#it was just a warm up sketch anyway i didn’t care that much anyway but like . you know

[cheaploafs]

they don’t sleep often let them have this

[hellishjoel]

cherry thrill | lights

9.2k / pairing: daddy dom tattoo artist!joel miller x sub virgin f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi chapter summary: your tattoo artist, joel miller, takes your virginity. chapter warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, implied age gap, swearing, virginity loss, dom&sub dynamics (/not lg), size kink, praise kink, degradation kink, daddy kink, innocence kink, corruption kink, swearing, dirty talk, pet names (princess, bunny, baby girl, sweetheart, etc.), oral (m&f receiving), fingering, protected p in v, joel talks you through it, protective!joel, slight pov switching, reader is described as having no tattoos or piercings, as well as hair, but otherwise no physical description, no use of y/n series summary: Trust and devotion. Ink meets innocence. Your tattoo artist, Joel Miller, shows you what it really means to give up control. Reeling from the loss of your job, you’re running out of options, until a passing comment from Joel and a video camera give you just the right idea. A/N: this was supposed to be a one shot but just like everything else I try to write, I expand on the characters too much for it not to become a series. also, thank you for 2,000 followers, I promise to do something soon to show my appreciation <3 I'm bad at giving thanks and receiving attention so anyway - dividers by @firefly-graphics (thank you, daisy!)

During your first consultation, there was something in the air. 

Glances that lasted a few seconds too long, a charged energy replicating that of two strong magnets.  You stand frozen in a dark office down the hall from the shop’s main entrance. The walls are painted black. A gallery wall displays different art and posters in gold frames. There’s a large red neon sign with your tattoo artist’s initials, J.M. 

Joel Miller. 

You sit opposite of him, leg anxiously bouncing and nails subconsciously piercing the chair’s leather arms as he listens silently to your request before his mind starts to work. It doesn’t take much time to draw up an example or two with your guided tweaks and fixes. 

Other than the scribble of a graphite pencil, silence falls over you both. And observation takes over. 

Joel surrounds himself with scattered drawings on loose paper that litter his desk. You watch the way his eyes screw inward to focus on the sketch he is drawing up. A small vein protrudes from his temple, his jaw shifts from side to side with tension. 

He’s a blunt sort of handsome. With harsh edges and lines, jaded and carved with precision like precious marble. It makes your pulse jump a bit in your neck and wrist. 

You think your first tattoo should be something special, especially since you’ve waited so long to pull the trigger. He was a bit intimidating like you imagined a tattoo artist to be, what with his brooding demeanor and how he looked you up and down upon taking one step inside his parlor. 

Virgin. 

That’s what he called your skin, untouched by any ink or piercings. 

He didn’t know that it described you down to your core. No one had popped your cherry, taken your virginity, made you theirs. Untouched.

Now, half an hour later and sitting anxiously in his back office, he finishes drawing up the sketch and asks about the precise placement you had in mind. 

“I was thinking here,” you mindlessly point to a spot on your upper thigh. There was a level of secrecy to it, in case any future employers cared about that sort of shit. 

You can’t help the way your skin vibrates under his touch, when he aids you in taking off your bottoms and runs his calloused palms up the smooth skin of your thighs. 

You shakily exhale as he warms you. 

You definitely don’t let yourself fantasize that he’s feeling you up, or even think about wanting him to explore every inch of your body. You know he’s just doing his job. 

But the way his eyes flick up to yours when he feels the goosebumps he knows he’s created is otherworldly. Like he knows you want him to fuck you. The way your muscles twitch under the warmth of his palm, feeling pliant under his touch. Fuck. 

His eyes gleam as his mouth forms into a barely-there smirk. 

There was no point in playing coy. Your body changed at the contact and Joel knew it. 

It was damn near degrading the way he let you simmer. It set a light inside of you no one had before. So that’s when you knew you’d let him, Joel Miller, take your virginity. 

It would be no easy task. You didn’t know how to pursue him, or anyone for that matter. Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have said virginity. 

You try not to stare for too long, but even with his gruff demeanor and silence being second nature to him, he was handsome. A rugged sort of handsome with different facial piercings. 

A septum in his nose highlighted its aquiline structure. And a small hoop in his right eyebrow, with greys tickling through like pretty streaks in the hair. It made him look deliciously too old for you. Perhaps that’s what you enjoyed most, though. He was no amateur. 

The moment his fingers dipped into your flesh to work on your tattoo's placement, you knew he felt it, too. Supple under his touch. Squishy. Something he could sink his teeth into. Something that obeyed. 

“You prepared for the pain, sweetheart?”

His southern drawl is sweet like honey, deep and husky nonetheless. 

“I think so.” 

Your response is meek. It’s your wavering nerves from having him so close and unsure what the feeling of being tattooed will be like. Joel looks for certainty instead. He insists on it. 

“Need ya t’tell me. Not that you think, that you know.”

“I’m sorry. I know so.”

Joel squeezes the back of your thigh fondly, a proud little smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. “Good girl.”

The praise alone was enough to make your thighs sticky with arousal. Joel sent you home that day with an ache between your legs that your fingers had to fix. And you thought about him the entire time. 

How his cold tongue piercing would feel against the warmth of your clit. Holding you with his strong, protective arms swirled with black ink. How his staggering dark eyes would look into yours as he fucks you. 

But thinking about him wasn’t enough. 

You tried to string out the process, anything you could do to fix more time with him. Anything to get his tough palms on your skin. 

You fiddled with different placements, opting to show a little skin as you rid yourself of your top and pointed to your ribs during your next appointment. 

A breath hitches in your throat as he eyes your bra's innocent pink color. Lacy and pretty. Delicate. He clears his throat and runs his fingers along your side, evidence of his touch causing an effect on you displayed with more goosebumps. Your body could simply not hide the attraction you felt towards him. 

“Would hurt. A lot. The ribs move every time you breathe, which makes the tattooing process more painful.” Joel gently cups your side with his large palm and squeezes your ribs, holding you in place as you shakily breathe with the hold he has on you. “Can’t tell ya where to place it, can only advise. Just don’t want such a pretty girl to shed any tears.” 

That’s when you knew you could trust him. That even a man as hardened as himself could treat you with such care. 

He excuses himself for a moment, opting for more transfer paper and leaving you topless in his private office. 

Your ears were ringing, you could hear the quickening beat of your heart. You slowly inch off the portable tattoo table, glancing around Joel’s dark academia-style office. 

He’s an enigma, you think, the more you look at his surroundings. Quiet but dark, you knew he was concealing a hidden desire. You hope to unlock it. That he’ll trust you enough just as you trust him. 

Articles of clothing start to drop to the floor, one by one. You knew you’d be ambushing him; you didn’t want to scare Joel. So you left yourself in your soft pink-colored bra and panty set. You thought it was classy and cute. Not too forward, but sweet. Definitely planned out, you hope he doesn’t notice. 

All your confidence quickly disappears as soon as he comes back in through the door. You could feel your heart slowly sink to your stomach, your lips parting to come up with some sort of reasoning. 

“I-I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. Joel is stilled at the entrance of his office, door still ajar as he blankly stares at the delicate angel standing in the middle of his office. 

He clears his throat and finally closes the door, leaving the two of you in silence. You can’t read his expression. 

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” He asks, sweet southern drawl dripping with tension as his heavy boots slowly make their way closer to you. 

You can only shake your head, unsteady hands concealing as much of your body as possible. You decide to face the mirror, keeping your back to him. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, I was just-” Lie. “I was just looking at your full-length mirror to see other placement ideas.” 

Joel merely shakes his head, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can tell when you’re lyin’ t’me, baby girl. You wanna try tellin’ me the truth now?”

His tone only makes the ache in your core grow with desire as your pulse quickens under his eyeline. 

You feel embarrassed, heat coursing through your body and making you tingle as his stare lingers selfishly, basking in the glory of your figure. You watch with want in the reflection as his eyes stare at the curves of your hips and your ass. A handful, he probably thinks. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxes, moving closer and enveloping you in his musky pine and whiskey scent. It’s almost knowing what he says next. “Tell me what y’want.” 

You swallow the lump protruding in your throat before you decide to be honest with him. Like you said, you could trust him. You play with your fingers and pick at the skin by your nails.

“I want you.” You say barely above a whisper. 

Joel simply shakes his head, takes another impossible step closer, and cranes his head down to hear you better. His lips and coarse beard hairs tickle at the shell of your ear. 

Your eyes close shyly as he speaks again amid your silence. 

“Say it again, baby. Can’t hear ya.” His toned front meets your back, forcing a whimper past your lips. 

You work up the nerve to take a glance at the two figures in the gold-framed mirror. Perfect opposites. Young, beautiful, a little inexperienced. Older, handsome, sure as hell looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

His height looms over you. His eyes are an unknown shade of obsidian and he’s radiating a comforting warmth. Your hand reaches for his, only able to look him in the eyes through the glass as you guide his hand to your hip. 

Your thumb rolls across the faded tattoo on the backside of his hand. There used to be a cross there, but it looks to be covered up by some sort of python now. With a shaky sigh, you try again. “I want you, Mr. Miller. I want you to take my virginity.” 

You’ve prepared yourself to hear his laughter, a snickering, degrading comment of disbelief. You felt ready to experience shame. But you were wrong. 

Joel places his pointer finger under your chin, using his other hand to guide you in his hold to turn and face him. His thumb grazes over your lower lip as he guides your head to tilt up and look at him properly. Your soft eyes meet his lust-driven ones and your heart surges at the sight. 

You’ve never seen a man so hungry. 

“You want me to take your virginity, little bunny?” He hums seductively. Suddenly, you don’t feel so doomed. It’s placed with a little bit of eagerness now. You wanted your spoils. 

“Yes. Want you to do whatever you desire with me, I’ll do anything you want.” You sound like a devoted cult member, but the energy you feel is undeniable. You’re sure you’ve soaked through your panties at this point. 

Slowly but surely, Joel begins to nod. He’s mulled it over and he’s made up his mind. 

“Whatever I desire, huh?” He tuts almost degradingly. Your nod of enthusiasm makes his blood rush. 

He hesitates, untrusting of his own words. 

“Want you to call me Daddy,” He starts haphazardly, gauging your reaction. “Think you can do that, sweet girl?”

Your wide eyes soften, a notch of confusion knotting your eyebrows. 

“You- what?” 

“Want you to call me daddy. Want you to be a good little girl for me and hop up on that desk. Can ya do that for me, princess?” His chin juts up and signals toward his office desk. 

The swirling in your stomach just won’t stop. 

“Go on now.” His orotund voice projects his instructions. You back up a few paces until you feel the cool metal of his desk hit your backside, slowly moving to sit on it with hidden excitement and a shiver up your spine. 

You do want to be good, if there’s anything you want in this world right now, it’s to play along and be good for him. Knowing he would take care of you was making you leak. 

His fingertips delicately touch your skin, starting at your wrists and moving upwards to the straps on your bra. He’s intimidating to look at, so you fixate on something behind him. But it doesn’t help when he clouds your vision. Even his aroma, from the smoke of his cigarettes to the musky spruce cologne, was putting you in a tailspin. 

You don’t anticipate the way your body moves for him. His hands skim to the back of your bra, and your spine straightens. It makes the right side of his mouth twitch up into a smirk. 

“Nervous?” He belittles.

Your long lashes innocently flutter, you think you might be doing it on purpose. You sort of like playing along. 

“A little… Daddy.” You test cautiously, the word tangling on your tongue. But it’s unforgettable the way his eyes light up at the name. You find yourself already willing to do whatever it takes to recreate that signature look of his. 

Joel hums appreciatively, thumb making minuscule circles over your chin. “I’ll take care of ya. Ya know that. Or else you wouldn’t have chosen me.”

All you can do is nod. Because he knows that your selection process was a real thing. You had danced around it once during your first consultation when he asked if you had a boyfriend. All you could feel was heat rising to the back of your neck, shy eyes evading his warm brown orbs. 

“No, definitely not.” 

“What’d’ya mean definitely not? You’re a pretty girl.”  

You shrug in a noncommittal way. “I’ve never had to really worry about stuff like… boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Any of that sort of stuff.” 

His eyes flicked up to yours in an instant, a mutual understanding of your underlying words. “I see. I understand, angel.” 

Joel works your bra off with one hand, you gasp as you feel the material loosen around your body. His opposite hand taps at the top of your thigh. You’re all too aware you are eagerly sitting half-naked on his desk. 

“Open.” He directs, voice laced with smoke. 

You nip at your lower lip and slowly inch your clamped-shut thighs open for him. He instantly makes eye contact with the wet, dark little circle that’s ruining the pristine innocence of your panties. 

He decides not to make fun of it, but it’s truly a compliment. Your adoration for him. “This all for me, angel?”

You work up a few quick nods. Now that he was so close, you wanted him to hurry the hell up.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” 

You feel heat tingle at the sides of your neck. This would be your first time really talking like this with someone. He made it feel safe to talk so dirty. To try, to learn. 

“Yes, daddy.”

You can’t deny how proud you feel to be the reason a certain warmth brightens in his eyes and on his smirk. You did that, you pleased him. Little did you know how he’d thank you for it. 

“You said you’re a virgin? Hard to believe.”

A shaky sigh leaves your parted lips as his warm palms slowly pull your bra down, revealing your breasts to him. “Just never found anyone I really trusted or liked enough.” 

He mutters something quiet in understanding, all too distracted by how damn pretty you look. 

Joel is silently observing your body, he can’t help but want to touch the delicate flower in front of him. A gasp leaves your parted lips as his calloused hands come up and cup your breasts. He starts to squeeze, and a happy little whimper leaves your mouth with a small smile. 

“I like that.” You tell him, hoping it improves your chances that he’ll do it again. Which he does. 

“Good.” He compliments, pinching your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, turning them into peaks that send electricity down your spine. 

A sweet and experimental moan leaves your lips. Joel stands between your parted legs and you feel his erection for the first time against your skin. You can tell by the shape protruding through his pants that he’s a large man, already thick and swollen for your taking. 

“No one’s ever been inside of you?” He damn near growls, raising an eyebrow after the beat he offers you to answer.  

You shake your head again. “I’ve tried my fingers, but I’m sure it’s not the same.” 

A scoffy little breath echoes out of his nose. “No, not quite. Lay back for me, bunny.” His hands release your breasts, pebbled nipples left abandoned as you slowly move down onto your elbows and then onto your back. 

There was a sudden peak of anxiety, not being able to fully see him. But perhaps this was the point, to fully surrender yourself under his touch. To trust him. 

His rough hands grip the sides of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs. He gets about halfway down your thighs before you quickly sit up on your elbows again. 

“Joel?” Your voice anxiously chirps. 

He stops, eyes flicking up to you from your cunt still concealed by your sticky thighs. 

“We can stop,” He says before you can explain. “S’okay if you’re not ready.”

“No, no, that’s not it, God, that’s not it,” You rid his worries, feeling your chest quickly rise and fall under his all of a sudden protective gaze. 

“I uh-... I know you don’t owe me this, we’re not together, but… can you talk me through what you’re doing? I want to learn, and I can tell you’re experienced, I know it’s a lot to ask but-”

“S’not too much to ask.” He quickly intervenes, gently taking your hands and guiding you to sit up fully once more. Your soft eyes graze over all the layers he’s still wearing, and suddenly you’re reminded how naked you are. 

“Use your voice, sweet girl. Can tell you wanna say somethin’. This is your time.” 

The sentiment means a lot. It is your time, your first time, and just because you’re an adult doesn’t mean it should be any less special. So you decide to make it your time, the way you want it. 

“Can you take your clothes off too? And is the door locked?” You trail off upon seeing his amused smirk. 

“Go on.” He nods again, letting you list your needs and wants. 

“And can you kiss me, please, Daddy?” You ask more softly than the rest of your demands. You know that kissing is romantic, but you think it might help settle you. Pull you back from drifting away, keep you here with him.  

He watches you for a moment, a bemused grin on his lips before he gently cradles your face. “The door’s locked. I’ll take my clothes off. And I’ll kiss you as many times as you like as long as you keep askin’ that nice.” 

For the first time during your interaction, your face lights up with a smile. It’s small, it’s thankful, but it’s there. There was an undeniable connection you shared with Joel, it made you feel safe under his curious eyes. 

With his large hands cupping either side of your jaw, he leans down while simultaneously guiding your chin up as your lips meet. It’s gentle at first, soft. His mouth tastes like a cigarette, it’s oddly intoxicating and you find yourself wanting more.

You know how to make out at the very least. So when you gently bite down and tug on Joel’s lower lip, both of your eyes open as a throaty little groan escapes him. 

He kisses you a little harder this time, hands falling to your hips as he pulls you closer so your fronts align. The force makes your lips part and Joel takes the opportunity to let his tongue invade your mouth. He moves fluently to explore, both of you falling into a sweet lull as your bodies meld into one. 

Inadvertently, he hooks his pointer finger into your panties halfway down your thighs and finishes pulling them to your ankles. They land somewhere on the floor in a pile of your other clothes. 

Unbeknownst to you until he took his hands off your body to pluck open his belt do you realize how you were on fire for him. 

You wonder while he pushes down his trousers and tugs off his shirt if he’s ever slept with a virgin before. If you’d be his version of a first time just like he’d be yours. No, not his first ever, you weren’t that foolish. But maybe you could teach him a thing or two as well. 

There’s no way to mask your surprise when he pushes down his boxer briefs, the dark band revealing all that was underneath. His half-hard cock raises towards his stomach, rosiness fluttering at his tip. You were pleasantly surprised to find that it was a little hooked, deliciously curving upwards. 

With a new sense of confidence, your hand reaches forward and you start to shift your hand up and down his length. Joel’s quiet grunt shatters your thoughts. He gently cups the side of your neck and twirls a piece of hair around his finger. 

Joel takes your hand off his cock and you worry you’ve done something wrong already. He holds it palm-side up and nods encouragingly. “Spit on your hand, baby.”

He nods after you look up at him with shy, blown-out eyes. But you obey. 

You spit into your hand and let him guide your hand back around his member. That seems a lot better. He glistens with your spit and you have the urge to keep shocking him with your confidence.

You lean forward and directly spit onto his tip, looking up to see his approving little smirk. 

“Fuck- That’s- mmm, that’s good, angel,” he sighs with a certain happiness, loving the feeling of getting his cock taken care of. “Feels real good.” 

The praise sets off a million pistons in your brain, feeling yourself scrabble off the desk,  dropping to your knees as you continue to pump him. 

He’s heavy in your hand, and you gently lean forward to give sweet kisses to the tip. You swallow the lump in your throat before parting your lips, taking the head of his cock into your mouth. He’s salty, musky, but not dirty. In fact, he was rather well-kempt in his nether regions. 

You force yourself deeper and Joel already has his hands in your hair to pause you. 

“Woah, slow your roll, pretty girl.” He says with shortened breaths. Heat floods your body, you hate being so new to this. 

Joel continues to stroke your hair back, gently gliding a thumb up your cheekbone before he cradles one side of your face. “I see you gettin’ all shy, I know this is your first time, but I’ll teach you the basics. And no one’s perfect on their first try, okay? So just get that thought outta your head now.”

Your chest swells at his eagerness to relax you, so you nod gently and lean in to kiss the base of his stomach in appreciation. The right side of his mouth tilts up as he swipes his thumb across your plump bottom lip, a silent thank you for the kiss. 

“You’re a real good girl, you know that?” A bigger smile breaks across your lips and you eagerly tug on his cock with eagerness. Joel sighs, already in defeat at how you’re willing to get it right for him, to learn, to listen. To obey. 

“You’re gonna wanna relax your jaw,” his fingers guide you, your lips parting and letting your jaw drop lower, lower, lower for him. “And the whole part is to suck, not just put your mouth on it, okay, peaches? So hollow your cheeks, no teeth, and only go as far as you feel comfortable.” 

You shake off your nerves and clear your throat, feeling your mouth fill with spit intended for him. You place your hands on the back of his thighs, feeling the dark hairs under the pads of your fingers. 

Slowly, you wrap your mouth around his tip once more. You swirl your tongue around him, adoring the way he hisses when you glide your tongue across the slit leaking a salty substance. 

Over the introduction, you try to take him down your throat properly. And he’s a mouthful, literally. He’s a lot. But you try to just enjoy that there’s no real pressure. 

A lot of saliva starts to build in your mouth, and you swallow it around him. You’re awestruck when he lets out a low moan, strong hands weaving through your hair and lightly tugging. Your eyes flutter up to him through your lashes, and he’s looking at you so deliciously. 

You can tell he wants to fuck your mouth, holding his hips back from really letting you have it. And maybe he could do that to you someday, but for now, today was slow. And Joel knew that too. 

Joel gently tucks your hair back, your lips suctioning around his length before he drags you back towards him, indicating for you to start moving, to bob your head. 

It takes a few tries, but you really feel yourself going further down his cock. You breathe through your nose, but it’s hard when you’re trying not to gag around him. Finally, after little to no error, you slip up. His tip unexpectedly hits the back of your throat and you gag around him.  Joel must feel your whole body tense with anxiety because he’s quick to gently hush and console you. Your eyes well up with tears, but your first instinct is to keep him inside your mouth and swallow around him. 

A long, low groan leaves Joel’s mouth, a compliment to your first big challenge. 

“Holy fuck,” he pants, weaving his fingers into your hair and fisting eagerly to keep himself grounded. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ well, princess, you have no idea, fuck,” he grins. “Try using your hands on what you can’t take, come on, baby.” 

You can feel yourself physically gush at his compliments, your stomach swirling with a newfound desperation. To please. 

With new instructions, you work your hand at his base and pump up and down with the rhythm of your mouth. You worked on gently squeezing and releasing your hand, making Joel go slack-jawed as a husky groan leaves the back of his throat. Sucking and licking and bobbing your head in earnest, he’s already twitching in your mouth. 

“You’ve done this before baby,” his voice drips with a smirk, pulling yourself off for some deep breaths and a few desperate swallows. 

“Haven’t, promise, Joel,” You coo with a proud little smile, your voice thick and wrecked as you continue to pump his cock in the absence of your mouth. 

Joel lets your hair go and guides your hand off his cock before helping you up from the floor. 

Your face is obviously written with disappointment, you could have continued. You sort of wanted to continue despite the ache hanging around in your jaw. 

“You were gonna make me come, don’t wanna come yet, angel,” Joel pants weakly, ducking down and connecting your lips. You’re a little taken aback. Not by the kiss, but by the fact you already had him nearly ready to finish. 

“Really?” You murmur hopefully against his mouth, wishing he wasn’t just saying it to compliment you. 

The way that his features started to twitch and his tummy and chest fluttered with his jagged breathing, it would have been quite a sight to see him finish. Maybe he would have even done it right on your tongue. The thought alone gives you goosebumps. 

Your insides swirl as he licks inside of your mouth and gently runs his tongue along your bottom lip, moving you back towards his desk. You hop up without his instruction, feeling him smirk against your pouted mouth. 

“Now you’re gettin’ a hang of things.” He murmurs into your mouth, carrying on where he had left off before, sinking down to his own knees at the edge of the desk and positioning your feet to rest up on the edge. He seems to stare at the glistening arousal you’ve been creating for the last hour straight. 

That nervous feeling settles in your stomach, completely bare and open for him. A shocked gasp leaves your mouth, not prepared for him already to be diving into your pussy. 

The breadth of his tongue slowly swipes up the center of your core, purposely flicking off of your clit and making you yelp at the contact. His cold tongue piercing against your sensitive bundle made a shiver shoot up your spine. 

He gently smirks as he places a sweet kiss on the inside of your thigh. “You’re jumpy, kitten. Take a breath. Wanna make you feel real good.” 

You let out a shaky sigh and move off your elbows, back flat on his desk as your eyes slowly drift close. Then, as he starts to truly taste you, learning you and what you like, it’s unexpected how much you enjoy it. It never really dawned on you that some people truly enjoy eating pussy, but Joel Miller sure does. 

Your broken little whimpers and strung-out moans turn into writhing on his desk under him. He was such an expert, meticulously swirling his tongue around you and suckling your clit into his mouth. 

It didn’t take long for your fingers to wind up into his hair as his shoulders lay bracketed between your thighs. It was heavy, it was stomach-twisting, in fact, it was rolling through you like a storm. The it in question was your first oral orgasm. 

“J-Joel,” you gasp, your jaw dropping down as he slowly prods the tip of his finger at your entrance. 

