#premium glasses frames | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 months ago

Text

I Put A Spell On You.

‘Smoke’wants you back, and he’ll do whatever it takes.

(Part one maybe?)

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

You better stop the things you do

I tell you, I ain't lying

I ain't lying…

Word got around that Smoke was back in town. You couldn’t miss him with his snazzy suit’s silhouette characterized by broad shoulders, a high waist, and wide-leg trousers. A quintessential element in a man’s wardrobe. The whispers traveled to many ears, but it was only one pair he was concerned with.

Rosetta Scott.

A dilly he’s obsessed with. His soft-spoken jazz singer. She ended their relationship when Smoke decided to up and leave New Orleans with his ill-tempered identical twin brother, but he promised he’d be back and to write him. After two years, he’s back and ready to stake his claim on his woman.

Smoke hopped out of his Cadillac 16 cylinder wearing round, small sunglasses with wired frames. He removed his 8-panel hat and shut the door behind him. Smoke took a long drag of his blunt while staring straight ahead with a lopsided grin.

The reflection within the circular lenses of his dark frames was one he’d missed for years. A living tapestry of culture, history, and an unmistakable passion for life. This place, with its rhythmic streetcars and the spicy aromas from its kitchens, isn't just alive; it breathes stories at every corner.

Stretching his long legs with a purposeful gait, his expensive gaiters picking up dirt, Smoke pushed open the withering, wooden, hinge doors leading into a lively establishment. The smell of fish fry, sweat, cheap cologne, weed, and sex titillating his nose caused a wide grin to spread across his thick lips. He slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing piercing, brandy-eyes and a primal desire.

There she was. Doing what she loved. He was joyful. Proud.

laidback with rhythmic flexibility.

That husky breathy tone.

Her vocals always had a very raw unedited feel which made her songs feel more real and personal. She also tends to use harmonies and layering which sometimes gives the song a drowning all consuming affect.

The silk of her flowing silver slip seemed to mold into her hourglass frame. The premium fur shawl she wore hung loosely from her glistening shoulders. Her lips the color of ox blood stained the mic in front of her. The swing and blues notes with complex chords blending with her sultry voice had everyone on that floor dirty dancing.

Smoke broke his eyes away reluctantly, taking off his suit jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. He ashed out his blunt and placed it in the front pocket of his crisp, white button down. Smoke made his way towards the bar, unbuttoning his sleeves and his shirt along the way.

“Yes, daddy! Play that saxophone!”

“Sing it Rose!”

“Let’s Jive!”

“Ooooweee! If it ain’t Mr. Smoke Stack himself! Come over here!”

Smoke chuckled deeply before dabbing up his uncle and the owner of the establishment; Buck. His liquor breath and gold teeth were two things you remembered about Big Buck. Or, how he’d like to call it ‘I’m Big Buck and I like to fuck’. And boy did he get his share of pussy. He had eight kids to prove it.

“Look at my nephew! Now hold on…where is your twin?” Buck’s yellowing eyes wandered around in search of him.

“He’s handlin’ business. No time to settle. You know how he get. I had to break away tho’ I got business to ‘tend to.”

Smoke accepted a glass of whiskey and took a long sip. It burned so good down his throat.

“Yeah, uh-huh. We know why’s you here! That gal. You know she’s seeing someone else, right?”

The corner of his upper lip fluttered with disdain at the thought of another man touching his bitch. Smoke wasn’t having it. One look into his eyes, she’d fall into his lap again. Wet puss and all. She wrote him often. Sent him pictures. He’d gotten them all. So, was she doing all that while messing with some squat-ass fool?

“Gimme the low down, Buck.” Smoke insisted impatiently.

“Aight, nephew. Another?”

Smoke raised his glass, “hold the hail. I don’t need no watered down shit. I’m tryna get swacked.”

Buck’s gut laugh filled the cramped space between them.

“You remember Phonzo?”

“Shid, not pussy ass Phonzo? C’mon now gal…”

“Damn straight. He wines and dines her. Buys her shit…”

“She using.” Smoke replied.

He turned his eyes on her again. She looked so damn fine. Mmm. That body was nice. He could smell her perfume on his mustache. That amber scented flesh. Smoke knocked the rest of his drink back and stood from his seat at the bar. She ended another song and received a standing ovation. Smoke pushed his way towards the front but before he could get there, a man reached out to help her down. Her joyous laugh made Smoke’s stomach churn.

“Put me down, baby! I had too much to drink!”

“it’s Smoke Stack!”

All eyes fell towards the handsome gangster. Smoke ignored all except those pretty, doe eyes that locked on him with utter shock. Short and stacked. The finest woman in all of Louisiana. Ain’t no way she’s giving all that to Phonzo. Smoke pressed forward, his penetrating eyes racking over Rosetta’s frame. It was easy to tell the twins apart because one had a noticeable scar on his face and the other didn’t.

“Well I’ll be,” Phonzo secured his arm around Rosetta’s waist tighter, “Smoke. What’s shaking, man?”

Smoke’s lips remained tightly sealed and his eyes never left his Rosey. Tension was thick in the air like the sound of the powerful double bass.

I love my moonshine whiskey

Better than I do my man

I love my moonshine whiskey

Better than I do my man

You got have your beer in your bottle

Give me my cool kind hands…

“Rosey…”

Rosetta parted her deep-red lips to speak.

“Smoke…”

That voice. He’d missed it.

Smoke Stack was seeing red.

“Get yo’ hands off my woman, Phonzo.”

“You think you can just show up? This ain’t your woman anymore, Smoke. You proved that when you left her for the taking. Go on somewhere now…”

Phonzo attempted to walk away with Rosetta in his grasp, but Smoke swiftly grabbed her hand, swinging her over towards him with an expert twirl of her beautiful frame. She collided with his sturdy chest, her eyes staring up at him.

Rosetta was still trying to pick her jaw up from the floor. She couldn’t believe Smoke was back. The familiar warmth of his much larger and more powerful frame sent images swirling through her mind of the times they’ve shared. She hadn’t received a letter from him in almost a year. Every single day she worried herself about him. However, Rosetta had entertained the thought of being with Phonzo. Tonight would have been the night that she would have given Phonzo a taste of what Smoke Stack dicked down. It was an act of desperation.

“Rose! Whatchu doin’ gal? Don’t let this fool back into your life!” Phonzo reached his hand out for her to take, “I won’t leave you like he did. Remember? I promised that trip to Chicago. We can pack up and catch a train!”

“I’ll take her to Chicago, to Trinidad, Paris, wherever my money goes, she goes. You had your fun tryna get what’s mine. I suggest you fade, Phonzo…”

Um, make me another two bit pint

'Cause I've got my habits down

I'm gonna wreck this joint…

“Let’s go,” Smoke had a strong grip on Rosetta’s hand as he placed her in front of him to walk away.

Rosetta finally gathered her thoughts. She halted her footsteps inches away from the bar.

“Hold on, Smoke,” She pointed a red nail at him sternly, “How dare you show up here like this?! I haven’t heard from you in over a year! You can’t just walk up in here and whisk me away like some night in shining armor! Who do you think you are?!”

“Says which? I’ve written you!” Smoke shouted back.

“I ain’t get one letter in a year!”

Smoke kisses his teeth, “That’s some bullshit and you know it. Maybe the letters got mixed up…none of that matters now, baby. I’m back. For good now…”

Buck and another bartender watched the two of them go back and forth with amusement.

“We’ll see how long that lasts!” Rosetta sassed.

A gun clicking had Smoke on high alert. He pushed Rosetta behind him and turned, staring down into the barrel of a pistol. Phonzo was sweating bullets. He had two of his lackeys behind him, posted up like they were ready to do damage. Rosetta clung onto the sticky bar top, peeking around to see what the ruckus was about.

“Time to knock you off that high horse. You and that brother of yours don’t run shit ‘round here no more. Give me back my bitch, and we can get back to jivin’.”

“Excuse me?!” Rosetta argued, “I got your bitch—”

“Rosey, relax, baby. Daddy got this.” Smoke looked from the pistol pointed at his chest, to Phonzo with a sinister smile, “You off the cob or something, Phonzo?”

“You tryna make me look pussy in front of my boys?!”

Smoke tilted his head to size up his ‘boys’.

“They shakin’ in they boots just like you. C‘mon now, Phonzo. We can do this the easy way…you put that steel down, and walk away. I came for my woman and that’s it. Pick yo’ self up and use those bony-ass pegs and leave.”

Laugher erupted around them. Patrons watched on like it was a live performance. Phonzo always hated being the laughingstock. No one took him seriously. People tolerated him because Smoke and his twin skipped town to handle business.

“I ain’t going nowhere!” Phonzo yelled.

He pressed his gun into Smoke’s chest hard.

“Nigga, you ain’t got shit—”

Smoke picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and cracked it over Phonzo’s head. When Phonzo dropped to his knees with shards of glass embedded in his face, Smoke snatched his pistol up and pointed it at the two men that were once standing proud. They both shared a look with each other before bending over to pick Phonzo up.

Smoke placed the pistol in the waistband of his slacks and snatched a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean up the blood that seeped from a gash in the palm of his hand. People were used to violence ‘round here. Too drunk, high, and horny to care about Phonzo bleeding out onto the floor. Buck didn’t blink an eye as he shined a new glass before pouring a gentleman a glass of top shelf whiskey.

“Get ‘em out. Don’t come back, nigga. I’ll use your pistol to put a bullet in yo’ head fuckin’ wit’ me!”

Phonzo—delirious and bloody—was dragged out of the juke joint by his two loyal men. Smoke knew that as soon as Phonzo regained consciousness, he’ll be on the hunt for him. Smoke was ready.

Smoke took a seat at the bar and pulled Rosetta into him. Blunt between his lips, glass of whiskey in front of him, Rosetta gave him a light, watching her daddy with lust.

You know I can't stand it

You're running around

You know better, baby

I can't stand it 'cause you put me down

Oh, no…

“Smoke, Daddy…”

Rosetta took the blunt from between his lips and hit it. He watched her with low, hazy eyes. All he did was walk through those doors. She was at his mercy like he’d never left.

“You’ll really take me to Paris?”

Smoke accepted his blunt, “I’ll take you all over the world, baby…listen, I know I got some makin’ up to do, but don’t you ever do no shit like that again, hear me? I’m a always come back to you…”

“You right about that makin’ up,” Rosetta giggled, “We got all night though. Phonzo was my ride home…”

“Here, go grab my jacket and we can go.”

Smoke tapped Rosetta on her rump and pointed to where he placed his suit jacket. He paid his tab and promised to be back to catch up with his uncle. Rosetta returned and Smoke grabbed her by the hand, ushering her out of the juke joint and into the murky night.

_______________

Smooth leather seats, a pistol on the dash, windows rolled down.

Rosetta and her fur shawl sat elegantly next to a hunk of a gangster. She admired the stain of her lipstick on his cheek when she stole a quick kiss while he opened her door for her.

She missed her Smoke Daddy so damn bad. It hurt to the bone. Smoke could feel her pretty eyes on him and he glanced over to her, giving her a dimpled smirk filled with mischief. They were halfway there to her apartment above a boutique.

“I missed you, Rosey. So much.”

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine…

“Where did you go?”

Smoke took a moment to respond.

“…My brother had business in Texas. Then we picked up some jobs throughout the south. Made enough money to last us a lifetime…Made some bad choices, but I’m richer. Stronger. Ready to sweep you off yo’ feet. I want you to travel the world and sing to audiences bigger than that hole in the wall. Serious, gal.”

Rosetta blinked away tears.

“Don’t do none of that, baby. No crying…”

“I’m just glad ya ain’t dead somewhere in a ditch!”

Rosetta accepted a clean handkerchief from Smoke. She dabbed her eyes to avoid messing up her makeup.

“I made a promise to get back to you and I meant that.”

Rosetta exhales, “I know, daddy…I just…I’ve been so touch starved. I would’ve given Phonzo all of me if you hadn’t shown up…”

Smoke’s nostrils flared and he looked at her with those dark eyes that made her clench her thighs.

“Phonzo don’t know what to do wit’ all that. And you belong to me. All of you. You make that pussy cum while Daddy was away?”

“Yes…but it wasn’t enough. I miss the fuckin’ we used to do…”

Smoke’s Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of the boutique Rosetta’s mother owned. She worked there for extra money, but now that Smoke was back, she didn’t have to work. Smoke opened her door and helped her out. Shutting it, they walked towards the shop and Rosetta opened the door with a single gold key. Smoke observed his surroundings with a sharp eye before following her inside. It was dark, but the moonlight ignited a path for them leading towards a narrow staircase leading up to Rosetta’s apartment that she shared with her mother.

She had some privacy for now since her mother went away to visit family in Baton Rouge for a week. The boutique was closed until she returned. Rosetta opened the door and flicked on a light. It was exactly how Smoke had remembered it. Small and cozy and blessed by a woman that practiced root work. Rosetta walked into their small kitchen and opened the fridge to grab a pitcher of water. She poured a glass for Smoke and herself.

“You can stay for a few days until momma comes back. It don’t matter how grown I am, she don’t like men over…”

“I get it. I’ll have a place to stay. Then you can leave here and be wit’ me.”

“Smoke…”

Smoke finished his glass, sat it on the counter, and pulled Rosetta close. His hands caressed her back and dragged down to cuff her cheeks. Eyes locked on her face, he brought his plump lips to her own, pecking them with soft kisses. Rosetta whimpered and shifted, slightly raising one foot. Smoke hooked his strong arm around her trim waistline. His other hand squeezed the flesh of her plump ass.

“You always know just how to push my buttons, don’t you, Rose? Couldn’t wait for daddy to come back?”Smoke asked with his lips barely touching hers, “That’s alright, though…Im gon’ remind you just who you belong to...”

Suddenly, Smoke delivered a series of sharp smacks to her behind without warning. Rosetta gasped as she felt the sting of each slap.

“Smoke, I’m sorry…I didn’t fuck him…I swear.” Rose pleaded.

