarter, brought them home to wash, and they became my first pieces of patch denim. The back pockets became cargo pockets on some other pants. The zipper got salvaged. Almost all the scrap denim you see in this post is from them.

If the repair is so intensive that the clothing is better as rags/scrap, then it's too far gone.

[Or if it's a holey sock. I hate darning with all my heart. I'd rather chew sandpaper than walk on darned socks. I just hack them up for stuffing.]

#sewing #cj sews #diy #solarpunk #mending #beginner sewing #visible mending #it's not waste until you waste it #use it up wear it out make it do or do without

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spitdrunken · 2 years ago

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Kwkfjfkejeje

Help I can’t get Rollo being all like ☺️😊🥹

With a reader who does embroidery like he loves hand crafted stuff and such and I can’t get the idea of him like going to the bell and finding reader there doing some embroidery and him being like 💞💖💓

And just like staying there looking at them doing their thing like “spectacular, amazing, unique”

“What are you doing up here?” As soon as you look up, and Rollo recognises who is sitting underneath the Bell of Salvation, the furrow in between his eyes softens. He isn’t one to prefer company during his daily cleaning, but if it’s you... Well, he supposes it could do no harm.

“Ah. It’s you. My apologies, not many decide to take the trek up here, I thought perhaps... Nevermind.” He lightly shakes his head. You bear no ill will; You couldn’t damage this bell, no matter how much you may have wished to.

Nevertheless, it’s cold up here, windy, regardless of the weather outside. Rollo can only wonder why you would choose to wander here, though he could hazard a guess.

“I just like the view, and-” You open your mouth, but close it again. For a moment, you’re quiet. “I can focus here. It’s nice and quiet. Well, usually... I don’t mean you! Let’s just say I didn’t know the exact times the bell rang when I first got here.”

Rollo lets out a slight huff of air through his nose. He moves to a corner of the room to grab his stepladder, and the rest of his usual supplies. “I’m familiar with the feeling. That’s a mistake anyone will only make once.” His ears had been ringing for two hours afterwards. You hum in reply, absentmindedly.

When he places the ladder down near the bell, near where you’re seated cross-legged on the floor, he finally gets a good view off what’s keeping you busy. You’re moving a needle and thread through the sleeves of your school uniform. Your version of the uniform is much less intricate than the others. Both because you have no magic and no money to pay for the full set, you merely received a plain red garb to wear over your usual clothing. It always makes you the odd one out in every crowd. (And, frankly, it disgusts him. You had never asked to be here, manifested underneath the Bell of Salvation one day for him to find, and yet they treat you like second-rate. Of course they would.)

You seem to be stitching tiny bells into the fabric. The hint of a smile spreads on his face. Would this be in accordance with school regulations? You have not paid for your uniform, technically, it’s school property that you’re altering. Well, it’s not like anyone else will ever be wearing a uniform similar to yours, he believes. He’ll keep quiet. Not to mention, you making the clothing your own, in a way, pleases him.

“That looks very nice,” You jump a little, like you just remembered he was there. “Please feel free to continue, though I will be cleaning here. Do you mind?”

You shake your head, but glance at the bucket and rags that he’s carrying. “Won’t you be using magic to clean it? Isn’t that easier?” His grip on the bucket handle tightens. Certainly, it would be easier. Certainly, it would cost less time. He tries to swallow the bitterness rising up into his mouth. You know no better, that’s all.

“It would be,” He admits. “But why do you take the time to embroid yourself, when you could ask a friend to magically alter it within seconds?”

“Um... Because it’s more satisfying if you do it yourself? And I just like to do this, it’s like a hobby.”

Rollo nods. “It’s the same for me.” Not many at Noble Bell College take the time out of their day to upkeep skills such as yours, swayed to sloth by the ease of convenience magic brings. He’s glad to see this.

You smile, seeming satisfied at his answer, before bowing down again. He allows the room to lapse into silence, you both working on your respective tasks. Cleaning the bell is work Rollo normally loses himself in, even the strong smell of the specially-made oil having become soothing. Today, however, he finds himself taking his time, and his eyes wander to watch you work. From his current position, he can only see the back of your head. As he moves clockwise along the bell however, he eventually ends up in a spot where he can see your face.

The steady movement of your hands, the focused expression on your face, the little furrow between your brow-- Whenever a particular emotion overwhelms Rollo, his worst habit is to mutter them out loud.

“Cute...”

You tear yourself away from your work, blinking up at him. “Did you say something?”

“No.” He responds within a heartbeat. “You must’ve misheard.” Without thinking, he brings the cloth in his hand to his mouth for comfort , like he otherwise would. Immediately, oil is smeared all over the lower half of his face, and an absolutely repugnant scent fills his nostrils. Rollo gags loudly, nearly heaving over. It feels disgusting.

You stare up at him in absolute disbelief. “What are you doing?!” A split second later, you burst out laughing, loud and clear as bells. He would’ve been happy to hear it at any other moment. Rollo only finds himself staring at the cleaning rag in his hand, hoping it will somehow transform into his usual handkerchief, and rid him of this utter humiliation. His face burns like fire.

#REALLY maybe i just should start up my old sfw blog to respond to cute asks in between absolute filth but also ehhhh #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamm x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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trickphotography2 · 1 year ago

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D-Day by TrickPhotography | Chapter 5

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x female!reader

Word count: 4.7k

Synopsis: After finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child.

18+, minors DNI

Chapter 4 | Master List | Ao3

---------------------------------------

Chapter 5

The car idled in Jake’s driveway as you took a moment to appreciate the relative quiet. His townhouse - a duplex - was surrounded by families in a subdivision. Kids ran in yards, yelling at one another, while their parents washed cars and mowed lawns.

It was worlds away from your complex, where the only greenery was a small patch of grass on the walkway and wilted potted plants. While you loved your actual apartment, the area left something to be desired, and the tenants skewed younger, which meant parties on the weekends and loud arguments. But it was a roof over your head, affordable, and had met the minimum criteria when you’d flown out to find a place over a weekend trip. A year later, staying put was easier than moving again as you saved up to buy your own place.

The front door opened. Jake stepped out onto the porch, a hint of a smile playing on his mouth as he walked closer. He wore a pair of grey shorts that hugged his thighs and an untucked white button-down, making you feel better about your casual shorts and teal t-shirt. Your lips curved in an answering smile as you turned off the car and opened the door before reaching for your purse and grocery bag in the passenger seat. “Hey,” you said, stepping out and shutting the door with a bump of your hip.

“Wasn’t sure if you were gonna come in or not,” he chuckled, reaching for the bag.

Smirking, you looked up at him. “Were you planning to run me down in your bare feet if I peeled out of here?”

“Nah,” he replied before tipping his head. “Would probably get the sheriff over there to issue you a speeding ticket, though. Speeding in a residential area is dangerous - all these kids playing? He might even slap some cuffs on you and take you straight to jail.”

“And what would that do for your reputation in the neighborhood?” you asked as he took your hand and led you towards the house.

“I’m a single guy surrounded by families - not sure how much more mixed my reputation can get.”

“What do you mean?” He opened the door and motioned you inside. You toed off your flats and put your purse on the side table before glancing at the living room. Jake shrugged, walking past you towards the kitchen.

“Some don’t care that I’m here. Others think I’m a creep around too many kids. Some of the military wives ask me for help when their husbands deploy, and I get side-eyed when they get back.”

“Oh.” He deposited the bag on the counter and turned to face you. His expression was one of forced nonchalance as he shrugged again. Stepping closer, you wrapped your arms around his neck; his hands fell to your waist.

“The revolving door of women parked in your driveway probably doesn’t help, either.”

“‘Revolving door’ is a bit of an exaggeration,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips over your cheek. “A couple of them were parked there a few times.” Scoffing playfully, you pushed away from him and turned. His hands shot out to wrap around your hips, threading his fingers through the belt loops of your shorts and tugging you back into his chest. “Gonna confuse the hell out of them when they see you parked there all the time.”

“Don’t worry - the rental will help keep up your playboy image once I get my car back,” you laughed.

“That mean you’re already planning on coming back?” Jake rested his chin on the top of your head.

“You never know. Play your cards right, and I just may.”

Though you couldn’t see it, you could hear the smile in his voice when he asked, “Can I get you anything to drink? Beer, soda, water, wine? I’ve got some stronger stuff too.”