“Need to get you ready for my cock, sweet girl, keep focusing on how good you feel,” he encourages. Your face pinches as his finger slowly sinks into your entrance, but you realize how grateful you are for all the extra spit and arousal Joel has provided. 

It doesn’t necessarily hurt, it’s a weird ache at first. But then his finger starts to slowly pump inside of you, and it’s a new craving. Especially with the way his tongue moves around your clit, the pistons in his brain firing all to figure out what you like. 

Do you like when he flicks your clit with his cold metal piercing?

“Ohmygod-” you gasp. 

Do you like when he swirls his naughty tongue around you in tight figure eights? 

“Joel, please,” you say, needing more. 

Did you like it most when he suckles around your sweet bud?

“Joel!” You cry out, tugging tighter at his hair, not sure if you want to tug him closer for more or push him away because it feels too good. 

“O-Oh, oh my god.” Lying still was a foreign thing to you now, all you could do was wiggle and grip your fingers into his hair, tugging harshly as he grunted against your core in enjoyment. 

He actually likes pleasing you, he likes tasting you! It’s a compliment without words as your eyes dip close and your head digs back into the desk.

Suddenly, your stomach starts to drop like you’re on a rollercoaster. You’re not unfamiliar with the feeling of an orgasm, but this, oral, it hits differently. 

“Fuck,” you curse unexpectedly, making Joel cock up an eyebrow as he glances up at you. All you can do is watch as his mouth suckles harder around you, his finger pumping faster and adding a second. 

Because if there’s anyone in this world that can break you out of your shell, Joel wants it to be him. 

Now you’re really aching for him,  wishing that it was his cock slotted between your walls, pushing you towards euphoria. 

“Know you wanna come for me angel,” his fingers quirk upwards in a come here motion, and a long, strung-out moan of his name leaves your lips.

God forbid any of the shop’s workers or clients hear you, but you can’t think of a singular reason to care right now. 

Your walls flex and squeeze around Joel’s two fingers, truly feeling the stretch as you come around his digits. It leaves you a whimpering mess on his desk, hot pants leaving your pretty lips. 

Joel is in heaven, lapping you up and moaning against your core as your clit starts to twitch with the overstimulation. His hands squeeze at the flesh of your thighs before he sits up and kisses up your body, his own lips meeting yours. He’s hungry, and you’re still bouncing back. But you want it so bad, and you’re so close to finally having it. 

“Joel, I’m ready.” You coo, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

He breathily laughs and pecks your lips once more, tasting your own arousal and making you feel warm inside. 

“Desperate for my cock, ain’t that right, pretty girl?” 

God, he was such a menace with his mouth. Your adorably shy grin is all the answer he needs. But you give him one anyway, because he likes when you talk like that with him. 

“Yes, daddy, I just wanna feel it already,” you try out, Joel’s lust-filled eyes meeting yours as white-hot heat spills into your stomach. 

“I’ll give it to ya, baby girl. Wanna give that tight little virgin pussy my cock, don’t want anyone else to have ya. Mine.” Joel huskily grunts, a choked moan leaving your lips. 

Joel reaches past your head and to the drawer on the other side of the desk. He jimmies it open and searches his hand around blindly. He flips open his wallet and pulls a small square foil package from the slot. 

Oh, duh, a condom. In all your excitement, you sort of forgot to be safe. But you’re glad he was prepared. 

You watch with adoration on your features as Joel lifts the condom to his lips, pearly teeth ripping the foil off but not hurting the condom. His other hand rests sweetly on your hip, thumb running soothing circles into your pretty skin. 

It’s a soothing feeling, one that he doesn’t have to do, but he does because he’s being considerate and maybe even a little protective. You gently lay your hand on his forearm, fingers tracing fresh black ink and older green ink on his arm’s sleeve. 

A shaky sigh leaves your lips as he uses both hands to glide the condom down his shaft. It’s nearly invisible, the way it’s so thin and tightly wrapped around his cock. Besides the band that rests at the very bottom of his shaft. He grumbles something incoherent, probably his annoyance with the fussing of the condom and how tight it probably felt around him.  

You take in a shaky breath and nod at him once he comes to rejoin your centers. 

“You’re sure you’re ready for this? Don’t wanna wait for someone y’love? Or trust? Or just... Anybody but me?” Joel’s face is pinched with genuine concern. 

You smile softly and gently cup his cheek. “I do trust you. It takes a lot of trust to allow someone to alter your body forever with a tattoo. So, you’re giving me a tattoo, and you’re taking my virginity. You’re sort of doubling down for me right now, honestly.” 

Joel flashes a genuine little smile. It’s the most you’ve said consistently all day with him, even with a little drip of sarcasm and wit. 

“Okay. But ya gotta say it.” He says more seriously. 

“I’m ready, Daddy. Want you to make me feel good. I know you can.” You can already feel yourself picking up his dirty talk. It makes your smile twitch as you gently grip both of his forearms, his hands spreading your thighs open for him. 

He enters the space, his heavy cock resting over your core and slowly slipping up and down your wet folds. 

You let out an unexpected little scoff as he grinds himself down against you, your arousal soaking the condom. He holds himself at his base and taps his tip down against your already throbbing clit, making you hiss out a desperate whine. 

“M’not usually this… gentle.” He admits through gritted teeth. You’re sort of shocked by that. Sure, he has a rough and tough exterior, but he’s treated you with such delicacy that you assumed he was like this all the time. 

“So, what are you usually like?” You pose, your breath hitching in your throat as one of his hands abandons your thighs and guides his tip from your clit to your entrance, up and down, several times. Your thighs twitch impatiently. Your entrance squeezes around nothing. 

“M’just... not this gentle,” is all he can say without breaking into a bemused smile. 

“Yeah? Maybe you can show me next time what you’re really like.” 

Joel playfully scoffs as his face starts to pierce with concentration. “Not sure if you can handle it, kitten.” 

“I’m sure I-” your words are cut off by a loud gasp, your lips parting as his tip penetrates your walls. You’re phased for a moment before you gulp and recollect yourself. You whimper, louder and louder as he pushes on, watching Joel move with such caution. 

He really is holding back, you think. You wonder what he’s like when he can just fuck how he pleases. 

“Baby,” Joel’s voice breaks your concentration. “Breathe.” 

A loud huff of air leaves your mouth that you hadn’t even realized you were holding in. The ache in your hips and core only builds with tension as Joel pushes on, his length and girth surely parting your tight walls. 

“So fuckin’- tight.” He says with gritted teeth, his fingers piercing into the delicate flesh of your outer thighs, making you whimper. 

“Joel,” you quietly cry for him, tears threatening to spill at the pain. It’s just- a lot. It’s a lot for your first time, and maybe you wouldn’t have signed up if you knew what he was packing, but in a weird way, you loved it. He felt made for you. 

“M’here, angel, look at me.” In all the excitement and overwhelming feelings of pain and pleasure, you hadn’t even noticed you were clenching your eyes closed. You slowly peek them open, greeted by his heavenly features. 

“There’s my girl.” He compliments, warmth and sweetness shooting through your body. 

“Fuck,” you say, your voice a bit wet as Joel comes down closer to aid you. He’s all the way in now, you can feel his balls flushed against your sopping wet cunt. 

The arousal helps, the condom sort of doesn’t but it’s fine, that’s life, you think. You’re torn between pain and pleasure. Honestly, you just feel so fucking full. 

He tells you between breathy pants that he would have used lube if he had any, but he didn’t, and he’s sorry, and his pretty voice starts to turn into static with how fucking good he feels inside of you. 

“You’re doing so good for me, angel,” he praises, sponging a few kisses along your cheeks and tasting your salty tears. You feel like some weak pathetic being under him. He’s been sweet, but you’re sure he’s just treating you like he found a wounded animal. 

“Move, Joel, please” you weakly demand, lassoing your arms around his neck and holding him close to you. 

“No.” He says through gritted teeth. “Just-” he pauses and takes a deep breath, knowing that you’re dealing with a million emotions right now as he’s trying to breathe around the death grip you have on his cock. “Just wait a minute, sweetheart, let yourself adjust.” 

A pouty, bratty sigh leaves your lips as you continue to blink away tears. You eventually nod and he only smiles adoringly as he returns to kiss at the tears.

Your senses are spiked. You can smell his cologne, feel each gristle of hair from his salt and pepper beard. It’s erotic how much more you can feel while at the edge of your emotions. 

One of your hands roams into his darling chocolate curls, instinctually going to gently scrape your nails delicately against his scalp. You’re sweetly surprised to hear him mutter a sweet little moan just for you against the shell of your ear. 

Your hands flutter across dark tattoos on his shoulders and arms, your blurry vision trying to make out the shapes as you trace a pretty angel on his upper bicep. 

Joel Miller was inside of you. Joel Miller has taken your virginity. The hottest man you’ve ever set your eyes on is fucking you at his place of work, on his desk. And you convinced him to. 

Joel was right. The pain, ache, and burn slowly turned into a real yearning for him to move. It felt like what was right, a certain neediness to be filled and fucked.  

“Daddy,” you whisper more sweetly this time, more to your character. “Please fuck me, you feel good now, I can take it. Promise.” 

It takes him a moment to gather himself as well, smiling sweetly as he keeps his mouth by your breasts where he is sucking a gentle hickey into your soft skin. Color flushes to the area, feeling his teeth gently nibble on the spot before he finally lifts off. 

Marking you, you think. It makes another gush of arousal flood your core, liquifying your spine as you become putty in his hands. 

His mouth twitches in a small smile as he captures your lips. Unbeknownst to you, the sweet kiss was just a distraction. 

Joel slowly began reeling his hips back which was a whole new sensation. His strangled moan harmonized with the gasp you let out into his mouth, moaning out the breath you were holding as he plunges himself fully back inside your warm cunt. 

You whimpered weakly, needy and anxiously happy, you wanted more. More, more, more. 

“Oh- my god,” you whimper, feeling him start a steady rhythm inside of you. Your jaw slowly drops and your eyes flutter closed, feeling your tits start to lightly bounce every time his hips perfectly align with your own. 

“So goddamn tight, still,” he grunts each word, forehead against yours as he watches your face unfold with a million reactions. 

Something primal switches in Joel, knowing he’s the first one to do this sort of stuff with you. 

It’s strangely possessive and arrogant, he knows it, but being the first man you trust to fuck you properly was feeding his ego. You’re a beautiful young woman with big doe eyes who waltzed into his shop and insisted he rail you, take your sacred first, talk you through it, and carry you through this dark and fearful forest. 

You trusted him. He wouldn’t break that bond. 

You came here wanting something, knowing how to get it. You came here asking, and Joel was open to teaching. The last thing he wanted was for some asshole to hurt you, something your sweet nature couldn’t afford was poison. 

Maybe he could teach you more, if you wanted. If he offered you an invitation to his world, would you take it? He only shared a slice of his lifestyle with you today, would the rest scare you, or entice you? 

Joel can’t help the way his hips buck faster at his thoughts, a little sob leaving your lips. He’s absent, just for a moment, feeling your skin slap against his as he holds you down and fills you fully. His tip hits your cervix for the first time and heat floods your stomach as you cry out his name. 

“Shit,” he panics and quickly comes back to his senses, wide eyes meeting your bleary ones, “you okay, angel? M’sorry” Joel whispers, returning to his original rhythm. 

“Yes-yes, fuck, please keep going, keep doing that, I can’t believe how good it feels.” 

Joel weakly smirks, proud to see you taking him so well.

The desk squeaks and juts with each of his heavy thrusts, that’s how you know it’s fucking good. You came here wanting to lose your virginity, but now that you’ve unwound Joel Miller, you want him to fucking rail you. 

Licking your lips, you lean up and pepper kisses up his wirey jawline, feeling the patch of hair that fades out and then back in again. He’s so sweet right now, but you wonder what he was talking about before. What was he when he wasn’t gentle? How good would rough feel? Would you like it? Maybe you could learn, explore, adventure. Surely Joel with his experience could be a guiding light. 

You watch with glittery eyes as Joel pulls his head off yours and licks across the pads of his fingers. 

“What are you- shit,” you whimper as his fingers start circling your clit, taking a moment to find your sweet little rhythm, one that somehow matches his hips. Now, your skin is slapping and it’s echoing around the room. Your moans are louder and uncontrollable, as are Joel’s. Your hips ache but you don’t find the will to care, he feels like fucking heaven. 

His cock is somehow inching deeper, as if your walls have decided to invite him in further, where he hits this perfect little spot inside of you that makes you squeak Joel’s name with robbed breaths. 

You’re not sure if you can hold on much longer, your stomach starts to swirl as all the knots inside your belly begin to untie themselves. 

You brace Joel at his shoulders and look into his eyes as you moan his name. A certain hunger flickers behind his dark brown orbs. His jaw clicks and he starts fucking you in earnest, filling you up each time as his hips snap with vigor. He feels fucking amazing, piercing your walls and marking you as his. 

“Joel-”

“Say what I wanna hear, baby,” he rasps. You quickly nod and gulp. 

“Daddy, please, I-I’m so close,” you moan sweetly as your head digs into the desk, jutting your chin up and arching your back. Joel takes full advantage of your breasts in his face, burying his nose in between them and nipping at the sensitive flesh, nearly making you yelp. 

“M’right there with you, angel baby, come for me,” he insists breathlessly.

His hips were losing their precision, going buck-wild, so you knew he was close. But he was holding out for you. 

You clench your eyes closed, feeling yourself lose all control. Your heart races in your chest, beat thrumming in your throat as you hold Joel against your front as his hips continue to snap and fill you. You don’t know what to do with your mouth, so you feverishly land your lips on his and make him mask the moans of your orgasm. 

Joel’s groan echoes loudly into your mouth as you gasp against his lips. Your walls clench eagerly around his cock as he spills into the condom. 

It’s blinding, deafening even. Your face goes slack and your eyes see stars. You think you might be shedding a tear or two because Joel is cupping your face kindly, thumbs swiping under your eyes as he encourages you out of your haze. 

“Lemme see those eyes, pretty girl,” he pants sweetly, watching for any sign of doubt. But he wouldn’t find any. 

You’re not so sure where he starts and you begin, your mind is so fuzzy. 

A soft hum leaves your lips as you soothingly run a hand through his dark hair again, gently stroking the longer curls away from the sheen on his forehead. Both of you were so warm, it felt like a fire was set between you two. When you curl a strand around your finger, you weakly smile as it coils back up and bounces. 

“How was your first time, angel?” Joel pants, still buried balls deep inside of you. Your hips ache, but part of you wasn’t ready for him to pull out yet. 

“I can’t believe I finished twice.” You admit with a shy smile, running a thumb up his cheekbone and glancing up at his eyebrow piercing. He notices you staring but keeps his eyes on your own.  

“Did it hurt?”

He shakes his head. 

“What about the one in your nose?”

He shakes his head again, this time with a smile. 

“Or your tongue?” 

This one made him ponder before he finally gave a light shrug. 

“You don’t remember the pain after a while. Just like tattoos. The pain is temporary.” 

Your mouth tilts in a lopsided smile, feeling messy with both of your spillages still puddled around your centers. 

Joel grunts as he slowly stands up from his bent-over position on the desk, pulling himself out of you and tying up the condom before he tosses it into the waste bin. 

You whine quietly to yourself as you close your legs. It hurts a little more now. Your hips and your core, a certain soreness. Or maybe it was missing him already. 

“Oh,” you whisper, starting to feel a little bit of leakage glide down your thigh. “Joe, do you-” 

“Course,” Joel says assuringly, hands already on a towel as he neals down and gently glides the material up the inside of your thigh. You bite down on your lip as he cleans you up with the soft towel and a little bit of water. 

You glance around the sterilized room and realize he’ll probably have to scrub this place down for the most part. Whoops. 

You’re slow to dress. Joel’s already buttoned his pants by the time you find your panties. He snickers quietly and helps you dress with a smirk. 

It’s not awkward like you feared it would. It sort of felt like you guys were friends. Then, something sort of unexpected happens. 

Joel fondly strokes a hair out of your face, pushing it behind your ear and smoothing out the little knots he had caused while fisting your hair during his blowjob. He’s soft and gentle with you. It makes you oh so curious what he looks like when he’s not soft and gentle. 

You sigh softly as you look at yourself in the mirror. You sort of felt proud, like you’d be a whole new person leaving the shop today. Even without a tattoo. 

“Joel, I don’t want anyone to see me leaving your office.” 

“That ashamed of me, huh?” He scoffs at you playfully, running his hand up and down his chest hair before he finally throws on his shirt. “I have the back office, so we can just go out that door.” He juts up his chin to behind you and you follow his eyeline. “Goes to the alley behind the shop.” 

You note the dark green painted exit door, and you’re thankful you don’t have to parade through the front of the shop or go past any other clients. 

The gentleman that he is, Joel walks you to your car as dusk settles in, marking the sky an orange and red horizon.  

“I gotta clean up the shop and close. You gonna be okay until I see you next?”

You nod meekly, a sweet smile on your face that twinges with a little shyness. “I’ll be okay. I still need that tattoo.” You tease to which he grins. 

“You do. I’ve worked real hard on it, so you better come back an’get it.” 

You nip at your lower lip as he stays guarded by your window, like a handsome pierced, and tatted bodyguard. 

It’s itching at you too much to let it go. You’re just too curious. “M’not this gentle.” 

“Yeah? Maybe you can show me next time what you’re really like.” 

“Not sure if you can handle it, kitten.” 

You gulp and clutch his hand before he fully stands up to walk away from your car. “You’ll show me again sometime? Like you said?”

Your eyes glimmer with a certain hopefulness, but his own seem to harden out of caution. 

It was just insane that he knew so much more than you. You wanted to unlock all forms of pleasure you were comfortable with. You like that he was holding something back. 

You were wet clay in his massive hands, he could mold you to his liking. You could learn his pleasures, his kinks, what unravels him beyond repair. You could learn a thing or two about yourself in the process. 

Joel sighs. 

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.” He warns, lips crooked in a snarl. His eyes beg for you not to want him, not to want this. 

But nothing set your nerves on fire like seeing him in control of you, just that brief second where his eyes flashed from amber to black and he fucked you like nothing or no one was stopping him. What if you gave it all up to him? 

Submissiveness dances behind your eyes, and Joel’s a sucker for that sweet look on your face. He debates if this is what you really want, or if it’s something else. He can’t deny he enjoys the trust you put in him. 

Joel quietly sighs with hesitation, eyes the way your small hand desperately holds his before he finally squeezes back. 

“You don’t know how t’take no for an answer, do ya?” He asks, a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “That’ll have to change.” 

You grin and nod, biting down on your lower lip as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. Joel takes notice, not wanting to see you in any sort of discomfort, especially from something he caused. 

“Take some pain medicine and relax tonight, angel. You were perfect.” 

Your heart swells at the compliment, the appreciation, the care. He gently pats your window a few times before standing up straight and backing up from your car, moving back towards the dark green exit door. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Driving away, you’re giddy with excitement of the unknown. It was a dark path you wanted to pursue. And maybe it was fucking stupid how you could trust a complete stranger like this, how none of your past partners felt worthy of your first time, but the tattooed and pierced old southern gentleman did. It was fucked. But you were sort of fucked for Joel Miller. 

You hum to the radio as you experience pure adrenaline, thumb gliding over the raised numbers on his business card. You glance down and notice a small stamp of a fern in the top right corner, adjacent to his name and professional title. 

The Obsidian Gallery 

Joel Miller

Senior Tatoo Artist

You can’t explain how your heart inadvertently races as you remember flashes of his hips rutting into yours, those same delicate fern leaves decorating the front of his hips. You were so fucked for Joel Miller. 

next chapter ->

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ Danny Phantom ~

If you need a hug, Danny will give you one.

———————

I wish I could wear a smile as easily as you do. There’s something about it—your smile—it lifts me up in ways I don’t fully understand.

Thank you for that.

But seriously, stop using that cold, irresistible charm of yours—it’s distracting, Danny.

———————

Atleast he gave me a cold hug. Because I needed one.

Colored sketches/drafts, whatever. Again. I am so lazy these days… depression hits hard.

———————

It’s late—far too late for anyone to be awake. But here I am, once again, sitting on the cold floor of my room, with my knees hugged to my chest. The dim glow of my cozy lights barely reaches the shadows stretching across the corners.

I don’t even know how he got here, but Danny is leaning against my doorframe, his face half-lit, half-lost in the gloom. His arms are crossed, but his usual lighthearted demeanor is gone. His glowing green eyes… they’re heavier than usual, like they’ve seen too much—carried too much.

“You okay?” he asks softly, his voice almost fragile, as though the words might shatter if spoken louder.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

My throat feels tight, my chest heavier than the silence pressing down. Instead, I shake my head, my hair falling over my face like a curtain I don’t want to pull back.

Danny sighs, the kind of sigh that feels shared—like he knows exactly how I feel but doesn’t want to admit it. He steps into the room, his boots scuffing against the floor. Slowly, he lowers himself to sit beside me, his cold shoulder brushing against mine.

“I know how it feels,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “To… feel like everything’s too much. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world, even when it’s not yours to carry.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when you disappear for days?” I glance at him, his expression flickering between guilt and understanding. “You don’t really have to be here, Danny. I’ll be fine. I’ll always be fine.”

But instead of answering, he reaches out, his gloved hand trailing against mine. It’s tentative, almost shy, but his cold seeps into my warm skin, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

“Stop that,” he murmurs. “Stop pretending you don’t need anyone. And stop pretending that you’re fine, because you aren’t.”

My breath shudders, and before I can stop myself, tears spill over, rolling silently down my cheeks. I hate crying in front of anyone. I hate that vulnerability, the exposure.

But Danny doesn’t look at me like I’m weak.

He just looks… sad.

For me.

For himself.

For whatever weight we’re both carrying.

Without a word, he pulls me into a hug. It’s awkward at first, like he’s not sure if I’ll push him away.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

His arms are strong, but there’s a hesitance to them, as if he’s afraid I might shatter in his grasp.

I don’t.

Instead, I fall into him, my head resting against his shoulder, his purr steady against my ear.

“You know I’ll always be here for you, no matter what. Just remember that. I’ve been by your side as long as I can remember, even when you didn’t realize it,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “But you have to let people in, instead of pushing them away. Just know you don’t have to do these things alone.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I’ve always been alone. That even when people care and I let them in, they leave anyway.

But his arms tighten around me, and the words crumble before they can leave my mouth. For once, I let myself believe him, even if it’s just for a moment.

The hug lingers, long after the tears stop falling. Neither of us speaks.

There’s no need to.

His presence says enough—he’s just here.

———————

My imagination is beyond otherwordly at this very moment.

[bosbas]

Chapter 2: I didn't have it in myself to go with grace

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: colin bridgerton x enemy!fem!reader WC: 2.0k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, negative self-talk (Colin bby🥺🤏), a small part of the dialogue is in French

Summary: It took precisely two days in England for you to utterly despise Colin Bridgerton. It took him approximately twelve hours after that to hate you right back. But he doesn't care that you're the only person in the ton who doesn't like him. You're set to marry someone else anyway, right?

April 16, 1816 – And of course, one cannot forget to mention Lady Y/N Montclair, who looked like a vision in her emerald dress at the Danbury Ball last night. Her presence seemed to cast a spell over the gentlemen in attendance, and they were practically lining up to engage her in conversation. It was a sight to behold, watching them swoon over her. However, one can hardly blame them, given how effortlessly graceful she was. It appears Lady Montclair will have more than enough gentlemen to choose from this season…

Eloise scoffed and rolled her eyes, the newest Whistledown in hand as she sat on a couch in the tearoom. “My word, if she hadn’t been in Tuscany last season I would think Lady Montclair herself was Lady Whistledown! She’s only been here two days and she’s already been mentioned more than most of the ton.”

Benedict chuckled from his seat across the room, shooting a look at a disgruntled-looking Colin who was trying very hard to make it seem like he wasn’t listening to Eloise reading Whistledown’s account of the ball. 

“I’d wager that Colin is Whistledown, actually. I’m convinced after today’s column,” Benedict said teasingly, taking a bite out of an apple as he analyzed the sketch in front of him. 

“First of all, I don’t even write like Whistledown, which you would know if you read the letters I sent while I was in Greece,” Colin shot back, irritated. “And second, even if I were, I certainly would not have spent two full pages talking about Lady Montclair. I’m sure I have no idea why Whistledown thought she warranted such a large portion of the column today.” 

The words felt bitter and unpleasant in his mouth, and he regretted them instantly. He knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t help his defensive tone after last night. Eloise, catching onto Colin’s tone, cocked her head toward Benedict and raised an eyebrow in confusion.  