“But you gave ‘em hope. If I hadn’t shown up…”

His wide hand lifted her silk dress over her ass and he went to town whacking each cheek—left, right, left—the pain increasing. Rosetta buried her face into his chest, her lipstick staining his shirt. Smoke palmed her cheeks hard, savoring the heft of that juicy flesh in his rough hands.

“Damn,” Smoke stared over her shoulder and down at her rump, “this big ass…mmm…mmm…mmm…I wanna look at that pussy, baby…I still have that picture of your pussy in my wallet…”

Rosetta set up a camera and took photos of herself nude before sending them off to whatever address Smoke told her to send it to. He’d beat his fat dick every night to all her photos. He stole a pair of her panties as a reminder of her scent. Anything to keep his sanity.

“You do?” Rosetta stared up at Smoke.

“Yeah,” Smoke retrieved his wallet from his pocket. He presented the photo to Rosetta. It had cracks in it from being folded, but her hairy mound, phat clit, and glistening folds stood out against the black and white, “She still nice and bushy?”

Smoke had a thing for hair. He hated whenever Rosetta would do a clean shave. Since he’d been gone, she’d started shaving again. Luckily, there was enough hair there to satisfy his desires.

“Not too much, daddy…”

“Mm,” Smoke flicked his tongue against her lips.

“I want you to do it to me, daddy…”

“Do it all night long, baby?”

“Do it to me, papa…”

Smoke’s dick jumped and stretched to proportions he couldn’t handle.

“I wanna suck on that pussy first…”

Rosetta’s clit twitched at the thought of Smoke slurping on her pussy cat until she was wrung dry. She had a lot for him to drank up. When she first laid eyes on him tonight, the wetness soaked through and created a slippery, sticky mess. Those big lips and that thick dick…

“Let me smell it,” Smoke picked Rosetta up and sat her down on the cramped counter space, “Spread your fuckin’ legs you sexy, bitch…”

Rosetta made quick work of her thighs spreading wide and limber. Smoke could see a big wet spot in the crotch of her cotton panties. He didn’t waste time stroking the outlines of her fat lips that strained against the fabric. Smoke chuckled before slipping her panties to the side. His fingertips graced coarse hair covered in slick and heat. Beyond that was a clit made to be suckled.

“Shit, she still get nice and wet for me,” Smoke admired the shine on his thick fingers before bringing it to his nose to take a whiff, “fuccck,” He pushed his fingers into his mouth and licked them clean, “Fresh pussy…taste so good…”

He was down on his knees with his fingers tangled in her panties to keep them out of his way. Rosetta brought one leg up and it opened her lips more for him to eat. The humidity of that kitchen had their brown skin glistening beneath the dim, yellow, lamp lights. Smoke spread her lips and stared into her pussy. Rosetta stroked his slick-back, begging him to put his face in it.

Smoke buried his nose in it first. He rubbed her clit with the tip of his nose before using his lips to encase her clit and suck. He sucked nice and slow to warm her up, but then he created a vortex so tight with his lips Rosetta almost fell from the counter. The sucking came at a rapid pace—precise and intense.

“Uhnnn,” Rosetta gasped and moaned, “Daddy!”

Rosetta stroked her pussy many times to one of her favorite raunchy tunes. Jump Steady Daddy by Lucille Bogan stayed on repeat whenever she rubbed on her clit to the thought of her Smoke Daddy. She missed when he would come to her late at night, sneak in her bed and eat her pussy. She loved it when he would be on his knees, holding her weight up and fucking into her.

Love me, daddy

Love me all the time

Love me, daddy

Love me all the time

And if you love me like I did

You'll be that jump steady man of mine…

“Yes, ooh, daddy, papa,” Rosetta’s thighs shook out of her control, “Ima cum…Ima cum…”

The thin straps of her silk slip dangled from her shoulders and perspiration trickled down her spine. She didn’t have time to prepare before she was creaming down Smoke’s chin. All he did was suck her clit. He came up for air, lips dripping wet and face glistening with cum.

Her nipples poked out through her slip, teasing Smoke’s eyes. He was as hard as stone, unable to bear the feeling anymore. Smoke stood and picked Rosetta up from the counter, carrying her towards her room. The door was ajar, so all he needed to do was nudge it and he was walking inside. He didn’t bother closing the door. Smoke placed Rosetta on her back, climbing on top of her and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

Rosetta smoothed his button down shirt over his shoulders and Smoke pulled his arms through. He had on a white beater that clung to his muscles like plaster. Smoke broke his lips away and trailed kisses down her neck until he was at the tops of her breasts. Rosetta arched up into his chest, soft moans music to his ears.

Smoke used his teeth to yank the rest of her slip down, revealing 34 C breasts with large nipples that reminded him of chocolate-covered gum drops. Rosetta dragged her nails through his hair, messing up the smoothness of it, revealing waves. Her updo had come undone, finger-waved hair falling into her eyes. The salty, sweet taste of her skin caused him to growl.

“Daddy…I wanna taste that dick…”

With a deep exhale, Smoke stood up. Rosetta sat up on her knees with her dress around her waist and went to work undoing his slacks. She pushed down his boxers and his pants in one motion, his dick bobbing out like a pendulum and hitting her on the chin. Rosetta admired how girthy and veiny her daddy’s dick is. She licked up the precum before it was wasted and with her eyes on him, she wrapped her lips around him and sucked.

“Ahhhh…There you go, baby…that’s how you welcome me home…suck this big boy…gobble it up…”

Her soft hair in his grasp, Smoke’s toned hips pumped her throat. He curled his top lip, revealing golds, grunting at the feel of her tight throat.

“Ugh, fuck, baby…the best dick suckin’ bird in N’awlins…”

Rosetta giggled in response. She prided herself in her skills. Sucking dick and riding dick was her specialty. Smoke licked his lips, eyes barely open as he watched her. He tilted his head and started drilling her mouth. Loud gagging noise started, Rosetta’s once pristine makeup now running down her face.

“You’re so beautiful wit’ my dick in your throat, baby…make daddy cum…so I can fuck that pussy…”

His girth increased, Rosetta’s jaws tightening. She grabbed hold of his balls and worked her neck like no other. Smoke chewed on his bottom lip and threw his head back.

“Hmmm….mmmmmm….”

His hips spasmed out of control. Rosetta almost choked on his thick cum. She had to spit his dick out just to swallow what she could. The rest painted her chest.

“Turn that ass over,” Smoke stepped out of his pants and with one hand on his long dick, he pumped it, “On your knees, gal.”

Rosetta brought that ass in the air and arched her back deep. Smoke stood behind her with a big dick swinging. Rosetta hadn’t felt it in two years. She was afraid. Shaking with fear. He had to open her up again.

“Use them big girl words and tell me what you want,” Smoke slapped her cheeks around, “Where you want this dick?”

“Daddy, fuck me!” Rosetta begged.

His dick aligned with her ass and with his big hands he tucked it higher. Smoke grunted and slapped her bouncy cheeks.

“Ouch! Papa…” Rosetta cried, more from surprise.

It hurt so good. With hands as large as his, he managed to cover a wide area of her ass, leaving behind a burning sting that only made her wiggle her ass against him. Smoke rubbed her down before digging his fingers into the flesh, spreading her wide, and thrusting into her.

“Oh, my! Smoke!”

Rosetta’s ass recoiled and bounced off of Smoke’s sturdy hips. He had her by the hair, keeping her back arched. That man was fucking her like he was fresh out of jail. His thick shaft gave her stretch and his length made her feel it in her stomach. The sound of her wet pussy matched the skin-slapping.

“Big dick on you! Fuck!”

Smoke let go of her hair and grabbed her hips. Rosetta looked back at him with her mouth agape and brows knitted together in disbelief. His hair had puffed up and some strands fell over his forehead. He looked wild and sexy. Muscles flexing, golds flashing, eyes unblinking.

“Keep fuckin’ me, papa! Fuck this wet pussy, daddy! Oh my goddddd—”

Rosetta fell forward and buried her face in the sheets.

“Uh-uh,” Smoke brought one leg up, leaned over her, and wrapped a hand around her throat, “You can take this dick. Get that shit you want so bad,” Smoke said.

Every cry or whimper that came out of her mouth, he responded with an evil chuckle or a groan of his own in her ear.

“Grip me up like that…good girl…that’s it baby…”

Rosetta felt hot liquid trickling down her thighs. Tears brimmed her eyes and her body seized up with her release. Smoke withdrew his hips and got down behind her to lick her up. He licked her thighs, then trailed his spit to her folds. He rolled her onto her back and scooted her towards the edge of the bed. Ass hanging off, legs thrown over his shoulders, Smoke put that dick in her pussy and pounded up into her with sharp thrusts that had her toes curling.

“Oh, shit!” Rosetta and her swinging titties couldn’t handle it, “Damnit, Smoke! I’m cumin’ !!!!!”

Scooting her onto the bed, he pile-drived her into the creaky mattress. Folded in half was an understatement. She stared down the valley of his impressive body at his dick.

“Big Daddy!” Rosetta pressed her feet into his chest, “Fuck me good! Take this pussy!”

“This my fuckin’ pussy…”

Smoke slammed into her before dropping down to kiss her soft lips again. His thrusts turned into modulated pumps that caused her to gasp. Each time his dick would enter her, she would gasp with surprise. Smoke nibbled on her pouty bottom lip and stared into her eyes longingly.

You know I love you

I love you

I love you anyhow

And I don't care

If you don't want me

I'm yours right now…

“Cum for me Smoke Daddy…”

His forehead furrowed and with one more sharp thrust, he erupted deep in her womb.

———————-

527 notes · View notes

santatrackershowdown · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome to the first ever second ever Santa Tracker Showdown! (The first one was held on Twitter in 2021.) Every Christmas Eve, numerous Santa Trackers try to track Santa, but none of them track quite the same one. Which Santa is the best Santa? That's for us to find out.

THE CONTESTANTS

This year, we're coming out the gate with FOUR contestants, possibly more given enough time!

NORAD Santa Tracker - From my knowledge, this is the Original Santa Tracker, and the one I grew up with. Once the best in show, NORAD has floundered in recent years, making an experience heavily unoptimized for desktop, and failing to deliver as many presents as Google. Is this the year NORAD makes a comeback? The skinny vertical website frame that just popped up for me indicates "No."

Google Santa Tracker - The most polished of the Santa Trackers, which probably makes it the best one, but also the least interesting. If you're looking for a high-quality Santa Tracking experience, this is probably your best bet, but half the fun of Santa Trackers in the year of our lord 2023 is how little any of them work.

The Santa Tracker - Take this one for example. The breakout star of last time. The Santa Tracker plays by no consistent rules, has an website that barely works on any platform, and if this year is telling anything right out the gate, this hasn't changed at all. Despite barely working, it still insists it is The Santa Tracker, and in our hearts, it very well may be.

NEW! Santa Tracker - Just Santa Tracker. This is the new contestant in the ring, so I have yet to figure out what its style is. It seems to be made by Fusible, so maybe it's more proper to call it "Fusible Santa Tracker". I wait with bated breath to see it in action.

There's also a Santa Tracker for the Nintendo Switch that costs three dollars, but I am not sure if I am committed enough to the bit to buy it. Yet. If I buy it, I'm expecting a premium Santa Tracking experience.

That's about all we need for the introduction. Sit down with a glass of milk and tray of cookies, and may the best Santa Tracker win.

#santa tracker showdown 2023

221 notes · View notes

simstorian-blog · 1 month ago

Text

New York City: THREE

(CC List + DL)

E X T E R I O R

C O N C E R T S T A G E

H O T E L

Standard Suite I An open concept room with a double bed, hosting up to 2 sims, and living area. It comes with its own bathroom.

Standard Suite II An open concept room with 2 double beds, hosting up to 4 sims, and living area. It comes with its own bathroom.

Premium Suite Private Floor with an outdoor terrace overlooking the city. It comes with the following: A full living room, kitchenette, a bedroom, and a full bathroom.

M A R K E T

Equipped with functional objects. You can grab a coffee and can purchase produce, fish, food from the market stall and/or cafeteria counter! This space has its own bathroom.

B E A U T Y B A R

This beauty bar has 6 salon chairs meeting the minimum requirements for the Shear Brilliance Mod. Alongside those chairs comes a retail counter, seating for waiting customers, 4 mani/pedi Spa Day Chairs, 1 Massage Table, a Staff Room, and its own bathroom.

[W A R N I N G: This lot is heavy. I do NOT recommend it if you do not have a decent system. My personal specs – GTX 1660ti, 16GB Ram, Nvme M.2 Primary Drive with 156GB of CC. It takes me 2-3 min to load for this lot, which is longer than my regular time. However, I have it set to the ‘Lounge’ lot type to avoid the extended load for the ‘Generic’ lot buildbuy when you have a lot of CC.]

World Map: San Myshuno

Area: Myshuno Meadows

Lot Size: 64 x 64

Capacity:

A Beauty Bar – Salon Chairs, Spa Day Items, Staff Room

A Concert Stage

A Hotel – Lot51’s Suite Life Mod Compatible

A Market – Functional

Bonus: 4 Empty Spaces – 3 Small buildings, 1 Spacious Skyscraper Floor

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

[Long post, I know! Second half below the line lol]

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

City Living

Cottage Living

Eco Lifestyle

Get Famous

Get Together

Get To Work

Growing Together

High School Years

Horse Ranch

Lovestruck

For Rent

Seasons

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dine Out

Dream Home Decorator

Journey to Batuu

Jungle Adventure

My Wedding Stories

Parenthood

Realm of Magic

Spa Day

Strangerville

Vampires

Werewolves

Stuff Packs

Backyard Stuff

Bowling Night

Home Chef Hustle

Romantic Garden

Kits

Cozy Bistro

Castle Estate

Desert Luxe

Recommended Gameplay Mods

(Please read through what each mod has to offer before deciding if it fits your gameplay style or not.)

Better Build Buy (For the ‘Deletion Protection’ setting, if you want to modify)

City Vibes Lot Traits

Lock/Unlock Doors for Any Lot (Works for Community Lots)

Shear Brilliance (Active Cosmetology Career)

Spawn Refresh

Suite Life Hotel & Resorts

Use Residential Rentals shared areas as Community Lots (For the lot challenge traits)

CC Used

[All credits go to the following creators for sharing their work with the community. It is greatly appreciated and I hope that you all have endless nights of the best sleep ever.]