“I grabbed some wine on my way,” you replied, tilting your head to glance up at him,” but if you have some open already, I’m not opposed.”

“Told you that you didn’t have to bring anything,” he playfully chided. Gently, he turned you and backed you up.

“It’s considered rude to show up empty-handed.” Shaking his head, Jake lifted you onto the counter and positioned himself between your legs, hands resting beside your hips. When he swayed closer, you smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”

“Hi. Red or white?”

“Depends. What are you making?”

“Figured I’d throw a couple of steaks on the grill with some vegetables.”

“Oh,” you said, leaning away and chewing your lower lip. “I, um… I’m a vegetarian.”

“Shit,” he groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should have asked. Darlin’, I’m sorry, I can order something and get it delivered, and next time I’ll…” His eyes narrowed as you pressed your lips together, eyes widening in faux innocence. “Didn’t you buy chicken yesterday?”

“Chicken is totally a vegetable.” You squeaked when he squeezed your side. His green eyes flashed, and he grinned, digging his fingers into your ticklish spots. Shrieking, you attempted to wiggle out of his grasp and bat away his hands as you both laughed. “Stop!” you gasped.

“Say uncle.”

“Uncle!” His hands stilled on your ribs, lightly pressing to draw you closer to the edge of the counter. Hiccuping a laugh, you swiped away the tears from your cheeks before gently shoving his chest. “You’re a bully, Seresin.”

“If I’m a bully, then you’re a liar.”

“I’m a fibber at most.”

“Then I’m not a bully, I’m a teaser.”

“We knew that,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“You started it with the fries.” His smirk was predatory when he leaned forward to whisper in your ear.

“You won when you told me you came in the shower.” His breath on your neck caused goosebumps to rise on your skin as your nipples tightened. Your face flushed when you took in how close he was, eyes dipping to his lips. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you drew him closer, head tilting.

“Good,” you whispered. At the last moment, you shifted to brush a kiss on his cheek before gently shoving him away. Jake shook his head, frustrated that you’d used his move against him. “I’ll have red.”

“Coming right up,” he replied, stepping away. You watched him move around his kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses before returning to his spot between your thighs. When he handed you yours, you tapped the rim of your glasses together before taking a sip. “Gonna give me a tour of your place?”

“Sure.” Smiling, you placed your glass on the counter before sliding off, your body pressed against his. His head fell back as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tease.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” When you stepped around him, he lightly swatted your ass. Whirling to face him, you pinned him with a look. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to take a girl on a date before touching her ass, Seresin.”

“Good thing this is our third date,” he shrugged, reaching for your hand and tangling your fingers.

“First,” you countered. Shaking his head, he pulled you into the living room and gave you a quick tour of the townhouse. There were three bedrooms - one was a home gym, the other a guest room. The walls were mostly bare, with a few pictures of him with friends or military awards hung up. You stopped in front of one and tapped it. “What’s this?”

“Got it for being first in my class at TOPGUN.”

“What’s TOPGUN?”

“Fighter Weapons School - advanced air-to-air combat training.”

“Is that where you got this?” you asked, lifting your clasped hands to gesture to the ring he always wore on his right hand.

“No - got that when I graduated the Academy. And that,” he said, nodding towards a picture of him getting a medal pinned on, “is when I got my air combat kill. Only active duty aviator with one of those.” When you raised an eyebrow, he winked. “Told you I was one of the Navy’s best.”

“All I’m hearing is that I’ll have to work harder to keep your ego in check.”

When he showed you his room, you let go of his hand to walk over to his bed and peeked under the comforter. “Hospital corners?” you mocked, looking over your shoulder to where he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Seriously? I thought you were joking.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to do them when you stay over.”

“You’ll be lucky if I throw the blanket back over the sheets in the morning.”

“Careful, darlin’ - that almost sounded like a promise to stay the night.” Fixing the comforter, you shook your head.

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Jacob.”

His chin dipped, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Just focused on what I want.” There wasn’t a hint of teasing in his expression. Your breath caught. His hands rested on your waist as you moved to stand in front of him. Eyes meeting, you cupped his jaw, gently drawing him down as you pushed onto your toes.

Jake held you steady when you hesitated for a moment before kissing the corner of his mouth. His grip tightened, taking you with him as he shifted to press his back flat against the doorframe. He buried a hand in your hair as your heels hit the floor, lightly tugging to tilt your head back. You stared at one another, silently daring the other to make the first move.

His lips grazed your temple. Your cheekbone. Another tug exposed your throat to his opened-mouth kisses, his tongue darting to taste your skin. You grabbed his hip, swaying closer, chest flattening against his as your thighs squeezed in an attempt to ease the pressure building there. A whimper escaped. Jake chuckled. “Shut up,” you groaned, forcing his head away.

His eyes were dark when they met yours, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Whispering your name, his mouth curved into a smile as he finally kissed you. Jake took his time, sipping from your lips as his hands drifted from your back to squeeze your ass and hips. When your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers running through his hair, he groaned and took a step forwards, slowly walking you toward his bed.

The back of your knees hit the mattress, and you grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself. “Fuck, darlin’,” he moaned, forcing himself to pull away and meet your eyes. “Didn’t invite you over for this.”

“If I promise to respect you in the morning, will you fuck me?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathed. As he stared, a wave of nervousness washed over you, but you forced it down and raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. “Thought you’d be shy…fuckin’ dream girl.”

His lips crashed onto yours, hands grabbing your ass to rock you against his erection. When your lips parted with a sigh, his tongue slipped in, gliding against your own. Reaching between you, you quickly undid the button of his shorts and slowly dragged down the zipper before slipping your hand in to run your fingers up his clothed cock, lightly teasing him through the slit of his boxers. Jake let out a ragged breath as he rested his forehead against yours, thrusting into your cupped hand.

“You sure?” Rather than respond, you withdrew your hand and crossed your arms over your waist, pulling your shirt off and tossing it onto the floor. Smirking, you sat on the edge of the bed and curled your hands over his hips.

“Are you?” His answering smile made your thighs clench before he tore his shirt off. You scooted toward the middle of the bed as he kicked off his shorts. As you reached for the button of yours, he knelt on the bed, his black boxer briefs tented as he stared down at you. When you lifted your hips to slide your shorts off, he grinned.

“You plan this, darlin’?” he asked, eyes drifting over your matching bra and panty set.

“Gotta be prepared for third-date sex,” you replied. Jake laughed as he planted a knee between your thighs and hovered over you.

“Thought this was our first date.” Rolling your eyes, you pulled him down to lick into his mouth. With one hand by your head, his other slipped under you to flick open the clasp of your bra. When the band loosened, you quickly shrugged it off. His mouth left yours, trailing kisses down your neck and around the curve of your breast.

“Fuck,” you breathed when he sucked on your right nipple. When you reached for your left breast, he caught your hand and pinned it over your head. Your hips jerked, and Jake lifted his head to give you a cocky look.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, notching his thigh at your core and crossing your arms at the wrist above your head. Pressing down, he returned his attention to your nipples, his teeth closing over one and lightly tugging. Your hips ground down on his thigh, and he increased the pressure on your wrists when you tried to reach for him as he toyed with you. Slowly, he ran his fingers down your stomach, shifting his leg back as he traced the outline of your pussy through your underwear. Moaning, you lifted your hips to chase his touch as he pulled his hand away.

“They absolutely call you Hangman for teasing women,” you huffed. He chuckled, kissing up your chest to slip his tongue into your mouth. He muffled your gasp when his hand slid into your panties, fingers parting your folds.

“So wet. This all for me, baby?” Jake cooed, his middle finger lightly petting you. When you didn’t answer, he slipped his finger into you, smirking when you turned to hide your face in your arm. You whined when he wiggled his finger before withdrawing it, shifting so the only place he touched you was your wrists. When you looked at him, he held your gaze while putting his finger in his mouth, sucking off the taste of you. “Mmm, gonna let me have my dessert before dinner?” he asked.

“You don’t have to,” you said, cheeks flushing at his attention. Releasing your wrists, he shook his head, pressing his lips to your throat.