“She didn’t want to dance with him,” explained Benedict, sounding highly amused about what was one of the more embarrassing things to happen to Colin. 

Eloise burst out laughing. “No! A woman who didn’t want to dance with Colin? Something must be incredibly wrong in the world! How could she have said no to London’s golden boy? And on his first day back! Shall we call for a medic?”

Colin felt the blood rushing to his face and his cheeks warming, not particularly pleased to have to deal with his sister's teasing today. He knew he was being ridiculous, that much was clear. You were only one person who hadn’t wanted to dance with him. But you had just looked so beautiful, and the way your eyes had lit up when you laughed with your brother was so enchanting, that he fashioned himself half in love with you already. 

It was slightly gut-wrenching to know you didn't feel the same way. He must have done something, Colin reasoned. No one had ever not liked Colin simply because of who he was, and he was more than a little concerned that you seemed to be the first. 

Eloise had been joking, of course, when she called Colin London’s golden boy. But it wasn’t as much of a joke as he would have liked. Anthony was a viscount, and Benedict was a successful artist with a painting in the national gallery, but what did he have to offer? He was just aimlessly traveling the world, documenting his travels in a journal no one would ever read. His own family didn’t even read his letters, for Christ’s sake. He was a third son with no talents, and the only thing he could do was lean into his charm and good nature and hope that people liked him anyway. And he had been relatively successful thus far. Except for with you, it seemed.

Noting Colin’s uncharacteristic grim mood, Eloise briefly panicked, wondering if she had gone too far. With a far softer tone, she added, “Maybe her dance card was full, Colin. It doesn’t mean she didn’t want to dance.”

But Colin shook his head, placing his chin on his hand. “I highly doubt it.”

He knew better than to assume the best. He was remarkably skilled at reading people, but even without that, it had not been difficult to tell that you were full of contempt. For him or someone else, he couldn’t be completely sure, but the way you had been laughing and smiling with everyone except for him was a particularly useful hint. 

Before he could dwell further, Violet entered the tearoom. “We’ll be going to Hyde Park to promenade today, darlings.” It was far easier to coerce her children into doing her bidding when she didn’t give them a choice. 

Ignoring their grumbling, she left the room, calling out over her shoulder, “Be ready in one hour!” 

---

Colin had barely been at the park five minutes before he spotted you, and he drew in a sharp breath. God, it was infuriating. You were wearing a cream-colored dress, chatting pleasantly with your mother, and he wanted to scream. Of course, you looked completely breathtaking. It was exactly what he needed when he was already nervous about approaching you. 

During the carriage ride, he had decided to try to speak to you again. To be your friend, at the very least. Perhaps you did not want him as a suitor, but the thought of someone in the ton actively disliking him was nauseating. 

So, he steeled himself, staring longingly at you. Now was as good a time as any because, for some miraculous reason, there seemed to be no men hounding you at the moment. You had separated yourself from your family slightly, silently observing who he could only assume was one of your older sisters and her husband. 

He made his way over to you, hands fidgeting behind his back nervously. Swallowing down his fear, he cleared his throat as he approached you, a soft smile on his face. 

“Lady Montclair, it’s lovely to see you here today. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot at the ball last night, and I wanted to offer an apology.” Your face was completely blank, not giving anything away, and Colin found himself a tad more nervous than he was when he first walked up to you. “Perhaps we could promenade?” he finished weakly. 

An apology? What on earth was Colin Bridgerton on about? There was no way he’d seen you in the hallway, right? 

“An apology, Mr. Bridgerton? Whatever for?” you asked carefully, not giving anything away. 

Colin cleared his throat awkwardly. He wasn’t quite sure himself, to be honest. “Well, I’m afraid I might have offended you by asking to dance so suddenly. It might have been a bit brash to ask for a dance without a proper introduction first.”

You almost sagged in relief. Your reputation was safe. Though now you seemed irrationally angry, despising Colin for no apparent reason. However, it wasn’t in your nature to make nice with someone who viewed women simply as breeding stock.  

Curtly, you responded, “I can assure you, Mr. Bridgerton, that that did not offend me. Had we been properly introduced, my answer would have been the same.”

“Oh,” he said softly. 

You stared at him blankly, with no hint of warmth in your gaze. Sensing your hostility, he promptly turned away from you, returning to his family. Anger burned in his chest. What the hell was your problem with him? He’d barely spoken two words to you, and you had acted like he had offended your entire bloodline. 

When his anger subsided, Colin had a sobering thought. For the first time in his charmed life, someone simply did not care for him. And the worst part? He hadn’t even caused it. Colin, who prided himself on his charm and wit, found himself in the position of being disliked without cause. 

He suddenly felt very inadequate. It was a foreign feeling, and it settled quite uncomfortably in his chest. If you were determined to hate him, so be it. But to hate him without reason? That, Colin could not agree to.

If you insisted on casting him as the villain in your narrative, then he would play the role with ease. If you wanted a reason to dislike him, then a reason you would have.

You stared after Colin, eyes narrowed. His ability to act like a complete gentleman would have been impressive if it wasn’t so disturbing. 

“Ma grande,” your mother called, coming to your side (My dear). “Did I just see you being rude to Colin Bridgerton? He left fairly quickly,” she scolded gently. 

“Non, maman. Ne t'inquiète pas,” you assured (No, Mom. Don’t worry). Upon seeing her unimpressed look, you switched to English. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

“Well, you don’t seem to like him very much,” she observed.

You let out a nervous laugh, waving her comment away. “I don’t know him well enough to dislike him, maman!” 

You needed something to distract her from this line of questioning. Your mother knew you well enough to tell when you were lying, and she would be positively furious if she uncovered the real reason why you despised Mr. Bridgerton. 

Fortunately, a distraction arrived by the name of Lord Arthur Barlow. 

“Lord Barlow,” your mother called out excitedly. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing my daughter, Y/N Montclair.”

“Lady Montclair,” he smiled warmly, stretching his hand out to you. “A name as lovely as its bearer, I daresay.”

 “Lord Barlow,” you answered shyly, placing your hand in his. You felt your cheeks heating up as he kissed the back of your hand, and you were taken aback. This entirely charming man had disarmed you completely in a matter of seconds. 

"Lord Barlow, the Duke of Monmouth," your mother announced with a flourish, her eyes bright with approval at the budding acquaintance. "Shall we take a turn about the park? I would be delighted to chaperone."

Subtlety was not her specialty. Or perhaps not her priority. Though you couldn’t really be upset with her, given how good-looking the Duke was. He nodded graciously at your mother and placed your hand at the crook of his elbow, smiling down at you as you began to stroll. 

You were so enthralled you barely registered him speaking. “I hear you’ve got a knack for languages, Lady Montclair,” he remarked, prompting your attention.

“Yes, your Grace. I speak five languages, and read Sanskrit,” you answered dutifully. Such accomplishments were no small feat in the circles of the ton, and you knew it put you at an advantage in the marriage mart.

“Most impressive, indeed,” he answered, his gaze thoughtful. “My brother’s wife is from Prussia, and I’m sure she would love a chance to speak in her native tongue.”

The Duke's boldness caught you off guard, the suggestion of speaking with his sister-in-law a surprising turn. "Oh," you murmured, slightly taken aback by his directness.

 “And what else do you like to do?” asked Lord Barlow, smoothly transitioning the conversation. 

A well-prepared response rolled off your tongue, a practiced smile gracing your lips. “I am well-versed in needlepoint, and enjoy playing the pianoforte,” you smiled. It was what was expected of a young woman of your stature, after all.

Lord Barlow nodded appreciatively, seemingly satisfied with your answer. “And how do you find England? I’m certain you’re missing the Tuscan sun,” he said, pushing the conversation to lighter topics. 

The Duke's engaging manner, paired with the approval of your mother, had utterly charmed you. Engaged by his charisma and easy conversation, you found yourself giggling during your conversation, utterly captivated.

Unbeknownst to you, Colin Bridgerton observed

from afar, his gaze sharp with a mixture of irritation and something deeper brewing beneath the surface. Each laugh, each shared glance between you and the Duke, stoked the flames of his simmering displeasure.

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

Tag List: @marvelspogue @5sosmakesmelaugh5 @livingthatprovinciallife @maddiebaddie1 @willieoo @jessica-1120 @dreadity @h0eforwadewilson @ziarah @wordsgodeep @like-gabriel-and-castiel @dianxiaxiexie @snapeeballsack @sosasi521-blog @saturnssunflower @indecisive-empanada @invisible-dreamers-world @angerpearl @spacecowboy-0 @lavaschnuppe @ssexsellls @idkwhatimdoing6 @smugrogerina @cherrysxuya @blackqueens01 @ella33 @eve175 @tiger1357890 @mrs-c-bridgerton @bozoqt @nighttimemoonlover @anthonylockwoodandco111 @beamuont

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

[herlondonboy]

i bet on losing dogs, clarisse la rue

summary: based on this request. you’re in love with clarisse, but she’s in love with another.

warnings: unrequited love, ruegard, angst, no happy ending, swear word.

wc: 1.4k

clarisse was a drug. it didn’t matter what drug she was, though, you just knew you were addicted. you didn’t really know why she decided you were to be her friend. her group was small. a few siblings of hers, chris rodriguez, silena beauregard, and you.

you were nothing special, just an unclaimed camper that was good with your hands. if she had to guess, clarisse would have put you in the hephaestus cabin. you were one of the best blacksmiths and she was sure if you wanted to, you could make something far better than chameleon armour.

though you disagreed, you’d never say anything to clarisse. the thought of upsetting her or making her angry at you was always there. even when you tried not to care.

clarisse first picked you up a month after you arrived at camp half blood. she spotted you working away with an anvil and some metal. she asked you what you were working on and if it was important. when you said no, clarisse smiled then told you to make her a new dagger. did she ask nicely? no. did you make it anyway? yes.

clarisse had the kind of eyes that you could drown in. deep and brown, warm. you could never say no to those eyes. no matter how sharp their glare was.

she had the kind of eyes you could fall in love with.

you realised you were in love with clarisse not very long ago. about three weeks to be exact. you were sitting next to her during the bonfire. she was staring at silena, who had been whisked away by charles beckendorf. he wasn’t bad looking, but he definitely wasn’t your type. besides, you’d spent so much time with the hephaestus kids that charles felt like a big brother to you.

you could tell clarisse was upset at the fact that silena had left. if you weren’t so blind, you would have been able to piece together why. nevertheless, you watched her side profile as it was illuminated by the fire. you watched her jaw clenched and loosen. you soaked it all in.

how you were so close that her thigh brushed up against yours, how softly she was breathing. and you realised, you were in love.

now, normally when you realise you’re in love with your friend, you would distance yourself so they never found out until they crush wore off and you could be normal again.

that wasn’t going to work with clarisse. instead, you just refused to look at her. even when she was speaking. sure, it was rude, but you didn’t care. you weren’t going to ruin your friendship over a silly little crush.

there was one part of you, though, that thought maybe your wildest dreams would come true. that clarisse would confess to you. you allowed yourself to think this because you felt her eyes on you. ever since the campfire.

they followed you. every step you took, every walk you went on, until she finally caught you alone.

clarisse didn’t like talking about feelings. she didn’t understand them very well.

‘why would you feel sick to your stomach looking at or thinking of someone you love?’ she had asked one time.

you chuckled and shook your head. ‘you feel sick to your stomach because you don’t know if they love you too. you feel that way because you need to know, but won’t ever say anything.’

“y/n!” you heard, making you flinch and turn.

you felt ill. her crooked smile, how her hair bounced as she ran.

“clarisse,” you responded softly, already thinking of all the ways you could escape this conversation.

“i need your help.”

you looked around. “another dagger? i can’t do it today, but to-“

clarisse cut you off. you forced yourself to look at her face. you noticed how rosey her cheeks were.

“can you forge a ring?” she asked. you’ve never seen her so timid. so small.

you nod slowly.

the girl opposite you grins. “great. i-i made a sketch. can you make it as close as possible to it?” she shoved it in your hand and you opened the paper.

it was just like any other ring, only…

you wanted to throw up. you should’ve known.

“‘c heart s,’” you read aloud.

the red tint on clarisse’s face deepened.

she nodded slowly. “i think i really like silena,” you voiced your worse fears. “i want to tell her before charles does. at least then if she rejects me it’s just because she doesn’t like me, not because of some guy.”

“oh,” you said.

you wondered if she could hear your heart cracking inside your chest.

“i’m going to do it during the bonfire next week for chris’s birthday.”

you nodded, forcing a smile that you were sure looked more like a grimace. “i’ll get right on this then.”

“thank you,” clarisse smiled. gods, her fucking smile. “you’re a life saver, y/n.”

the way your name rolled off her tongue like it was made for her.

and just as quickly as she came, she left.

pushing the paper down into your pockets, you pushed a bit of steel into the fire.

-

chris’s party was tonight. you don’t feel well enough to go. well, that’s a lie. you’re not sick in the way that means you’re going to throw up, you’re sick because the person you love loves someone else.

the thought of it brought tears to your eyes. it was embarrassing. you’d allowed yourself to fall so deeply in love with someone that could never love you.

a sob wracked through your body as you lied, staring at the wall. gods, you loved her so much.

you were so in love with clarisse la rue.

the door to the hermes cabin creaked open you were still crying. then you saw her. she was blurry, but it was her.

you don’t know how much longer you can hold it in for.

“are you okay?” she asked. she was always soft with you. soft with you. not with chris, not with silena, not with her siblings. just you.

you shook your head as you sat up in bed, shoulders shaking as your tried to be quiet.

“are you sick?”

you just cried. clarisse didn’t know what to do, so she leaned forward and hugged you.

gods, you hadn’t touched her in so long. her skin was soft, just like how your remembered it to be.

“i love you,” you choked out. you were sure if she heard it because nothing changed. then you heard a timid ‘what?’

you cried harder thinking about how she was was just hours away from confessing to silena. “i’m in love with you,” you forced out. “but you’re going to confess to silena and i’ve probably just gone and ruined our friendship. but i thought… i thought i had a chance until you asked me to make a ring for you.” clarisse just looked at you as you wiped your tears. “it’s like betting on a losing dog. it was stupid. i’m stupid.”

clarisse shook her head softly. “i didn’t know,” she murmured. “if i had known…”

“you should go,” you murmured. “wouldn’t want to lose to charles beckendorf,” you joked, clarisse just looked at you. “i’m fine. seriously. go.”

when she realised you wouldn’t take no for an answer, she left and went to the party. your tears stained on her shirt collar.

you decided not to go to chris’s party. even if he was your friend. you just couldn’t be there when clarisse took silena away from the party. you couldn’t be there when clarisse gave silena the ring you made.

hours passed before chiron called quits on the party. instead of just returning to their own cabins, some decided a small after party in the aphrodite cabin sounded like fun.

“hey,” you turned to see clarisse with a weak smile.

you smiled at her, though it pained you to do so.

“i didn’t do it.”

it took you a minute to figure out what ‘it’ was but when you did, you frowned. “why not?”

“y/n, you’re my best friend. why would i go into a relationship knowing it was killing you?”

you shrugged.

“i can wait. until your crush is over.”

that hurt. she didn’t want to hurt you, but the only way she could refrain from hurting you was by liking you back. and she’s never like you back.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hello! I finally figured out how to request from you! I live in Australia so it was hard to find the correct times and days. I literally stayed up all night just so that I can request something *crying for the need to sleep*.

Anyway, can I request either Odin, Thor and Loki with a female Hiccup Reader from 'How to Train your Dragon' and having children.

Or Poseidon breeding NSFW with a female human reader who loves the ocean and sea life (bonus with their first meeting where he sees reader chasing some delinquents away with a baseball bat).

Anyway, I'm going to crash and sleep any minute now, so... Love your work!

This wasn’t going to be this long, but I couldn’t stop once I got started :3

Minors DNI

-It was very rarely that a human caught Poseidon’s attention. Kojiro had been one of the first, after he managed to defeat the lord of the seas, and when he came back, he was ‘nicer’ to Kojiro, compared to other humans, as he had earned Poseidon’s respect.

-As all those who fell in Ragnarok were given their lives back, wished back by a selfless human, Poseidon did have to admit, only to himself, that not all humans were bad.

-So, when you caught his eye when he was walking along one of his beaches in his realm, chasing some teenagers with a baseball bat, “You bastards!! Pick up your mess! You’re gonna kill more wildlife with your trash!!”

-Hearing you defending the sea and its wildlife so much did surprise him, before he saw a pile of garbage, left by the teenagers who were running, laughing at they didn’t care.

-You huffed, giving up the chase and Poseidon watched as you went back to the trash and pulled out a bag, cleaning up the mess yourself, muttering under your breath.

-Poseidon sought out the teenagers first, who were laughing, thinking it was funny that you got so mad. As he appeared behind them, his voice low and dangerous, “What are you doing to my domain?” they were not expecting to see Poseidon himself there, glaring down at him.

-They were quickly screaming, hugging onto each other as Poseidon put the fear of… well him into them, teaching them a lesson they soon wouldn’t forget before kicking them out of his domain.

-When he returned to you, the mess was all cleaned up, deposed of properly and you had washed your hands, returning to your own bag on the beach, and you were sketching in a notebook, sitting in the sand with your feet buried, your baseball bat sitting beside you.

-He approached you and you turned, hearing the footsteps and you were surprised to see Poseidon himself there before he spoke, “Thank you human- for cleaning up the mess of those scum. They won’t be bothering my domain again.”

-You questioned, for like a half a second, if he had killed them, as you knew that Poseidon was known for being brutal when he wanted to be before you smiled up at him, stunning him with the warmth behind it, “It’s no problem- I can’t stand it when others make a mess of nature!”

-He knew of humans who did try to help, but those who didn’t care far outweighed those who did, but to actually meet one, to see your determination to at least try, it made a very soft smile appear on his lips.

-He kneeled beside you in the sand, looking at your sketchbook, seeing various pictures of wildlife from seagulls to turtles and a few shells as well as some doodles, but his attention quickly went back to you.

-There was something about you- something new. He couldn’t tell you what exactly, but there was a pull, as he reached out with both hands, after putting his trident down, cupping your cheeks, making them warm and color, “I should reward such an honorable human~”

-You’re not sure what was happening, but you welcomed his advances, feeling the same odd pull he was, and he leaned in, kissing you deeply.

-Your sketchbook and pencil fell to the sand as he leaned over you, forcing you to tilt your head up as you whined softly as he stole your breath away, kissing you so deeply.

-Your soft sounds were clouding his mind, he felt like he was drowning in you, but he wanted to- he wanted more!

-He quickly stood, pulling you with him, easily pulling you into his arms, your legs going around his waist which made him shivering lightly as you kissed him back, tongues dancing together as your breaths both turned ragged.

-With a flick of his wrist, you, him, his trident, and your belongings were all suddenly in a room, his private bed chambers. He wanted you there and now, but he wasn’t willing to do it on the sand- he was not going to deal with sand in places they shouldn’t be!

-Once your back met the mattress he grinded his hips against your own, feeling his throbbing cock against your own core and your back arched, breaking the kiss with a whine as you bit your bottom lip.

-Clothes were quickly shed, exposing your body to Poseidon- he could see scars adorning your body, but instead of being disgusted, he found them beautiful, his lips trailing across them, seeing them as badges that you earned, no matter how you got them.

-Your hands met his hair, finding it soft as your nails scratched against his scalp, pulling a deep groan from his own lips which made your back arch, you had never heard such an alluring sound before.

-This was something passionate, you had never met this man before, but you couldn’t stop, you didn’t want to stop, and neither did he- he wanted this- he wanted you, all of you! Neither of you could explain the heat or these strange feelings between the two of you, but it didn’t matter- it felt too good.

-Poseidon was definitely the dominate one in bed, holding your hair in his hand as he forced you to swallow his cock over and over, feeling your hands on his thighs as you huffed through your nose. You gazed up at him through teary eyes which made him buck up, sending him deeper. You choked only for a moment before swallowing him again, sucking and massaging him with your lips which made him throw his head back, “Gods human- you- umfph!” he couldn’t speak as you hollowed your cheeks again, making him moan so pretty for you again.

-He hadn’t known such an attentive lover before, someone who was willing to pleasure him willing, not just because he told you to.

-Your tongue swirled around his tip as he felt his head go back, feeling his release coming, huffing down at you, you smirked up at him, surprising him, “Cum for me, my King~” your words, your teasing- he quickly grabbed your face, a hand on either side and forced you down on him as he came, forcing you to swallow it.

-You pulled back, licking at your lips and he couldn’t help but smirk, “Minx!” you grinned up at him, feeling so bold as you managed to capture the tip in your mouth again, making him buck before he grabbed you, pulling you back, holding your hair again, glaring down at you. He hadn’t known humans to be so promiscuous!

-His fingers felt so good against your own opening, joining his tongue as he tried to drown himself on you, pleasuring you with his tongue.

-You were gripping the sheets, your back arched as your eyes were crossing, it felt so good, “Poseidon- please- I’m so- ngh! So-so close!” he stroked that special place, so deep inside of you, pulling back, licking his lips like a hungry beast, “Oh~ so close already? Very well- let’s see what you look like when you cum.”

-His words made your veins feel like fire as he went harder, stroking deep inside of you and you felt your vision going white as you cried out- at least you felt like you cried out, as you spasmed around him.

-He smirked down at you, seeing you coming undone- you looked so good like that, he wanted to make you do it again and again and again, licking his lips.

-When he first entered you, holding your head down to the sheets as he entered you from behind, holding your hips up with one hand, your elongated moan swelled his ego, even more than it had been, he was just so big!

-You were so tight around him, sucking him in perfectly as you gripped the sheets, his hands gripping at your hips as he pounded deeply into you, driving cries from your lips with each thrust.

-He watched your ass bounce with his movements, watching the flesh dance below it as he gripped it, spreading your cheeks, making you whine as he stared at where the two of you were joined.

-The sight was so alluring, seeing your slick coating his cock, a milky ring covering his cock which made him go harder and harder, making your cries grow in volume as you threw your head back, “Poseidon ohh~~” he slapped your ass, once then twice, so both your cheeks were turning colors, “That’s not my name at the moment Y/N!”

-You whined, the slight pain feeling so good as you stretched out your hands, “My King!” you were rewarded for your correct answer by him moving hips even faster. You could feel your orgasm quickly coming, he was hitting every spot inside of you that was making you feel stars.

-He hissed through his teeth, brushing his hair back out of his eyes, feeling you tighten around him as he gripped your hips, not caring if they were going to leave bruises as something new swelled inside of him.

-You felt so perfect around him, so tight and warm- he never wanted to leave you. You weren’t going to leave him. You were perfect- you were going to stare here forever with him!

-He thrusts became brutal until he felt you clench hard around him, your body going limp as he tried to enter as deep as possible, emptying himself inside of you.

-You felt his head on your back, his soft hair tickling you slightly as you both gasped for air. You had never felt this way before- it felt amazing!

-He pulled out slowly, listening to you whining from overstimulation and he watched his love gush out of you as you whimpered softly- you felt so full, but you felt so delicious at the same time.

-He pressed a kiss to your back, trailing up as your body relaxed, laying down on the bed before he brushed your hair from your face, kissing your cheek softly, “You get five minutes- I’m going to keep filling you until I properly breed you and you carry my child.”

-You clenched around nothing at his words, your eyes wide as he moved to stand, pulling on a robe to get you both some water to drink.

-It didn’t matter to him if you could get pregnant or not, he was going to continue breeding you, over and over if he had to. You couldn’t help but smile, looking forward to it.

[veras1ne]

✮;༉“Slut Me Out.”

Hi doves! I hope you like my new theme <3 I’ve really been feeling the color purple lately but specifically a dullish purple! Swans are my everything though so they’re still here as always. Anyways, I have another Saw fic for you guys, the next fic I post will be Anakin Skywalker!

✰Pairing´ˎ˗📀: Amanda Young x Kramer!Male!Reader

✰ ‧₊˚ Summary 🦢: Amanda was having a very slow day, until you popped inside the workshop. It’s so distracting having such a beautiful enigma in front of you, but maybe a distraction is just what she needed to make her day go faster, her associates son.

✰ ;➛ WARNINGS🫧: THIS IS AN 18+ SMUT FANFIC WORK. I am NOT responsible for the media you read and consume! Your warnings are the following: Smut, Cunnilingus, Age Gap, PIV, Mild Degrading, Fucking On A Table,

Amanda was having a very slow day. John hadn’t given her any tasks, and yet she’d still been put on standby. With no current traps to build and not having to take care of John, she sat sketching out new ideas for future contraptions.