Helpful Tip: Having Only What is Needed For CC Builds (Tumblr)

Amoebae: Pile in Carpet

Awingedllama: Traffic Light 3

Charly Pancakes: The Lighthouse Collection (Books C + D)

Felixandre: Berlin Pt. 2 (Front Door), Chateau Pt. 1|2|3|4, Colonial Pt. 1|3, Estate Pt. 1|2|3 (CF), Georgian, Gothic Revival (Mirror), Grove Pt. 1|2|3|4, January 2018, London Interior (Cane Chair), Paris Pt. 1, SOHO Pt. 3|4

FlirtyGhoul: Minimart Pt. 1-11

GUA: Air Conditioners

Hamstebelle: Cyberpunk Food Stall (Simlish)

Hanraja: S015 (Shelf Gass Deep), S037 (Dining Sit Booth + Sit Dining 2)

Harrie: Brownstone Pt., Coastal Pt. 5|7, Klean Pt. 1|2|3, Octave Pt. 2, Spoons Pt. 1

HeyBrine: Jessie Livin’ Pack Pt.1, Le Bistro Pack (Tables), Nana’s Collection (Microwave), Noova Collection

House of Harlix: Kichen (Glasses), Livin’ Rum (Frame Tvs), Orjanic Pt. 2

JoyceIsFox: Summer Garden – Tiles Pack (Purity#1 Floor + Wall Tiles)

KiwiSims4: Blockhouse Hallway (Small Lamp)

Kta: Vogue Prints 1 (10s-20s) [Mesh Needed]

Lijoue: A Louer Collection (Fence)

LilacCreative: Keratin Collection

Lili’s Palace: Intarsia Wainscot Wonderland (Polished Marble Floor)

LittleDica: Deligracy Fridge, Roman Holiday

Max20: Happily Ever After (Dining Table Knot)

MintyJinx: Terrain to Floor Collection

Myshunosun: Lottie (Throw Blanket)

Nempne: Cover Sheet Ceiling Tiles

Peacemaker: Hinterlands Living Room (Pouffe), Hudson Bathroom, Vampire Add Ons

Pierisim: Auntie Vera Bathroom, Coldbrew Coffeeshop Pt. 3, Domaine Du Clos Pt. 2|3|4, MCM Pt. 1|4|5, Outside Lunch, Tilable

Ravasheen: CounterFit Mini Fridge, Elevator, Shop Chef

Severinka: Apollo Sofa (Right), Grocery Store Pt. 1|2|4

Simspiration Builds: Portuguese Floors

SixamCC: Hotel Bedroom

Sooky88: Horizontal Oil Paintings

Sundays: Kediri Pt. 1 (Throw Pillows- Solids), Pool Haus, Swell Pt. 1, Ungasan Pt. 2 (Slippers)

Syboubou: Hotel Luggage Trolley

TaurusDesign: Eliza Walk In, Judith Kitchen (Barstool), Lilith Chilling Areas Pt. 1

Tuds: Base Game Curved Windows, Beam Kitchen (Table 1x2), Ind 02|03, Vime Closet

Winner9: Malibu Pillow

Vehicles: Included

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

DOWNLOAD (1.82 GB)

#simstorian #the sims 4 #sims 4 #ts4 #san myshuno #build #sims 4 cc build #cc build

49 notes · View notes

rotworld · 4 months ago

Text

1: Growing Shadows

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

on your homeworld of decretum, the nights are growing inexplicably longer. an imperial scholar arrives to investigate and comes to the conclusion that you know more than you're letting on.

warhammer 40k; original mandrake character/reader. explicit; contains dubcon (coercive/transactional), graphic depictions of violence and gore, murder, gangbang, non-human genitalia, non-consensual exhibitionism, ambiguous fate for the reader.

Theron is waiting for you in the Emerald Markets. He pretends he isn't. Pretends, like always, that it's just a happy coincidence your paths have crossed again, slinking out from the shadows of a stone arch.

“Shall we walk together?” he asks, as if he isn’t already following you.

It’s easy to be charmed because he is effortlessly charming in his sleek black coat with a stiff collar and silken cravat, smiling, clean-shaven, short hair parted down the middle to frame his handsome features. He speaks the sharp, precisely enunciated Gothic they teach at academies in the heart of the Imperium but he’s far friendlier than the usual Administratum census-taker or bureaucrat who occasionally visits. His interest in you is obvious, wandering gazes and lingering touches that make you wish he wasn’t spending all of his time holed up in the library.

He looks at you knowingly, a sly glance out of the corner of his eye when he catches you staring. You feel his hand settle lightly on your lower back.

“It was a lovely day while it lasted,” he says, looking up at the sky in dismay. “Does it really not bother you? All this dark? A mere four hours of sunlight hardly seems conducive to one’s emotional wellbeing.”

You shrug. “I think we’re all just used to it. The sun is nice but so is the moon. And it’s really not all that dark.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Not here, anyway.”

Walking the crowded streets of the market is like plunging into an open kaleidoscope, all color and crystal. There is food, of course, smoked meats and fresh fruits, spices overflowing from burlap sacks. There are hand-woven baskets and ceramics arranged on tiered shelves, tassel-edged tapestries and embroidered scarves, but more than anything, there are lanterns. If an artisan has dared to dream of it, it can be found here: round and angular, pyramidal and teardrop-elongated, simple four-sided boxes and dizzying geometric masterpieces with dozens of glittering faces. Decorative brass frames cradle panes of painted glass, tendriled metal latticework slicing the light into patterns as intricate as lace. Everywhere you look, they stain the night with spills of finely dappled watercolor, the dark rainbows of an oil slick.

“They really are something,” Theron marvels. “Did you know that Decretum’s lanterns are famous throughout the Imperium? My mentor has one in his office. Just a small one. Six-sided, with a rounded dome on top. Beautiful, but truly awful if you’re trying to read. I think it makes even more shadows than it chases away.”

You did know that. They’re your planet’s most profitable export. Nobles, governors, and wealthy socialites will pay a premium to get their hands on one. “You’re not really meant to use them for reading,” you tell him. “They soften the light, make it gentler. Much easier on the eyes.”

“A light that’s not meant to be bright,” he muses. “Curious.”

Movement catches your eye at the mouth of the alley. Three children huddle around a small orange lantern, giggling as they dart back and forth in front of the spotted light washing over the wall. They take turns holding their hands out, casting lopsided shapes with their splayed fingers and curling thumbs. A little boy holds up his fist, his other hand making a ‘V’ with two fingers that he wiggles back and forth. A girl, slightly older, presses her hands together, one splayed, the other limp. On the wall, the shadows of their outstretched hands look like the silhouettes of Decretum's wildlife; a snail and a spined, gaping lizard.

Theron slows his pace, watching the performance unfold. “What are they doing?” he asks. “Shadow puppets?”

You nod, pausing beside him. “It’s a game. ‘Shadow Eater.’ We all played it as kids.”

The girl curls her index fingers, making the lizard’s mouth gnash open and shut. She lunges forward, eclipsing the snail, and the boy makes a dramatic death wail, half-scream, half-gargle, leaping out of the lantern’s light. A different boy steps forward, this one far more ambitious with his movements. One hand first, downturned, index finger pointing—a branch. His other hand shapes a perching bird, a glaring eye formed in the space between an arching index and middle finger. “Ah, I see,” Theron says. “You have to keep thinking of something that can eat the last animal.” You think he’ll keep walking but he stays, hands in his pockets and head tilted, his curiosity unsated. The shadow bird suddenly takes flight, the branch vanishing as the boy loops this thumbs together to form a beak, both hands flapping. It descends on the lizard, mantles it with its jagged wings. The girl lets out a warbling death cry that makes the others laugh and scurries away.

“I was going through the planetary archives again today,” Theron tells you, keeping his voice low. “Decretum’s nights have grown incrementally longer over thousands of years. The increase, according to my calculations, is negligible. Fractions of a second. Hardly noticeable, until those fractions accrue into more easily measurable amounts. It’s not a normal, natural change. There are no local or astronomical phenomena that correlate with this particular trend, nothing about the atmosphere, the weather patterns or the nearest star. No other planet in the system has been affected the same way. It doesn’t make any sense.”

The youngest boy returns and makes a fox. One hand shapes the grinning head, two fingertips raised into tiny ears, while the other bends into paws and a curved body. It sneaks forward, ears flicking, and then it pounces. The older boy playing the bird warbles theatrically as he wrenches his hands apart. A frigid wind whistles through the alley and you shudder, rubbing your arms through your long sleeves. Theron adjusts his coat. The children holler excitedly and their game starts to go faster, the girl rushing back to the spotlight to make a larger canine shape. Both hands form a head, a scowling mouth, a protruding ear. Her wolf seizes the fox by the throat with a triumphant howl.

“Stranger still, I’ve noticed a secondary pattern. There are years where the change is larger than normal, the usual fractional increase insufficient to explain just how much longer the night becomes. The difference is quite stark. Whole seconds, sometimes. I don’t know what to make of it. But what truly confounds me is how unbothered you are about this. All of you.” Theron’s gaze shifts subtly as he speaks, watching you from the corner of his eye. Looking, you think, for a particular reaction.

You look back at him, trying to ignore the sick, anxious feeling in your chest. “We can’t control the sun. We can worry ourselves sick or we can keep living our lives.” You gesture at the children, laughing and shrieking playfully in their dance of predator and prey. “When I was their age, the nights were already long. Milliseconds or seconds, it doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s all we know.”

Theron studies your face in silence for a long, tense moment. There’s a wounded look in his eyes, something almost pleading. Guilt bubbles up in your chest.

It’s the older boy’s turn again—the last turn, you suspect. Most games end with the animal he makes. He holds one hand sideways, the other rearing atop like antlers. Theron watches wordlessly as the shadow puppets scuffle, clumsily miming a battle of claw and hoof. The wolf howls weakly, silenced with one final stomp. The glow of the lantern flickers briefly and the children cheer. “Shadow eater! Shadow eater!” they cry, dancing in snakeskin dusklight. “He eats us all up!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Theron says finally, his tone lightening somewhat. He starts walking again and you let out the breath you were holding, resuming your ambling pace. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t vent my frustrations on you. I’m accustomed to a bit more urgency when studying the Imperium’s myriad anomalies.”

“I’m sorry we’re not all more excited, or succumbing to mass panic,” you say, smiling when you manage to pull an amused huff out of him. “We’ve always been like this, I think. They say the earliest settlements on Decretum were plagued by all kinds of misfortune. Not much scares us. Definitely not the dark.”

“Everyone is afraid of the dark. It’s in our nature.”

You shake your head. “That’s because you think it’s full of monsters.”

“Isn’t it?” Theron asks.

“I don’t think so.”

You pass more lantern shops. More handicrafts. A livestock seller with scrappy blue chickens clucking in their wooden cages. Another group of children acting out another game of Shadow Eater, a squirrel fleeing the grasp of a screeching raptor. They wave when they see you, the light of their pale blue lantern bathing them in cold, wintry light.

At the edge of the marketplace, the neat tile path becomes bumpy cobblestone. A waning moon shines weakly through a thick gauze of clouds. The crowd thins as you venture further from the business district to the quiet neighborhood where Theron is staying. The few people you encounter are little more than a shift in the shadows, silhouettes that bow their heads and mutter greetings. A few carry lanterns, dim like dying stars, but many don’t. Theron stumbles sometimes, his toe catching on uneven stones and his gait thrown off by unexpected dips in the path. You’re much steadier. You can’t see very well but you don’t need to. You know the churn of the shadows here, the sounds they make, the thickness of them in your lungs.

You’ve never told Theron. You know he wouldn’t understand.

“That was a strange end to the game earlier,” he mentions. “That was a local species of cervid, wasn’t it? Surely they don’t eat wolves.”

You laugh. “No, there are a few variations. The kids are always making up new ones. Sometimes it’s about which animal is the cleverest. Sometimes it’s about which one is the strongest.”

There’s someone walking behind you. They’re some distance away, far enough that you’d have trouble spotting them if you turned around, but you can feel them, can feel how the dark shudders around their shape in displeasure. “Fascinating,” Theron says. “And what about the best at concealing things? The best liar, perhaps?” Someone steps into the path ahead. Several someones, their footsteps loud. You hear the creak of leather; the clink of metal. You freeze and Theron stops beside you, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “I didn’t want to do this. I have given you every opportunity to admit the truth and you’ve squandered them all.”

You tear out of his grasp and he lets you. There’s a hiss; a blade unsheathing. Then a crackling, a dull hum, a white hot glare searing your eyes. Theron holds a sword in his hand, the blade coursing with luminescent energy. It would sever your limb and cauterize the wound in the same swift stroke.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your throat constricting with fear.

“Taking you into custody,” Theron says. Gone is the charm and the warmth and the kindly demeanor, replaced by sharp coldness. The light of his sword is nothing like a Decretum lantern. It is harsh and untempered. The shadows shrink back from it warily. “You weren’t responsive to gentle questioning, so I must resort to something more intensive.”

“Questioning? For what? What did I do?”

“Does the name Lyra ring a bell?” He cocks his head at your blank expression, his lips curling into a contemptuous scowl. “No? What about Petros? Asherin? Willem?”

“Theron, I don’t—”

“Those were my colleagues. Lyra would have told you she was an artist studying Decretum lantern designs. Petros, a student of rural Imperial architecture. Asherin, a governor’s son on vacation. Only Willem openly declared his authority. He was always fond of the heavy-handed approach. Overconfident.” Theron unlatches the first few buttons of his coat, just enough to peel back his lapel and expose something glinting and metallic affixed to the inside. A crest, you realize. A symbol. A long line like a stake with a leering skull in the center—

Your pulse quickens. You didn’t recognize it at first because of the stylization, the curling scroll adornment, the wings atop the skull. That’s a Rosette, symbol of the Inquisition.

Theron lied to you, too.