“Want to. One of my favorite things to do.” Closing your eyes, you nodded, mentally preparing to fake an orgasm. Your exes had treated oral as a box to tick before getting to the main event. You were more than happy to skip it. Sensing your hesitancy, Jake frowned and waited for you to look at him. “Talk to me.”

“I, um…” you swallowed hard, eyes lowering to his chin. “I’ve never gotten off from…” He groaned, ducking his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“Christ, darlin’. You really did date boys before, didn’t you?” He jerked when you pinched him. Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on one elbow and cupped your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “Lemme try? You don’t like it, and I’ll stop, but I wanna taste you and feel you cum on my tongue.” His cock twitched against your hip. When you nodded, he leaned down to kiss you sweetly and whispered against your lips, “Shift up to the pillows.”

You’d expected him to set to work right away, but Jake took his time as he made his way down your body, brushing his lips against your neck and the red indents your bra had made on your shoulders. When you lifted your hand to play with his hair, he turned to kiss the inside of your wrist. He paid special attention to your breasts, sucking and nibbling, before continuing his downward descent. Holding your gaze, he winked before dipping his tongue into your navel.

When he finally reached the juncture at your thighs, he sat back on his heels and slowly slid off your panties, dropping them off the edge of the bed. Taking your left leg, he brushed his lips to your ankle and trailed kisses up your calf and thigh before planting it on the bed and repeating the action with your right leg. Lying on his stomach, his shoulders forced you to spread wider to accommodate him. Swallowing hard, you tried not to think about him staring at the most intimate part of yourself as he looped his arms around your thighs to hold you in place. You squirmed when he scraped his stubbled cheek against your inner thigh before lightly kissing away the sting, inching closer and closer.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his breath hot against your core. “What a pretty pussy.” You blushed, covering your face with both hands. “Look at me, darlin’.” Jake’s eyes were molten when you forced yourself to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. As you watched, he lowered his head, eyes locked on yours, and licked a broad stroke over you. Your hips lifted off the bed, and you felt his chuckle, hot and heavy against your heated skin, as he tightened his grip. When he repeated the motion, wiggling his tongue, you whimpered.

His hand left your right leg and reached up to grasp yours, pulling it closer. Placing it on his head, he said, “You tell me what you like.” You nodded, fingers curling into his hair as he ran his tongue around your clit. He raised an eyebrow at your whimper, and you nodded, teeth digging into your lower lip.

He settled into a pattern to ease you into it, alternating long licks with shorter ones, his nose nudging your clit. You relaxed, gently running your hand through his hair. It was nice, the slow build of arousal and his obvious enjoyment. When his tongue dipped into you, you gasped before it retreated, slowly working its way further into you with every pass. “Taste so fucking good,” Jake murmured, placing a kiss on your pussy. “Feelin’ okay?” When you hummed, he used his fingers to spread you wider. The sensation was more intense as he continued his lazy exploration.

Your breath caught as he shifted his focus to your clit and eased his middle finger into you. The dual sensation made you roll your hips and fingers tighten in his hair, and you felt him smile. His tongue moved over your clit in a figure-8 motion, and he added a second finger. You could feel his ring bumping against your heated flesh with every stroke. “So tight. Talk to me, baby.”

“Feels good,” you stuttered. When you glanced down, you saw him grinding his hips into the bed, and that sent a shot of arousal down your spine. Grasping his hair, you pulled him closer as you rocked your hips against his face. Jake groaned and redoubled his efforts. You felt a pleasant tightness in your stomach, breath catching when he curled his fingers to pet your g-spot. “Fuck,” you gasped, back bowing off the mattress and finger tugging on his hair when he closed his lips over your clit and sucked hard. Forcing your eyes open, you gazed down the length of your body to watch him, brushing the hair from his face. His hand left your thigh to catch yours, and he lifted his head. His chin glistened as he smiled sweetly and pressed a kiss to your fingertips.

“Play with your tits, darlin’.” Nodding, you reached up to cup your breasts, dragging your fingers along the curves before plucking your nipples. Jake groaned. Your legs started to shake, and you struggled to catch your breath as he sucked on the bundle of nerves again. When he withdrew his fingers, you whined. Jake dipped his thumb into you before rubbing tight circles on your clit as his tongue replaced his fingers. His breath was hot against you as he curled the muscle.

The tension inside you snapped. One of your hands darted to cover your mouth while the other grasped Jake’s hair, tugging as your thighs closed around his head. Your hips jerked, riding his face, his moan vibrating through your sensitive flesh as he tongue fucked you through your orgasm.

Chest heaving, you let your hand fall to the bed as Jake pried your legs apart. After placing a kiss on each thigh, he made sure you were watching as he licked the taste of you from his middle and ring fingers. Smirking, he crawled up your body and kissed you, making sure you tasted yourself. “Your pussy tastes so fucking good,” he groaned. “But next time, I want to hear you.”

“You have neighbors,” you sighed.

“Fuck the neighbors,” he replied. His hips rutted against your core, and you moaned, reaching to cup him. Jake grunted, grinding into your palm. “Can I fuck you?”

“Please.” He kissed your forehead before reaching into his bedside table and grabbing a condom. When he rolled onto his back, you knelt beside him. Dragging a hand down his chest and stomach, you watched the muscles tense under your touch and slowly pulled down his boxer briefs. Jake lifted his hips to help you. You licked your lips as his cock sprang back against his stomach, thick and heavy, precum beading at the tip. Abandoning the briefs on his thighs, you gathered your hair in one hand and leaned down to trace the thick vein with your tongue.

Jake groaned, hand darting out to squeeze your knee. “I’m not gonna last long, darlin’, and I’d rather cum in that tight pussy than your mouth this time.”

“I guess,” you sighed, plucking the condom from his hand and tearing it open as he kicked off his briefs. Taking him in hand, you bent to suck his tip in your mouth as you gave him a few firm strokes.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, hips thrusting shallowly. His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “Please.” Smiling, you swirled your tongue around his head before dipping your tongue into his slit and pulling away.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you cooed, rolling the condom down his length and letting your fingers glance over his balls. You shrieked with laughter as he flipped you, settling between your legs. “What’s the matter, Hangman? Don’t like being teased?” When he rolled his hips, his dick bumped your sensitive clit, and you gasped, digging your nails into his back.

“After I was so nice to you? Letting you cum on my face? Not very friendly of you.”

“Good thing we’re not friends.”

“Definitely not that,” he agreed, reaching between you to line himself up. Jake rocked back and forth, fucking you with just the tip. His fingers tangled with yours, and he drew your hand over your head, leaning his weight on it before wrapping his left hand around the back of your neck and leaning down. His lips crashed into yours as he thrust into your tight heat, forcing you to take all of him and swallowing your scream as your nails dug into his skin. You could still taste yourself on his tongue as he ground his pubic bone into you before withdrawing.

Jake set a brutal pace, the tendons of his neck straining as he fucked you. His breath was ragged in your ear, sweat beading on his forehead. “Wanna hear you, baby.”

You couldn’t hold in the choked moan. “Fuck - Jake!” You threw your head back into the pillows with a groan when he reached between you to stroke your clit, his fingers grasping yours as they pressed you hard into the mattress. Your nails raked into his back.

Stars burst behind your eyes as you struggled to catch your breath. Jake grunted when your pussy clamped around him, and he fucked you through your orgasm. He stilled with one final hard thrust, gasping into your neck as he spilled into the condom. Breathing hard, you flexed the hand that still held his while reaching up with your free one to stroke his hair. He lifted his head and brushed his lips over your cheek before meeting your gaze. A tired smile tugged at his lips as he kissed you, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. He was still inside you as he guided your leg over his hip. When he gave a shallow thrust, you whined. “You okay?”

“Sensitive,” you breathed. Smiling, he tucked your hair behind your ear and lightly kissed your nose, continuing his thrusting.

“Think you’ve got one more?” You shook your head, and he stilled. “Maybe next time.” You closed your eyes as he brushed his fingers across your cheek and drifted until you felt him pull out. At your whimper, Jake kissed you. “Gonna clean up and start dinner. You relax.”

“Are you gonna make me remake your bed if I get under the sheets?”

“I’ll let you off easy this time,” he chuckled. “Gonna toss the comforter in the wash, though.” Nodding, you moved just enough to get under the sheets and watched through half-open eyes as Jake walked to the ensuite bathroom.