Every once in a while, she would tinker with some scrap pieces of junk that Hoffman had left out. It wasn’t unusual for her to experience one of these days, but what she wasn’t expecting was to see her associate's son, you, enter the workshop.

You weren’t too much younger than Amanda; you were in your twenties, and yet she still saw you as pure, untainted, and unknowing of the vile world. You were exceptionally talented in her eyes, possessing a natural talent for machinery and craftsmanship. The two of you had minimal interactions but were still friendly at that. In fact, you were the closest thing she had to a friend other than your father, John.

Your face held an open innocence and sincerity. You always treated her kindly, despite her less than flattering history with your father's work. If anything, Amanda liked your company, even if you were only around her to get your father a drink of water or his medication when he forgot to take it during the long mornings.

The more time you spent with each other, though, the more you seemed to gravitate towards her, asking John more questions about her and making up useless excuses to see her. You didn’t necessarily agree with your father's method of rehabilitation; in fact, you thought it was wildly distasteful and that his "apprentices" should never have had to become a part of his games, but nothing mattered when it came to Amanda.

It wasn’t like you’d never spoken to Mandy before, but something in your brain made it near impossible for you to even get full conversations out. You were so awkward and timid in every other way; your body language gave off the impression you wanted nothing to do with her, and your tendency to rant and babble made it even harder.Although if it were anyone else, she would have gotten frustrated, she kept a special place in her mind for you, reminding herself that she’s still human. Despite how hard it seemed to be, Amanda couldn’t bring herself to hate you for all the wrong reasons.

You were just too sweet for her to dislike you, and besides, you were a friend of hers and somebody she cherished.Your footsteps echoed as you walked into the cold, concrete room. The air around you was cold, but your body was warm, and your face was slightly flushed from the heat of the sun. You shivered as you crossed the floor. You had your hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket, looking at the ground in front of you as you passed through the room.

When you noticed Amanda sitting at a table with blueprints and metal, you stopped abruptly and gave a sheepish smile. “Hi Mandy.” Her head followed the sound first, her eyes still attentive to the sketches in front of her. She finally raised her head from the paper when you spoke again. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything." You rubbed the back of your neck as you apologized, looking away.

She sighed deeply before giving you a quick smile. “No, not at all. Take a seat if you’d like.” Her hair was up, her mid-length locks of brown hair being exchanged for a short, updo ponytail that was held up by a small clip. It hung loosely in front of her face, framing it perfectly. You sat down next to her, placing yourself directly across from her, your hands clasped together nervously in your lap, your eyes darting from side to side, trying to find something to focus on.

She placed her sketchbook and pencil on her lap. “What can I do for you, stranger?” Her lips curled in an awkward smile that quickly faded, huffing at her own humor. "I'm just trying to find something to do, really. I thought I’d come see my favorite girl.” You smiled, your gaze lingering on her face for a bit longer than necessary before you looked away. “That is so kind of you." She laughed lightly before continuing. “But really, I’m not doing much; John has Hoffman out finding some guy who stole medication from Homeward." Amanda picked up the piece of metal she had been working on and examined it closely before setting it back down on the table.

Your eyes lingered on her smile, a pink flush to your cheeks. “You know, it’s rude to stare at people.” Her voice was laced with lightheartedness, her tone teasing. A lump caught in your throat as you glanced back at her. “It’s just so hard not to stare when you’re so pretty, Amanda.” You leaned forward on your elbows, resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

Her cheeks turned a dark red, and her heart fluttered. Her mouth opened and closed silently. She shook her head softly and said, ‘no’, over and over until she broke the silence between the two of you. “I bet you think that I don’t see the way you stare at me or the way your eyes follow my movements; I see everything." She paused, her gaze locked on yours. “I know that you think of me at night, whenever you get lonely and need company.” She took a breath. “I can fix that." She leaned forward, her arms snaking up your shoulders and stripping you of your warm jacket. You didn’t protest, not even as her cold fingers slid over your skin. She pressed closer, letting her lips graze the shell of your ear. “Let me save you." She whispered against the skin of your ear before placing soft kisses along your jawline, trailing further down until she reached your neck. Your eyes drifted shut in pleasure as she pulled down the collar of your shirt and exposed the skin of your throat. Her lips traced circles around the sensitive spot as she kissed her way down your neck and chest. Amanda’s breathing quickened and her grip tightened as the woman continued to suck the tender flesh and leave marks along the sides of her neck. She gently bit your shoulder before running the tip of her tongue over it, causing you to let out a groan.

Amanda sucked harder, moving lower along the edge of your collarbone and then sucking gently into the hollow there. A whimper left you as she licked a circle around your clavicle, making your chest rise and fall quickly. Your hands clenched tightly into fists as you tried to hold back your moans. “I’ve wanted to make you mine since the day I met you. So pure and kind, what would John say if he saw his precious little boy being dumbed down to  nothing?" Her words made your breath hitch and your words slur. “Please, please. Please don’t stop; please make me feel good.” You begged in a whisper, biting your lip to keep from crying out.

The woman slowly moved upward, kissing along your cheek, down your jaw, across your neck, and finally settling down at your ear. “Anything for you, baby, but what can you do for me?” She took hold of your hands, dragging them slowly up her shirt, groping her boobs, and luring out a whine from her lips. Her chest was warm, making your hands hot and your face flush. Your hands moved down to her loose pants, unbuttoning them and pushing them to the floor. She began taking the rest of her clothes off, revealing her beautiful naked body, covered in goosebumps due to the sudden change in temperature. You grabbed hold of her bare ass, squeezing it softly, pulling it toward you, and rubbing her back, your nails scraping against her smooth skin.

She turned around, swiping everything off the table onto the floor with a large clatter and hopping onto the smooth, cold metal. Her legs wrapped around your waist, holding on tight. Your hands slid up and cupped her breasts, your thumbs massaging them. As you squeezed them slightly, you gasped. Her soft moans sent chills throughout your body. One of your hands traveled down to her thighs, spreading them and exposing her wet pussy.

Your thumb ran the length of her folds, stroking gently against her clit. She arched her back slightly, lifting her hips up and grinding into your touch as she dug her nails into the skin of your arms. Her moans were loud and desperate while your tongue made contact with her folds. She writhed against you, her back arching higher and higher into your touch as her breathing became more labored. “Oh god,” she panted, her fingers gripping your hair, pulling your head upwards, forcing your tongue deeper inside her, your hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling her body closer to your mouth. Her fingernails raked your scalp as she squirmed beneath you, bucking her hips as hard as she could.

Her breath hitched and your name escaped her lips before she fell limp in your grasp, gasping harshly for air, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and her body shaking violently. You continued to play with her, stroking the tip of her clit in circular motions, working her through her orgasm. She released a low moan as she came, her entire body shuddering as it worked its way down her body. As her eyes flickered open, they gazed at you with a mixture of lust, passion, and affection. "God, you’re so beautiful,” you breathed out to her as she straddled the table, reaching over and unbuckling your belt.

Her fingers pushed your trousers down, the fabric pooling at your ankles. With gentle fingers, she pushed your boxers down to your thighs, releasing your straining cock from the near-suffocating fabric. She lowered herself slowly over your dick, and you couldn’t help but gasp, your eyes closing involuntarily. “So tight,” you murmured breathlessly, pressing back against her, wanting more. She lifted herself up slightly, allowing you enough room.

She spread her lips wide as she let out a whimper. "God, your cock is so fucking big. I never knew you were such a disgusting little slut for me." Your eyes widened slightly, a small blush creeping across your cheeks as your face grew warmer. “I should’ve known you’d love to be degraded like this. You just love it, don’t you?” she smirked slyly, her husky voice dripping with lust as you ran your hand slowly up and down her stomach, caressing her soft breasts. She wrapped her legs around your waist, forcing your dick deeper inside of her, causing the both of you to let out a deep groan in sync, almost like two puzzle pieces that fit exactly together, your bodies merging and your souls becoming one. She let her head fall back against the metal, putting her arms behind her head as your thrusts quickened. Your teeth grazed her earlobe, nipping lightly as the coils in your stomach tightened. You tugged on her nipples, feeling the heat radiate between her thighs as you began slamming into her, giving her exactly what she desired.

You were in complete control of your body, and yet it felt as if she had taken over your mind, filling your thoughts with her and only her. You gripped her tighter, pumping faster and harder each time you slammed into her, leaving purple bruises as your hips snapped into her pelvic area, and sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. A moan slipped past your lips as Amanda’s grip on your dick tightened, her walls clenching around your cock.

You cried out her name loudly, burying your face into the crook of her neck, your lips trailing up towards her ear. “You drive me crazy, you know that?” She hummed, her voice muffled against your neck and collarbones while her hands found their way to your shoulders. "Mandy, please, I’m going to cum.” Your labored breathing made it hard to understand your words, and your stomach felt tight as your orgasm approached. “I want you to cum inside me; I want to be the one to claim you; taint your mind.” Her words pushed you to the edge, your warm cum spilling into her pussy, leaking out onto her inner thighs. Your body shook as you continued to pound into her, her own orgasm drawing close as you worked her to her second orgasm. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum. Such a good boy, doing all of this for me.” Her stomach snapped, her whines increasing in volume as her body shook uncontrollably, her cries mixing with your grunts.

Her nails dug into your back, her energy running out as she laid flat on the cool table, as opposed to the hot sweat on her body. Her breath was slow and steady as she came down from her high, her muscles relaxing as you finally stopped. You rested your forehead against hers, her hands resting on your shoulders, this time relaxed. “If I knew you could do that, I would’ve done this a lot sooner, kid.” She let out a huffed laugh. You smiled at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, placing a kiss on her forehead, and handing her your jacket to give her some form of protected modesty, even if you had just spent the last nearly thirty minutes pleasuring her. She slipped the jacket on and stood up, turning around to face you once again, leaning down, and kissing you deeply. “Let’s go get cleaned up; I don’t feel like staying sticky all day." You chuckled and nodded at her, slipping your hand into hers and lacing your fingers together as you headed to the door.

Your soft snores were all that were heard in your room as Mandy stroked her fingers through your hair. The sun filtered through the blinds and illuminated your sleeping figure. Large, heavy footsteps rang through the hallway as Amanda turned her head towards the sound of “Hi John.” She smiled and gave a little wave. “I welcome you into my home, give you refuge, and this is what I get in turn? This is a new low for you, Amanda.” John stated it blankly, looking away and walking away from the doorway. “New record, I guess.”

[numericalpie]

WCW 3: The Long Road to the End of Winter

Here's my offering for day three of @wintercourtweek: the Snow Queen story I've been threatening for years. Hope y'all enjoy!! Bonus points to anyone who traces out Viviane's journey.

“Viv!” Kal yelled. 

She slammed to the ground, face right into the snow. A clump of ice whistled over her head, landing softly right next to her nose. 

“Kal,” she giggled, getting back up. “You can’t tell me when you’re about to throw.”

Viviane picked the snowball back up - soft snow, today, so the near-perfect lump he’d carefully twisted stayed together just fine in her hands. 

“And you’re not supposed to make them perfect,” she shouted, throwing it back at him. 

He ducked; it hit the side of his shoulder. 

“Ow,” he said, laughing. “It’s so hard!”

“It wouldn’t be if you didn’t make them so tight,” she exclaimed, throwing more at him. Smaller and lighter, partially because at seven to his eight Viviane was two hands shorter, and partially because she cared so, so much less. 

You weren’t supposed to care. Viviane had known that since birth. There was enough else to care about, gods knew, or so Mama always said. You have to take care of the big things, my Vivianna, and forget about the small ones, lest the snow queen herself comes to steal you away from your troubles, away from us. 

But apparently no one had bothered to tell Kal that, or no one else, because no matter how many times she told him he wouldn’t stop. 

“You make more than I do,” he complained, unable to dodge all of her barrage. “It’s not fair!”

She laughed. “I work faster! That’s what you get for making them tight!”

He threw another suspiciously round and well-formed snowball at her. Viviane ducked behind a drift of snow, giggling. 

She had seven - wait. She recounted. Six snowballs. That was enough. Probably. She could untie the kerchief Mama demanded she wear whenever she played with that boy and fill it with her snowballs and run over to where he was and dump them all on his head, and then he would admit defeat and they could go inside and Mama would tut disapprovingly at how wet her kerchief was but would warm milk up for the both of them anyways. And then eventually it would grow dark and he would go back to his home, high on the hill (Viviane had never been: Mama said it was too beautiful for a dirt-covered urchin, laughing and scrubbing at her hair; Kallias just said her home was more fun) and then tomorrow they could do it all over again. Forever and forever and forever. 

Viviane silenced her giggles and scraped the snowballs into her kerchief, braids coming loose around her head. The tails would get all snowy and wet, later, but that was alright. Mama would say she was mad but wouldn’t be, and tomorrow she’d just have to promise to wear her kerchief again. 

(She wouldn’t, but Mama didn’t need to know that.)

______________________________________________________________

“Kal?” Viviane asked, quiet, nervous. 

One of his friends said something, she couldn’t hear what, but a laugh rose from the group of all of them, well-dressed boys together for their short teatime. White tunics, furs, fine and pretty; Viviane smoothed her worn dress, the one Mama had embroidered a year ago, the one she’d promised to make as pretty as anything they wore over there. It wasn’t, obviously, but Viviane liked it anyways: little flowers from the lípa in spring sketched around the neckline and the sleeves and the waist, fine as anything Mama ever did.

Perfect stitches by candlelight, as pretty as anything that could be bought over there. Good thread that Mama saved up for two months to buy. And now a stain, she could just tell, or what was going to be a stain, bloodred and obvious, if Kal would not help her this instant. 

“Kallias?” she tried again, louder. 

One of them - she did not know his name; had patently decided against learning it the second he first mouthed off at their teacher - looked at her and laughed. 

“Oh, Kaaaaaalllll,” he sang, snickering. “A giiiiirl wants to speak to yoooouuuuuu.”

“Would you shut your - “ Kallias began, turning around with a glare in spite of the chuckles that were currently spreading red poppies across Viviane’s cheeks. She looked down at her toes. 

“Viviane,” he said, much lighter. “Do you need -”

“It’ll just take a minute,” she interrupted, not meaning to. Her cheeks grew hotter and hotter by the minute. 

Maybe she would just die. That would be easier, and Mama would not be angry about her dress if she were a corpse. Probably she wouldn’t. 

“Over there,” he suggested with a tilt of his head, and Viviane almost ran because it meant she would get away from the rest of them. Laughter chased at her heels. 

She stared at the corner of their schoolroom, just through the window, determinedly not turning around so she wouldn’t have to see him laugh back. 

“What is it?” Kallias asked, and Viviane could not help but relax, because he was not laughing at her, he sounded kind and confused, as always. 

“I need your scarf,” she explained in a rush. A red, flushing rush. “Please. Or a kerchief. Or a scarf. Something you can give up. Please.”

“Why?” he asked, reaching for his neck, for the scarf he was wearing. Viviane blushed a little more. 

“I -” she hesitated. “I’m… I’m going to get something on my dress, if I don’t have something.”

Kallias frowned, carefully folding his scarf so he could hand it to her in a neat little square. “Won’t it wash out?”

No. Viviane searched for an explanation. 

“It won’t,” she said, swallowing. “And Mama will be so…”

“Angry?” he guessed, handing it to her. She couldn’t help but finger the fabric - fine and brown and probably more expensive than anything she’d held in her whole life. 

And she was going to bleed all over it. Practically 

“I’m sure your mother won’t be angry,” Kallias said, smooth and kind and very, very wrong. “Especially if it isn’t your fault.”

It is my fault, Viviane thought, paling. I was stupid enough to leave without my cloths. 

Was he going to make her give them back? Oh, oh, Mother, please no. Please, Mama would be so - 

“But by all means,” he concluded, smiling. “Need anything else?”

“No,” Viviane said, nodding vigorously, barely holding back the urge to clutch the scarf to her chest like a beggarwoman with a coin of gold. “Thank you. So much. I promise, I’ll pay you back for it.”

Somehow. The money - the money would take her months, especially now that Mama was pregnant. Months of darning socks and mending shirts behind the counter in the village, the little job that Mama almost killed her over. No daughter of your father -

Viviane shut away the memory. She’d pay him back. Or tutor him, or something. Expect he definitely didn’t need tutoring. Um. She’d… find something. 

“I have other scarves,” he promised. “Don’t worry a minute. Anything else?”

Gods, Viviane thought, looking at him, he really is so stupidly nice. 

Then what she had just thought hit her in full force, and she waved him away as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t see how badly she was blushing. 

______________________________________________________________

Viviane looked down at the poppies, red and pretty, bunched together on her desk. Her favorite flower, still sharp, fresh, beautiful. 

She swore loudly and shoved the desk in front of her. It heaved along the floor, heavy and wooden, not nearly so far as she would’ve liked. 

Viviane groaned and shoved it again, further, pushing the chairs in front of it further. They fell over, legs clanging against the desks in front - metal, thin and cheap but still metal, and she swore louder because the chairs definitely left scratches in the metal. And their teacher wouldn’t know it was her, but the next time he held class he would point to them and ask, loudly, what urchin did this? What vermin was so classless, so - 

“Viviane?” a familiar voice asked, very cautious. 

She straightened immediately, twisting and lifting off of the surface of her desk quick as if it could burn her. 

“Kallias,” she said, sighing. “At least it’s you.”

The rest of that sentence went unsaid: you, and not any of the others, not them. 

“I heard about your mother,” he said, quiet, walking forward to stand next to her. “I’m sorry.”

Viviane bit back her instinctive are you? Are you sure? You, who used to - 

“I’m, um,” he started, looking at the mess she’d made of their schoolroom casually. As if it were any ordinary scene. “I know it isn’t much, but I thought you could use something to make you smile.”

He nodded at the flowers, crushed against the floor; Viviane’s stomach sank to her feet. 

“I thought, um,” she said, swallowing. “I thought they were from someone else.” 

“Oh?” he asked, polite as anything. If he was offended, it didn’t show. 

“Milo,” she explained quietly, and something flashed in his eyes, something definitely flashed in his eyes, but Viviane could not bear to look past that. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. It couldn’t. 

“Milo,” he repeated, tone unreadable. 

Then: “I think I would throw around a few chairs, too.”

Viviane snorted, and then she could look at him again. 

“With Nora - the baby,” she corrected at the confusion on his face. He wouldn’t know, obviously. She should’ve known that. Idiot. 

“With the baby, I can’t afford to live alone,” Viviane continued, gaze flicking down to her feet. “I need, um.” 

She looked up: he was still studying the chairs, casual and calm. 

“I need a husband,” she blurted. It felt wrong to say, wrong to say to him, but then it shouldn’t have, because the prospect was absolutely laughable, he wouldn’t think of it, and she shouldn’t either. 

Readers: she did, of course she did.

“Milo?” he asked, after a moment. “I - Milo? There isn’t…”

He trailed off, but Viviane could fill in the rest - anyone else? Really? 

Viviane squared her shoulders. 

“There’s other boys in the village,” she said, straight and easy. Totally. Very easily. Hopefully her blush wasn’t too bad. “So. I hope not.”

Kallias frowned, she saw, and immediately Viviane’s sense of self-preservation called her to look away. 

“But marriage?” he asked. “You’re so young, Viviane.”

“I’m as old as you are,” she retorted. “Don’t tell me your father isn’t pushing you to wed.”

“That’s different,” he snapped. “For the estate. Not -” Kallias hesitated. 

“It’s not,” she said. “Not different at all. And I have to do it. I have to.”

Kallias swore and sat down in one of the chairs she hadn’t managed to touch, so swiftly Viviane almost thought he’d collapsed, after she recovered her shock. 

Kallias never swore. Oh. 

“It’s not right,” he said, looking back up. “I’m sorry, Viviane. It’s not. You deserve…”

He trailed off. Viviane, without a response, sat down in the chair next to him, one of the one’s she’d moved. 

“There’s my grandparents,” she said, very quietly. “But they’re miles and miles away, and I don’t have the money. I barely had enough to send them a letter when Mama -” 

Her voice failed on the last word, just as she knew it would, because of course it would, and then Viviane could not help herself, she was crying, tears streaking across her desk. 

And maybe Kallias could not help himself, either, because though it was light as anything she could feel his fingers, tracing slow, comforting circles on her back. 

______________________________________________________________

The next week, Milo asked for her hand, smiling broadly in the middle of the street. 

Viviane, exhausted, covered in the dust of the back room of the shop, did not bother to answer. He gave her a ring, the thinnest metal imaginable pounded into something that looked a little like a circle. 

Idly, Viviane decided it had once been a spoon, one of the cheap ones they gave to tenant farmers. Which, she reminded herself, was the sort she would probably use for the rest of her life. Married to Milo, who would almost definitely spend the length of his toiling away on their land. 

But what he lacked in silverware Milo made up for in having a house at all. Even if he always squeezed her hip or her shoulder or the side of her chest, almost bruising, even before they were engaged to be wed. 

He had a house; Nora could go to school. That was enough. 

Surely, that would be enough. 

______________________________________________________________

Viviane woke that night to a knocking on her door, steady and loud. That was inaccurate: Nora woke to the knocking on her door, and Viviane woke to her screaming, and after she bounced her sister the required thirty times, after she hummed a light little tune that fit well enough to the steady beat of the knocks, Nora soothed enough that Viviane could pull her threadbare robe over her nightgown and answer the door. 

Kallias stared back at her, at the little girl in her arms. 

Viviane stared back. Nora’s fingers clutched on the strings of the front of her nightgown. 

Kallias stared at her, lit only by a candle, miraculously shining even in the falling snow. 

The first snow, auspicious. 

Viviane stared back. Nora pulled at one of the strings. 

Kallias stared at her, a sack that Viviane did not see in his hands. 

Viviane stared back. Nora pulled so hard at the string that her nightgown started to open, and Viviane groaned and pulled it tight again. 

“You’re not supposed to do that,” she whispered to her sister, knowing full well Kallias could hear her. He’d pretend he couldn’t, she knew; Viviane knew that better than anything. 

Kallias cleared his throat, and Viviane looked up. For a moment they just looked at each other, quieter than the snow, falling softly all around them. 

He handed her the sack, coins clanging as it shifted, noise softened by the fabric. Viviane held it to her chest, just as tight as she held Nora. 

And then, with a little bow that made her giggle, the sort they always used in country dances that he was never supposed to attend, he left. 

The next morning, so did she. 

______________________________________________________________

Viviane had been at her grandmother’s home for over a year - through the long, cold winter, all of the slow mud of spring, and another winter after that, before she first heard the rumor. 

Nora played in the grass, high by the mountainside where the perunika grew, when Grandmother first told her. Very casual, light, oh, by the way, some man has gone missing from your old village. 

“Oh?” Viviane asked, only half-listening. It was easier to work with a pattern, but she could not resist the challenge of the real model, the pretty purple iris swaying in the breeze. The quilt would sell, she knew it would sell, knew very well that she could make something nice enough to sway even the richest of them. 

Grandmother hummed. “One of the lordlings. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Lordlings?” Viviane repeated, leaning forward to get a better look at the iris. It wouldn’t have the same dimension, she knew, not at all, but if she could manage the way the petals folded over each other - a decorative seam, maybe? The thread would be costly… 

“Mmh,” Grandmother agreed. “Some name with a K, I think. You know Johanne goes on for so long.”

Viviane froze. 

“Kallias?” she asked. 

Grandmother snapped. “That’s the one.”

Viviane was suddenly completely, achingly certain that her heart was frozen inside her chest, that all of her was frozen, that the entire world was frozen. 

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. 

“Viviane?” Grandmother asked, concerned. “You look pale, dearest.”

She couldn’t move, so she didn’t, stared unseeingly ahead at the perunika swaying softly with the breeze. 

It couldn’t be. It absolutely couldn’t. Kallias was going to marry some wealthy woman, the sort that wore silks and damasks and whatever else they called fabric that wasn’t cotton, and have a hundred children to inherit his father’s wealth before presumably dying of too much prosperity. 

It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t. Not Kallias. 

“Nora,” Grandmother called in some other frame of existence, some place that was not frozen in ice, “will you help me get Viviane inside? Too much sun, I think.”

Nora, all of two, bounded over. Her “helping” consisted mainly of pulling at Viviane’s leg, tugging, playful. Vivi, why won’t you play my game? 