“Ah. Now you remember,” he says. “Once, perhaps, you could’ve gotten away with it and escaped without further scrutiny. The Imperium is vast and paperwork is excruciatingly slow. But twice? Four times? This backwater you call a civilization has made Inquisitors disappear, and each time, the planet’s nights grew longer. I know the taint of heresy when I see it.”

He steps forward and you bolt, ducking beneath the clumsy grasp of someone who tried to sneak up behind you. Theron shouts in anger and you hear a gunshot, feel the hiss of something whizzing past you. A roaring bloom of heat and light shakes the ground and steals your breath, sends you careening, rolling, shoving yourself back on your feet. You don’t know if you’re hit, can’t tell if the fire licked the skin off your ankles or shards of shattered stone lodged in your calves with adrenaline numbing everything but the fear.

There are more of them and they move with the coordination of a wolf pack, anticipating your movements and cutting off your escape. Another shot goes wide in the dark, a blink of sizzling dawn that turns burns dancing spots into your vision. Your shadow sprints at your side, stretched tall by lanterns perched on porch steps and warming darkened windows, stretched and contorted with each small explosion. Silhouettes stir behind drawn curtains, watching and waiting. Knowing you will do what must be done.

You hold out your hands. A simple one to start: all fingers facing up, spread apart. Grass swaying in the wind. The shape is clumsy and jittering as you run but you hope it’ll be enough. “See me,” you whisper desperately. “See me and come to me.” You round a corner, stumble, throw yourself forward on scraped hands and knees. A lantern looms atop a fence post, throwing light across the ground. You see a rabbit, flat and shadow, cast by something that isn’t there. It darts between your feet, too precise and perfect to have been formed by hands. “See me,” you say. “See—”

Another shot, loud like thunder, and this time you know you’re hit. You’re warm. Burning. Your shoulder throbs. Slickness dribbles down your back, following the curve of your spine. The pain is distant but it’s gaining on you, an ache sprouting sharper edges. Theron is careful. He keeps his aim low, non-lethal but easily maiming. One wrong move and you’ll lose your legs.

Your hand shakes when you hold it up, thumb tucked in, index and little fingers bent at the knuckles. You use your arm, the bulky material of your sleeve to make the body. A cat, ears perked, tail wiggling playfully. The answer flies on the wall beside you, sleek and avian. This one is nothing like the stiff, crooked lizard-eater the children made for their game. It’s a fearsome thing with a hooked beak and great talons, shedding ashy clumps of feather-shaped darkness in its wake.

The night grows colder. Your breath trickles from your lips as pale smoke.

Another flash illuminates the street too brightly, everything pale and overexposed. But there is shelter. Darkness. An open alley—a chance. A risk. You dart for it, fire and death at your heels. A pair of lanterns sit against one stone wall, one warm and dawn-colored, one cool like the deep sea. Theron’s followers appear at the other end, blocking your exit. Your hands are trembling, fingers tingling with warning nips of frostbite. Your shapes become rudimentary and crude. One-handed cave snake. Limp nose-fingered steppe camel. Drooping, hideous Decretum greater spider, your hands too stiff to articulate proper movement.

But the game goes on, each movement conjuring a new, monstrous response from your unseen partner. The beasts grow larger, less familiar, more horrific with each passing turn: a dripping mirebeast. A segmented dross worm, as thick as your torso. A writhing, churning, too many mouthed nobody-maker, devourer of bones, souls and names. These are not animals found on Decretum. They are not found anywhere that has ever known the kiss of sunlight, however briefly.

And then a blast—an earth-shaking sound and sensation that knocks you off your feet and steals the breath from your lungs. Theron is close when he pulls the trigger. You see him briefly illuminated in the flash of fire, the burning golden-red of engulfing agony crackling like the glow of a bonfire against his face. You’re half-turned when the explosive round immolates everything below your knee. The pain turns your thoughts to hot wax, shapeless and leaking from the screaming terror in your mind. Is your leg still there? Is it gone? Melted into a bubbling slurry of liquified flesh and quivering tar puddles of what was once muscle? You don’t know, can’t tell, can’t feel it. Can’t feel anything through the pain boiling your blood, the rawness of scraped palms and wheezing, smoke-filled lungs.

But the game. The calling. It’s not done. One more, you think. Just one more. There is one beast that trumps all others. One way that it always ends. You try to turn over onto knees that might be shattered. The ground is blackened. Uneven. Speckled with blood. Someone smashes the lanterns. Kicks them over and stomps on what’s left. The lights gutter out and shadows eagerly fill their space like swarming carrion birds to a corpse.

“That was a warning,” Theron tells you. “I only need enough of you to answer my questions. I can keep you alive with far less than this if I have to.” The sword in his hand thrums softly with power. Its glow is unsightly. Powerful. It fills the alley. Everything caught in its spotlight glow casts a long, sharply defined shadow. Even as you’re surrounded on all sides by inquisitorial agents, it’s easy to find your hunched shape among their legs in your silhouette doubles along the wall. Your vision swims. Theron’s cold sneer turns blurry. You pitch forward at his feet in a deep bow, your forehead pressed to the ground before his boots. He inhales sharply. Almost a laugh. He thinks you’re groveling, about to beg for your life.

But you’re not. You’re playing the game. Humans have bested the nobody-maker. Not always. Not without great sacrifice. Like the canopy moose of Decretum’s most treacherous forests trampling a wolf to save its young, this is not a battle one ever hopes to fight and it is never won without scars.

“See me and come to me,” you say, your voice a hoarse, ruined whisper. You know you are heard. You know, when the darkness ripples like the surface of a lake, that you are answered. Theron takes a cautious step back. You’re too weak to lift your head and follow his gaze but you know this coldness. This darkness. This feeling, like the night is a beast come to roost.

There is a shadow on the wall. An extra. One that should not be there. Monstrously tall and spindly, the shapeless thing looks nearly human until it moves, predator-graceful and uncanny like a nightmare glimpsed in the twilight between waking and sleep. It slithers across the alley wall into the thicket of shadows caging you in. Theron cries out a warning but he’s too late. His voice dies to a strangled croak.

Meaning spreads in your mind. Not sound but its aftermath, like the cosmic scream of a star long dead. Your mind makes it into words but some of them curve and fractal, shattering into multiple concepts all spoken at the same time. “Hello,” it says, but also, “Greetings misfortunes night eternal.” Its name, too, is like the color that pours from a prism lantern, a blur of ceaseless beauty. I Am The Darkness Ever-Growing, but Ever-Growing also means Changing in its language, also Covering, also Devouring. Once, you heard it speak its name and it sounded like I Am The Shadow Devouring, so that’s what you told the others. That’s still the name they know, however shortened, however calcified by human language.

Shadow Eater comes closer, passing through the unmoving throng of Theron’s retinue. It doesn’t touch them; only their shadows. Each time it eclipses them, covers their featureless doubles in its own darkness, they start to shiver and bleed.

“Dusk-speaker,” it addresses you.

“Chosen,” it hisses.

“Lover,” it sighs.

“By the Throne,” Theron whispers. “A mandrake.”

A torrent of blood spatters the ground beside you. One of Theron’s men clutches his throat and the gaping wound splitting it open, a red, glistening maw oozing over his scrabbling fingers. He’s choking. Something bulges under his skin, in his neck. You see darkness in the folds of the wound between slippery soft tissues. Clawed fingers the color of night, tearing him apart from the inside.

“This land,” Shadow Eater says, “this world, planet, garden. Long have you defended it. Long have I aided you. Closed prying eyes. Lopped off thieving fingers.” It steps closer. Another man screams like an animal caught in a snare. Blood gushes from his eyes, his nose, between his teeth. It trickles from his ears and stains his clothes in heavy red shadows like sweat. “They do not understand. Outsiders. Sun-scourged. Light-drunk and drowning-in-day—”

“You made a deal with it?” Theron hisses. “It’s an abomination. Do you understand what you’ve done? It’s devouring your world!”

You try to sit up. To raise your head, at least. Everything hurts too much. Sprawled on your side, you crane your neck to peer at the wall and find Shadow Eater gazing down at you. It bends down, crouching in front of your writhing, miserable shadow. When it reaches out, you swear you can feel the soothing cold of its palm on your sweat-soaked forehead. “To be eaten is to be sheltered,” you say. “To be embraced. Ever-growing.”

“Do you hear yourself? This is madness! You’ve doomed all of Decretum.” Theron clutches his sword in his shaking fist, jaw clenched in simmering rage but you see fear in his eyes. He hasn’t moved. He can’t. There’s the slightest quiver in his voice, easily missed if you hadn’t heard so many Inquisitors break before him. “If you kill me, the full force of the Inquisition will be at your door. Ordo Malleus is well aware of the strange occurrences on this planet and word will spread. My death will hasten your destruction.”

Shadow Eater turns towards him slowly. Someone retches, heaves and vomits. Bile, blood and bits of intestine slosh across the ground. “Perhaps,” Shadow Eater says. In words this time. Out loud, so Theron can hear and understand it. “Perhaps it will. Your death could bring more death. Annihilation by wrathful brightness. Weapons of night-killing. My garden, turned to ash.”

You inhale shakily. Shadow Eater’s clawed hand caresses your shadow’s face and you feel it, firm, possessive, wanting. The steady touch of an old lover who knows you better than anyone.

“Or,” it purrs, “perhaps they will come here and find nothing. Only darkness and echoes. Only the hungry maw of the void.”

They’re dying all around you. Collapsing to their knees, cupping the gruesome spill of entrails from open bellies. Bruises bloom beneath the skin and the bulging outline of some voracious thing presses against their flesh from the inside. Theron’s stony expression crumbles with every pained whimper and gurgling gasp. “Don’t do this,” he says solemnly. “Surely you know, deep down, that this is wrong. I don’t know how you came into the service of this beast or how many came before you, but you could be the last. You could save this world. The children of Decretum deserve lives bathed in the light of the Emperor, not this wretched darkness—”

“The sun,” you correct him. Theron gapes at you, too stunned to reply. “It’s the sun that lights this planet four hours a day. The last time Decretum felt the light of the Emperor was ten thousand years ago. He brought war. He vaporized cities and killed millions. Decretum came into the Imperium through bloodshed.”

“And this is the answer? More bloodshed? The deaths of billions more?”

You shake your head. “You’re afraid of the dark, Theron. We haven’t been for a very long time.”

Shadow Eater laughs like a death rattle and the grating of metal. You see slopes of lean muscle in its arms, wisps of hair spilling over its shoulders, the pointed ends of unnaturally long ears. Unnatural light throbs in swirling patterns across its body and glitters in the shape of eyes narrowed in sadistic glee. The eerie green glow does not weaken the shadows but makes them darker, more solid somehow.

“You called. Summoned. Pleaded. Needed, and shall receive,” it says. “If you can pay the price.”

You hesitate to ask. “What’s the price?”

Its hand moves. Lowers slowly. You watch it touch your shadow’s neck and feel its cold fingers on your throat, testing how hard it can push before you choke. “Everything,” it says. “All of you, love of mine. Body. Mind. Soul. For that, I keep my garden. For that, I save your world.”

“Don’t!” Theron begs.

“This is how it ends, isn’t it?” you ask.

Shadow Eater laughs but more softly this time. It’s the creak of a door that has not been opened as long as anyone can remember. The whispers of ice underfoot before it breaks and cold water swallows you whole. “Yes,” it says, its palm over your heart. “This is how it ends.”

“In devouring?”

“In shelter,” it promises. In remaking, it means, in wholeness and in eternity. It trails its claws up your arm and your sleeve comes apart like flesh beneath a scalpel, the fabric split cleanly all the way to your shoulder. Underneath, your skin is adorned with the same patterns marking its shadowflesh. In the dark, they glow the same lightless green.

“Shadow Eater,” you say, just as you have so many times before, “I will pay this price.”

All across Decretum, night roils like a stormy sea. The darkness is a tangible, hungry thing that grows and deepens, seeping from every corner. Lanterns flicker, die and flare to life once again in the same haunting shade of green no matter the color of their glass. The clouds eat the moon piece by jagged piece. The dead and dying around you begin to bloat and contort, shadows spilling from their gashes and wounds thick like sludge. Claws crack open rib cages and scrape through flesh as mandrakes emerge from each broken body, not mere shadows but real and solid.

Their hair is silver like the missing moon and their faces are jack-o-lantern smiles, glowing green features carved from the darkness that change in blinks and flickers. Shadow Eater speaks words not meant for you, animal calls and echoes that make your head spin. The other mandrakes creep closer. One pushes you upright too quickly and you hiss, trying to shift your weight off your knees. Another trails its frigid fingers along the underside of your leg—still there, you only realize now, but badly burned and oozing. It collects your clotted blood and pus on its claws and brings the mixture to its mouth, a long, green tongue curling around the digit to taste your pain.

They all speak at once, a cacophony of threats, sweet nothings, insults and seduction. You are beloved and you are despised, a treasure, a whore, a shadow at twilight. They call you dusk-speaker, sun-touched, most wondrous in moonlight, most coveted of consorts. One plasters itself against your back and shoves its hands into your clothes, caressing your skin with greedy hands. Another presses its mouth to yours, each teasing lick and nip leaving tingles of frostbite on your lips. Another slides its fingers between your legs and rubs too rough, too fast, making you whimper and squirm.

You lose count of how many there are—five? Six? They blur into one another, shift and meld and split apart. One spreads your legs, a claw on each of your knees holding them apart, while another eagerly fills the space between them. Your clothes turn to tatters, exposing all of your markings. They are vivid now, a deeper green than you remember, giving off the same lightless glow.

“Shadow Eater!” you cry. You’re afraid. You’ve always known the name of the dark, but suddenly it’s become a stranger.

“Yes, dusk-speaker?” it answers. Its voice comes from everywhere at once. Behind you. Beside you. In your own head, a whisper between your thoughts. The mandrake kneeling between your legs cups your cheek and its touch is firm. Familiar. It urges you to look at the flickering green flames of its eyes. Is it Shadow Eater? Are they all the same mandrake, the same shadow split seven ways? You don’t know. Maybe you never will. One of them bites your neck hard enough to draw blood and your pained whine excites it, makes it pant hungrily into your skin. Its tongue feels like the press of an ice cube, too cold and then soothing.