“Nice ass, Lieutenant." He laughed, pausing to grab his boxers and shorts from the floor. Nuzzling into his pillow, you closed your eyes and listened to him moving around the room. When he tugged the comforter off the bed, you groaned and flipped him off, which made him chuckle. Before going to the kitchen, Jake leaned down to kiss your temple. Knowing that you needed to clean up or risk a UTI, you forced yourself out of bed a few minutes later. Choosing to forgo your bra and underwear, you put on your shorts and Jake’s button-down shirt that fell to your thighs.

When you didn’t find him in the kitchen, you grabbed both of your wine glasses and followed the music. Jake closed the grill lid and turned towards you when you opened the back door, smiling at the sight of you in his clothes. Stepping out onto the patio, you glanced around the fenced-in backyard. He took the wine glass you handed him before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and drawing you into his bare chest. “Good thing you’ve got a fence, or you’d scandalize the neighbors,” you smirked, tracing your fingers down the scratches you’d placed on his back.

“Fuck the neighbors,” he shrugged, resting his chin on the top of your head. He held you until he had to check the steaks. You grabbed his phone from the table and scrolled through his playlists. The song changed, and Jake watched you dance while he cooked. After making sure things weren’t burning, he stepped in front of you and slid his hands into your back pockets, swaying while listening to how Brandy’s eyes could steal a sailor from the sea.

“Jake,” you whispered, flipping back the covers. “I need to go.”

“Stay,” he protested, half asleep as he tugged you closer.

“No sleepovers on work nights.”

“Didn’t agree to that.” His hand slid up your side to cup your breast, running his thumb over your nipple. You bit your lip, pointedly ignoring how his cock was pressing into your ass.

“Too bad. Now be a good boy, and let me go.” He hummed, releasing your breast to trail his fingers toward your core. You caught his hand - you were already going to be sore enough in the morning.

“Fine,” Jake grumbled, releasing you and rolling onto his back. He reached for his phone and blinked at the bright light as he checked the time. “‘S only midnight. Sure you can’t stay longer?”

“I’m sure.” Slipping out of bed, you tugged on your clothes while Jake pulled on his shorts. He took your hand before leaving his bedroom, reluctantly leading you through the dark house to the front door. Once your shoes were on, he followed you to the car and pressed you against the door to give you a lingering goodnight kiss.

Jake squinted as you pulled out of the driveway and turned on your headlights. You smiled to yourself at the sight of him half asleep, barefoot and shirtless, with hair a mess from your hands running through it all night.

‘Home,’ you texted while walking into your apartment. When you got out of the shower, there was a message waiting for you.

‘We’re doing sleepovers on work nights.’

----------------------------------------------

Author's Note: So this chapter was just supposed to be them flirting and having their first kiss. That... quickly spiraled.

Read Chapter 6

Tag list:

@memeorydotcom; @alldaysdreamers; @genius2050; @djs8891; @caitsymichelle13; @dempy; @midnightmagpiemama; @lovelyladymayyyy; @caidi-paris; @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby; @bellaireland1981; @lethargicluv

#hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #top gun fic #top gun maverick #jake seresin #Hangman top gun #soft!Jake Seresin #hangman fic #hangman smut #D-Day fic

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nrdmssgs · 1 year ago

Text

Spiraling 2

Masterlist Part 1

Very mild angst, this time with happy ending Pairing: Ghost x you TW: swearing, mentions of military operations, mild mentions of torturing (no detailed descriptions) Summary: You confess him and try to spare him of your feelings right away. But it is not needed.

"The problem is dealt with. I'll be staying here for a little longer. Staying frosty."

The only way, your message could ring more false is if you end it with an emoticon. But Ghost doesn't notice it, he never does. Ghost doesn't even answer on your message. And you know - It's for the best. This way, in a complete silence, it's so much easier to still love him, meeting no rejection.

You've tried so many times to end this for good: stop thinking about him, imagining, how would he react to something, you've just witnessed, stop worrying about him to the point of not being able to sleep or eat properly. Your last attempt was desperate and thoughtless: you came clean before him and dragged yourself as far as it was possible, hoping, that time could help you heal.

At first, you really felt better: new tasks, unfamiliar faces, a foreign country - all this filled the emptiness that you had previously guarded, like the apple of your eye, because only in this void Ghost was only yours. But in a pair of months you caught yourself making a photo of a sunset, as it was so mesmerizing, you thought, he would love it. And you understood: you didn't make any progress. The void was still there. Filling it was harder than filling a glass without a bottom. That's when you sent that fake message, bargaining for some more time.

When you finally came back - it took you all your strength to look calm. And in seemed, that Ghost believed you. You tried to grow a distance between you two. You believed, it would work as a shield from pain. It never did.

You both keep your masks on - only yours is not that obvious. Nobody can see, but your life now fits between short breaths.

Inhale: Ghost is standing outside, leaning against the wall of the barracks, you pass by.

Inhale: you and him are alone in the armory for a few minutes before someone else enters.

Inhale: Sunbeam touches his eyelashes for a second until he looks away.

In between these breaths you fit entire missions, sleepless nights at work, exhausting workouts. Your days are gradually intertwined into one endless thread.

But one day this thread stretches and trembles like a string. You two are alone, surrounded by enemies. Your hideout will be uncovered sooner or later - it's only a matter of time. You can't break through the enemy blockade from the inside: you've used up almost all your ammo. You frantically gut your magazines, trying to get more ammo for Ghost as he covers your trembling hands with his. He obviously got, what were you planing.

"No, we either make it out of here together, or not make it at all." His voice is stern, tone - peremptory.

You raise eyes on him, barely containing your rage. Bloody fool. I'm trying to bargain here for at least your life...

He puts a bunch of plastic clamps into your hand. "Tie me up. Bring `em Ghost and that might buy us time."

"Might?!" You were furious. For the first time in your life, you didn't believe your commander as he asked you to pay the highest price - his safety for a mere possibility of living till the moment the reinforcement reaches your destination. "No! No-no, we are not doing it, no..."

He cuts off your sporadic mumbling, cupping your cheeks and guiding your face towards him. Given, that Ghost barely touched not only you, but anyone - this gesture of his startles you. He wants, needs you to do it. "Look at me, soldier!" His fingers squeeze your face lightly. "Look at me and think of every time I failed you, every bit of pain I brought you. Then take a bloody clamp and tie me up. Now they'll probably beat me, maybe they get more creative, but if you happen to see or hear any of it - I want you to think only about problems I caused you. Is that clear?"

Your lips are quivering: maybe it's his rough voice, that pains you, maybe it's your helplessness in this situation, maybe it's his plan. But you do as he asks. The last thing, you want to do is to risk his life. But you were always such a good colleague, perfect squadmate. Maybe, it's time to play this part one more time, if it makes him happy.

You take a last look at him, before stepping out of your hideaway: a perfect bait, a true beast of man, restrained and humbly quiet under your gaze. You hate to see him so, deep inside you are screaming, begging for his mercy, pleading him to run. He takes a step closer and whispers one word in attempt to cheer you up.

"Showtime."

You feel as if you were thrown into ice water. With each next step, your arms and legs become numb. You do not remember how you led Ghost directly into the enemies' lair, how you yourself knocked him to the ground in front of them. "This dirtbag wouldn't see a lie even if it was written all over his fucking face." You wish, you'd forgotten those words leaving your lips, immediately, but you don't.

But the worst part is what follows: they beat him in front of you, they get creative, you witness everything. But his eyes never leave yours. And both masks: yours and his, stay on. The only thing, that helps you to endure through this torture is a sight of his hands, that were tied so badly, he can escape any minute now.

Showtime. This is so 'not Ghost', so out of character, he must just have heard it somewhere... Every time this word pops up in your mind, a lump rolls up in your throat. But you don't show it.

Beating, mockery, Ghosts barely audible hissing - everything is interrupted in an instant, when a suspicious crunch is heard in the thickets outside the window. "I did not send anyone to reconnaissance," says one of your captors. You look back at him and hold your breath. If your plan is revealed now, you and Ghost are as good as dead. You don't dare to look at the window and let others know, you wait for the attack.

Dead silence is interrupted by a terrible crack, with which Ghost rips loosened clamps and throws aside the chair to which he was tied. You do not have time to turn in his direction when he knocks you down at full speed, and throws you to the ground.