Viviane did not answer, not even once. She moved slowly, heard her bones creaking with every step as if she was one of the dead. And yet maybe it worked, because it was not until she was inside that the tears started to flow down her cheeks, and another eternity more before she thought to reach for her handkerchief. 

______________________________________________________________

“Wait,” said Grandmother, when Viviane wanted to follow her first instinct and march down to the village and into his father’s beautiful marbled portico and ask what, under the sun, he had let happen to Kallias. 

And Viviane remembered that her grandmother was not young, for all she had married young enough to still be a little off of old. And Nora was young, so young, and she could not leave her behind. Shame pooled oily and cold in the bottom of her stomach at the thought. 

But she could not leave him to be dead, either, not after - 

Not after everything. So she swallowed her pride and walked into the fishmonger’s stall and begged for work. He blinked at her, old and salt-warn, for all they lived so very far away from the sea. Once, Viviane had wondered where he could possibly have come from, back when the world still had bright colors and there was a sound aside from Nora’s bright little laugh to break through her world of silence. 

Now, she didn’t care. Couldn’t. Mama had been right: there was too much else to worry about. Nora needed boots and Grandmother needed a shawl and Viviane needed to buy ink and paper and however much it would take to bribe the postman into delivering her letter into friendly hands. Not that there were many, not really, but some of her old classmates would tell her the truth.

Hopefully. Hopefully they would tell her the truth. 

No, they would. They had to. Viviane had nowhere near enough money to secure a spot on the back of a wagon going over there. And even if she did, who else would she ask? There was no one else, no one aside from the few friends she used to have, the girls who didn’t snicker at her thin dresses. Surely the urge to gossip alone would be enough. Surely. 

They would tell her the truth; Viviane was sure of it, absolutely sure. Especially if she paid the fare for their return postage. 

A letter there, and back, and boots for Nora, and a shawl for Grandmother, and food for the winter, and their payments to the lord of Grandmother’s village. She could do it. 

Viviane had to, so she did. Hours and hours and weeks and months of serrating fish with small knives in the back of the fish shop, guts spilling over her hands. Nights and nights and nights of sewing by candlelight, darning socks and fixing shirts and working yet again at that quilt. Someday it would sell. She knew it would. 

And then, finally, she sent her letter. Her best penmanship, her precious ink, her parchment, her bribe, all neatly done. And the response: we’re all well. Harvest’s poor, but you know. Oh, yes, they sent out several search parties. No one found him. They held a burial a few weeks ago - empty casket. Do write again! 

Viviane would not; she could barely stand to look at the letter in the first place. 

“Wait,” Grandmother reminded her, creaking in her chair by the fire. Viviane flew from the room, planting herself in the snow outside, again, outside, as if it could cleanse her. 

She could not go, she couldn’t, she couldn’t, and she shouldn’t, because Kallias was nothing more than a kind wealthy man she knew in her youth and she should not go. 

Nora needed her. Grandmother needed her. 

Viviane knew: she could not go. 

But, oh, she wanted to. She could not help wanting to. Viviane threw herself back into her work, hours and hours of fish and thread and scrubbing Nora’s hair in the washbin. Of finding willow bark for Grandmother to rub on her joints whenever it rained, haggling for cloth from the women in the market, unpicking the dresses Nora grew out of and putting them back together with wider shoulders and four inches added on to the hems. Days passed, cyclical, dreams: she woke in the morning and braided her hair as tightly as she could, floated down to the village, scrubbed against scale and bone, thoughtless. Returned in the evenings to smile at Nora, faraway and wrong, so wrong in her home, in her bones; to ignore the looks Grandmother gave, searching, afraid. 

“My dear,” Grandmother said, one evening when the sky was dark because it was the winter so it was always dark. “I think you should sleep more.” 

Viviane did not respond. In truth, she did not hear: her focus was on the muslin in front of her, the pinned-together segments that would soon be yet another reworking of Nora’s favorite dress. Assuming it did not dust away to nothing before she finished. 

“Viviane,” she said, louder, and Vivianne finally looked up. 

“Grandmother?” she asked. The urge to yawn struck and she did not fight it, did not fight the urge to let it stretch her jaw in half. 

“You should go to bed,” Grandmother said. “I’ll finish the dress.”

Viviane waved her off. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Grandmother frowned. “Don’t lie, my girl.”

“I’m not,” Viviane said, lying. “I’m not tired. Youth.” 

Her grandmother snorted. “You just yawned for a sixth time. Bed, Viviane.”

Viviane pulled her needle through the fabric of what had already been, twice over, a sleeve. “As I said. I’m well.”

“You’re not,” Grandmother said, reaching forward to snatch the needle out of her hands. Viviane sat back in her chair with a sigh, hard wood against her spine. 

“You haven’t been since that man died.”

“Went missing,” Viviane corrected, route, unthinking. “Not dead.”

Grandmother sighed and reached for the cloth. “Either way,” she began, tone certain of which way, “you ought to rest.” 

“No use,” Viviane said, pulling the cloth back to her own lap. She took the needle - Grandmother let it go - and sighed, because the thread had come unhooked through it. 

“Every use,” Grandmother countered. “He’ll hardly be found by your efforts.”

Viviane licked the end of the thread so it would come smoothly through the eye. “I see his face, Grandmother. When I dream.”

It was thirty stitches before she realized her grandmother had never given a response. Viviane looked up from her fabric, from the sleeve now fixed to the bodice.

Grandmother stared at her, sorrow shining like the moon in her eyes. 

______________________________________________________________

“Where are you going?” Nora asked, for probably the fortieth time. 

“Away,” Viviane told her, stirring the pot bubbling by their tiny stove. A few more preserves with the berries, a few more carefully stored and put away so Grandmother would have enough to last until she came home. 

“When?” Nora asked, pulling at her feet. 

Viviane clucked. “Not for a long time, little sister.” 

She reached down to readjust the kerchief that slung back on Nora’s head. It was cold, even in the beginning of spring, snow still melting on street corners and clutching at the sides of the mountains. No perunika, not yet. 

Nora groaned and pushed it back. Viviane could not help her smile. 

“Gremlin,” she said, fondly. 

“But when?” Nora asked, insistent. “You can’t leave until my name day. You promised you would make me a cake.”

“I did,” Viviane remembered, stirring the pot. No sugar, but that was just as well; Grandmother didn’t like sweet things, and Nora had never really had any. “And I won’t leave until the lípa bloom, Nora. You know that.” 

“But why,” her sister begged. “Vivi, why?”

Viviane set down her spoon. “Why am I going?”

She untwisted her kerchief while Nora nodded vigorously, shaking her leg from the force of her rocking. Her hair spilled out, blond braids falling down her back. 

Carefully, she tied it around Nora’s head, smiling at the way her sister scrunched her nose. Viviane untied the kerchief she’d had, too, wrapping it around her own head even though it was still wet with spring-melting snow. 

“There. Isn’t mine better?”

Nora grumbled something unintelligible, which was probably for the best. 

“I am going,” she said, leaning down to gather her sister up and into her arms. It was difficult; she was heavier than she’d once been.

Viviane knew she wouldn’t be able to lift her at all when she returned. The thought made her nauseous. 

“I am going,” she repeated, patting softly against her sister’s warm back, “because a very dear friend to me, and you, is in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Nora gasped. “That’s not good. Grandmama says to stay out of trouble.”

“She’s right,” Viviane agreed. “You must listen to her, Nora, always.”

“Grandmama scares me,” Nora confided into her neck. Viviane lowered herself to the ground to sit, not able to bear the weight standing for another moment. 

“Me too, sometimes,” Viviane admitted. “But only because she’s right and she doesn’t worry about saying right things nicely. Not all the time.”

Nora frowned, she could feel it against her neck. “But why are you going? Why, Vivi?”

“I told you,” Viviane said, patting her back again. “I have to. But not yet, and I promise I’ll come back. I promise, Nora.”

“You have to do the things you promise,” Nora said, the wisdom of all the ages made clear in her tone.

Four, Viviane thought. Four and when I return she will probably be six. 

“I know,” she agreed. “I will. I promise.”

______________________________________________________________

Viviane did not weep at their parting. Head level, spine straight, satchel packed with food and clothing, her needles and a few scraps of fabric and thread. She counted the coins she was leaving behind - all that she’d worked for, toiled in the night and day and hours in between for almost two years to gather. Just enough, hopefully, to sustain Grandmother and Nora until she could return, enough to buy food or medicine if Grandmother got hurt, enough to pay the taxes for a few years if she didn’t.

It was enough, it had to be. It had to be. 

Nora wept; Grandmother did not, but she looked like she could, which was how Viviane knew it was time to leave. The lípa bloomed, outside, lime trees holy on the hills. 

Kallias was waiting, somewhere. She had to go. 

Viviane did weep hours later, slowly climbing the path back to her old village, to the place she knew her journey had to start, but that was alright. Surely, that was alright. 

______________________________________________________________

The tombstone before her was smooth marble, beautiful and cold. Viviane could touch the letters carved in the surface: KALLIAS MILKOVICH, clear and fine. 

She turned to the side and vomited in the grass, just far enough so that she was not puking over his empty grave. Her kerchief - Nora’s - came unbound somewhere in the middle, landing in the patch of nausea she left in the grass. As if she needed the day to get worse. 

Her old friends had received her well enough - tea, the sort served in any farmer’s kitchen, wives covered in dirt or coal dust by association asking after her sister, the husband she really ought to have had. They grew colder when she asked of him, questioning, suspicious, before finally swearing that they had no part in it, Viviane, whatever you think you are implying, and no paid spy of them will have a place in our homes as a friend! 

I’m not, she’d sworn, but they did not care and frankly enough in their place she wouldn’t have either, so she left, head down like a traitor, a woman with shame enough to hide. 

Someone tittered, she could hear it in the wind, and when Viviane looked up a woman in fine clothing, black fur and wool cut beautifully to her frame, was pointing at her from a few graves away. She could feel the poppies rushing to blush her cheeks, a girl again, and so Viviane ripped her kerchief from the ground and ran for shelter anywhere. Anywhere she would be free of eyes and empty graves and them. 

She ended up beneath a lípa, the one that grew strong and thick and tall by the very edge of the cemetery. Wide roots, wider trunk; just enough to shelter herself by the side of it and sob into the dirt at its feet. 

The tears coursed, hot on her cheeks, and every time she tried to wipe them away there was just more to follow. And she could barely wipe them away, because her hands were shaking - her whole body was shaking - and Viviane could not help it, could not help the noises she was making, somewhere between animal and girl. 

Eventually, inevitably, she grew quiet, and her body stilled, and Viviane decided that it was really rather cold under the lípa but she could not move, not if she tried. The branches swayed, above and around her, the last bloom of flowers honey in the breeze. 

She watched them float, frozen like ice by the roots. 

River, she heard, from nowhere and everywhere, and Viviane jumped. 

She got a bearing on herself, quickly, turning around in a circle almost violently fast, nearly falling over her own feet. No one was there, just as she knew no one would be there - why would they bother? Hardly anyone came to the wealthy cemetery, and the Mother herself knew full well that they never stayed for long. 

No. No one was there, and there was no noise, other than the breeze. She’d made it up. 

Losing her mind, then. Viviane could work with that. She sat back in the dirt, not caring that it was undoubtedly creeping its way onto her skirt. 

River, she heard again, and this time she did not jump, but leaned back against the lípa. It was strong against her back, steady though its branches rocked like a ship on the faraway sea. 

RIVER, she heard, or rather felt in the very bones of her skull, vibrating through her entire being. 

Viviane looked back at the lípa in shock. When she was a girl, a very small girl, Mama had told her: oh, darling, you know you must trust in the lípa, the Mother’s trees. 

She scrambled to her feet and ran like a madwoman for the river. That was a stretch, or it ought to have been: when she was a girl it had been little more than a steady stream with fish flipping through its currents. Something must have changed, though, because she could hear it as she approached, the steady gurgle of the waters, a hundred lengths wider than she had thought it was. Perhaps a hundred times stronger, too, whitewater in patches, spraying wild in the air. 

River, she thought. I am at the river. 

Viviane waited. Nothing happened, nothing but the flow of the water, the spray in the air. 

“I’m here,” she said, out loud. 

The water continued to flow, fast and cold. 

“I’M HERE,” she shouted, loud and sharp, carrying only a short while across the water. No response, of course, nothing of note from the gods. 

Viviane folded like one of Nora’s ragdolls against the shore and began, again, to cry. 

“Please,” she sobbed against the ground, cold beneath her. “Please. I just want to find him. Even if he’s…”” 

She could not get out the word, dead, it stuck to the inside of her throat. It did not much seem to matter to the rushing water. 

“I’ll trade,” she said, desperate and perhaps a little mad from lack of warmth or sleep. “Here.”

She threw her kerchief, Nora’s kerchief, the one she’d spent hours stitching careful lípa blossoms onto, into the water. It carried it away, down and under the currents; Viviane gasped with immediate regret. 

And then, because she really had nothing better to do, Viviane waited. Just sat there, staring at the river, while the sun drifted higher and then lower in the sky, reflecting off the water like something holy, which in truth it probably was. 

Something dark and wet floated across the top of the water, she noticed, after minutes or hours. It traced its way back to her, against the current, gentle and slow. 

Nora’s kerchief. She ripped it out of the water in disbelief, laughing with no little shock. 

Against the current, she realized, feeling the imprint of the lípa in her hands. 

A boat was tied up, not very far away, a shabby little thing of wood and rope and the odd rusted nail. Viviane untied it, mad as anything, far away from her body and very near it at the same time. She would have left coins behind for the trouble, if she had any to spare, but she did not. Besides, it was decrepit, almost falling to pieces in the water. Hopefully whoever owned it would not mind. 

Hopefully it would not break beneath her on the river, but Viviane did not think of that for more than a moment. Heart in her throat - kerchief, soaking wet in her hand - she untied it, leaving the rope on its little dock. The boat creaked when she settled onto it, but Viviane could not blame it for that. She did not take a breath until she had been on it for minutes without it falling apart, though. 

Only after she’d managed to breathe, in and out, did she push away from the shore. The river picked them up almost immediately, the little boat and her, whisking them away from the land so quickly Viviane wondered if she should be screaming. 

She didn’t, though. The river was fast but friendly, almost kind. Viviane felt the boat rock to and fro in the currents. 

And then, without noticing, Viviane fell asleep. 

______________________________________________________________

Viviane twisted in her blankets, reaching back to brush against the soft pillow underneath her head. Black night rested upon her eyes, still, inviting and beautiful and so enticing she could not help but sigh and twist back over. Her hip sank a little further into the mattress, feather-light, almost molding itself to her bones. 

Her eyes flew open and she shot upwards, shoving off the fine blankets of wool and fur. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. The bed was one she had never seen before, plush and rich, blue quilt stretched over the top. The walls were of fine make, straight and high, covered with a design of repeating flowers, clover and lípa. The little table, stout and brown, covered with lace finer than Viviane had ever seen in the shops, a little bowl of polished clay resting empty atop. 

Unfamiliar, unfamiliar, unfamiliar. She stalked to the door at the end of the room, redwood varnished nearly to a shine, swinging it open so strongly she almost took it off its hinges. 

And then she screeched, unbidden, at the sight of the old woman standing before her. 

The woman clucked her tongue. “No need for that, dearest Viviane.”

Viviane stared for a moment, forgetting herself. 

The woman held out a cup of tea, dark and bitter-smelling. Viviane took it, hands feeling weak and powerless, shocked that it did not drop from her hands to shatter upon the floor. 

“You are of age to my daughter, did you know that?” the woman asked. “She looked just like you.”

Viviane, very slowly, moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, sipping her cup. Fear beat against the cage of her ribs, but she did not know why. 

She was safe, clearly, she was safe. And warm, and in a finer bed than she’d seen in the whole of her life. 

Or was it? Viviane tried to remember what she had slept on the night before. The ground, yes, that was it, a clump of moss that looked inviting, that she had desperately hoped belonged to no creature of talons or teeth. 

Although she could not remember why. Viviane raked her mind: not for - who? 

The tea really was very good. She took another sip. It was sweet, strange and sweet, like nothing she’d tasted before. 

Viviane frowned. Like nothing she could remember tasting before. 

“You’ve come a long way, dear Viviane,” the old woman crooned. 

“I’m sorry,” Viviane managed, around the odd fog sweeping through her mind. “I don’t recall how we met. My boat…”

She trailed off. Her boat was, was, was…

“Don’t worry, dearest Viviane,” the woman proclaimed. “Let Stryná brush your lovely hair. So blonde, the sun in the sky.”

That sounds nice, Viviane thought, suddenly so, so tired. 

“And then sleep, yes?” Stryná clucked her tongue again; Viviane smiled because it was so very familiar. “Sleep, I think. And then a meal, of course.”

She collected a brush and went on, settling behind Viviane to pull it through the tangles of her hair. Occasionally she muttered something foul under her breath, at particular knots or spots of mud and dirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Viviane apologized. “I don’t know what I did to get so…” 

She searched for a word, finding none. 

Stryná pulled the brush through her hair a little harsher, catching against her scalp. Viviane did not cry out; perhaps she had been expected to, for Stryná hummed lightly, almost approvingly after the knot was out of her hair. 

“I’ll get some meat on you,” Stryná promised, as if Viviane had not spoken. “Something to warn those bones. Clothing, too; what you have are little better than rags.”

Viviane opened her mouth to respond, and closed it when nothing came. Her dress was practically rags, yes, but… 

But. 

But what? 

She was still trying to remember when she let Stryná pull off her clothing and cover her in a nightdress, a new, soft, pristine nightdress, so white it almost glowed. And she was still thinking about it, turning it over in her mind, slow and muddy, when she slipped back into bed and fell asleep. 

______________________________________________________________

In the morning she was at the table, the lovely dining table in the lovely dining room, staring down at more silverware than Viviane had ever seen in one place in her entire life. 

“It doesn’t matter which one you use, child,” Stryná chided. “It is just me.”

Viviane picked up a spoon at random and took a bit of her porridge. It tasted familiar, or… 

It did not taste familiar. The texture was of something she had never before had in her mouth, honey-sweet, flecked with cinnamon and spotted with little bits of apple. 

It was, unquestionably, the nicest thing she’d ever had. Viviane had seconds; Stryná did not chide her for eating too much. She gave her clothing - insisted on it, really; a white blouse, a dark apron, a skirt blue like the sky. And a scarf for her hair, brown and soft - flowers, too, Stryná promised, but only for festivals. 

Viviane didn’t mind the lack of flowers. The fabric of each item was soft, almost warm, certainly warmer than anything she’d felt against her skin before. And beautiful, so beautiful; Stryná had no mirror and forbade her from going to the river to see her reflection, but Viviane knew in the clothes she was beautiful. 

Time passed slowly, Viviane was sure it passed slowly, hours creeping by as she sat with Stryná and chatted over the gossip the older woman brought in from the village, weddings and funerals of people Viviane had never so much as laid eyes upon. Styrnà said she shouldn’t, said she was still confused from her journey, said she should not leave until she was herself again. 

Viviane did not remember any journey, and she was sure she would, but Styrnà was too kind to question, so Viviane did not. She did the washing-up after every meal, and swept the floors, and darned holes in Stryná’s socks for her keep, everything but the laundry. For that she would have to go to the river. 

The sun was kind on her skin, Viviane thought often. It was warmer, she was sure, than it was supposed to be, for it was barely the beginning of summer. The lípa were just blooming. But the sun clung to her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, until Stryná chided her one evening and made her stay inside for - for a while. 

A while. A day? Viviane tried to remember how long Stryná had said she had to wait before she went outside again, scrubbing at the dishes after another breakfast of porridge. Just her second, really, Viviane was sure. She hadn’t been there long. She knew she hadn’t been there long. 

She hadn’t! 

In her dreams, dreams that Viviane did not, could not, tell Stryná, the river flowed beneath her, rocking along a surface of water as clear as the sky at daybreak, blue and shining.  

It was only her second breakfast - Viviane was sure it was only her second breakfast, really, she would remember having porridge that good more than twice - when Stryná cleared her throat, and so of course Viviane put down her spoon like any good, well-mannered individual. No matter how much she wanted to lick the residue of apples and cinnamon off it. 

“I have something for you, my Viviane,” Stryná said. She reached behind her chair - Viviane could not see where, transfixed by the glare of light off of the shining beads, red coral like blood on the other woman’s neck. 

Blood in her hands, too, until Viviane blinked, and then it was just a ring of poppies. 

Red poppies. “For your lovely hair,” Stryná explained, smiling. “And beads, too, three strands of beads for my beautiful daughter.”

Viviane did not hear her as she went on, did not hear the woman smile at her stare, did not hear her laugh at her country girl, transfixed by the smallest of earthly beauties. 

Viviane did not hear, and she did not see, because all that was in her was there, in her classroom, so many years ago. She could feel it - felt it, felt the wisps of rage start to coil in her chest at the sight of the neatly-tied bunch of red poppies. Could feel the shame, too, as she looked at them smashed against the floor, as Kallias - 

As Kallias - 

Viviane looked up, and Stryná was gone, and she did not know why, nor did she bother to ask. She untied her kerchief and started to throw rolls into it, still warm from the oven for later, later when she would not be there, when she would be far away and moving. 

Go, go, go, the wind sang within her, the river, the blossoms drifting in the breeze. Go! 

Viviane tied the edges of her kerchief into a hasty knot around her rolls and bolted for the door, down the hall of Stryná’s ridiculous house, nothing in her head but haste, haste, haste. 

She flung open the door and rushed through, only to stop at the edge of the doorway, momentum carrying her down into the dirt. Viviane landed harshly, skinning her knees; she did not care. 

The world outside was orange. Orange and yellow and red in falling leaves, in dying grasses, in the wind that promised colder times again, and it was supposed to be summer. 

No, she thought, wooden. No, no. No. 

Stryná sighed, behind her. 

“So you’ll leave me,” she said, forlorn. “For him.” 

“I never wanted to stay,” Viviane cried. 

Stryná frowned at the lie. “It won’t be easy, you know.”

Viviane did not bother responding, stared instead at a leaf, falling gently through the sky, brown and dead. 

“She took him north,” Stryná said. 

Viviane whirled around. “You know? Where - where is he? Please, I -” 

She hesitated. “I’ll stay. Longer. As long as you want. Where is he?”

Stryná smiled at her, old and sad, and sighed. 

“Dear Viviane, if only I knew. He is north, or he was, so long ago.” 

Viviane stared, and Stryná told her all of it: how she could hear the sleigh as it came, frost crackling against the earth, the soft laughter of the woman Stryná only called her, and the man riding with her, frozen like a statue in his seat. 

A tall man, blond, broad of shoulder, according to Stryná. Viviane did not need the description; she was certain, absolutely certain, it was Kallias. 

What made her pause, though, was the rest: the sleigh of ice, the spread of frost, the laughter of a woman pale as snow itself. 

“You do not believe me,” Stryná said, with a sigh. “You should, dear one. You really should.” 

Viviane just laughed, in the dirt, knees bleeding, laughed like the deranged. Stryná sighed, again, and strung the beads around her throat. She eyed Viviane’s parcel of rolls, but did not protest. 

“Go north,” Stryná advised. “Follow the river. Do not attempt to travel with it again, girl; you have seen as well as any that it takes you only where it wills.”

“Thank you,” Viviane said, gathering herself. “For everything.”

She did not bother to recite the list they both knew, not even to say the very last of it: thank you for letting me go. Stryná nodded, and Viviane gathered her courage, and began the long journey north. 

______________________________________________________________

Four days later - four days of walking and walking and walking and wishing only to the stars, the stars that could not hear her, or were at least nice enough to pretend they could not hear her wish fervently to be back home, or with Stryná and her warmth - Viviane stumbled into a town. 

She fumbled her way to the nearest tavern, letting herself forget about little things like the general expectation that a person bought something when then entered a business. Viviane needed to be warm. And it was blessedly, blessedly warm inside; even more so by the fireplace, so Viviane slid into a seat right next to it and tried to look like she belonged. 

A barmaid walked by, ale in hand. She looked at Viviane, quizzical; Vivianer smiled and looked away, holding her breath, praying she would keep walking. 

The barmaid did, and Viviane exhaled. 

She did not relax, not in the general sense; more so Viviane melted into the sound and warmth and flow of the building, more and more each minute. Conversations floated by her: and Yolande’s getting married, finally, it’ll be so nice to have her settled…

The harvest was good this year, praise the Mother. Do you think they’ll raise the taxes? Probably… 

I wish I knew where you got that fabric, it’s divine. Oh, from…

And with the Princess married, finally! Oh, do you think it was that man, the one who came years ago? 