“Have you always known it would end this way?” it asks. “Have you longed for it?”

They devour you every way they can. Your pain and your pleasure, your thoughts and your senses, your body and mind. Pressed between them, you become nothing more than a vessel for mindless sensation. Your hands tangle in snow-white hair. Your legs lock around straining, pistoning hips, meeting frenzied thrusts.

Shadowflesh is not the same as a human body. The things they conjure between their legs to fuck you could be any shape and any size, changing whenever they see fit. You take something long and flexible, thighs quivering as it wriggles deeper than you expected, deeper than should be physically possible. You kiss a cold, greedy mouth with two tongues. More hands than you can count hold you, cushion you, reposition you. Time loses meaning. There’s only the dark, and the green, and the ecstasy that only a shadow can give you.

And Theron.

You jolt in sudden realization. He’s right there. He’s staring right at you. Still frozen, still clutching his useless sword, the pulsating glint of its energy sheath starting to fizzle and dim. Shadow Eater stands beside him. Towers over him. Large, monstrous claws frame his face, never letting him look away from your body in the grip of countless mandrakes. It makes him watch as you are taken again, and again, and again.

“One final kindness. A gift you do not deserve,” it hisses in his ear. “I am in you, seeker of forbidden answers. In your darkness. Your hidden places. I know what you desperately try to conceal, and here it is. What you desired and what you never could have had. Never. Do you understand? They were mine before you even learned their name.”

Defiant to the end, Theron says nothing. He hides behind the wall that every Inquisitor builds all around their minds and hearts, stone cages of distance and misery. His lip twitches just once, just slightly. A cry stifled. He swallows hard. He doesn’t even try to look away. A twinge of sadness and pity makes your chest feel tight but the mandrakes don’t let it linger. One catches your chin between its claws and you are kissed by the night that eats Decretum one imperceptibly small bite at a time, dying the same little deaths. The darkness deepens and the shadows grow until there is nothing else.

Theron’s sword blinks and flickers and finally dies. It is the last light that will ever shine on Decretum. There will be searchlights someday, the whirling lighthouse beacons of voidfaring vessels in search of a planet that is supposed to be there, but they will never find anything. Sometimes, when the crew cycles shifts and an officer returns to their quarters for rest, they will receive a transmission that has no discernable source. Nonsensical, mostly. Just interference. Indistinct hisses of static.

But somewhere in there, they’ll think, it almost sounds like the voices of children playing a game.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #starting off the month nice and weird and overambitious as usual #apologies if this is extra special typo hell i will give this post a makeover in t he morning #but i started writing this one at 5 am in an airport got extremely carried away and physically cannot keep going #for my non-warhammer readers dont worry im doing original stuff this month too #warhammer 40k

48 notes · View notes

mvlionheart · 20 hours ago

Note

I don't know the other guy with the glasses is from but always love to get a meal from you so ready chef.

The photo in question. That is Thierry Neuville, he's the current WRC world champion. WRC just started, they're racing in Monaco this weekend. He's having a rough weekend after a crash and electronics issues. An (explicit) chef's table exclusive snippet under the cut:

“So how does he handle?” Thierry asks, taking a sip of his beer and letting the chilled fizz wet his mouth. He imagines getting his hands on that luxury bodywork, exploring the lines and curves, learning the feel of each input’s reaction.

“Unbelievable, for those with the right touch—and equipment.” Max reaches over and palms the front of Thierry’s jeans without hesitation. “A premium experience. Unparalleled in terms of pace and reliability. I think you’re going to enjoy the ride.”

“This is unacceptable,” Charles barks into his phone across the room.

Thierry gulps down another drink and nods, he can’t disagree with Max’s assessment. Getting his hands on this particular piece of machinery occupied Thierry’s mind on a few occasions since 2019.

Learning that the ride belonged to another world champion, and being offered an exclusive test drive, had come as a welcome surprise. An invitation he had not delayed accepting.

Max continues to rub Thierry’s hardening dick through coarse denim, then purposeful fingers free the button and drag down his zipper.

“You will fix this. Do not call me again about it until it is done.” The heated tone and direct order are punctuated by Charles ending the call and looking toward the couch. “I see that you two are quite content, shall I give you space?” He snaps as he tosses his phone on the cushion and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Charlie, please be nice in front of our guest. The invite was your idea.” Thierry watches Max suppress a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, but there’s no tension in his body and he hasn’t stopped moving his hand. In fact Thierry can’t seem to keep his hips from lifting against the pressure, even as he breathes and watches Charles with nervous interest.

The response comes in three parts: An eye roll, the middle finger, and then Charles crawling across Max’s lap to capture Thierry’s mouth in an eager kiss. He smells like a beach breeze, like summer, and he tastes like vanilla mint. It’s more intoxicating than the beer he’d been drinking. The slide of their tongues ignites a new fire in his stomach, a raw need that’s made electric under the weight of Max’s gaze.

The sound of Max’s raspy chuckle tickles his ears as he withdraws his hand, the friction is barely missed before Charles is curling his fingers into the hem of Thierry’s shirt and pulling it off.

Charles shoots a pointed look in Max’s direction, it’s all that’s needed to communicate in a language Thierry doesn’t understand. Even if he could puzzle it out, he’s immediately distracted by the graceful way Charles moves out of Max’s lap, shifting over to straddle Thierry’s thighs. His body is lithe and gorgeous, carved from years of hard work, and Thierry can’t keep his hands from reaching to claim Charles’ waist, dragging him in for a deeper kiss.

He feels the hand slide up the back of his neck and into his hair, it sends a shiver down his spine, but he’s not braced for the way Charles tugs his head back, his scalp stinging in protest as his dick twitches.

“Would you like to inquire again?” Charles asks, pulling away and placing a hand on Thierry’s cheek to keep his focus as Max gets up and disappears around the back of the couch.

“Inquire?” He answers, confused and immediately lost in Charles’ bright green eyes. They sparkle as he grins, dimples framing the teasing expression. Thierry’s lungs suddenly feel empty and his grip tightens.

“How does he handle, you asked?” It’s said while Charles reaches into Thierry’s jeans, fingers slipping beneath his boxers, exposing his rising excitement to full view. “He's never had any complaints.”

“Varying reports on that,” Max says as he rejoins them. “Great in the wet, but sometimes a little difficult to warm up.”

Charles shoots Max a glare and holds out an expectant hand. He’s rewarded with a drizzle of lube splashing his palm. “Maybe you just don’t have the right touch,” Charles replies at the same time he wraps his hand around Thierry’s cock and starts to pump.

#anon tag #thierry neuville #charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappenville #neuclerc #versville #i'm making these up #let me live my dreams #lestappen #+ 1 #lol

17 notes · View notes

ellisgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Jude Jazza & Ellis Twilight — Villains Want to Embarrass Little Robin Story Event

Premium End

I do not own any contents of Ikemen Villains. This story being uploaded in this blog belongs solely to CYBIRD. Please support them by downloading their games and buying their stories. Both English and Japanese are not my mother tongue languages, please keep in mind that there will be mistakes and added words for my own preferences. I translate for my personal entertainment and for my own practice only.

After washing my body and changing into my night dress, I sank into the bed in my room and suddenly felt tired.

(Tomorrow, I'll have to pull myself together... I'll have to do my best...)

While I was sorting out tomorrow's schedule in my head, my eyelids got heavier and heavier—, and I fell asleep.

—I woke up in the middle of the night when I noticed the faint sound of the door opening.

(That...... What time is it now?—)

(—Wait a minute. This is Her Majesty's bedroom, who the hell is in here at this hour?)

My spine trembles. I'm shaking. Jude and Ellis should be resting in a separate room.

(No way, is it really Mr. Abel?)

(But "only people inside the palace have the key")

(Mr. Abel stole the key? Or maybe the mastermind behind the assassination plan is someone inside the palace—?)

Through the curtain of the canopy, the silhouette of a person approaches.

(It can't be helped if I just deduced here! What should I do... get out of the other side of the bed?)

(If I could get out of the room without being seen and call Mr. Jude and Ellis,)

(I should be able to complete the mission.)

(Honestly, I don't feel like I can do it, but— I have no choice but to do it)

Holding my pillow as a shield, I gently placed my hand on the canopy curtain on the other side, at that moment.

A figure raises an arm holding something sharp—,

Man’s voice: “—What the!?”

The figure crumpled to the floor after receiving a heavy blow to the side of the head.

(Hey, what..... What happened......)

I'm afraid to open the canopy curtain and look outside.

Mr. Jude was stomping on a man dressed as a guard.

Jude: "I can't believe you’re screaming in Her Majesty's room in the middle of the night."

Jude: "Isn't that disrespectful? I don't know.”

A man dressed as a guard: "Well.... You are one of Her Majesty's guards.”

Jude: "So you're the secretary of the Glasses Minister?"

Jude: "What are you trying to do with such a dangerous thing?"

A man dressed as a guard: “Damn it. ....I'm gonna kill you too...Nn”

The guard man crawled out from under Mr. Jude's feet and raised his knife again.

A man dressed as a guard: "This is a crime committed by the U.S. ambassador....... I'm in trouble if it doesn't happen like that."

Ellis: "Are you trying to frame it...?"

A man dressed as a guard: “Wha!?”

A hand stretched out from behind twisted the wrist that the man raised again.

Ellis: ".....No, that kind of thing. I don't think anyone will be happy."

A man dressed as a guard: “You, It— hurts.”

Mr. Jude's hand roughly grabbed his mouth and sealed it as he tried to complain of pain.

His nose and mouth are blocked and I can hear a painful voice.

Jude: "If you don't keep quiet, the “Queen” will wake up."

Ellis: "...The Queen's aide wants to ask you something."

Ellis puts one arm around the man's neck and tightens it even more.

Jude: "You’re going to faint from lack of oxygen, or I'll let you sleep in peace, which one? I’ll let you choose."

A man dressed as a guard: "Hmm, hmm!!"

Ellis: "It's rare for Jude to let you choose. You'd better answer as soon as possible."

A man dressed as a guard: "Ngu... O..."

Jude: "Uh? What's that? I can't hear you.”

A man dressed as a guard: “Gu....Nn, ugh….., …….”

When the man's whole body fell apart, Mr. Jude let go of his hand as if throwing out the filth.

Ellis caught him in good timing, tied him up with a rope, dragged him to the corner of the room, and rolled him over.

(......Wow, that's great..... He knows what he’s doing.)

Once again, you are stuck in the dark world, and see that they are two terrifying people to make enemies with...

Jude: “….Hm?”

Kate: “Uwha!”

The curtains were unreservedly opened, and I almost fell off the bed while holding my pillow.

Jude: "It's a nasty queen who has a hobby of distributing."

Ellis: "...It was scary, isn't it? Miss Kate, it's okay now."

An agitated sneer and a gentle smile. I am again confronted with conflicting smiles, but this time my facial muscles are not confused, but relaxed.

Kate: "Both of you..... Thank you very much."

Kate: "But...how did you know?”

Ellis: "Your crown smelled sweet.”

Kate: “Eh…..?”

Jude: “The nectar that caused the bird to run amok was smeared on the crown.”

Kate: "On the crown...?"

Ellis: “So, Jude and I looked into who might have approached the crown before the audience.”

Jude: “The secretary of the minister with the glasses was the last one who approached it, so I kept an eye on the minister and sure enough, there it is."

Jude: “Originally, he was an extremist in the military and a warmonger and a sloppy politician, and he had the motive to say that he would make money by raising a jerk.”

(That kind of thing...)

Kate: "He rebelled against Her Majesty, and on top of that he tried to frame such a good-looking ambassador as a criminal...that's the worst."

When I muttered what I thought, Mr. Jude raised his eyebrow in amusement.

Jude: "Ha, that's surprising. ......As if saying “Don't do it like that” is easy enough.”

Kate: "......He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Ellis: "Yeah, of course. Victor told me not to kill him because he has something to ask."

Kate: "He was trying to take someone's life...”

Kate: “Both the secretary who attacked me and the minister behind it should be prepared for some pain.”

Kate: "......I don't sympathise."

Jude & Ellis : “………”

(At least, Mr. Jude and Ellis know that they will be retaliated in the same way...it looks like they are working with this in mind.)

I don't think it's a good thing, but I'm not going to assume it's a bad thing either.

That was my frank thought after working with them on several missions.

Jude: "Ha, how did you start saying that?"

Ellis: "Shall I go and hurt him more? How much do you want me to abuse him?"

Kate: "You don't have to do it any more...!”

Ellis: “Yeah…..?”

When I hurriedly stopped him, Ellis put away the knife with a small bow of his head.

(These two people are both quite troublesome.)

(But I can absolutely trust you... being by your side might be the strongest)

Jude: "Hah..... I'm really tired today because the princess is unreliable."

Mr. Jude sat down on the bed and sprawled himself up.

Jude: "It's almost morning. I gave almost a whole night to that weirdo assistant.”

He was about to close his eyes, so I opened my mouth in a hurry.

Kate: "Um, I'm sorry, here is my bed.”

Jude: “Ah? It's not yours, it's Her Majesty's."

Ellis: "Oh, Jude is not fair."

Ellis also turned to the other side and lay down with Mr. Jude sandwiching me.

Ellis: "I think I'll take a nap here too."

Kate: “Eh, Ellis…..?”

Ellis: “Miss Kate, can we sleep together?”

Kate: "Sleep, you mean......, eh...eh!?"

(Together, .......With these two people!?)

Jude: "It's so noisy."

Ellis: "Here, over here."

Kate: "Wha......!?"

I collapsed onto the bed with my arms pulled from both sides.

No matter how wide Her Majesty's bed is, when two adult men and I lie down, it's narrow.

(S-So close...)

There was no way Mr. Jude would open up space for me, and Ellis was close enough to say that he wanted to stick together with me.

I was sandwiched between the two bodies regardless, and my shoulders, arms, and legs were in close contact.

Jude: "You body temperature is high... Are you a child even here?”