"Give me one reason to not strangle you right here, you scum," he growls into your face.

Dull, drawing pain flows from your skull along the spine to all the limbs. You are exhausted and lost. You look into his dark furious eyes and don't even understand, what is going on. But your mask cracks and slowly falls apart as pain, sorrow and insults leave your lips. You can't even control it, you spill everything: how you hate growing the emptiness inside you for someone, who never needed it, how tired are you of fighting yourself, how useless you feel, when you spend days resisting every your single urge.

By the time your tirade dries up, you've already forgotten how it started. You both are surrounded by deafening noises, and you can hardly shout it over.

“... I can’t deal with this problem. No matter how far I go from you, no matter how I bury myself in work, my problem catches up with me time after time! I can't do it, I can't!"

An explosion hoots muffledly somewhere deep in the building and Ghost instinctively covers your head with his hands. And only at that moment, you begin to realize what happened. He did not even think to kill you - on the contrary, he protected you, played for time and distracted your enemies from the reinforcements that arrived to help you. By knocking you to the floor, he only covered you from random shots.

At first, pure delight floods your mind. This is why Ghost is on another level: he controls the situation to the very end. But then you notice something: his eyes changed. There is no more cold distance in his gaze. Maybe you hit your head well, but you can swear, you see something under his mask - not the skull one, but his familiar demeanor. There is dismay, even panic there. The surrounding noise gradually subsides. Ghost looks around, and then his eyes meet yours again.

"I'm sorry." He says so quietly, you are not sure, you didn't imagine it.

On the way back, you feel his hand somewhere around constantly. Comforting, reassuring, guiding.

It's only in medbay where you lose his touch, as your mind drifts to sleep.

When you wake up - it's still dark outside. You blindly fumble your hand across the bedside table, hoping to stumble upon a glass of water. But you grope for something unusual - an envelope. Inside is a small sheet of thick paper with two phrases. With incredible difficulty, you find the angle at which the dim moonlight breaking through your window illuminates the leaf.

Familiar handwriting.

"It is not a problem. And never was."

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spelllingandthemysteryschool · 3 months ago

Note

how do you handle friendships changing? not being able to talk to the people you could talk to before? looking at text threads with your friends and they havent been updated in months? how do you know if it’s over? sorry if this is out of the blue, i just have no one else to ask and i’ve always thought of your blog as a kind of older sister presence :’) thank you for answering this yaz

hi hi hi! 🦢 hmm… i think first of all it’s important to remember that things are not always as cut-and-dry as u feel they are—there are lots of cases in which a friendship can be revived and shaped into something different from what it was before but still beautiful and important. reaching out can be mortifying when conversation has stilled for months but if you know an old friend’s in town and you haven’t spoken in forever but you miss them and want to hang out you really can just tell them so. sometimes they respond & tell you they miss you too & then you have the chance to turn a friendship you’ve both outgrown into something that better suits the needs of the people you are now! i recently reconnected with my elementary school best friends & though we don’t share the same easy, effortless, consistent bond we did when we were small children once upon a time, we make sure to grab coffee together whenever we’re all back in our hometown and catch up on whatever we’ve been up the last six months and it’s actually really nice and was so worth the process of reaching out. it is kind of awesome to see how they’ve stayed exactly the same & how they’re come into their own.

if you do end up trying this & don’t find that your friend is receptive to it or willing to put in the same effort, or if things ended on negative terms & you feel one party or the other was wronged in a way that’s not possible to come back from, or if you’re not really feeling it for whatever reason, then maybe it really is over & it really is best to try letting go—which is easier said than done of course. but it is always a worthwhile task to grieve a friendship that meant something to you… even if sometimes the grief lingers longer than it does for others and even if there are some friendships you never really ‘get over’ in the sense that thinking back on them leaves you with a dull ache for years to come. but i try to keep in mind that the fact that a friend is no longer in my life for one reason or the other doesn’t undo the ways in which we touched each other’s lives or were important to each other when it most mattered. as long as you are alive people will not stop entering and then leaving your life, so i feel like the best thing you can do in the wake of any relationship is honor that you had that time together and cherish the people you once were, allow yourself to think on old memories fondly when it feels right and when you’re no longer waterlogged with longing, and then return to the work of tending to your current relationships and to the person you are growing into day by day, reassured in the knowledge that you will always contain imperceptible but very real traces of those who once loved you and who were once loved by you in return.

i am wishing you well! i hope your life is always filled with the most wonderful friends—both old & new 💌

#you’re very sweet btw to see me in this sort of light. i hope i did your question justice #asks

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underdark-dreams · 8 months ago

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Can you please talk about your writing! how you write and revise and where you get your inspiration you are just so amazing! I could use some tips to get my writing to the next level. maybe some fic recs you find inspiring as well? only if you want too.

I sat on this ask for a while to mull it over, so thanks for your patience! I can definitely talk about my general process and link some fics that have inspired me.

I've also answered some other asks about writing process and technique. You can read those here if you like:

Emotional and feelings-focused writing

Writing descriptively

Fic writing: general process

First, it's good to have your opening and your ending in mind before you start. Even if it's just:

OC walks into Sorcerous Sundries

Rolan and OC fall asleep together

If you have the bookends, it's a lot easier to find the story's beats in the middle. (Or decide that you can't find the path from A to B after all & need to change one of them around)

Once I have those two down, I usually write out the main beats of the story next. These will be the parts that excite you most as a writer!! Like, they make you giddy to write about! Getting these down on paper has ALWAYS given me a burst of momentum to get through the drier/connecting bits.

So I encourage you to write out the story events/scenes that make you most excited first. Exposition will come later! Don't worry about 'setting things up' right now, unless you really want to start there. Remember that your first draft only has to make sense to you.

Inspiration

Damn if I could bottle the answer to this one, I'd be set for life! lmao

A lot of people start writing first and find the inspiration along the way. It's a valid and effective method!

I usually wait for ideas to come to me first, and they usually come when I'm totally disconnected from my writing computer. I swear, my strongest ideas for a fic setup or interesting scene always come when I'm at work or vacuuming or some crap

Best advice I can give is to keep a notes app on your phone or something similar. Rotate your characters around in your mind while you're doing other random life things, and good ideas will usually come to you. Jot down the framework or some dialogue or whatever strikes you before you forget it, then revisit it when you have more time.

Revising and editing

I'm one of those writers who edits a ton as they go, instead of drafting out a story and revising in one go. So this part is kind of difficult for me to answer...the two processes are unfortunately so interconnected in my head!

The main thing is to make sure you give yourself a few days between writing and doing your final edit. Even if you've been revising along the way, taking some time away from your fic lets you gain a fresh perspective.

I will admit, I also keep thesaurus.com open in a tab at all times. Like. I am addicted to finding just the right word

As with all of the above, your mileage may vary! The right technique is the one that gets you writing and creating. 💯

Fic Recs

Here's a list from back in December! Still in love with all of these!

Also:

Deeply and Immovably So by Cometra / @dutifullylazybread - Absolutely required reading for any Rolan x Tav fans! Tav is AFAB/she/her. Darcy's worldbuilding and imagery is incredible, very deep and meaningful. Just all-around excellence!

verso by aes3plex - Zevlor x m!Tav oneshot. This story like...made me understand who Zevlor was as a character. I don't know how else to describe it. Really wonderful backstory threaded through a present-day encounter with some of the best prose ever. Love!

But I will admit, I grew up reading Trek fics, and those stories and writers have stayed with me longer than anything else. I think old fandom + huge universe + writers with sheer decades of experience in fanon have a lot to do with the quality of writing there. Not relevant to BG3 but has definitely shaped how I write today!

#rebgrrl writes #underdark-dreams asks #writing process

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saltedsnailstudio · 10 months ago

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Hi! I just found your page, love your work! I do a bit of lino printing and really enjoy it. I want to start printing on fabric but not sure how to transition.. What inks do I need, do I need to start using wood blocks, and how do I go about that, etc?

Any info or tips would be so appreciated :)

Hey, thanks!