Viviane perked up, listening a little sharper. 

I don’t know, but he was headed that way. He seemed a good fellow. Nice head on his shoulders, confident walk. All the things the ladies…

She strained, but could not hear more. 

“Miss?” a voice asked in front of her, and Viviane jerked back to her own body. 

The barmaid was staring at her, almost wry. 

“You’ve been traveling a while, miss?” The woman swept her gaze up and down Viviane’s body, catching at all the dirt. Viviane felt her accursed blush rise again.

“Yes,” she answered, finding her tongue. “Days.”

“Where to?” the woman asked, casual, leaning forward across the bar. 

“The, um,” she sputtered. “I’m going to see the princess.”

It just flew out of her mouth. Viviane gaped at the words for a moment, at herself. 

The barmaid raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure. The northern road is difficult, miss. Especially for…”

Her eyes swooped up and down again. “Lonely travellers.”

Viviane smiled, forced. “Thank you very much for the warning.” 

The barmaid scoffed, but then a man on the other side of the room yelled for beer, and she turned away. 

Viviane took her chance and ran out of the tavern as quickly as her legs could carry her. 

The northern road. 

It was a start. 

______________________________________________________________

She came upon her next town in a week, after eating the very last of her rolls and passing through a range of mountains she had never heard spoken of before. They were not so high as some, the ones Mama had called Tatry, once; those she passed on the river, though she did not know it. 

All Viviane knew was they were different: not hers. 

She kept walking anyway. Twice, at the bottom of long plains stretching so far Viviane caught herself wondering if she was even in the same lands anymore, if she had walked so far she had come upon a different world, she had to beg for passage against long stretches of water. Her beads worked well enough as payment; though the men captaining ships on foreign docks eyed her in other ways at first sight, they did not complain when she took a strand of red coral from her pocket, shining like pearl, and offered it in outstretched hands. 

The castle was the first thing she saw, wide and stout upon the earth. It boasted none of the spires of the stories, none of the dark stone walls, but it was unquestionably beautiful, beautiful enough for a princess. Even as it was, half-buried in winter snow.

Viviane, dust-covered and cold and tired, stood before its gates and steeled her nerves. Just this, she promised herself. Just this. He will be married to her, and alive, and safe. Just this, and I will go home. 

Her stomach rumbled and she flushed, even though no one could see. 

She walked up the palace drive, though she never would have thought to call it such, walked right up to the front door, stepping and stepping and stepping through the snow, forcing her path and she had forced her path for so many miles. 

Oh, her feet were so cold. 

A snowball hit her, right as she neared the door. Viviane squawked and fell over, shocked and frozen. 

A child laughed, behind her, and for a moment all Viviane could think of was Nora, laughing in her perunika on the mountainside. Oh, oh, oh. 

I should never have come, she thought, but then she remembered how Kallias had bowed to her that night, and she regretted the words even in her mind. I will not regret, Viviane told herself. I will not fail him as he did not fail me. 

Another snowball landed on the back of her head, and then a weight was on her back, just about right for a child, heavy as a stone and sinking with all the force of one. 

And laughing like a child, too, which was the only reason Viviane did not scream. 

Someone else did a moment later, and Viviane found herself facing the opposite end of at least three spears. 

______________________________________________________________

It took Viviane less than a minute to realize her greatest problem, when a woman who was unquestionably the princess stood before her, raised on a dais like a goddess seeing a supplicant. 

They did not speak the same language. 

Eventually a servant was found, someone from home - Slovak, the princess said, find me a person who speaks Slovak. It did not erase the shame from her spine, her stomach, the feeling of being an ant underneath another person’s boot. 

She still cried when the man they brought out started speaking, though. His accent was right, like he had grown up in their village, in the house next to hers. He spoke, and in his voice was home. 

Viviane told him everything, warbling through tears. He watched her all the while, steady as stone. 

The princess waited, solemn on her dais. 

She had no good way to finish the story, not yet, so it drew to a close with the ever-lyrical and so here I am. The man did not so much as flinch, just turned to the princess and started to say something completely unintelligible. 

Viviane forced herself to stand still and calm and wait, wait even longer than she already had. Each breath took a hundred years to draw and pass, in those long moments he theoretically recited her tale. 

And she was still so hungry. 

She expected the princess to say something, after all that, to say something and then for the man to say something she could understand. Viviane did not expect the woman to rush forward and fold her into her arms, murmuring something Viviane could not understand and perhaps never would. 

Viviane felt the woman run along her back, comforting circles feather-light, like the very tips of her fingers were all that contacted the fabric of her dress. 

Her dress. Her once-fine, now dirt-encrusted, snow-wet dress. Her apron, no better, her once-white blouse, the kerchief she’d had to slide into her pocket days ago so it was not whipped off of her head by the wind. 

Tears clung beneath her eyes; she let them fall. 

Later, much later, the man led her to a room with a bed that looked amazing, a thousand times better than anything she could’ve bought with coins she did not have in the nearby town, and even better: a bath, a bath, an actual bath! 

Oh, she was probably crying again. Viviane didn’t care. A bath, and a mirror - a mirror! - and a stack of what looked like impossibly comfortable clothing nearby. 

A bath! 

The Mother, Viviane decided, looking down at water that after three runs finally floated clean around her, free of her own dust, is kind, and also exists. 

After she had soaked for an eternity, a wonderful eternity in which Nora was in another room, and Grandmother was watching her, and Kallias was alive and safe and probably reading to Nora or something, Viviane stood and forced herself out of the bath. 

The water ran off her, rivulets dripping down to her feet, sloughing out of her hair. She delighted in it, absolutely delighted in it, and then - she looked in the mirror. 

Really looked in the mirror. Not just a passing glance: she stood, tall as she could, and took true stock of herself for the first time in years. 

The first thing she noticed was her own ribs, countable enough to wince. The dark lines around her hips, her thighs, the bruises on her shins. The hair that was too long but she couldn’t bear to cut, the sun-streaked blush atop her cheeks, the ridge of her nose. 

Viviane closed her eyes, and breathed deep, and looked again. 

Her eyes were nice, she decided. Nice and blue. I have nice eyes. 

Her legs were tired but long, long enough for her purposes, and they had carried her how far? Across how many miles, how many days, how many lands she should never have even thought to see? 

I like my legs, Viviane decided. She twisted on her ankles, just to see the sides, the backs. 

Her hair was nice, nice and pretty, and it floated across her shoulders when dry. Her nose was right for her face, her eyes were sunken but beautiful in their way. The sunburn gave her color, and it sat well against the wind-whipped skin beneath. 

Her arms lacked the muscle they should have had but they were alright. Her hands were beautiful, calloused and worn and scarred from fish-knives and oh, how Viviane loved her hands. 

I will do this, Viviane thought, looking at all of herself in the mirror. I can do this. I will find him, and I will bring him home, or if I do not I will bring myself peace. 

I will do this. I will do this. 

Then, she fell into bed and slept for what felt like a week. 

______________________________________________________________

In the end, the princess gave her a ship. 

Well, not gave, no one had the resources for that. But there was a ship, a trading barge heading north along the sea, and the princess bought her passage to its northernmost stop. 

Viviane tried to thank her, tried her very best, repeated it first steadily and then through choking tears, but the man was not there and the princess seemed to get the message anyway. They parted as friends, Viviane thought, or at least hoped. 

Likely enough they would never meet again, but that was alright. It had to be, it had to be. Viviane had left too much behind for it not to be alright. 

It was attacked by pirates (a new word for Viviane, marodör; only later would she learn the translation, and only later would someone manage to teach her what that meant. Landlocked children; pity their souls) within four days. 

Naturally, she was asleep: Viviane only woke to the thump of fighting, above her, but only a little at that. Businessmen were not swordsmen, as a rule, and though the princess had been kind beyond measure she had not been that kind beyond measure. 

She could not help her scream at the sight of them, tall and dark and bleeding into the night as if it cloaked them. The two men smiled, though, smiled at the sound of her fear, and said something in a language she did not know. 

Whatever it was, it made the once-captain of their ship pale. Viviane rejected her fear; I will not cower in the face of what I do not know. 

She thought of her hands, again, the lovely, perfect, aged and cracked skin on her hands. They forced her forward, hands on her waist, her gifted dress. They pulled off her apron, untied its rippons, pulled the kerchief from her hair. 

It was the one that had been Nora’s, before, still edged in lípa blossoms, forever in bloom. She screeched and jumped for it, boots landing on the unfamiliar wood of an unfamiliar ship. 

A woman’s voice sounded, and the man who had held it high above her head let it drop, fluttering to the deck. She dived for it, desperate, unsteady until it was once again safely tied about her head. 

“Slovak?” the woman asked. 

Viviane’s head shot up. 

“Yes,” she said, to the creature in front of her. Long, golden hair, not blonde but wheat-gold and then some. Tall, taller than Viviane by hands, in the shirt and trousers of men, sword belted around her own waist. 

“Thank you,” she managed, when her shock abated. “For my kerchief. It is -” I should not be saying this to a maradör, I think - “dear. To me.”

“I guessed,” the woman said, languid and loose but so heavily wrong Viviane knew it was not possibly her mother tongue, “by the lípa.”

Her finger, long, fine as porcelain, smoothed against an embroidered blossom. Viviane swallowed.  

“You’re a long way from home,” the woman said, conversational. 

“Where am I?” Viviane asked, brave as she could muster. “I have not known for… a long time.” 

At that, the woman laughed, and it rang out against the water like the chime of a bell. 

“You stand,” she announced, pride hanging like honey on every word, “on the ship of the Morrigan, traveler. Tell me: what do you offer?”

Offer, Viviane thought. I do not have very much to offer. 

The sea below them was dark and cold, she knew. Very, very cold. 

“A story,” she said, finally. “I cannot offer more than that. Unless you would like my clothes. Please, let me at least keep the kerchief, and perhaps my boots.”

The Morrigan lifted an eyebrow, glorious, impassive. 

“Tell it to me first,” she demanded, not without humor. “Then I will decide on your boots.”

She was a good listener, Viviane decided, though the ship rocked forward around them, thankfully in the direction she had been going before. Luck, luck, oh, Viviane was lucky. 

If nothing else, she promised herself while relaying her stay with Stryná, I can swim. 

At the end, the Morrigan looked as if she was about to cry, and for all the world Viviane could not have guessed what did it. 

(In truth, it was this: the Morrigan’s cousin, a man who had once promised to keep her safe, disappeared years ago, marrying a much older woman to keep safe the lands they both called home. The woman died, not too long later, and yet nothing had ever been heard of the man many called whore and Morrigan called brother, or else Rhysand. 

He was happily married to an artist in their hometown, but Morrigan had been at sea for much too long to know that. She’d find out in a few years, when she went home and her nephew greeted her and Cassian and Azriel at the door.)

Instead, the Morrigan promised to bring her to the end of the sea - they were going there, anyway, something about a man named Kier. Viviane had stopped paying quite as much attention by then, still tired for all the excitement of the night. 

Morrigan offered her a bed, or what she called a bed. Really it was a collection of ropes strung between two poles, but Viviane was too tired to care. It was better than the ground, anyway. 

It should have been hard to fall asleep, between the rocking of the ship and the strangeness of the ropes and the pirates, but Viviane managed. 

She was really quite good at that. 

______________________________________________________________

Morrigan left her on the northernmost shore of the sea with only two words: go north. 

Her friend - yes, friend, the journey had been long enough for that - knew little of the woman she called the snow queen. Viviane would not say that, only describe her as she had been described: a pale creature, of ice or near it, glowing as the moon. Viviane, frankly, did not dare to call her anything she knew to be true. 

Don’t waste your worry, she could hear Mama chiding. There is too much else for that. 

Go north, Morrigan said, so Viviane did. She climbed the shoulders of mountains just to slide down the other side, letting her feet slip further and further downwards with every step, not daring to lean forward and shoot down on her stomach as she might have, once. I cannot find Kallias if I am dead. 

Through great plains, wide and blanketed in white snow just starting to fade into the earth, the sky. Through forests stretching to the very edges of the horizon, spindly pines just starting to show the faintest green of new growth. She walked, and she walked, and she walked. 

As she walked, she talked. Not to anyone, not to any imagined companion, just the trees and the grasses and the snow and the air: I am Viviane, and I am searching for Kallias. I will find him; I will not fail him as he did not fail me. I will go home, I will go home. I will bring him home, I will bring whatever peace I may find with him home, I will go home. 

“I will go back to Nora,” she said, aloud, and of course there was no response, not from the hills sloping ahead of her. There had never been, not from the trees, not from the snow. She expected none now. 

“Noarsa?” a voice asked behind her, and Viviane screamed. 

It came from a woman - Viviane felt safer, but not much - in furs, dark and brown and probably beautifully warm. 

The woman said something else; Viviane, wide-eyed, again could not understand. She shook her head, again and again. 

The woman pointed to Viviane’s cloak, and she unhooked it as quickly as possible. Viviane could not help but shiver, without it; the woman felt her cloak and tied it back around Viviane’s shoulders, kind and fast. 

She motioned to move, then, and Viviane watched as she took steps through what little remained of the snow, before turning around to look at her, eyes wide. 

Viviane, without anything else to do, followed. 

She had a cabin, apparently, or something that looked conic but otherwise similar; a building of wood so warm that Viviane nearly cried to enter. The woman gave her a meal, too, a fish entirely unidentifiable but delicious, or it would’ve been, if she’d bothered to taste it. Viviane threw it down her throat like the woman would snatch it away, determined that she would not have the chance. 

The aftertaste, fish-juice lingering on the lining of her throat, was really good. 

Eventually the woman sat down next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, and shifted a blanket onto her lap. Thick and furred and soft, so lovely and soft. 

Viviane did not intend to fall asleep, not at all. She intended to thank the woman as best she could and continue north, always north. North until she found him. 

But warm in the woman’s home, warm under the blanket, full for the first time in weeks, Viviane fell asleep. 

It rose before her, piercing the sky in a spire as thin and spindly as the tip of a finger. A wind whistled against her ears, through her clothing, slipping through the weave of the threat and the weave of her skin and the stream of blood beating against her heart. 

She moved, or rather she did not move, but Viviane shifted as the world shifted, and then she was inside. It closed around her like water did the drowned, stealing breath from throat and lung until there was nothing else to steal but life.

She kept her air, though. When she tried to breathe it out it held in her mouth, going nowhere, trapped in - in - in something, something cold and hard and smooth, so smooth. 

Viviane would not say it, would not think it. It could not be. It was not, it was not. 

Panic creased against her spine. 

She held there, trapped, a fly in amber but not amber, definitely not amber. She’d be sick, if she could, if she could move her stomach enough for it to convulse, if her throat could shift enough to retch. 

It could not happen, Viviane knew, and yet. And yet she tried to rail against it, because she had to, she had to, Nora and Grandmother and Kallias were waiting and she had to. 

She tensed her muscles, but they would not tighten, would not move. She blinked, but her eyelid would not close. She screamed, but her mouth would not open, the sound would not bellow out of her chest. 

So she hung, trapped in her body, trapped in it. Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

He appeared before her, then, and Viviane wanted to gasp, felt the urge to gasp, did everything but actually gasp, because she could not. She wanted to laugh, too; four years, and he looked the same. 

Four years, a disappearance, and a funeral. Kallias looked the same. 

She tried to reach for him, but she could not, was stuck in it, cold and hard and burning. She tried, and she tried, and she tried. 

And then - then. He laughed. Laughed, and laughed, and then Viviane was fifteen again, begging to borrow a scarf, and he was laughing. 

She woke with a gasp, shooting upwards from the blanket, pushing it down her shoulders. The woman looked to her from the other side of her home, concerned, or at least looking concerned, but Viviane could not stay. It was under her skin, thrumming in her blood - leave, leave now, get out get out get out.

Viviane ran for the faraway hills, and the woman did not follow. 

______________________________________________________________

It started as just a spark, faraway, nearly indistinguishable from the glow of the horizon. 

Viviane, hungry and tired and cold, so, so cold, saw it. For a moment she was a girl again, raising her thumb to squash the vision of it, whatever it was. 

And then she stumbled onward. 

______________________________________________________________

Her toes were so numb she was thinking about pulling off her boot to check that they were still there when she looked up and saw it again. The dying light of day reflected against it, whatever it was, a torch shining off water. 

Viviane pulled off her boot and started to desperately rub against her colorless toes, praying she could keep them. 

______________________________________________________________

In the morning - the cloudless, beautiful morning - it held the light of the sun, as bright as a star itself. 

But the wind had picked up, so Viviane, forcing herself forward, did not notice. 

______________________________________________________________

By the third day, Viviane figured she was going to die. 

I am lost, she thought, not bearing to open her mouth, to expose her throat to the cold that cracked her skin, that stuck against every hair of her body. I am lost, and there is nothing to eat, and I am so cold. So very cold. 

This was a mistake, Viviane thought, pressing against the relentless wind. She pursed her lips, tasting blood when the motion tore apart her flesh. 

I am going to die, she thought. And then she looked up, and before her, unmistakable, unbelievable: the palace of the Snow Queen. 

______________________________________________________________

Viviane pushed through the door, and it made a sound like the booming of ice upon a lake, cracking beneath your feet. It is like a drum, the noise, fear lighting through your spine. 

Viviane closed the door, and fell into the deep. 

______________________________________________________________

“Mama,” Nora said, reaching for her, pudgy little arms stretching past the wooden bars of her makeshift cradle. 

“Sister,” Viviane corrected against the pang of her heart. Nora clung to her hair, heavy in her hands. 

“Mama,” Nora said, again. This time quieter, a sigh against Viviane’s blouse. She stretched her arms around Viviane, too small to make it any further than her shoulders, holding against her like - well, like a baby. Her baby. 

“Sister,” Viviane corrected, again, but with a little sigh Nora closed her eyes and fell asleep. And Viviane should’ve put her down, there was so much to do - Milo would be by in an hour, at least, and she needed to get ready - but she didn’t. 

She leaned down to brush a kiss against the soft down of her sister’s hair. Nora cuddled closer, if possible, clutching wider in her sleep. 

Viviane smiled, and when the tears came she did not fight them, slipping down her cheeks. 

______________________________________________________________

“Daughter,” Stryná called. 

“Stryná,” Viviane responded, wiping soap suds from the dishes onto her apron. “Is there something -”

She broke off at the sight of the other woman, holding out a skirt edged in a pattern of perunika, pretty purple blossoms. 

“A beautiful gift,” Stryná said, smiling. “A beautiful gift for my beautiful daughter.”

Viviane took it. Held the fabric between her fingers, fingered the perunika locked in eternal bloom. 

Only later, when she was alone, did Viviane cry. She didn’t know why, not even a little, but she could not look at it without her throat tightening, without tears pricking at the bottom of her eyelids. 

She threw the skirt, Stryná’s gift, in the dresser, buried it behind the threadbare clothing from - when? 

Before, came in her mind, certain, sure. 

Before what? 

Viviane didn’t know, but she couldn’t look at the flowers anymore. She couldn’t look at anything, tears clouding her vision. 

Why, she begged, why? 

______________________________________________________________

The Snow Queen looked at her, and Viviane looked back. 

She did not fall to her knees, did not beg, did not plead.

If I get on my knees, Viviane thought, I will never get up again. 

The Snow Queen did not say anything, not a word. Viviane breathed in the frigid air and wondered, again, if she was going to die. 

She brushed her hands against her skirt, her apron. Nerves or energy or something, Viviane did not know. It was like she could not think, could not breathe. 

Her hand brushed against her hair, and a clump of ice flicked off. She stared at it, landing quietly on the floor, too small to make even the smallest sound. 

The Snow Queen watched her, unblinking. 

Viviane swallowed her fear, all of it, letting it sink down to the pit of her stomach.

In her pocket, something went clink! 

And the Snow Queen lifted a brow. 

Viviane, nervous still, slid her hand down against the fabric, slipping into her pocket to pull out her last, precious string of red coral beads. 

“It is not much,” she said, small, trying to be brave. “But it is all I have left.”

The Snow Queen laughed, high and bright, sweeping off of her throne, her dais, to snatch the beads from her hand. They clinked, tinny, sharp. 

“If you want him,” she said, sly. “By all means.”

A door that had not been, before, slid open across the room, and Viviane ran through it like bears were clawing at her feet. 

______________________________________________________________

She did not breathe, not once. 

It could not be real. It could not. Viviane knew very, very well that it could not. 

Kallias sat before a table, frowning down at small shards of ice. Some had been arranged into an E - a small, meticulous E. 

“Kal?” she called, still breathless, and he jumped, and his hand moved and ruined the letter. 

He cursed. He did not look back.

“Kallias?” she asked, again. He frowned at the shards. 

“Kallias,” Viviane said, louder, insistent. 

He huffed, frowning further when his breath moved the shards around. 

“Kal,” she shouted, tapping his shoulder. With a - with a snarl, he whirled to his feet, throwing her hand off his shoulder like it repulsed him. 

“Stop,” he snapped. “Go away. Leave me alone to finish this.” 

Viviane recoiled, mostly in shock. “I - Kal, Kal -”

“Go away,” he snarled. “I hate you.”

She gasped, she could not help it. And then - and then - 

“I hope you die,” Kallias muttered. “Eternity, aeternitas, I hope you freeze.” 

Involuntarily, Viviane let out a sob, loud and sharp. 

Eternity, aeternitas, I hope you freeze. Gods, gods, great and holy - gods. Gods. 

And suddenly all she could see was Nora, gurgling in her cradle, reaching upwards, perfectly trusting. 

Her knees gave out, and she fell, crashing into the floor. Kallias swore and leaned down to pick her up, muttering under his breath, but she did not see him or feel him or know him and she sagged against him like a falling tree. 

And she was crying, desperately crying, and as he tried to maneuver her back to her feet the tears landed against his skin, his cheek. 

One stuck to his eyelid, strangely enough. And as he cursed and muttered, swinging her to unsteady feet, as she crashed back down, pulling him with her - it slid. Slid down the curve of his socket, around his eye, melding against the membrane, the whites of his eye. And he blinked, because it was against his eye, and it worked its way in, warmer than any tear should have been, or was he the one that was cold?

And, and, and. 

Deep inside him, something tiny, miniscule, unimportant to all others, all else - it melted away, the last vestige of snow under the heat of the summer sun. 

“Viviane,” he gasped. “Viviane.”

______________________________________________________________

A year, a whole year later they were home, finally home. Or Viviane was home, and Kallias was with her; he did not seem to care about the difference. 

Neither did she. 

But the perunika bloomed, and Nora laughed as she ran through them, Kallias chasing her, laughing louder than he had in a lifetime. 

Viviane wore flowers in her hair, because she could, because she wanted to. The lìpa bloomed, bright and holy against the cloudless sky. 

(A world away, the Snow Queen ran her fingers against the beads at her throat, red and smooth.  And she smiled.)