Ellis: "It feels so warm and nice. .....Hey, can't I hug you?"

Kate: "It's no good...!"

No matter which way I look, I feel strange, so I answered while looking straight up.

Jude: “Fuha, what are you blushing for? You dirty girl."

Mr. Jude sits on his shoulders next to me and looks down at me with a smirk on his face.

Kate: "Isn't it disrespectful to sneak into someone's bed without permission?"

Jude: "Isn't it disgusting? I don't know who it is, the villain who does such a thing."

Ellis: “Do you want to do something naughty? It’s okay, if you want to.”

Kate: “Huh….uh, …..?”

Ellis lays down next to me, looks straight at me, and suggests the most outrageous thing.

Ellis: “Oh, would you rather do with Jude? Or me, or both?"

Jude: "Hey, I'm getting involved without permission."

Jude: “If you want to do it, do it as you like. I'll just sit here and watch. You like that kind of thing, don't you?”

Ellis: "Really? Then will you?"

They whisper to me from both sides as they please, and my face starts to twitch more and more.

Kate: "Could you please get off the bed and sleep in your own room..."

Ellis: "......But I'm worried if you're alone, Miss Kate."

Kate: “Uh…..”

Jude: "This bed is so comfortable, I refuse."

Kate: “….Jesus, I’m done…..!”

With a tired head, a pure conscience and arrogant selfishness thrust at me—

—I stopped thinking.

Kate: "It's fine as it is...! Good night!"

I pulled the sheet up to my face and managed to keep them out of sight.

Jude: "Fuha, what's with that sleeping style?"

Ellis: “You’re hiding. I miss you.”

Both of them started to fall asleep after a few minutes without knowing what others thought....

While being wrapped in the gentle sound, warm body temperature, and the sweet scent of the two people, I also fell asleep before I knew it.

…

A few days later. Without making it public that there was an assassination, the U.S. ambassador left the palace with the same sunny smile he had on his face when he arrived.

To my horror, the minister with glasses disappeared from his seat without my knowledge. And then—

Ellis: "Ah, here we come. Miss Kate, this way."

Kate: "...Thank you for waiting."

Jude: "Are you more nervous than the mission?"

Today is the day we decided to grant each other's "requests" in celebration of completing our mission without our identities being revealed.

(The partners are Mr. Jude and Ellis. The promises we exchanged must be kept.)

It's reassuring to have these people as allies, but I've just learned that turning them into enemies can be troublesome.

I gulped and swallowed my spit, the two smiled their very best smiles.

Ellis: "I'm looking forward to it... Well then, Miss Kate."

Jude: "Do you want me to fulfil your “wish”?"

…Fin…

Masterlist

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2 >> Premium End >> Epilogue

#ikemen villains #ikevil #ikemen series #ikemen games #ellis twilight #jude jazza #ikevil ellis #ikevil jude #ikemen villains story event #ikevil translations

175 notes · View notes

lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Note

nsfw dom valeria 🙏🙏🙏, anything that comes to mind honestly, u can use y/n if u want, this is terrible i’m sorry i’ve never done this before n i’m high so i’m struggling 🗣️🗣️

Summary: Valeria uses you as a way to relieve her frustrations.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), established relationship, p^rn with little plot, oral sex, fingering, AFAB!reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: this is my first time writing for Valeria (＃＞＜) also I don't speak Spanish, so I apologize for grammatical errors

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ VALERIA MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

Following Orders

It was the perfect evening; rose-scented candles illuminating only your faces, silky curtains covering every inch of the high walls, and the quiet chatter of Las Almas high society as they dined. This environment was something out of your element, like you were watching yourself from above, all while you stuck out so easily. Despite wearing the fanciest, most premium clothing she’d bought you, you were like a deer in the headlights.

She’d sent a bottle over, as a distraction while she handled her business. The “nicest bottle they have” according to her. It was a nice bottle, if only you’d gotten to savor it in silence.

“Estarás muerto por la mañana si no sigues las órdenes.” Valeria coos into the phone as if she wasn’t threatening the life on the other line. Her legs are crossed, while her unoccupied hand is tapping on the table.

Another gargle from the other line and she’s hung up, finishing off her glass of wine in one gulp. She’s looking at you through hooded lids, still seething with anger—glaring as if you were the henchmen disobeying her moments ago.

“It’s not easy being king, hm?” She sneers, noticing the awkward shifting in your seat, and the tight grip you have on the neck of your wine glass.

The phone thrown atop the tablecloth chimes again, forcing her to check it. Her jaw tightens at whatever bad news has popped up, and next, she’s wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin, and to her feet.

“We’re going home. Now.” Her snarl reaches deep, causing you to set aside the plate you barely picked at.

She doesn’t bother to pay the tab, nor leave a tip for the server. She’s gripping the flesh of your forearm and practically dragging you across the pavement. The valet has come to a stop under the carport as soon as the both of you exited as if waiting for her hand and foot on her.

She opens the side door closest and slams it as soon as you’re inside. She climbs into the other, and gives the driver two taps—then he’s kicked the engine, dodging traffic, and approaching her main compound in record time.

—

The large oak doors have come to a slam, and the control panel is in her hands. Her electric blinds are slowly whirring downward until all of the windows in the foyer have been covered. In replacement of the porch light no longer coming through, she’s slowly turning on the pendant chandelier above the dining space.

You’re standing in the middle of the foyer, still clenching your wallet tightly. She’s been silent since she told the guards to split, and now she’s standing across from you, casing you with her hard-eyed gaze. She’s had her fair share of explosive mood swings and heated phone calls, but it's never been this intense.

Her pink fingernails grip onto the strap of your wallet, and it’s ripped from your grip with force. Next, it’s holding onto your chin, while the other is gripping onto the loose fabric of your night clothes, shoving you backward toward the dining table.

Each time you’re going to topple, or your ankle twists from the imbalance, her hands grip tighter, until eventually, the curve of your spine hits the thick, rough edge of the dining table.

That cocktail attire, the piece that clung to your frame so tightly, the one you were beginning to admire the way you looked in, was now fraying under her the dig of her nails. Now that she was towering over you, with your back laying on the dining table, the rip of the fabric comes quickly.

From midsection to thigh, there’s a large rip in it, revealing your bare body underneath. Your bra and panties provided little to no cover, and it didn’t last long.

Her tongue traced a circle around your belly button, until eventually, it was at the waistband of those panties. Valeria yanks them down, nibbling on your thighs until her mouth finds your core.

“Hijo de putas… can’t follow orders…” Her curses are muffled by the warmth of the flesh she’s licking on.

Any form of protest, or grunt from her roughness, and her stare hardens, only compelling more snarls to come from her plump lips. She will take her frustrations out one way or another—tonight you’re the target in her crosshairs.

“What if someone comes in?” Your voice comes out a murmur, as you’ve propped yourself up on your elbows, as if checking the mansion for any unwanted visitors.

“Then they’d be disobeying me.” Her voice is more hoarse now, but still soft around the edges. “That would be a mistake wouldn’t it?” Her question echoes through the large dining room, but she’s not talking about the guards; she’s talking about you. You disobeying her and facing the consequences.

When her men disobey, they end up with a bruised ego and a black eye, or worse. But you, you’ll forget your name by the time she’s done, without even finishing once.

You shake your head quickly, figuring you’ll take your chances with some aggressiveness over being teased for hours.

“Good.” Her response is simple, and she’s amused. She delves her tongue into your folds again, this time with a quicker pace. When you’ve writhed too much, or clenched your legs together around her head, one of her hands clamps down on a thigh, pinning it to the table.

Each whine, each reaction to her skillful mouth, is a climb to her ego. The unoccupied hand finds its way to your entrance. You’re slick enough—a mixture of her saliva and how her voice already had you dripping back at the restaurant.

The first finger glides in with ease, but you’ve tightened around her with each thrust of it. There’s nothing she enjoys more than how your back arches, how you can barely speak when her head is between your thighs.

Next, it’s her ring finger, successfully stretching you out. Her ability to multitask carries way beyond her work. She’s still swirling around your clit with the tip of her tongue, all while her two fingers have curled into a ‘come here’ motion deep inside you.

She’s satisfied you’ll stay where she wants you now. The dig of her fingertips releases, and now her thumb is in between your lips, giving you something to occupy your mouth with—something to drool and moan around.

Her tongue has pulled away, but her digits haven’t. Now she’s above you, using her knee to hold your legs open against the table. The centerpiece has tipped over in the process, but she’s paying it no mind.

Now that she’s at your eye level, she can watch as your lips wrap around her thumb, how your eyes are clenched shut one second and rolling back in the next. Every movement she’s making with her fingers causes a ripple of pleasure through you, only encouraging her to quicken her movements.

“Such a mess, hm?” Valeria chuckles, an amused grin spreading on her reddened lips. Now, the only sounds are your damped whimpers and the wetness coating her two fingers, sliding in and out continually until you’re trembling.

The torture drags on. Every time you feel the pleasure become too much like you’re going to finish, she slows down slightly, so it’s just enough to be stuck in purgatory.

Her thumb, now dripping with your own spit, slides out of your mouth with a moist pop. She wipes the saliva away on your cheek as if you were the bandana around her neck, but instead, it's your cheek she’s using to wipe the mess away.

Valeria’s no longer curling her fingers, only thrusting them in and out agonizingly. “Are you going to finish loud for me? Make a show of it?” Her brow is cocked, and she’s not going to proceed until you respond.

As soon as you’ve murmured a ‘yes’, she’s back on her game—harsher than before. Her fingers find your chin again, gripping it tightly to keep you still as her fingers begin to drill in and out, curling against your pulsing walls.

You can’t hold it much longer now, you never can when her trained fingers are this deep inside you. Despite how well you’ve been able to conceal your sounds before, now they’re bouncing off the walls, muttering small praises for how well she’s taking care of you.

She could take her hands away any second, and leave you a wet mess on the dining table, but she’s relishing the sight of you under her control too much—especially with her sour mood to fuel it.

Finally, the thrusts of her fingers have sent a spark from your core all the way up your spine, allowing your release from all the build-up. Her digging grip on your chin remains as you ride it out, and her fingers stay idle as the trembling subsides. She’s amused, very amused by this.

The pants had soon turned into deep breaths, ones where you were recovering from the high. Finally, she removes her fingers, this time wiping the aftermath off on her bandana instead of your cheek.

Now it’s playing with the frayed fabric of your gown. She was so blinded by anger before, she’d forgotten she nearly tore the whole piece off of you. To her, it was a small deduction from her riches—nearly nothing for her to replace.

Valeria leans down again, slowly pulling up the panties that were rolled to your mid-thigh; the one piece of clothing she hadn’t managed to ruin in her previous haste. Then, she returns above you again for one last tease.

She purrs into your ear, giving your exposed flesh one more glance before the pin of her knee is withdrawn. “You should see what’s going to happen to the other guy, amor.”

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #valeria mw2 #valeria garza #el sin nombre #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #call of duty #los vaqueros

233 notes · View notes

miepstheguineapig · 3 months ago

Text

Brighten Up Your Space with This Adorable Motivational Guinea Pig Poster! 💖

Featuring my sweet guinea pig Lies rocking pink heart-shaped glasses, this framed poster will remind you to relax and “just be your fuzzy self”! Perfect for adding a cute, playful touch to any room, it also makes a heartwarming gift for any guinea pig lover in your life.

Product Details: 🌟 Ready to Hang: Comes with a hanging kit for easy display 🌟 High-Quality Frame: Made from durable pine wood in black or dark brown with visible grain 🌟 Premium Paper: Heavyweight matte paper (170 gsm) with a smooth, luxurious finish 🌟 Shatterproof Protection: Plexiglass cover for durability 🌟 Sustainable Choice: Printed on FSC-certified (or equivalent) paper

Treat yourself or surprise a friend with this charming piece!

You can get this piece on my Etsy: https://miepstheguineapig.etsy.com/listing/1819762945

#guinea pig #cavy #meerschweinchen #guinea pig poster #guinea pig funny quote #guinea pig wall art

18 notes · View notes

logansdogmotif · 2 days ago

Text

modern asoiaf further adventures in adhdavos he’s obsessed with those interactive adverts that come up after you finish your lesson on duolingo (“why does every feckin’ application have to have a premium option this reeks of tories in ten different ways, each more… perverted that the last”) of that farming game where you get the vegetables and then sell them and get money to employ workers and equipment and then the ad ends when you unlock the next area with like chickens or whatever, and he feels really sad each time the ad ends and momentarily considers downloading it but then is so repulsed by the idea of wasting even more of his time on a farming game of all things so he closes the app, pushes his wire frame rectangle glasses further up his nose, alone in the dark bedroom, and opens instagram reels back up. he’s learning seven different languages on duolingo btw, all with only like 25xp, one of which being english.

#loganyaps #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #asoiaf #got #modern asoiaf #modern a song of ice and fire #modern game of thrones #modern davos seaworth #davos seaworth #davos seaworth has adhd #duolingo #adhdavos

12 notes · View notes

shalomniscient · 11 months ago

Text

ARCHIVE ENTRY #1: FAFNIR [HSR]

"That casino owner? She's nothing but trouble. If you ever think you're winning with her, think again—because the house always wins." - Ten Stonehearts, Topaz

◆ Name: Fafnir ◆ Title: Avaricious Embracer ◆ Owner of the Gnitaheath Casino ◆ Path: Nihility ◆ Type: Fire ◆ Rarity: 5*

Fafnir is a fanmade character in Honkai: Star Rail. The owner of one of the most famous casinos in the universe, she attracts both adoration and detestation. A Scion of Long, Fafnir has lived many long, long lives, and yet through them all, one thing remains constant: the gleam and glitter of gold is always her singular calling.

◆ Appearance Fafnir is a tall woman with short, black hair and yellow-gold eyes. There are streaks of yellow in her hair, located near the base of her horns which are gold in color, resembling a ram's horns. She also has a long, serpentine tail covered in black scales and adorned with more golden accessories.