Absolutely I can offer some tips for fabric printing! I also answered an ask about fabric printing a while back and there might be some info in there that you’ll find useful - https://www.tumblr.com/saltedsnailstudio/729384076745850882/how-do-you-print-your-linocuts-so-beautifully-on

So first off I would say don’t bother switching to wood for fabric printing. Linoleum does great! And, honestly, so does rubber. I don’t personally work with rubber/ez-cut style blocks often because I prefer unmounted battle ship grey lino, but it has been my experience that soft rubber blocks are easier to print onto fabric if you’re printing by hand. I recommend sticking with whatever blocks you like & are comfortable working with!

Since you asked about ink specifically: There’s a lot of different inks on the market you can use to make relief prints on fabric that’ll stand up to washing. Speedball has an ink made for fabric printing that some of my print friends swear by, but I personally despise it because I hate the texture of it and find it difficult to work with because it doesn’t have a very long open time. I use cranfield caligo safe wash relief inks for all my printing, both paper and fabric. I love the way it rolls out and it’s works really well for me because it’s oil based but it's water soluble before it dries, so it doesn't require wild solvents or anything to clean up like some other oil based inks do - just vegetable oil and a rag will do to get it off stuff. (careful using vegetable oil on the speedball beige/tan brayers, though, because it'll start to break down their material and make them go tacky if you dont adquately wash them and apply some cornstarch after!!) After the cranfield ink dries, it's no longer water soluble so it'll stay on fabric after washing. Keep in mind though that oil inks take ages to dry - I just hang my fabric prints up and leave them alone for a good two weeks, which might be overkill. When they're dry, I hit them with a hot clothes iron to help heat set them a bit before I wash them in cold water. I don't know if this actually does anything or is the placebo effect, but it really feels like I get less fading with fabric prints that I've heat set. You don't have to use the same ink I do, though I love it so much that I'll prostheletize it for ages, but make sure you do use an ink that's suitable for fabric printing because theres no heartbreak worse than putting all that work in only to watch it wash away.

In my experience, you'll need more ink on your block for printing on fabric than you would if you were printing on thin printmaking papers. You still don't want to just gob it on the block in one go - apply many thin layers to build up the ink on the block rather than trying to go in with a single thick layer.

Now that ink's handled, let's talk about the most important element of fabric printing: the fabric. A lot of folks have ratios of how much natural fibers vs synthetic whatever should be in the fabric you're choosing for relief printing. I'm sure those methods work for choosing good printing fabric, but I'm at a point of having failed enough times to know by look & touch if a fabric will probably work well or not. I really suggest just trying shit out, seeing if it works. I'm lucky enough to have a creative reuse center near me, but if you don't then I suggest snagging garments with fabric you like from thrift stores and cutting them apart if you're trying to make patches. You're looking for something with a nice smooth surface and a closed weave, no gaps showing through the threads. I really like tightly woven linen-y blends, personally. I've also played around on wool felt and have found it to print beautifully. When I first started printing on fabric, I went to the fabric store and got a half yard of duck canvas because that felt sturdy and very "punk" for patches. It was a miserable failure - the weave was too chunky to get really clean prints. Play around, don't spend too much money on fabric, and know that screwing up is a part of the process.

When it comes to actual printing method, I'm limited in my scope of advice for hand printing on fabric because I'm very spoiled and have a lever press from woodzilla that makes the process a lot easier for me. I'm not sure how you burnish your paper prints, but the spoon technique won't work with fabric since it'll move too much. I like to print my paper prints with the paper on top of the block and I reverse that for my fabric prints - the block lies face down on top of the fabric. I've seen folks get great results from laying down their fabric, laying their inked block on top, and then stepping on them to get more pressure than they could get from just pressing with their hands. You need a lot of pressure to get clean fabric prints and that pressure needs to go straight down - you need to be extra careful not to let the block slip, lest it smudge the image. You could try laying a wooden board down on the block before stepping on that if the print is large enough to require it. I've also seen some really ingenious ways of creating book binding/flower pressing style wooden vices on a budget to get the even pressure needed for a print, but this feels rather labor intensive and time consuming to me. Whatever the method, be patient and apply firm downward pressure.

Screw up, rejoice, have fun. If you end up needing any help trouble shooting specific problems as you experiment on fabric, feel free to send me another ask/pics and I'll try to help sus it out!!

#ask #asks #printmaking #linoleum printmaking #linocut #fabric printing

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zeestarfishalien · 1 year ago

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What Lies Between Us

[DPxDC Week 2023 Day 4: Danielle “Dani” Phantom // Halfa Jason Todd AU // Heartbeat]

• Daddy Issues Ship (Danielle “Dani” Phantom/Jason Todd) Established Relationship

“Why do you like cuddling me so much?” The question flows from his lips before he can think better of it. Instead of pulling away or changing the subject, she answered his question.

“Your heart is steadier than mine. It reminds me to breathe, to be alive.”

Jason craned his neck to get a good look at Ellie’s face. She studiously doesn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on picking at a loose thread on his shirt.

He knew she had some sort of heart issue. Hard not to notice when they often cuddle close on the couch or fall asleep on one another. He hadn’t asked details and she hadn’t given them.

This…these words are striking all the wrong chords. Still he doesn’t push. She met Tim once and Jason didn’t see her for 3 weeks after that. She sent him pictures from Tibet, all scenery and places and people but never of her. Jason learned from that experience. He saw how worried she was about his reaction when she returned. She whispered to him in the wee hours of the morning before the sky lightened into dawn about a father-like figure who took and took and took, never gave. Someone who trapped her into a role and a place, then cast her aside as soon as the better option came around.

Jason makes sure to touch her lightly and fleetingly staying soft so she doesn’t feel trapped.

So yeah, Jason doesn’t ask what she means by those oddly ominous words.

Instead he gives.

“Sometimes I feel too heavy and hardened by some of my work, but you snuggle right in like I’m soft.”

She meets his eyes now, just briefly, but she does it.

“You are soft, Jay. You keep it wrapped up safe under that hard shell so that it doesn’t disappear. You keep living.” She pauses and Jason almost says something but stops and so she continues. “I don’t know how it works…living. I’ve been faking it in some vain attempt to pretend long enough that it becomes real, but I still don’t understand. I was made not born Jay.”

Jason takes a deep even breath.

“But you’re here now, with me. That’s living.”

“It’s so much easier, more simple, to be dead but I’m not that either. I’m stuck in this void and being with you makes me feel so much and see just how far from living I am. But your heartbeat? That makes me feel alive. It makes my heart match yours and I breathe in and feel the oxygen instead of just going through the motions.”

“That seems like a bit of a contradiction.”

“It is…but so am I.”

“I’m okay with that,” he says quietly, because he is okay with it and because she feels so safe and familiar, a feeling from a time he can’t quite remember (he thinks it might be when he was dead).

Her arms snake around him tightly and she buries her face in his chest.

He softly cards his fingers through her hair. It’s rarely loose like this. She usually keeps it in a ponytail or braid of some kind.

She hums and her body hums with her as she melts into him.

“Danny wants to meet you,” she murmurs almost sleepily when she finally unburies her face.

“Okay, I can adjust my schedule if we get a date and time.”

“Danny is my biological donor,” she adds on like she’s trying to wig him out.

“Not your father-like figure, right?” Jason clarifies.

“No.” She makes a face. “He’s the one who made me from Danny. Danny didn’t even know about me until I tried to kill him.”

Jason blinks. He was not expecting this, not today during sleepy cuddles on the couch but he’s not about to stop her or interrogate her about it.

“Danny didn’t have to care but he does. He was just a kid but he cared. He tried for me. He did what little he could within the restraints of his own circumstances. He gave me freedom.”

“Then I’d be honored to meet him.” And he means it.

“He’s like you,” she continues once again not looking him in the eyes. She’s found that loose thread again to pick at. Jason isn’t sure where she’s going with this but he has suspicions. “Where I’m neither dead nor alive, Danny and you are both dead and alive.”

“I don’t…what?”

“Death doesn’t let go even if she lets you come back. There’s a part of your soul that is forever changed by your time among the dead,” she explains. If it were anyone else Jason would already be on the defensive and anger would be bubbling to the surface. He’d have to fight to keep control of his emotions.

But it’s Ellie…

And that makes all the difference. Her earnest way of dropping bombshells has him reeling but not angry.

“I,” he pauses to search for the words, “it’s not that I didn’t know that I was different when I came back but this is a whole new level. You’re sure that I’m ‘dead and alive,’ right?”