[quibbs126]

Helooooo, can I have espressoline fankid

All right, this is Opera Madeleine Cookie

Fun fact, technically this isn’t the only or first person to request Espresso/Madeleine, as someone else commented a request on the original post I made asking for requests. I believe the name was @cerulaenfunkz. It’s actually listed as my third request, but I guess I just never got around to it. I was originally trying to make it, but I was having so much difficulty figuring out what to do that I just went on to other ones, and I guess it just went to the back of my head. So yeah, of all the fankids, this is probably the longest time coming

Anyways, so Opera Madeleine is named after opera cake, because it’s a cake with coffee in it, but I changed the “cake” to “madeleine” since she’s part of House Madeleine, similar to Choco Madeleine’s name. Also I just think it sounds better

The original name I gave her way back when was Coffee Cake, but I didn’t like that and when I eventually discovered opera cake, I changed it

Opera cake:

I’ve already made my design struggles with her known, basically in that, I had the hair, hairpieces and gloves down, and I like those bits, but wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of her. And to be honest, I like the scarf and boots, but I kind of flubbed with the coat. I thought she’d look cool with a coat, but I also wanted to show off the boots, so I made it high up, and I don’t think it worked all that well. Not to mention I don’t really know what her upper half looks like, as you can see with the admittedly pretty bad sketch

You know what, I may just go back and edit her later to make her coat look better, it’s just bugging me

Edit: I did do that

Originally I gave her blue eyes like Madeleine, but I changed it to pink so she’d look closer to Espresso. Also because I wanted more brown/warm tones, but didn’t want to give up her blue outfit color scheme

All in all, I liked most of drawing her, but I flubbed the last bit and it looks kind of eh. I just didn’t know what to do for it, but I didn’t want to keep her in development hell for eternity and I wanted to do her hair, so I just went with something

Anyways, let’s get on to her

So Opera Madeleine is the heir to House Madeleine, however she is not a Paladin like her father Madeleine and instead chooses to use coffee magic like Espresso. However she still follows Madeleine in that she’s a warrior, she just prefers to use magic instead of a weapon. Granted I’m sure Madeleine still taught her to wield one just in case. And also she’s good at hand to hand combat

Chances are she went to school in Parfaedia, given they have a whole school for magic and from what I can gather, Espresso once went there himself

Unlike Madeleine she’s more of a no nonsense kind of person who’s more focused on her duties as a warrior. Not saying Madeleine doesn’t care about being a warrior, she’s just not as…prideful as him, not caring much about appearance. However one thing she refuses to publicly admit is that she takes great pride in her hair and goes through great lengths to keep it as pristine as possible. But that is the only thing

She’s a hard worker, but not as much of a workaholic as Espresso, as she doesn’t have nearly as much coffee in her dough to maintain that lifestyle. Also Madeleine made sure that she didn’t follow in his footsteps

I feel like I’ve talked a lot about Madeleine but little about Espresso. I imagine the two talk about coffee magic and such, but due to her differing interests in careers, she probably spends more time around Madeleine

I imagine when she was younger, Madeleine just showered her with adoration and tried to be a loving father. But if you asked her which of her parents was the coolest, she would say Espresso, much to Madeleine’s dismay (more like he gets moody that he’s not the favorite more than anything). She’d probably learn combat with Madeleine, but would also just wander off to find Espresso and just watch him do his work for hours on end, quietly sitting in his lab

Hmm, I think that’s all I have to say on her. I wasn’t expecting to write that much to be honest. But yeah, hope you like her

Edit: so as said earlier, she’s been edited, and this is the original if you’re curious

[hausofmamadas]

| Tu cómplice |

⁂

Pairing: Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada x Benjamín Arellano Félix

For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober Fanworks collection [October 1 - Day of Firsts]

Word count: ≈ 2.8K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence? Much angst but like in the supes casual way I imagine Mayo does..?

Just the two of them seated at the wrought iron table in the backyard, up till dawn, smoking and talking. It felt quite the honor just to see the man laugh. Ngl guys, this is Basically just Mayo internally but actively pining for Mín? for like kinda no reason?? while he’s negotiating with Dina because Mín’s gone into hiding after the assassination of Cardinal Juan Posadas Ocampo. Idk this is literally just 3k words of nonsense and insanity. It’s legitimately one of the most aimless and ooc things I’ve ever written sksks but hey!! it exists now..?

⁂

The ornate, gilded door knocker felt heavy between his fingertips as he rapped a few times and waited, stubbing out his cigarette in the open mouth of one of the lion statues placed on either side of the stairway. He chuckled to himself. If it wasn’t an ashtray before, it was one now. To him it looked like one anyway. The mansion’s pretentious decor always screamed “New Money” to him, no matter how hard the Arellanos tried to bury Sinaloa in their past.

By his count, Mayo had only ever been to Arellano house three times. Once by invitation, another by accident, and a third - the last - by mistake. A mistake he couldn’t muster the good sense to regret no matter how hard he tried.

It never pays to fall for a family man, isn’t that what the girls say? Certainly the ones he’d shared a few fleeting nights with between the sheets, a wad of folded bills on the nightstand, couple packs of cigarettes, and some pillow talk that always told some tale of woe about falling for a family man. But is that what happened? Had he fallen? Or was he just at sea like always? Either way, it made for no less than an interesting ride.

The relief-distorted disappointment when it was Pancho who answered the door should’ve told him something, even if he didn’t care to pay it much mind just now. A matter for tomorrow. Except that’s what he’d told himself the whole time. Shit, that’s how he got into this mess. Surely there’d come a point when tomorrow was today, no?

Pancho smiled, “Qué húbole, compa?” and pulled Mayo in, clapping his back twice in a way that was warm and sincere as much as it was overwhelming. But Pancho was good people. He always liked Pancho. Shit, who didn’t like Pancho.

“Nada mucho, nada más,” Mayo winked, tipping his hat as he crossed the threshold into the foyer of the Arellano mansion.

He smirked to himself at the same private joke he had every time he’d set foot in this house: the place’s grandiosity might be as intimidating as it was meant to be if it weren’t so fucking cartoonish. But he supposed that’s what happened when you let an overgrown manchild, dressed head-to-toe in Versace, stick his gold-dipped cuerno de chiva against the decorator’s temple and threaten to blow them away into semi-automatic oblivion, just for a discount on silk drapes from Rome or wherever-the-fuck.

Mayo's eyes stung a bit, hit with the phantom smell of the cigar smoke that came tumbling out of Benjamín’s mouth when he’d laughed himself nearly to tears telling Mayo that story. It'd been just the two of them seated at the wrought iron table in the backyard, up 'til dawn, smoking and talking. It felt quite the honor just to see the man laugh. He got the feeling Mín didn’t laugh much. That was the second time Mayo had been here.

He shook his head, the image etch-A-sketched away like nothing and followed Pancho through the foyer to the dining room and then the living room. Or rather, one of the living rooms. The house smelled so strongly of floral-scented candles and potpourri, he worried he might get a headache sitting in here for too long. They must’ve just had the place cleaned. It bothered him that he even noticed and it especially bothered him why. That it was because there was no hint of that familiar, faint musk that should’ve been there, expensive without trying too hard, that seemed to trail Mín along with a perpetual cloud of neurotic discontent, everywhere he went.

Even from the beginning Mayo liked that about him. The discontent he wore right on his sleeve. He’d noted it when they’d first met at some meat market in Mazátlan, right around the time he first linked up with the Sinaloa crew, just before they arrested Miguel and the whole Federation got dissolved. Just in Mín's discontent, his raw, kinetic ambition, Mayo saw something of himself, even if the two fo them strove for very different things. He used to think, what a strange little something you are, Benjamín Arellano Félix, the way one would think fondly of a pet they had growing up. He found himself wishing now that Mín felt just a pet to him.

But they belonged to each other in a new way now. Darker, tenuous, and confounding in just exactly how straightforward it was. No implications, no questions to be asked. It said nothing about either of them except that they belonged, if only for and evening. Or the amount of time it takes to smoke a full Montecristo and down a stiff drink of scotch.

He turned to the fish tank and stared at his warped reflection, saying to no one in particular, “Things are changing real fast, huh? The army in Tijuana fucking shit up. Coming after your family, no less. Now Benjamín’s gone. Fucking mess, huh?”

He felt it coming. This meeting. Depending on the outcome, it might signify a breaking point and he’d have to choose between what is and what should never be. The Arellanos got caught flying far too close to the sun and they knew it now. (And everyone wondered why he preferred boats.) It’s what set Mín on the lam, no telling how long he would be out there. Floating around wherever he was. Away.

Shaking his head, “Just hoping it all blows over and Benjamín can come back home,” Pancho spilled a glass of some brown liquor, as he set it down on the beverage cart in front of Mayo.

Amused, Mayo tried mopping it with only his fingers until he gave up, taking a sip. There was still plenty to drink, since Pancho had filled it nearly to the brim, almost as high as his own. Suddenly, it made sense why Pancho wasn’t in charge of the family business despite being the oldest. Hombre couldn’t bluff for shit.

Mayo took the seat by the beverage cart, as Pancho practically melted back onto the giant couch across from him. Doing his best to affect it, almost like an afterthought, Mayo leaned back in the chair and said, “Send him my best, yeah?” He took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pockets, giving them a little jiggle and raising his eyebrows.

Pancho got what he was asking but Dina startled him with an answer before Pancho got the chance. She spoke from behind them, standing at a large window, “Of course, please. Make yourself at home.” She waved her own lit cigarette as if to hammer the point home. “I do it in here all the time. Drives mamá mad. The smell gets in the drapes, she says.”

How long had she been standing there? Her beige suit blended so well with the drapes she spoke about with such indifference. Mayo half wondered if it was some kind of business tactic, camouflaging with the furniture. Better to hear all chisme whispered in these halls by house staff or other scheming subordinates a quien no le gustaba tener una jefa. In truth, he didn’t much like it either. But he hadn’t figured out if it was just because she was a woman or because of the kind of woman she was. He never had much patience for anyone with a chip on their shoulder.

Though he’d certainly made an exception for Mín who’d carted around a chip so heavy, it was a wonder he never tipped over. So, maybe it was the woman thing. Did it much matter? Not really cuando sabía que ella había planeado quitarle sus huevos. All these months later, and that cool twenty mil still burned a hole in their coffers and there was no making eyes at Dina to make it all go away, least of all when they were hurting for the cash. Not that he wouldn’t try. That is after all how he and Benjamín started off doing ... Well, whatever the fuck they did.

He thought of Dina’s wedding, how light and alive, self-assured Benjamín was. In his element. A new look he wore so well that, in Mayo’s estimation, he didn’t get to enjoy for long enough. Now look where they all were.

“So look, Pancho,” he brushed Dina off because if her goal was to blend in with it, well, he was happy to treat her like the furniture. “Amado’s expanded operations. Taken over the port in Peñasco, made it hard for my boats to unload. I was hoping to redirect them through San Ysidro, and not pass them through Tijuana.”

“That would put all your business in our plaza, wouldn’t it?”

The smirk of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar broke across Mayo's face and he dragged on his cigarette, nodding in the affirmative.

“And yet, you refuse to join our organization?”

He offered the answer that seemed to satisfy anyone who challenged his go-it-alone approach. It satisfied Mín well enough when he'd approached Mayo at the wedding. “Es qué, a mí me gusta ser mi propio patrón.”

Nothing less than the truth. In an industry of professional con artists, backstabbers, hustlers, and murderers, maybe like her brother, she’d appreciate it.

“Yes, so you’ve said.” She didn’t.

And she still hadn’t turned around to face them. For people so concerned with blending into high society, the Arellanos weren’t the most well-mannered. Mayo’s working-class manner of dress might, to the untrained eye, indicate that manners weren’t something he cared about. But he did. Even in his blackest moments, twisting his knife in someone’s gut or getting ready to light them on fire, he couldn’t much find a reason not to be at least cordial.

Fighting for a lifeline, he glanced at Pancho who almost looked like he was trying to become one with the couch, drink limp in his hand, as he stared at the All-Knowing Queen in white.

She finally turned to grace them with her full attention, gliding over and resting her hands on the back of the empty couch next to him. “You owe us twenty million dollars. What’s your plan to repay us?”

Back in the days when Miguel held court and favored the Sinaloa faction at the expense of his own family, dicking the Arellanos around as though the petulant kids he’d watched grow up would remain petulant kids forever, Mayo remembered thinking that Mín’s attempts at diplomacy weren’t well-earned by their uncle. And he’d told Mín as much. Even Dina agreed at the time.

But all these years later, with Dina the sharp tip of the lethal spear that was now the Arellano Félix Organization, Mayo wondered if they couldn’t do with some of Benjamín’s trademark diplomacy. Mín liked people. He knew how to talk to them. Dina was trickier to deal with. Though savvy like her brother, she was nothing but prickly, sharp edges. Good for dealing what needed to be dealt to their enemies. Not much for making friends.

Mayo tried his hand at diplomacy, “Money in shrimping, eh … moves slower than I’d like,” but ire crept in anyway when the absence of his— his— of Benjamín was screaming at him. “Benjamín understands that. I pay as it comes.”

Understands, yes. Present tense. He was gone, not dead and even with Dina in charge, he still must’ve been keeping tabs from somewhere. She couldn’t have the final word here. Not really.

Unwilling to follow his lead in diplomacy, she shot back. “How much have you got?”

“Here with me?” Now he was annoyed.

And that was met with a haughty huff from her, along with a scorn-filled smirk, so acrid and bitter he nearly tasted it in the air between them. She had him where she wanted him and it twisted his gut, knowing where this was about to go.

“You aren’t moving anything through this plaza until the tax is paid.”

It was over already and he knew it. That didn’t stop him from trying one final time, “Qué dice, Pancho? Esa es la última palabra de la familia?” like it might speak Benjamín into their living room.

Of course, when it didn’t work, the thought of Mín, knowing what he’d have to resort to next, only served to make his stomach churn more. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. What’s that thing they say about purple elephants? Because before the first don’t, the image of Benjamín’s gentle brown eyes in the moonlit backyard, full of that kinetic ambition, not for success but for something else —belonging— flooded Mayo. The third time he’d been here.

᪣

It had only been a few months since the wedding. A celebration at Roxanne’s gone awry and he’d had to bring Ramón home before he tore the club apart, going after Chapo for some snide comment about what they all knew happened to Rayo. The bad blood between the Arellanos and the Sinaloa crew was so long standing without erupting into an all-out war, it seemed to make sense at the time to at least attempt to avoid tipping it over the edge. In hindsight, the whole shitshow was gripped with such inevitability, it seemed more like going against the will of the gods, now that he thought about it. But you only know what you know when you know it. So, he done the sensible thing, intervened before things got ugly, agreeing against his better judgment to remove Ramón from the equation, by driving the rowdy motherfucker home while he sat in the passenger's seat of his pickup, three sheets to the wind, sprawled out, passed out, and snoring. Despite the fact he’d had no love para el pinshe huevón, there was love in his heart somewhere. And so it was easy to say, “yes” after shucking Ramón off his shoulder onto one of their house staff's, when Mín offered him a cigar and a drink. An opportunity for another of their little chats that they’d come to enjoy whenever they crossed paths. Though Mayo had noticed, in the distinct lack of one, every one of those times happened to be under the unconscious supervision of a crowd. So that when Benjamín complimented him on his business savvy, and said things like, “Fuck, man. You’re better than that,” the grin that spread across his face never got as wide as it wanted to be. They never stood as close as they’d wanted to. They never talked for as long as they wanted to. It was for the best. Because without the safety net of nosy onlookers, talking about life, growing up in Sinaloa, the incessant hustle, the never ending grind to the top, commiserating over the absurdity of this business they’d both come up in, ambition, what all of it even meant? Could they do something else? Should they do something else? Was it really worth it?— they both folded like a pair of cheap suits. And so he didn’t remove it, when Mín’s hand found itself on top of his. The contrast of how smooth, almost manicured it was compared his own, weather-worn, brought to light disparities that extended far beyond the physical and yet didn’t make a bit of difference. The words tumbled from Mín’s lips suddenly. “You know ... I do love my wife.” And that trademark cloud of anxiety that made him think too much came swept over them with a fury. Not long for this world, Mayo waved it away. “I know you do.” “You do?” It was almost funny. Despite the evident affinity they shared in these little chats, Mín’s shock reminded him just how little they really knew each other. How much of a gamble he’d just taken. “You know that I know that this,” Mayo lifted their hands, fingers interlaced together, and placed his lips against one of Mín’s knuckles, “and that,” then bobbed his head toward the house, “can be different but true, at the same time.”

᪣

He sighed and swallowed the memory hard.

“‘Ta bueno, ‘ta bueno,” nodding vigorously because he saw the whole fucking thing coming before he’d set foot in the house. Standing up and putting his hat back on, he muttered cooly, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Striding toward the fish tank, he thought of Mín again and turned back around. He met Dina’s eyes in a challenge, you did this but simply tipped his hat, “Patrona,” a gesture of faux respect she was undoubtedly smart enough and petty enough to see for what it was.

On his way out of the house, he was already hard at work, scouring his brain. What was the last number that he had for Amado? Fuck, that shit was months ago. He'd probably have a new one. Oh, well. It'd be worth it. Or ... would it? Well frankly, if he was really honest with himself, he'd probably stopped giving a shit the second the words, "make yourself at home" came out of her mouth.

Stepping out into the midday sun at the top of the steps leading down to the driveway, he caught the carcass of his cigarette laying in the lion's mouth out of the corner of his eye.

Dina would regret this and probably never even know why.

But Benjamín would.

En ese mundo de complicidades y traiciones, un día tu mejor enemigo es tu cómplice y al otro se convierte en tu peor enemigo.

═

taglist: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @narcolini @drabbles-mc

[kalevalakryze]

Bad Movies, Good Company

Relationship: Shin Hati/Sabine Wren Characters: Shin Hati, Sabine Wren Additional Tags: Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Non-Explicit Implied Sexual Content, Movies - Freeform, Hot Chocolate, Mild Language, Sabine Wren Is A Little Shit, She/They Shin Hati, References to Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008), Lesbian Sabine Wren, Lesbian Shin Hati, Not Canon Compliant, No Beta We Die Like Ahsoka (Again), Soft Sabine Wren, No Spoilers Summary: Sabine never realized just how many 'firsts' she would give to Shin; first time, first kiss, (she wouldn't doubt first hug from someone other than Baylan), and now, it's time to give them their first hot chocolate and cheesy holodrama. Sabine didn't care much for the movie, she had someone better to pay attention to anyways. Notes: Today's been a shit day so I just needed to give my feral little shits some softness, ty cali for reminding me of the brainrot Eventually if things keep going the way they have been, I am going to turn off comments entirely 👍 I'm here for the gays and no one's gonna ruin that for me. AO3 Link: Fic & Collection

They still had a week in space before anything could be done, and at the behest of both Shin and Sabine, Ahsoka had told both Apprentices to rest for the day so she could meditate without having to make sure they weren’t going to kill each other.

Sabine had tried to take the opportunity to sleep in, but Shin getting up just as early in the morning had ruined that plan. The artist had spent the entire day distracting them with small, menial things to keep her out of the training rooms; teaching them sabaac, showing them their sketches, and even maybe powering off Huyang and slipping into the bunkroom with the hopes that Ahsoka wasn’t listening in too closely.

Just getting Shin back in bed had been a feat, so Sabine had been more than happy at their comfy refusal to leave the small space. “Hang on, I’ll be right back,” Sabine pressed a kiss into their hair before wriggling herself from their arms, tugging on her clothes as she stumbled to the door.

Powering on Hyang on her way to the kitchenette, Sabine pulled down two mugs. “Hey Huyang, you fell asleep on me,” She teased as hot chocolate pods were loaded, the perfect way to end their lazy afternoon in the chill of the artificially cooled room.

“I do not need sleep, you-“

“Oh hey, I think Ahsoka was calling you,” The warm drinks were poured into white porcelain cups as Huyang went to find Ahsoka, muttering to himself about ‘Padawans’ and ‘Mandalorians’.

Liquid gold secure, Sabine balanced both mugs in her hands, snagging a datapad from the shelf along the way back. “Okay, buckle up, because once I sit down, I’m not getting up again,” She handed both mugs off to Shin, who peered on the contents with more than a normal amount of confusion. “Don’t worry, there’s no poison,” She promised as she slipped back under the covers to wall the blonde off from the door, something the woman had personally requested once their sleeping arrangements had turned to this.

“But what is it?” They sniffed experimentally as Sabine balanced the datapad on her knees to grab her mug back.

“What..? You’ve never had hot chocolate before?”

Shin’s vacant stare was enough to tell Sabine that no, they had never had hot chocolate before. “All these years, and you’ve never lived- How has Baylan gotten away with this great injustice?”

Before Shin could bite back a seething retort about the Mandalorian’s remark about her Master, Sabine was tapping her hand against the mug. “Come on, just take a sip, di’kut, you’ll love it,”

As Sabine got comfortable in bed again and started tapping away at the datapad, Shin raised the mug to her lips and took a slow sip.

A smile pulled at Sabine’s lips the moment Shin’s eyes had widened. The liquid was hot on her tongue, but the rich, sweet ichor didn’t go unnoticed. Pulling the mug back, Shin blinked at the contents. “Don’t burn your tongue-“ Sabine tried to reason with them as they took a bigger sip. “It won’t be a fun time, cyar’ika,”

Sabine was able to coerce Shin into not drinking the rest of the mug like it was needed to live, settling back into the bunk until the blonde shuffled closer to press firmly into her side. A film was pulled up onto the datapad, something sappy and romantic, the first thing she’d found about a clone and a Twilek, and dads who stepped up; it really didn’t require much brain power to enjoy, though Shin had seemed immersed.

“Why would they bring that stranger inside? It seems a good way to die,” Shin commented as she intentely watched a soldier stumbling into the small family’s barn. Sabine’s attention was turned to Shin, watching the furrow of their brows, the crinkles at the corners of their eyes, and the way she looked between everything in each frame.

Shin allowed themselves to lean into the comforting ministrations of Sabine’s hands, her mug held tight in her lap as she scoffed. “That isn’t even a proper blaster burn, have they never been shot before?”

Sabine’s hand trailed from the back of Shin’s head to the underside of her jaw. “Maybe, budget osik,” She grumbled halfheartedly, tipping her head down to catch Shin’s lips. The other woman was more than happy to return the kiss, chocolate rich on her tongue as Sabine allowed them to take control.

An explosion from the datapad had Shin pulling back to watch the holofilm again, the lights catching in the silvery blue of their eyes. Sabine smiled dumbly at her, head drooping back against the pillows as she watched Shin take another sip, their eyes sliding closed at the decadent liquid once more, it seemed the best way to get the woman to blink, too.

“Old Separatist droids to not fight like that, they are making them seem much more intelligent than they were truly capable of,” Shin grumbled in complaint, not acknowledging the Mandalorian as her empty mug was taken from her hands and set on the floor next to Sabine’s own empty glass. Instead, they curled closer, fingers tangling in the purple haired woman’s sleep shirt as her head pillowed against her chest, complaints growing quiet as a cheap action sequence started.

Sabine’s lips pressed against the top of her head, the fruity smell of the hair mask they used to repair their hair after bleaching it last still clung to each strand, though the wispy small of bark and grass that were so inherently Shin permeated the citrus.

“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum,” Sabine grumbled against their head, peppering soft kisses across their head, any way to express the words she knew they would not understand.

“Quiet,” Shin hissed instead, reaching to press the palm of her hand against Sabine’s lips to further quiet her. “This is called the all is lost moment, yes?” When Sabine nodded against their hand, she was so kind as to allow the gentle kisses pressed into her palm.

The blonde seemed genuinely ticked off when the soldier decided to help the small family and not report the AWOL stepfather, enough so that she’d almost gotten out of the bunk to throw the datapad.

Sabine grabbed their hands with a smile on her lips. “Relax, ner kurs’kaded, it’s already been written,” She eased, guiding the other woman back to press their lips together. “Cheesy romance films are always like this,” Shin’s eyes rolled hard enough that Sabine could feel it, smiling against her wolf’s lips as they eased back into her and brought their lips that last breadth of space to bring them together once more.

“Tell me there are other films on the holonet that aren’t like this, that there is some hope for civilization,” Shin grumbled exasperatedly as the soldier on screen hugged the other man’s children and left with his returning troop.

“Oh, yeah, I mean there’s like, horror, and stuff?” Sabine blinked, a sheepish smile forming on her lips. Of course Shin would have preferred a slasher over some feel good family drama. “I’ll put one on?”

Shin grumbled as she pressed into Sabine once more. “Don’t bother, you have shown me where your priorities lie, you sap,” There was a smile being hidden in her shirt, she could feel it against her skin.

“I am so not a sap, you’re just cute,”

“I will cut out your tongue and feed it to your demon cat,”

“You are my demon, Nix is my little baby,”

Shin groaned and rolled over to face the wall, though when Sabine did not follow, she sat up and turned back to glare at the Mandalorian. “You know your place, Mandalorian,”

Laughing, Sabine shut off the datapad and scooted over until she could wrap herself around her wolf from behind, pressing kisses to the shell of their ear as they snuggled back in. “Guess these slow days can be nice,” She declared as she relaxed into the thin mattress.

“You do need time to prepare for me to kick your shebs tomorrow,”

“You’re such an ass,”

“You love my ass,”

“I really do.”

Translations: Di'kut - Idiot (affectionate) cyar'ika - darling Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum - I love you/I will know you forever ner kurs'kaded - my wolf

[starshinc]

katsuki doesn’t tolerate fancy events very well. he especially doesn’t enjoy being paraded around as some beacon of hope for hero society because of his weird ass debt to the commission, but he still endures it anyway - as a favour to them for not locking him up or whatever. what’s it matter? at least he isn’t alone this time around.

crimson gaze glances to the support tech that practically sticks by his side with his therapy dog, brows furrowing a moment in concern. when the commission told him to bring izuku along, he actually tried to protest it. the man isn’t built for publicity. katsuki deals with it because it’s part of his job, and if he wants to be number one, he would keep doing so. izuku?

he was content working his magic behind the scenes - didn’t much like the spotlight.

the event buzzed around them with infectiously disgusting talks of this, that, the other thing; investors looking to strike deals and agencies placing their bets. most of them avoid katsuki. in turn, any poor soul that looks like they want to talk with izuku keep a distance… and katsuki wonders, then, if that’s why izuku stays near.

the music is slow. some people are taking to the floor. he has a feeling that people looking for their chance will keep circling the two of them until katsuki lets his guard down, and he despises that.

there was a way to maybe avoid this.

he eyes the floor a moment more, and finds his impulse acts first.