Fafnir wears a neatly pressed, tailored black suit jacket with delicate gold embroidery on the cuffs that resemble scales, accompanied with black slacks with a similar design along their length. Below this, she wears a dark grey dress shirt, paired with a light-colored tie embroidered with gold thread. She also sports round, yellow-tinted glasses with a gold frame, and wears black, semi-palm gloves with the same golden embroidery.

◆ Combat Mechanics

Basic Attack: Buy-In

"Place your bets, please." Deal's Fire DMG equal to x% of Fafnir's ATK to an enemy.

Skill: All or Nothing

"C'mon, why don't you put some skin in the game?" Deals Fire DMG equal to x% of Fafnir's ATK to a single enemy and inflicts a Gnitaheath Marker.

Ultimate: The House Always Wins

"Looks like it's time for a payout... mine, of course." Removes 1 buffs from all enemies and deals Fire DMG equal to x% of Fafnir's ATK, and simultaneously consumes all Gnitaheath Markers on enemies, dealing an additional Fire DMG equal to x% of Fafnir's ATK. Detonation also triggers the effect of Gnitaheath Marker, but restores HP to all allies instead of only the ally at lowest HP.

Talent: Risk Premium

At each turn of an enemy who is affected by Gnitaheath Marker, the enemy takes DMG equal to x% of Fafnir's ATK. The DMG taken by the enemy is then converted into an equivalent amount HP, and is immediately transferred to an ally with the lowest HP. Gnitaheath Marker lasts for 2 turns. Gnitaheath Marker is considered a debuff. At E1: Gnitaheath Marker is consider Fire DoT.

Technique: House Edge

"Time for a blood game?" When entering battle, there is a 120% base chance of the enemy with the highest HP to be inflicted with Gnitaheath Marker.

◆ Voicelines

About Topaz...

"Little Miss Topaz, my favorite IPC agent! Her assignments bring her to my doorstep more often than not, and it is always refreshing to see her. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to convince her to step into the pit yet, unlike that colleague of hers. Hm, no matter. I quite enjoy our conversations away from the pit as well."

About Aventurine...

"Detestably card sharp, he is. He'd never take a gamble he wouldn't win—so I suppose we are two birds of a feather, in that regard."

Added to a team with Dan Heng - Imbibitor Lunae...

"My, my, a Vidyadhara? And a High Elder, no less... this will be interesting indeed."

Hobbies...

"Sometimes, when I feel particularly bored, I like to stroll across the catwalks above the pits. There's something particularly, hm, gratifying, about watching the going-ons of the pit. Someone may be winning, and someone may be losing, but in the end... well, the true winner has been decided long before they bought in."

Chat - Heritage...

"You wish to know about my heritage as a Scion of Long? I'm afraid there isn't much to tell. Many eras ago, my first incarnation was a follower of the Permanent Lord, and was bestowed the ability shared by all Scions. Hm? Others like me? ...I must disappoint you again, for they are no longer here."

Chat - True Form

"My true form? Heh... such a bold request. How about we play a game of blackjack, and if you win, I'll indulge you."

Developer Notes:

Fafnir is inspired by the dragon (or worm) of the same name in Germanic legend and folklore.

Fafnir's title, Avaricious Embracer, is a nod to the translation of Fafnir's name from Old Norse as 'the Embracer'.

Fafnir's color scheme is generally black/gold/yellow. The yellow-gold color of her eyes and the hints of yellow in her appearance are intended to convey her primary character trait of greed, since yellow is the representative color of greed.

Gnitaheath is the name of Fafnir's lair in the legends.

Fafnir is a Scion of Long, but not a Vidyadhara. I may expand on the lore of her 'lineage' through her stories at a later date.

Fafnir's Talent, 'Gnitaheath Marker', is named after casino markers; interest free, short-term lines of credit given to players by the casinos to encourage playing, although they are also expected to be promptly paid back.

Fafnir's true form is about the size of adult Drogon, from Game of Thrones.

Fafnir's kit is designed to be somewhat reminiscent of her character: someone who gives nothing, and only takes. I tried to give her kind of a life-steal mechanic similar to the one in PTN, though I'm not too sure how well it worked out, LOL.

I can't think of a character similar enough to how I envision Fafnir to add as a reference, and I can't draw for shit so my saving grace is once again Picrew. This isn't 1:1 how Fafnir looks like, as I picture her as having a skin tone more similar to Kaeya's (and my own), but alas, my Picrew options were limited. Nonetheless, this is the closest I can get as of now, so enjoy (?) one smug, bastard scrooge woman:

picrew link: https://picrew.me/ja/image_maker/6324

UPDATE: my absolutely amazing showstopping talented mutual @e-hibiscus drew fafnir and it is truly THE MOST amazing thing i’ve ever seen and is 1:1 exactly how i picture fafnir in my mind, they’re a super amazing artist and writer and i’m truly honored to be their moot !!

THAT’S HER !! THAT’S THE STINKY BASTARD DRAGON WOMAN !!!

#sev.archive #archive: fafnir #hsr #hsr oc #will likely make separate posts for stories #might come back and edit this to add eidolons once i figure out what to name them

27 notes · View notes

viratsteelspecial-blog · 2 months ago

Text

Industry Insights: Where We Supply Tool Steel - Virat Special Steels

Virat Special Steels stands tall as India’s largest stockiest, importer, and supplier of HSS Steel, Hot Work Steel, Cold Work Steel & Plastic Mould Steel. Representing top manufacturers of special steels worldwide, we enjoy global recognition for our unwavering commitment to quality.

Serving Industries:

🔧 Forging Industry: Shaping metal using compressive forces with a hammer or press, classified into cold forging, warm forging, or hot forging.

🏗️ Pressure Die Casting: Forcing molten metal under high pressure into a mold cavity, made using two hardened tool steel dies.

🚗 Aluminum Extrusions: Material pushed through a die to the desired cross-section, creating complex parts with excellent surface finishes.

🚙 Automotive Industry: Involved in manufacturing, design, and development of motor vehicles.

⛽ Oil & Gas Industry: Supplying more than 60% of our nation’s energy, including natural gas for electricity.

🧩 Plastic Industry: Manufacturing polymer materials for aerospace, construction, electronics, packaging, and transportation.

🍶 Glass Industry: Involves float glass process and glassblowing, producing sheet glass and containers.

🚲 Cycle Parts: Manufacturing components like bearings, chains, chain sets & cranks, handlebars, forks.

🚉 Railways: Manufacturing railway components such as gear holders, bogie cast parts, axles, pins, ground lever frames, adjustable cranks, compressor pistons, and bearings.

VIRAT SPECIAL STEELS PVT. LIMITED , INDIA is your trusted partner, supplying premium tool steels to diverse industries in India and globally.

Learn more: Virat Steels Serving Industries: https://www.viratsteels.com/serving-industries.php

Any further queries feel free to contact us : 🌐https://www.viratsteels.com 📩[email protected] 📲+91-98140-21775

2 notes · View notes

everydayoriginal · 9 months ago

Photo

Forget Me Not by Nicole Grosjean

A delicate butterfly rests in a patch of forget-me-not flowers in this miniature shadow box frame. The cut and hand embroidered artwork features a painted silk butterfly in a field of forget-me-not flowers. The flowers are cut from book cloth and embroidered with real gold threads, and the butterfly is painted with watercolors on silk fabric. This unique piece is sure to impress in a lovely gold frame, and is protected by premium museum glass. Bring a tiny reminder of the natural world to your walls, and never forget to look for beauty in the small things!

VIEW DETAILS brought to you by Every Day Original

6 notes · View notes

elsanna-shenanigans · 4 months ago

Text

September 2024 Contest Submission #6: Risk Management

Words: 4,995 Setting: modern AU CW: Some mentions of injury/Main-character injury

Risk Management

Since she was a kid, Anna always had a problem with heights. Staircases. Ladders. Slopes. Even something trivial like hopping over a ledge. Bumps and bruises and the occasional broken bone. Trembly legs and wide eyes staring down the heights which put stones in her heart. None of this stopped her from getting back up, fate and slender limbs willing - just to try again to get it right. Alarm bells rang in Iduna’s head when her petite redheaded daughter declared after high school that she’d very much like to work in construction. Just like dad did. And not as a union delegate, mind you. Or in an air-conditioned office drafting plans. Construction. Red pigtails dangling while she’s harnessed from a scaffold. Standing single-footed on an A-frame ladder with both hands on a tape measure and a pencil between her teeth. None of the union-ordained protective gear or safety briefings or risk management documents she submits makes any difference. She still takes her share of tumbles. The wear-and-tear of her past catches up, and after taking a nasty fall down some half-completed timber stairs, the insurance company finally hauls her in to adjust her premiums.

A three-day stay at the trauma ward and a shoulder numb from painkillers later, Anna finds herself in a stuffy office building, a million explanations waiting for the officer and another million “NOs” from him.

“I’m telling you miss, we can’t insure someone like you if your accident rate exceeds the statistical risk limit our company is willing to accept,” he explains, “should you wish to challenge this, you’d have to speak to the Underwriter.”

The dramatic, sombre way he pronounces “Underwriter” might as well be “Undertaker.” Anna slouches in a waiting room chair, pondering what kind of demonic corporate entity awaits her once her number is called. She drags her feet past rows of identical cubicles filled with elderly folk quarrelling over pre-existing health conditions. All at once the breath catches in her lungs as she reaches the cubicle; electric blue eyes staring into her soul. Her shoulder injury flares up. This can’t be right, can it? Anna vocalises, Cubicle A13? Her eyes fall upon the slim figure seated primly within. Braided blonde hair with nary a strand out of place. Dark-rimmed glasses. Pressed dark suit just hiding the slight curve of her bosom behind a white blouse. Anna suddenly feels extremely underdressed in her cargo pants and polo-shirt and chuffed work boots.

“Yes ma’am, this is cubicle A13,” A deadpan voice answers. God, her lips don’t even so much as move.

She reads the nameplate on the Underwriter’s desk. Elsa Williams. Black lettering on silver. Desk devoid of everything besides a calculator and a ruler. Black mechanical keyboard and mouse. No family pictures. No plants. Nothing. Anna feels like she’s intruding on her austere desk once she upends a stack of creased and crumpled insurance documents. Together with years of workmen’s compensation claims.

Slim fingers reach across the pile. No ring either. Elsa takes a moment to leaf through her documents.

“It looks like you’ve quite the talent for getting yourself hurt, Ms Miller,” Elsa remarks, “why’re you filing these claims on your own?”

Anna swallows as those blue eyes steal the answer right from her lips.

“Because it’s-it’s my company,” Anna answers, “I’m a private contractor.”

The pile of documents slides back towards Anna - right as Elsa gets out of her chair and reaches for the top of a larger-than-life filing cabinet. Despite her height and high heels, she still struggles to reach a binder. Anna finds her eyes drifting towards the delicate firmness of her Underwriter’s butt in those slim-fitting-

Oh would you stop it, you perv! Anna catches herself. Her eyes flit away, but it's too late. Elsa’s sitting across from her, giving her the side-eye right before flipping to a page marked Actuarial Tables for Personal Injury Claims: Construction Industry, Age adjusted. She wastes no time running her ruler down the tabular maze of percentages in two-point font. Followed by a few quick taps on the calculator.

“Unfortunately, we have to increase all your premiums by 300%,” Elsa announces.

The news sends Anna slumping back. Now she understands why Elsa’s called the Undertaker.

“Y-you can’t!” Anna protests, “This w-would-”

“Put you in the red?” Elsa flashes a P/L sheet from her income statements.

A hoarse, gurgling noise sputters from Anna’s throat, before she spews it out.

“Yes!”

Elsa’s ice-cold stare from earlier melts. She looks over her shoulder as if some beast is watching her. From her angle, Anna can see Elsa’s hand perched on a pedestal. She waits, nearly missing the faintest of whispers from the blonde woman’s lips.

“I can help you,” Elsa whispers, gingerly peeling a form from the drawer, “if you fill this and take it upstairs, there’s a chance they’ll put you on another plan with a higher tolerance. It’s not guaranteed but it’s worked so far.”

“Thank you!” Anna squeals, only for the ice-cold stare to return, this time with fingers on her lips.

“You can thank me by keeping your voice down, and not mentioning my name.”

Immediately, Anna trots down the corridor. Moments before reaching the elevator, she pauses. And turns back. Only to notice a blonde braid fluttering back within cubicle A13.

Elsa hates phone calls with a passion. Perhaps it’s her home-schooled upbringing. Or the fact she’s never owned a phone until she was 21. The idea of a jarring ringtone cutting into someone’s day and straight-up demanding their attention appears rude to her. So, when the second batch of insurance forms arrives with an impossible filing deadline, Elsa hesitates to call Anna. But Anna isn’t like her, is she? Free-spirited and reckless, a phone call wouldn’t bother Anna the way it bothers her.

No, she’d probably take a call while tethered to a ten-foot scaffold; phone perched between her shoulder and ears while she continues hammering nails or whatever she does. The thought makes Elsa shudder with fear. So does the simple act of pressing DIAL on her phone.

As the ringtone chimes in her ear. The realisation sets in: she’s called hundreds of customers over her career. Not one of them has sent that same buzzing feeling beneath her skin. Or froze the words on her lips the moment their cheery voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Good Morning, Ms Miller. I’m calling from the insurance firm-”

“Elsa?”

Elsa jerks upright in her seat. She foolishly spends the next two seconds counting the days since Anna last saw her. A week. No. Two. She remembered your name. Your voice. The thought sends her head into a tailspin. It’s enough to make her struggle with her script.

“We’ve some forms for you to sign for the new plan, but they’ve to be submitted by today to catch the fiscal year. Would you by any chance be home in an hour’s time?”

“Well, under the terms of my claim, I am supposed to remain at home and recover, aren’t I? It’s not like I’m going to work with a busted shoulder anyway-”

Elsa chuckles, “You actually read the fine print on your claim?”

“I mean, yea - it has your name on it,” Anna explains, before a heavy pause falls upon the line, “I don’t want to get you in trouble, or anything.”

Elsa stares straight at the wall. The slightest hint of warmth seeps beneath her cheeks. It tangles the words in her throat.

“I’d assume you’re home then. I’ll drop by in an hour.”