“I’m sure Jay,” she pushes herself into a sitting position using his chest so she can look him in the eyes. “You’re a halfa. An earth born halfa but a halfa all the same.”

“How do you,” he gestures vaguely, “know?”

Ellie closes her eyes as she breathes in deep. When she opens them, her eyes glow a green not dissimilar to the Lazarus pits. She makes some sort of sound of water running over stones, but not with her mouth.

There’s an echoing pang in his chest right where those feelings of familiarity reside and his whole being vibrates with the sound of a plucked guitar string. The sound somehow escapes his body (maybe because it’s not a sound).

He lets out a soft, “oh.”

“You feel it too. The familiarity and comfort of death.”

He nods.

“I would know you no matter what form you take,” she whispers.

In lieu of an answer, Jason places his hands on hers. Slowly, ever so gently he tugs them up to his lips to place a soft kiss on them. He doesn’t know what to think or what to say. It’s kind of a lot that she suddenly dumped on him but he does know one thing for sure.

“I would like to stay with you no matter what form we take.”

It takes a moment for her to process the words but then the seriousness of the moment is broken and she’s rolling her eyes and shoving her hand in his face.

“You’re such a sap,” she complains but she softens. Jason didn’t realize she had been so tense until it’s gone. She lets him push her hand away from his face.

“Hey, you started it mx. ‘I would know you no matter what form you take.’ I just went with it.”

“Ugh…you’re right. I hate when you’re right.” With those words of admittance she huffs and drops her upper body once more to snuggle into him. He’s pretty sure she wiggles around extra just to annoy him. Today. Here and now, it could never be annoying.

Bc Ellie’s behavior might be confusing. She wanted to tell Jason about herself but was scared he would reject her so she decided to just info-dump everything on him and prepare for the worst. It’s not a great way to handle that situation but she isn’t perfect.

Also the time where she met Tim… so Tim just like started prying. The boi has no sense of boundaries and you cannot convince me that he does. She panicked and ran off bc instincts and only once she calmed down did she start taking pics and sending them to Jason to see how he was going to react.

It’s hard to get all that across when we are so limited by Jason’s pov. And that’s also the point. We are missing so much information and it’s kinda fun to write that. I’ve been needing to work on it more so here we are.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dpxdc week 2023 #Danielle Phantom x Jason Todd #DaddyIssues ship

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oidheadh-con-culainn · 1 year ago

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i see a lot of young writers asking questions like "how do I structure a chapter" "how many words should be in X" "how do I join up these plot points" etc and the truth is. there is no answer. there are no rules you can follow that will turn your painstakingly thought out list of plot points into an actual story. it is at least as much about vibes and gut feelings as anything else and at some point you just have to jump in and stop looking for a template to follow to do it "right"

how to structure a chapter? go read the first chapter of five books. notice any common threads? probably more differences than similarities, right? i mean they'll all probably give you some basic info about the characters and world you're dealing with, but they're not each going to follow the same formula of "two paragraphs of X, three of Y, a dash of Z", because that's not how it works! what do those opening chapters think we need to know about the story ahead? what do your readers need to know? great now you know what needs to go in that chapter

how many words in X? go find five books that have the same kind of mood and pacing as what you're trying to achieve – that make you, as a reader, feel the way you want your readers to feel. read them. get a sense of their rhythms. look up how long they are if you have to, but once again: writing isn't maths. it's about knowing in your gut where the beats of the story fall, and you learn that by doing: by reading and by writing, over and over again. how long is a piece of string? stories take the words that they take. sometimes they need trimming or lengthening in edits but i cannot stress enough how much "before you've written a single word" is not the time to worry about that. the more stories you read and the more you understand those intangible vibes, the closer your first draft is likely to be to the length the story needs to be, but it's okay if it's not, because that's what editing is for!

because if you do it "wrong", which is to say, if the story on the page doesn't look like the one in your head? if the pacing's wrong or the chapters feel awkward or the plot doesn't turn out as neat as it did in the outline? that's literally part of the process, bro. you do it wrong first and then you either try again with a different story and get it closer to right, or you edit the first story, but either way it's a process of doing it wrong until gradually, with practice, it becomes easier to do it right. doing it wrong is not something to be afraid of. it's a thousand times more useful than not doing it at all because you got stuck on the need for perfection

you can ask all the questions about How To Write that you want, but you're not going to learn a damn thing about writing until you actually sit down with a blank document and try to put that into action. and that's not a flaw! that's a feature! writing is something you learn by doing – no prior qualifications needed, no rules to memorise, just a chance to explore what a story is through taking it apart and rebuilding it

how to learn to write: read, and write badly, until eventually you write well. that's all there is to it. stop being afraid to start and you'll be 50% of the way there already. the other 50% is learning to finish what you started. then you just keep doing it.

sorry and/or you're welcome

#writing advice #this is my genuine advice to newbie writers by the way #1. don't be afraid to write shit books #2. seriously i cannot stress enough how much writing shit books is part of the process #3. There Are No Rules #writing #i wish writing advice blogs would stop taking some of these questions at face value #and instead point out to the asker that there is no single method to do xyz

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

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Hidden Treasure 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your quiet life is interrupted by a tempestuous man. (reader is Blair from Follow You Anywhere)

Characters: Thor

Note: I just did it, okay?

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You lay out the hand-sewn coin purses along the left side of the table, completing the array of your hand-made and repurposed goods. It’s a good day to sell, sunny but not too hot, the early days of spring when people are eager to get out. At least it should be. Despite your selection, you’re not the most personable vendor along the square.

The last detail is the hand-painted wood sign. You did it yourself; an antique frame you added a gold hue to and filled with a thin sheet of board. It isn’t much but it tells people what they’re looking at; handmade and renewed goods.

You fold your hands and hover behind your table. You’re a one-person operation. It’s your own table, your own money, your own everything. It brings in enough for you to live. Just you and your cluttered apartment.

The coin purses and the sleepers you sew by hand are the more popular sellers. Anything for children goes first, you notice. Everyone seems to be having them. The older crowd radiate towards the old candlesticks you polished to a shine or the glass-shaded lamps you tediously re-wired. Most try to haggle but your prices are fair enough.

You peer around at the produce stands, the soap and candle makers, and the crocheted stuffies of your fellow sellers. You do a bit of window shopping but never follow through on your wandering eyes. You don’t need to waste the money on the pretty new things, you have lots of lovely old things.

The traffic picks up and you busy yourself with the browsers. A woman with a stroller buys several of the infant dresses and headband, a group of older ladies peruse the aged hardcovers and pick out a few, while a couple comments on the brass-based lamp with the dangling chain. You do your best to smile through the transactions.

The rises higher in the sky towards its apex. The steady flow keeps you busy, with some time in-between to work on fixing the binding of one of the old editions. You like to keep yourself distracted, thinking can be dangerous. With how much time you spend alone, it’s hard to avoid.

As you lock up the cash box and tuck it back under the table, a shadow passes over, large than any other. For a moment, you think a cloud’s passing over the sun. You look up at the sky as a broad figure stands across from you.

You don’t know how you didn’t see the man’s approach. He’s huge. Tall and wide. He doesn’t seem the type to be interested in your selection. Still, he leans in to eye the embroidered coin purses and gives a rumbling hum that sounds like distant thunder.

He picks up one with primroses sewn into it. His thick thumb brushes the threaded design and his large hand makes the coin purse look even smaller. You tap your fingers on the table as his eyes flick up and meet yours.

“Hi, uh, how can I help you?” You whittle out of your tight throat. It’s not often a lone man finds interest in your things. You cater to a more femme audience.

“This is nice,” he remarks, “do you make these?”

“Uh, yes, I do,” you give a tight-lipped smile, “I just embroider old used purses.”

“Just? That’s splendid work,” he brings it closer to his face and looks down his nose at the little flowers and leaves, “my mother would love this... mother’s day is coming, eh?”

“Oh, um, yes, I suppose,” you agree. “It’s five dollars. Cash only.”

“Mm,” he traces his thumb over the metal clasp as he taps his back pocket with his other hand, “don’t think I’ve any on me. Could you hold this for me?” He offers the coin purse, “I’ll find the ATM.”

“Sure, I could do that.”

You take the coin purse, fingers brushing his rough skin, and you set it aside.