“still got two left feet?” he teases, low; warm palm encircles izuku’s closest wrist and tugs him toward the dance floor, making sure to pick a spot that allowed ramen to stay near. he doesn’t dance either. but- “c’mon. keep preoccupied all night, ‘n nobody’s gonna talk to you. and even if they try, i ain’t helpin’ ‘em.”

he hesitates now. katsuki hadn’t thought this far, really, and… fucking impulse, pulling him in impulsively stupid decisions, where he’s trying to steel his resolve and settle hands somewhere where it doesn’t feel like burning, and-

sometimes, he really gets izuku’s overthinking.

“don’t gotta be long,” he amends, as if it’ll make the sudden unease settle in his chest. “but i ain’t dealing with fucking vultures tonight. are you?”

he definitely wasn't planning on attending an event like this anytime soon. actually, if izuku had his way, he'd not be anywhere near this building - much rather be in his support lab, cup of tea in hand and sketching blueprints. but unfortunately for him, katsuki had approached and insisted on izuku coming along - something about the commission.

so somehow, he'd ended up at the event - dressed up as much as possible, thanks to the blond all but shoving a suit at him and doing what he could to make his curls extra soft considering there was no taming them. ramen, his support dog had been groomed (izuku prided himself in taking great care of the golden retriever's coat, but for an event like this, a professional wash and groom was probably a good idea...) and was proudly wearing a bowtie on his collar. he'd kept his working vest on, but he may have thrown it in the washer and dryer beforehand.

izuku was resolutely sticking close to katsuki's side, to the point of brushing against the taller sometimes. there were simply too many people - thankfully, not many had even approached. though, in fairness, the knowledge about jsl was shocking in the room - it would definitely be worth bringing it up to katsuki again, pushing more knowledge. it's important! he's just watching the dance floor, listening to the music and making sure ramen isn't bothered. the second people got too close, he'd tuck himself further into katsuki's side.

warmth around his wrists surprises him, but he allows himself to be dragged towards the floor, registering the words a few seconds later. wait, kacchan surely isn't going to do what he thinks - oh, no, he is. izuku's open-mouthed reaction was probably priceless, and they should thank their lucky stars that the media weren't invited to this event. thankfully, he could still sign.

'kacchan, you know i can't dance...!' the protest starts, signing more jittery than normal. thank goodness he'd picked a spot where ramen could sit nearby. but thinking on it for a moment or two, the logic made sense - there was no chance at ALL that anyone would bother them on the dance floor. with any luck, they could keep to themselves until it was an acceptable time to leave.

'okay.' he signed back, a little grin. 'i'm sorry in advance if i step on your foot.' he'd going to trust the blond to lead, here. and focus on not tripping them both over. 'i don't want to, ah... talk to any investors either, today.' he's already booked out for a good six months. perks of being the most recognised support technician, though he tries to ignore that fact on the daily.

'don't let me fall over, please.'

@dynmghts - unprompted!

[talesfromasnarkylisa]

Lacey: Chapter 20

August 22, 2023

I woke up at 8:45 AM. First time I’ve slept this late in over a decade. This meant that I had absolutely no time to eat breakfast - as work would start just 15 minutes later. Fun.

There was a ridiculous number of photos being stacked upon me to edit and send back. Parties, business, social media selfies - you name it. To top it off, I had to clean up and crop a sketch from one of Augusta’s old pals. I’m very careful with keeping my Archer J identity a secret. It’s not like I could have turned down the offer.

Anyways, I somehow managed to find the time to both catch up with my friends (and Lacey the not-friend) and go through the Music Refined submissions I got by the end of the day. To be fair, I didn’t get as much as usual from Music Refined. But I wasn’t living in occupational bliss like Lacey seemed to be either.

Speaking of Lacey, we had a fun conversation around the time I logged off from work. Of course, that didn’t mean I liked her. My main priorities were still to get her out of Music Refined and make that phony of a try-hard out to be a vile human being so I could play hero. But she did have some surprisingly good insights about how to improve someone’s singing - which I needed because Darian sent me a very flat sounding tape previewing a song of his in the show he was working on.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:34 PM): Hey Archer

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:35 PM): Hello, Lace-girl. Can I ask for some advice?

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:36 PM): What’s up?

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:38 PM): So…I have a friend who wants to star in a show and has potential when it comes to singing. However, his tone is very flat and only pitch correction can save him. I’m okay at singing - but nowhere as good as your angelic voice. Do you have any advice? He’d rather stay anonymous, by the way.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:40 PM): It’s nice you think of me as a beautiful singer, lol. Without knowing what he sounds like, I can’t help out all too much. I’m a content creator, not a coach. But, does he do any warmups? Know his vocal range?

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:41 PM): Um, he told me he does warm up for five seconds every now and then. He doesn’t know his vocal range, though.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:42 PM): Yeah…he should probably start with that. Anyhow, anything else going on?

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:43 PM): Doing pretty eh right now. Working two jobs hasn’t been too good to me!

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:44 PM): Damn, I can relate. I’ve been taking care of children for several weeks now on top of whatever-the-fuck Music Refined’s been throwing at me.

I then realized this was a good chance for me to get info on how Lacey’s been doing in the online writing world.

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:47 PM): Oh yeah, the publication. How’s that going?

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:48 PM): It’s going as fine as it can go.

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:50 PM): Care to elaborate?

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:51 PM): Nah XD

God damn it, I thought. I really need to get her to open up more.

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:53 PM): Look, you can always trust me if you want to talk about something. I’m here for you.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:54 PM): I’m gonna be honest with you for a second. After what went down with Micah last week, I don’t feel 100% comfortable talking about personal shit with you, y’know? I still really like talking to you. It’s just…

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:56 PM): Just what?

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 5:58 PM): Never mind. Don’t worry about it.

Archer J (08/22/23, 5:59 PM): Well, I kinda am.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 6:00 PM): Nothing, okay? Anyways, I’ve met Artsy and Lovergirl. You’re pretty good at making friends.

Sure I am, I cringed. Sure. Not like I didn’t let some tan blonde vixen fool me into outing my crush so I’d be able to stay friends with the former.

I logged out and had dinner. I had tried to make beef brisket for dinner earlier based on my grandma’s old recipe, but I eventually resorted to Internet instructions because I didn’t have the right ingredients at home for the former. Once I finished my nightly routine, I logged back into my accounts to deal with my socials.

I talked to Oscar today in a call for the first time. It was also the first time we had a private two-way conversation since the draft tampering shit happened a few days back. He told me he wanted to apply to Folkin and asked for advice as to what Corianna would reject beyond just what the submission guidelines said. I promised him that he’d be fine as long as his article met the criteria and he didn’t do something stupid. He hesitated to believe me at first, but he eventually felt more confident once I told him about how she had accepted an article critical of a Boygenius song after an initial inaccurate draft.

After talking to Oscar, I checked in with Corianna and Darian. Cori had gotten a large raise at work. It didn’t matter much since she’d be back in college soon like the rest of us, but she was happy with the little extra pocket money. In the meantime, Darian went to a family gathering on Sunday. His parents were there, and so were his cousins and older sister and grandparents. Lucky.

Just as I was about to text Inez, Lacey sent me this.

Lacey Hannah (08/22/23, 7:47 PM): I made this lil’ draft to send to the Writer’s Delight editors, any thoughts?

https://docs.google.com/aiqiiqiqiwjjajajaa

She didn’t even trust me enough to send the actual Medium draft link allowing me to leave notes on. Not that I would have, of course, but still. Just a document which I could only view. 

I clicked the link to open up the draft. After Discord begged me to consider reconsidering out of some strange phobia Google Docs would contain malware, the draft revealed itself to me in all its unfiltered glory.

As I scrolled through it, I hatched up a quick plan. I would give Lacey all the right advice for appealing to the tastes of the Writer’s Delight editors. Especially Vivian, the one who would be the most likely to side with Lacey if she fucked up. But I’d word it in all of the wrong ways so Lacey wouldn’t do what I asked of her. 

Instead, she’d do something either crazy or stupid or both. Once one of the biggest free publications on Medium resented her, she would be screwed big time in the online writing world. 

She’d be exactly where she should be for my goals.

(Wattpad version: https://www.wattpad.com/1509691431-lacey-chapter-20)

[mthollowell-writes]

Day 15: Needle

31 Days of Horror

I did it for the money. Of course I did. Why else would I spend up 5-8 hours of my free time every week getting the blood drawn out of my arm? It’s not painful, just draining (ha!). I used to be scared of needles. As a kid, I would scream and kick when the doctors walked in with the boosters. But when the rent needed to be paid and your job wasn’t keen on a raise in pay or hours, you did what you had to.

So on my off days, I woke up at the crack of 7 and hustled to the blood bank. I know every one in a 15 mile radius of my apartment and the workers there knew me by name. It was easy money and an easy meal. Every cracker bag and juice box a godsend. I usually hit up two to three places before the wooziness kicked in. Four or five come hell week (rent AND utilities due). The place on 12th and Grand paid the best. The workers there started to take a weird interest in me. When I sat down and drew up my sleeve, I could see a few of them whisper and look in my direction. Aw hell! Was I about to get banned? Do they do that to people when you sell your own sweet iron elsewhere? The woman who approached me looked warm and kind. She smiled as she settled next to me. She had my clipboard. She said my name. “Yes…” I acknowledged hesitantly. “I have a proposition for you.” And what a proposition it was. They wanted to see if I’d be interested in participating in a medical trial. I seemed relatively healthy and in the right age bracket, so I was an ideal candidate. The catch? They wanted to run a series of test on me: blood sugar, cholesterol, cat scans, MRIs. Essentially, free medical care! And of course, I’d be paid for my time. How could I say no to something like that? She handed me a collection of papers to sign and we were off. Testing would take place at a medical clinic in the iffy part of town. The address she left me was in the basement of what looked to be a rundown townhouse. I was sketched out, to be honest, and every instinct told me to run. I swallowed it down—it was hell week and my job cut my hours again—and made my descent, The other side of the red door had your standard clinic with a waiting area and everything. I was the only other person there besides the aide at the check in desk. After filling out some more paperwork, a nurse collected me and settled me in an examination room. She took my weight, vitals and ordered some blood tests before sending me on my way. “That’s it?” I said as I buttoned up my shirt. “That’s it!” Nurse Betty was a broad shouldered woman with a personable bedside manner. She laughed kindly at my confusion. “What were you expecting?” I didn’t know how to answer that without a rude reference to organ harvesting so instead I said, “This is a unique setup.”

She nodded in understanding. “This place has been around for a long time. Most of our patients are older and this place has been taking care of them since they were in diapers. We don’t get as much traffic as we used to so we lend out our services for testing.” Made sense. “What’s this trial for anyway? It wasn’t clear.” “Oh, I wouldn’t know that, honey. Above my pay grade,” she joked. “But we’re still vetting you to see if you’re a good candidate.” At the check out, the office aide handed me my payment before scheduling my appointment for next week. Rinse and repeat for five more session. Every week, they did a series of test before ordering others. It was the easiest money I ever made. So much so that I cut all the way back on my blood donations. During the last session, Dr. Smith reviewed my results with me. “Everything looks great,” he beamed. “You’re a perfect candidate.” He explained for the next week, I would be offered accommodations for the study. It shouldn't take more than two weeks. “Don’t eat or drink 12 hours beforehand and bring some extra changes of clothes. We will provide all necessary meals for your stay,” he explained. “At the end of it, you’ll get your final lump sum for your cooperation. Any questions?” It sounded good to me. When I came back for what was essentially a paid vacation, they had me strip down to a hospital gown and had me wait in the examination room. It was just like the start of every other appointment, but this time, nurse Betty gave me a pill and told me to relax. I laid down on the bed and must’ve fallen asleep at some point because I woke up under a harsh white light. My arms and legs were tied down by leather straps. A good dozen masked faces looked down on me. One held up a syringe filled with a dark mixture up to the light before injecting it in the hollow of my arm. Whatever it was burned through my veins and left me breathless. I kicked and screamed and demanded answers, but soon the drug did its work. My whole body went numb, but I was fully alert. Impossibly awake. Dr. Smith lowered his mask to reveal a ghoulish smile. “Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing, but we’ll need you awake for the procedure.” He picked up a scalpel which caught the operating room light overhead. “Breathe. And try to relax.”

Then the cutting began.

[01rocketboy01]

It’s a Date  (Steven Grant x GN!Reader)

While drawing in the museum, you get pleasantly interrupted by the cute museum worker.

(NOT MY GIF)

Just a short little blurb to stretch my fingers. Enjoy!

Sorry for the short descriptions, I’m kinda short on inspiration right now, so please send me requests I am begging

Also I edited this for like two minutes max so if there are any mistakes please let me know! 

Trigger Warnings: Donna is like kinda mean I guess?? 

You climbed up the wide museum stairs, walking through the front door. You had been spending a lot of time there recently, ever since your artistic pursuits had taken a strong interest in Egyptology. 

Taking a seat in front of one of the exhibits, you took to sketching the towering sarcophagus that resided behind the glass case, its eyes staring resolutely forward. It was a relatively quiet day, which you enjoyed, as the peace and quiet helped you concentrate on your personal project you had begun. A few people milled about, looking around at the different exhibits. Every once and awhile someone would come to look at the sarcophagus, standing in your field of view. You didn’t mind, as none of them hung around too long, but were nonetheless relieved when they walked away. You quickly absorbed yourself in your work, not hearing someone walk up next to you. 

“The afterlife was very important to Egyptians, y’know? I mean, I suppose that’s obvious, I mean, no one really engraves things like that on their coffins anymore.” 

You jerked your head up, startled at the sudden voice. 

“Oh, sorry! Sorry! I-I didn’t mean to give you such a start. You’ve just been here for awhile, and I didn’t know-” The man stumbled to explain his interruption. You had seen him in the museum on your previous visits, and he had always seemed to catch your eye. His hair was a dark brown, and his curls hung gently over his forehead. His dark eyes were large and apologetic, and a awkward smile flourished across his face. He was adorable. A small, shiny nametag had been pinned to his front pocket: Steven. 

“No, it’s alright. I’ve just been drawing. I’m doing a bit of a personal study on Egyptology.” You hadn’t talked to him before today, your nerves always stopping you from introducing yourself. He had always seemed socially awkward and nervous, so his interjection had caught you off guard. 

“Well, it looks very nice.” He motions to the drawing in your sketch book, laughing awkwardly. 

A embarrassed blush creeped up on your cheeks as you folded your hands over your sketch book, covering the drawing. “It’s not much, I mean, just a rough sketch really.” Now it was your turn to smile awkwardly. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. I just thought you’d like to know. Not that you should care what I think or anything!” 

“Well, thank you anyway.” You smiled, standing and extending your hand. “I’m (y/n).” 

“Oh! Um, I’m Steven.” He motioned to his nametag with one hand, taking your hand with the other. His grip was firm despite his nervous exterior, and his hands were warm and calloused in your grasp. Your palm felt cool when he let go of your hand. 

“Stevie!” A stern blonde woman called out, standing in the doorway to the room. “Lunch is over, get back to inventory!” 

“Coming, Donna!” He called back to her. 

She looked between the two of you, sighing. “I hope he’s not bothering you. I keep trying to tell him he’s not the bloody tour guide.” 

“I actually think he would make quite a nice tour guide.” You smiled, watching the redness rise in Steven’s face. 

She rolled her eyes, walking away. “Inventory, Stevie! Now!” She threw over her shoulder. 

“I should probably go.” Steven spoke, his hands fidgeting. He hesitated to turn away from you, as if he had something else to say. 

You felt a rush of confidence, and before you could think about it, you found yourself asking; “Would you like to get coffee sometime?”

Steven seemed surprised, but a smile quickly grew across his face. “Coffee! Yes, coffee sounds great.” 

“Are you free this afternoon?” 

“Yeah, actually, I get off work early today, around four o’clock.” 

“I’ll meet you here then.” You grinned excitedly. “I know this great place just around the corner.”

“Alright!” He smiled brightly. “See you then?”

“It’s a date, then.” You said resolutely. “Now, I won’t keep you any longer. Your boss seems like she’s not the most patient person.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Steven smiles, turning and walking out of the room. You followed after a few minutes, heading out of the front of the museum to get lunch. You were smiling like an idiot the entire time, and you couldn’t wait to learn more about the adorable museum worker. 

Please send me in some requests!!

[atlasscrumpit]

Evil Avengers/Bucky x reader

(Maybe the Avengers aren’t what you thought they were)

There were small things about the Avengers that made you question if they were truly good, or truly heroes.

But still, they had taken you in and given you a safe place to live after Hydra.

A warm bed, a bathroom, food and they even gave you affection.

You sat in your bed randomly sketching in your art book.

A face came into your mind, you didn’t know who he was, just that he wore a black mask over his mouth and had a scar over his left eye.

You kept sketching until you heard your door open and looked up to see Tony.

“Hey, kid. What are you up to?” He asked as you smiled.

“Just sketching a bit.” You replied making him nod, he sat on the side of your bed and watched you focus on your drawing.

“I’m having a bit of a dinner party tonight and I need you to stay up here while everyone is about. Will that be okay? I’ll make sure someone comes up to give you some dinner.” He said as you nodded.

You didn’t get out of your room much anyway if you were being honest, but you didn’t mind it.

“Yeah, I don’t mind. I can continued drawing or watch some movies. Can I have snacks?” You asked making him chuckle softly.

“Of course. Come down stairs and pick some stuff out now.” He said standing up as you closed your sketchbook and followed him happily out of the room.

You practically ran downstairs and began reading the pantry.

“I’m guessing she’s okay with staying in her room.” Steve asked watching you with amusement.

“Oh she’s definitely okay with it. Like a little puppy, as long as she has snacks and entertainment she’ll be obedient.” Tony said making Steve chuckle softly.

“She’s settled in perfectly.”

—

You were up in your room binging on snacks and movies when you heard a noise in the bathroom.

You put down your food and walked into the bathroom to see there was nothing there.

“Y/N.” You heard a voice say as you jumped and turned around.

And there he was, the man you had drawn.

“They don’t care about you.” He said as you backed up against the wall.

“W-What? Who are you?” You whispered as he came closer slowly, like an animal stalking its prey.

“They’re just using you. They aren’t what they seem.” He said coming even closer, now an inch away from your face.

“The Avengers are evil, Y/N.” He said as you looked up into his blue eyes.

“Steve!” You screamed out before everything went black.

“Y/N!?” You heard Steve say as you jolted up in your bed.

“Steve?” You whispered looking around.

“You were calling out for me in your sleep, doll.” Steve said as you slowly caught your breath.

“I was…there was a man in my room.” You said as Steve tucked a piece of hair away from your face.

“No one was in your room, sweetheart. You were having a bad dream.” Steve said as you shook your head.

“No, n-no it was real. He was here.” You said as Steve sighed. His eyes landed on your drawing as he looked at it with confusion.

“What’s this?” He asked picking it up as you looked at him.

“J-Just a random sketch, b-but he was the guy that just showed up in my room.” You whispered as Steve looked at you angrily.

He reached up and grabbed your hair as you gasped and looked at him.

“Tell me how you know him.” He growled as you felt tears in your eyes.

“Steve, you’re hurting me.” You whispered as he glared into your eyes.

“Tell me.” He growled as you closed your eyes and tried to not cry.

“I-I don’t know, please I don’t know.” You whispered beginning to cry.

He let go making you fall back before he ripped the page out and stormed out of your room.

You covered your face and began to cry even more.

“I didn’t mean it.” You whispered gripping at you own hair.

“They’re using you, just like they did to me.” You heard a voice say as you looked up to see the blue eyed man again.

“Please, I didn’t mean to do anything.” You whispered looking up at him.

“I’m not the one you have to worry about.” He replied sitting on the edge of your bed as you looked at him in fear.

“The team is using you. They’re all distracted, go down to Tony’s lab. You’ll see the truth.” He said as you stayed still.

“Do it, unless you want to die.” He growled before you nodded.

“I’ll do it.” You responded making him nod.

“If you run into trouble I can help.” He whispered before you looked at your door then looked back at him but he had disappeared.

You took in a shaky breath and got up to grab a hoodie before you made your way out of the room.

Only one problem was that it was locked from the outside. Suddenly you heard a noise and the door unlocked.

It must have been the blue eyed man. You snuck outside and decided it was best to take the emergency stairs so you didn’t draw any unnecessary attention to yourself.

You were shaking so much but you had to keep going, you kept making your way down the long stairs until you saw the floor you were looking for.

No one would be down here while the party was going on.

“Tony has security everywhere in his lab.” You muttered biting your lip in thought.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of it.” You heard the mans voice say as you looked around to see he was no where.

You shook your head and continued on, finding Tony’s lab. You nervously opened the door and sighed when no alarms blared.

“It’s just his lab, what’s so special?” You muttered looking around seeing various test tubes.

“The metal door over there, I’ll get you inside.” He said as you faltered for a second.

“Don’t be afraid, Y/N. I’m right here.” He whispered as you turned to your side to see him there.

You nodded and went forward to the large secure metal door. It opened for you and you wondered how the blue eyed man had done it if he was standing behind you.

You took in a deep breath and stepped into the room, you looked around seeing large empty pods, but on the far wall there was one that wasn’t empty.

You waked over and wiped away the condensation on the glass.

Your eyes focused and you found yourself starring at an exact clone of yourself. You screamed and fell back, scurrying away.

“W-What is that? That’s…me. I don‘ t understand.” You whispered with tears in your eyes as you looked to the stranger for answers.

“They are cloning you so they can create a perfect killing machine, a soldier. Every night when you sleep they take samples of your blood to keep making her stronger. They did the same to me, but I was too late.” He muttered as you looked at him in confusion.

“I am the clone, they killed the original Bucky Barnes and tried to make me into a soldier, but after Hydra my mind was strong enough to fight.” He said as you stared forward.

You’d heard about Bucky, he was the winter soldier, you thought he had died…well he did.

“They were…going to kill me?” You whispered in shock as Bucky looked at you sadly.

“Tony practically wired my brain to the tower so I could still see everything, I saw you and immediately knew you were my replacement. I couldn’t let them do it.” He said as you closed your eyes and tried to not let yourself pass out.

“I knew you’d be back.” You heard a voice say as your heart dropped and you looked behind to see Steve.

“Just had to ruin it again didn’t you, Buck?” Steve said as Bucky quickly helped you off the floor and shielded you from Steve.

“Y/N doesn’t deserve this.” Bucky growled as Steve chuckled.

“Aww, Buck. You think she’s worth anything? She’s just a useless Hydra slut.” Steve said as you gripped onto Bucky’s wrist in fear.

“I thought you guys cared.” You whispered looking away from Steve as he chuckled softly making your skin crawl.

“Precious, stupid little girl.” Steve growled before you heard a gun shot and yelped in fear.

You looked up to see Tony behind Steve, he had fired at Bucky, but it didn’t effect him. You could hear the three men talking as you looked behind you at your clone.

Then you had a wild idea, you stepped out from behind Bucky with your hands up.

“W-Wait, please. You don’t have to do this.” You whispered making Tony and Steve smile.

“Well, angel. We just need one more sample from you and then we’re done. But I suppose I could take it from your bleeding corpse.” Tony replied as you heard him click the gun.

You had two plans, you were hoping it was the one that didn’t end up with you bleeding on the floor.

Just as Tony fired the gun Bucky grabbed you and pulled you away from the line of fire.

Bucky shielded you and you looked behind to see your plan had worked. The bullet went straight through he glass on the pod and shot your clone.

“No!” Tony shouted going to shoot at you again. You closed your eyes in fear and expected screaming or pain but you were just met with a cool breeze on your face.

You opened your eyes to see you were on the roof of the Avengers building.

“Was your plan to get shot?” Bucky grumbled as you looked up at him.

“I needed him to shoot the pod, and I had a feeling you would save me. I’ve been shot before.” You muttered as he chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re mad.”