“Thank you,” he smiles broadly, blue eyes twinkling as lines creases around them and across his forehead.

He reluctantly trails away and you watch him go. His golden hair is longer than most, twisted into a low bun behind his hand as a few strands dangle freely around his face. He wears a denim jacket over dark red tee and grey jeans, along with a pair of scuffed brown boots. He stands out even in his casual attire.

You shrug off the encounter and turn to your next customers. More baby clothes. The women chat about a baby show and you point them to the newborn sizes, telling them about the fabrics you use for each. They buy a few bibs along with the sleepers and diaper covers.

You back up and sit in the folding chair, drinking deeply from your bottle of water. You don’t know if it’s the interactions or the sun making you dizzy. It’s close to noon. You always start to feel it around this time.

The hours surrounded by strange faces and buzzing voices are clustering in your head and chest. Only a little longer; the market only runs until two. If the world didn’t require money to survive, you might never leave your apartment. Yet your table is the only means you have to keep walls around you.

You sit a bit longer and get up again. You’re okay. You should’ve eaten before you left the apartment. How silly of you to forget the overnight oats you had put in the fridge just the night before. You do forget quite a few things.

The market thrums with the late morning rush and you brace yourself for the final stretch. If you can clear off half the table, you might not have to come back next weekend. You’d be all too content to stay in your own little world, the one beyond is too loud and too bright.

🕰️

You fold your table up and push the hook around the peg to keep it shut. You fold up the chair as well and lean both with your boxes. As the market clears out, you pull up your small two-door and load your wares into the back hatch.

You peer over at the other vendors and their vans and trucks. Crews of half a dozen or more pack away goods and chatter just as loud as the previous crowds. It’s an isolating moment. You don’t mind going unnoticed but sometimes you feel so small.

As you put a box in the back of the car, your keys slip off your finger. You bend and feel around the tire to retrieve them and sense a shadow above you. You clasp your hand around the keyring and stand-up suddenly, turning to face the figure behind you. There’s no one there.

You peer around but find nothing out of the ordinary. You return to your task and pause. You don’t remember putting that box away yet...

You shake your head. You’re just tired and forgetful. Your cardinal vices. Your mind wanders too much to rest, too much to keep order.

You put the last box away and close the hatch. You get in the driver’s seat and turn the engine. It putters softly but it runs well enough. The old car has gotten you through the years just fine. There was a time that tiny thing was your home.

You pull away down the lane parallel to the edge of the market square and pull out into traffic. You drive without seeing, led by habit as you stop at signs along the way, turning around corners mindlessly. You stop and wait to pull into your building’s lot and notice the large storm grey jeep behind you. It strikes you as peculiar; you enter from a back street to avoid the rush.

You steer into the lot and the jeep continues down the street past the building. You forget it as quickly as it rolls beyond the faded brick. You find your spot, parking pass dangling from the mirror, and shut off the engine. You linger and take a breath. You're hungry and tired.

You leave your things in the car and go upstairs. You slow as you pass your neighbour’s door. You saw her yesterday, she was in trouble about something. The police came as she hid from her boyfriend in your apartment. You didn’t even know she had one. You tried not to be nosy but she seemed real upset.

Your cheeks tinge as you stare at the numbers on her door. She’s the only person who’s ever been inside your apartment. You don’t welcome people in, not into your home or your life. You hadn’t meant to let her in but you were so tired and confused, you couldn’t stop her.

You cringe and continue down to your door with one last glance over your shoulder. You put the key in the slot and turn with a grind. You scurry inside and quickly lock the door, afraid she might once more emerge and follow you inside. Or that man, the big one with the beard.

You twist the latch back into place and put your keys in the tray on the cramped shelf. The apartment is dark, the windows shrouded in black fabric, and you flip on the overhead light to guide you down the hallway. The walls are made tighter as their lined with endless shelves and tables, all filled with your collection of curiosities.

You go to the fridge and take out the mason jar of steeped oats. You sit and eat the soft, pasty oats and the berries. You didn’t add enough cinnamon. It doesn’t matter, your stomach greedily mulches it. You put the kettle on and wait for it to steam.

As you pace around, you hear a loud rumble. An engine. You don’t think much of it but you go to the window to peek out around the dark fabric. A woman walks a large dog past a grey jeep parked along the curb. Is it the same one you saw before?

The question doesn’t pique your mind much. That’s the way of the world, you find. It’s a lot smaller than it seems, yet to you, it’s inexorably vast. It’s too fast, too unpredictable. You retreat as the kettle whistles.

Your apartment is small and warm and safe. The world can’t follow you back here. Not if you don’t let it in and you won’t be doing that again.

-🕰️

You decide, against your better instincts, to go to market. The weather is nice and it wouldn’t be so bad add a few extra bucks to your nest egg. You never know what might come up, or what you might find! Too many times you stumbled upon an antique you just couldn’t afford.

You go through your usual ritual. You set up the table and the chair, and arrange your things in the same way around the wooden sign. As you put your boxes to the side, you hear a rattle at the bottom of one. You look into the crate and notice the silver ring. How’d that get in there? You didn’t bring any jewelry.

You put down the box and reach inside. You take out the ring and turn it. You’ve never seen it before. There’s a strange stick symbol on the flat face. Maybe another language or a run of some type. You turn it in your hand and tuck it in your pocket. You’ll have to give a closer look at home.

It’s early and a few stragglers trickle in, but they all walk by your table without pause.

You sit and take out the jar of oats. You remembered today. You’d woken up with a hunger so deep, you almost ate before you left. You know better than to eat too early. Instead, you had your tea and got yourself moving.

You stir the blueberries in and eat slowly, trying to measure your bites so you don’t feel sick after. You watch the other vendors, some still setting up, and lazily swallow down the thick oatmeal. It feels like it might rain after all, there’s a touch of damp in the air.

You finish up and put the jar away. As you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, a woman’s voice trills and pricks your ears. Silver hair with a few wisps of gold peak out from her silk headscarf. The teal fabric matches the pattern of her blouse, tucking into a finely pressed skirt. She’s not alone, she has her arm hooked through another.

Her companion is younger than her. His golden hair is pulled half up at the crown of his head as he towers over her lithe frame. You squint, they might be related. As they approach, you get a whiff of deja vu.

“Yes, it was this one, mother,” the man’s voice is deep.

“How lovely, look at all these treasures,” she slips her arm free as she approaches, “hello, dear, is this all yours?”

“Mhmm, yes,” you stand up, “are you looking for something in particular?”

“I think we’re just browsing,” she smiles brightly, her lips painted a gentle shade of rose.

“A coin purse,” the man says, “with prim rose? Do you recall?”

You look at him. Faces aren’t easy for you but his voice strikes something in your mind, and his size. You haven’t seen a lot of men that big, only the one in your neighbour’s apartment. You think you remember holding something but the customer never came back.

“This one,” you point to the coin purse, set back in the row.

“Yes, that was me,” he chimes, “mother,” he pulls the primrose purse to the top. She takes it and he looks back to you, “I apologise that I didn’t return, there was an emergency and I had to be off.”

“It’s okay,” you shrug, folding your hands together.

The woman is looking at you. There’s something in her gaze that makes you squirm. Her eyes linger just a bit longer before she aims them at the purse, admiring the embroidery as she feels it beneath her thumb.

“Yes, I do like this one,” she says.

“I brought cash this time,” the man booms and reaches into his pocket, “five, I believe you said.”

“Yes,” you accept the bill from him, his skin rough as his fingertips touch yours, “thanks. Erm, did you need a bag?”

“For this? No,” she wiggles the purse playfully and reaches for the man, her son, with other hand. She caresses his knuckles as she faces him, “you were right. Very beautiful.”

He smiles broadly, proudly almost. It’s just a purse. You hide your discomfort as you grip your arm at your elbow.

“Thank you,” the woman chirps back at you, sending another grin in your direction, “you might see us again.”

She hooks her arm once more through her son’s and leads him to the next booth. You peer after them as her attention clings to the purse as she continues to feel it between her fingers. She leans into his arm as she speaks to him quietly. They seem close, it’s sweet. Your own mother had never been so affectionate.

You look away before the scene can pluck in your chest. It doesn’t matter. You’re grown up now. That’s all behind you.

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