It takes Elsa way less than an hour. More like thirty minutes. Even while driving below the suburban speed limits. She spends the next half-hour tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and waiting for the exact minute to pull into the driveway of Anna’s modest, one-storey home. Elsa’s black Mercedes looks out of place next to Anna’s work truck, bristling with ladders and cables. But she knocks on her door anyway. A voice calls out from within.

“Come in! The door’s unlocked.”

Goddamn, is there any risk this girl doesn’t take?

The house is neater than she expected. Simple wooden furniture interspersed with potted plants. Only a shoe rack with pairs of neatly-lined safety boots confirms Anna’s occupation. The crime rate in the suburb immediately drops out of her mind when Anna emerges into the living room. Hair soaking wet. Falling in springy, copper tendrils upon her violet, floral bathrobe. “I’m terriblysorry,” Anna apologises, “I didn’t expect you’d come exactly on time and I barely had time to get dressed.”

Now she’s really relieved she’d come on the dot. Otherwise she might’ve walked in on a wet and naked Anna. Maybe that’d be a good thing.

Wait, why the hell would that be a good thing?

Elsa mentally glues her jaw shut before it falls off her head. She struggles to piece together her next words, before retrieving the forms from her briefcase. Her trembling hands fumble with the stack and she drops it onto her pristine wooden floor.

“Oh dear,” Anna exclaims, scrambling to help Elsa with the mess.

No, no, no! Don’t come closer!

The intense strawberry fragrance from Anna’s shampoo hits her like a flying brick. She screws her eyes shut and resists the urge to pass out at the scent. It doesn’t help unravel the paper mess. She opens her eyes again to the sight of Anna’s barely-there neckline speckled with freckles. Cleavage sloping tantalisingly out of reach beneath her thin bathrobe. Heat rushes into Elsa’s face, and then to a single point below her navel.She manages to get the forms onto a coffee table. Flustered at the out-of-order pages, and even more aggravated when Anna signs on the dotted line without a hitch.

“I thought you said you read the fine print.”

“Maybe I will, later,” Anna chirps, “you seem kinda anxious to get out of here so I don’t want to hold you up. Besides, I trust you.”

Elsa stares at the redheaded girl blankly. Not even realising she’s waiting for a reply. Not realising this is the first bit of eye contact they’ve had today. Or how hard her chest heaves beneath her blouse. It feels so out-of-control for Elsa, and the sensation manifests as a rush of static through her face.

“A-are you that easily trusting?”

“You’re an actuary aren’t you? All facts and numbers. Of course I’d trust someone like you.”

“I’m your underwriter.”

“Don’t you have to be an actuary before being an underwriter?”

The sudden display of knowledge towards her supposedly obscure profession raises Elsa’s eyebrows, “D-did you know this beforehand? Or did you look it up?”

Anna’s lips widen at the accusation, she hesitates on her next words, “Yes, actually. I looked it up after I met you.”

“Why would you do that?”

The second hand of Anna’s grandfather clock ticks by in thick, gluey silence.

“Because I’m curious about you.”

Elsa sucks in a deep breath. This time, she can add a throbbing chest to the list of ailments assailing her typically stoic demeanour. She tucks an invisible fringe behind her ear, before looking at Anna’s bare feet nestled in a woolly rug.

“Well, I’m flattered Ms Miller-”

“Anna.”

“I’m flattered, Anna,” Elsa concedes, “I admit I’m slightly curious about you too, like - why a young woman is working in construction. Or why you’ve so many pairs of boots.”

“It’s just something I followed my dad in - and the boots are for different safety requirements. Working with electricity, the outdoors, stuff like that.”

“So you do know something about risk management.”

The smile on Anna’s face fades, “Are you accusing me of being reckless, Ms Williams?”

A stuttering mess leaves Elsa’s jaw, “Um, judging from your claims history, yes? And the fact you left your door unlocked before I came over.”

Anna slaps her forehead, “Oh c’mon - cut me a break! You insurance people are all the same aren’t you? A head full of fears yet void of common sense - I bet you look both ways twice before crossing the road!”

The sudden change of Anna’s tone sends Elsa shifting backwards, “I didn’t drive here to have you denigrate my profession-”

“What’re you going to do, adjust my premiums upwards?”

“I might.”

“Will that mean I’ll get to see you in your stuffy lil’ office cubicle more often?”

Elsa’s eyes widen with ambivalence. There’s a burning heat behind her cheekbones, and her heart’s racing. No-one’s ever made her feel this way. All warm and flustered and with no way of getting the words that matter out of the tangled spaghetti in her head.

I just don't want to see you get hurt.

A beeping alarm from her phone makes her flinch. She dreads looking down and realising her allotted time is up.

“Tell you what,” Elsa passes her card to Anna, “shoot me a text anytime you need your risk assessments adjusted.”

The girl’s still staring at the card as Elsa drives off, not knowing she’s pulled over out of sight. With her whitened, shaking knuckles gripping the wheel. Elsa makes one last glance in the mirror to ensure no one’s watching. Before butting her head on the wheel.

You fucking ruined it! She was totally into you and you blew it!

Anna wipes the sheen of sweat off her forehead as she steps back into the air-conditioned comfort of her shop office. She tosses her helmet into a corner, and makes a beeline for Gerda’s desk.

“Is the-”

“Mail’s in, hun,” the admin replies, handing a stack to Anna - who fails spectacularly at keeping the glee beaming on her face, “are you expecting something? Because you’ve been asking-”

“Just wanted to check the insurance.”

“I’ve never seen you this excited about paying your bills, sweetie.”

Me neither.

Her hands vibrate with energy, and she nearly tears the bill in half while opening the envelope. She compares the bill with one from last year’s, slumping back in her chair when the amount is exactly the same.

Thoughts race through her mind. It’s a win-win situation, isn’t it? She ponders. If her premiums were adjusted, she’d have a reason to call Elsa and give her an earful. Just to hear that gorgeous voice again. If they hadn’t changed, however…

Elsa’s card lays on the corner of her desk beside boxes of rivets and drywall screws. The only uncluttered spot untouched for the entire month since they last met. She picks up her phone. Heart in her throat. Flexing her fingers before texting Elsa.

Hey I received the first bill and its unchanged. Thanks so much for doing this for me. Let me take you out for dinner sometime.

And Anna’s unable to concentrate on anything for the next half an hour. She nearly electrocutes herself while fixing a drill. And misses Gerda’s questions more than once. When the chime on her phone lights up, she trips over her boots scrambling to pick it up. The reply punches her so hard in her gut, she might as well have taken another fall from the second storey.

Thanks for the invitation, Anna. I’m sorry but I’ll have to decline this.

“What?” Anna screeches. She nibbles on her nails, not caring they’re dirty from a day of work. Immediately, she recalls every single one of their sparse interactions. Perhaps she was rude to her at her home? Or she just wanted to keep a distance? Or, how about - she’s just not into you?

A bubbling wave of hurt and panic sweeps through Anna’s face. She feels the tears coming, and chokes them back as hard as she can. When the next message from Elsa hits her inbox, she hesitates to open it - afraid it’ll send her spiralling into a crying fit. But some people are worth the risk, no?

Unless, of course - you’re willing to split checks with me, because I’m not allowed to accept gifts from customers.

“Oh my god!” Anna seethes. She nearly hurls her phone across the office. In her relief-induced catharsis, she almost misses Elsa’s next text.

Even someone as pretty as you.

Anna’s heart swells. She grips the phone with shaking fingers, poring over every single word. All at once she’s on a rollercoaster, being brought to giddy lows and highs from a straitlaced woman who knows nothing about the dangers of triple-texting. She ponders doing the same back to Elsa. Before she can, a Google calendar invite lands in her inbox. It’s a fancy restaurant. Too fancy for someone like her. But the prospect of seeing Elsa again is too good to pass up. She’d meet Elsa on the moon if she had to.

That looks like a fancy place, do I have to wear a dress?

This time, the next three replies hit her one after another without delay.

Yes.

If you want your premiums adjusted.

(Downwards)

A grin breaks out on Anna’s face. Tongue between her lips, she starts typing back.

Not fair. I thought you can’t accept gifts from customers.

(It’s me)

(I am the gift)

And Elsa’s attention must’ve been piqued, because the reply comes immediately.

you’d be the best gift I’ve received all year.

A moment ago, she was sure Elsa never wanted anything to do with her. Now, the thrill of the chase proves too much to resist, and she risks pushing Elsa’s boundaries further yet.

idc you’ve to wear a dress to make it even.

It has to be cute. No blazers.

And Elsa’s last reply returns a trickle of sweat to her forehead.

Make me.

The address Elsa gave her had a parking lot full of Bentleys and Jaguars. Anna opts to wait in her truck, parked in the shadows away from the glitzy lights illuminating immaculately dressed dinner guests. Unaccustomed to being early, Anna waits until she sees Elsa arrive exactly on time. Stilettos and black dress looking like she’s arriving at the Oscars. Her blonde hair had been let down, swept over her shoulders as she drops her keys to the valet. Light, natural makeup accentuates her sharp features. The sight propels Anna forward like a bulldozer.

“You trusted the valet with your fancy car,” Anna quips, drawing Elsa’s attention, “so much for being a risk-averse woman.”

There’s a palpable pause as Elsa catches sight of Anna. She feels the Underwriter’s gaze roving up and down her dress. The slightest gap appears between Elsa’s scarlet-touched lips. A movement Anna catches onto.

“How do I look?” Anna asks, doing a twirl, and fluttering the pleats of her emerald dress beneath the moonlight, “Good enough for adjusted rates?”

Elsa’s eyes are still lost, somewhere between the curve of her waist and the hemline. It takes forever before they lock on her eyes. And another eternity before she manages to stammer, “I-I don’t know. We’ll see. You look fabulous tonight, Ms Miller.”

“So do you!” Anna chirps, “I bet you must be dying to get out of that stuffy suit all the time.”

She pauses. Her voice drops to a whisper beneath her breath, “No matter how sexy it makes you look.”

Elsa playfully slaps her arm with a Chanel purse, “I heard that!”

“No regrets saying it,” Anna retorts. But the blush on her cheeks tells otherwise. And so does her distracted gaze as they sit down for dinner, unopened menus before them as Elsa asks everything about her job and how she started. The subdued lighting and soft jazz music and cream table linens do well at blurring everything outside their leather-lined dining booth. The waiter finally gets their orders on the third round. Though, neither can remember what they ordered. Time sweeps by too quickly. Between morsels of fillet mignon and foie gras, Anna regales Elsa with stories of all the accidents and near-misses she’s suffered.

“And if my father ever told me that I’d one day have to rappel down a sixty-foot facade just to fix some cladding, I’d have picked a different career. Maybe insurance.”

Elsa chortles, nearly choking on her souffle, “Aren’t you afraid of the risks associated with this job?”

“Things are different when we don’t have a choice - it’s all for a living.”

“Aren’t you ever afraid of heights?”

Anna pauses her chewing.

“I was?” she piques, “I mean I still am - sorta. But I do it anyway. Even if I didn’t have to make a living, I’d still like to make my dad proud.”

She can see Anna’s calloused fingers grasping her dessert fork. Toned forearms taut beneath the dim candlelight. The thought dawns upon Elsa long after she’s absent-mindedly paid the entire bill with her credit card. And she imagines the same apprehension written on Anna’s freckled face as she looks away.

They’re from completely different worlds.

Still - a trace of longing laces Anna's voice at the parking lot, “I think I need to walk off the wine before driving home.”

“I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t have ordered alcohol if I knew you were driving.”

“Now, now - Ms Risk-averse, are you going to lecture me about the risks of drink-driving? Because I recall you showing up in a car-”

“There’s a statistical threshold for this - I’m sure one glass of wine isn’t going to do us in.”

Anna offers no retort aside from a gentle smile. And when Elsa offers the crook of her elbow to cross the road - Anna finds it impossible to resist latching onto the comfort of her arm. The moonlight gleams off the river’s still waters - and the evening dew’s fragrance is faint in the air. Along their walk, Anna makes out the glittering city lights in the distance, its silent glow echoing the nameless lives still toiling within. She wonders about the odds of reaching into one of those lights and finding someone like Elsa. This lady beside her. With all the poise and mannerisms of some far-off European Queen wrapped in the trappings of Corporate monotony.

They barely make it a hundred yards before Anna points out the renovated concert hall on the riverbank, “I worked on this project - took us nearly a year.”

Elsa pauses. Her fingers curl from the memory - she looks down at her heels.

“And I played there once,” Elsa whispers, “I was a guitarist in high school.”

The admission perks Anna’s curiosity, “You were? W-what made you choose a career in insurance?”

“You can guess,” Elsa shakes her head, “My parents told me it was the safe thing to do. I was good at maths. It had a proven career path with the least risk. I could play guitar on the side - and I still do.”

Anna frowns and crosses her arms. There’s a silent melancholy that drapes Elsa. For some reason, it raises a wave of heat that bristles Anna’s skin, and she knows it’s not the wine.

“Do you know what’s the deadliest job in America?” Anna asks.

The out-of-nowhere question raises Elsa’s eyebrows, but she replies without a hitch, “Forestry loggers.”

“No - it’s the President of the United States,” Anna replies, looking Elsa dead in the eyes, “four deaths and four assassinations out of 44. Pretty much a one-in-seven chance of dying.”

“Well, if you put it that way-”

“Somehow this doesn’t stop people fighting tooth-and-nail for the job every four years.”

Elsa doesn’t even realise they’ve stopped pacing the pavement, and for a moment - all the statistics in the world fades from her mind, supplanted by the intensity of Anna’s eyes beneath the dim streetlights.

“My point is,” Anna’s lips purse into a line, “Some things in life can’t be boiled down to risk. Or a percentage. Some things in life just have to be done - no matter what the cost is.”

She can feel Elsa’s arm going stiff. The woman’s gaze flung far off into the distance. There’s nothing else Anna could say which’d make it better. There’s a world of words she could say that’d sure as hell make it worse. So, they head back. They spend the entire walk back to the parking lot in deafening silence. Anna doesn’t even have to turn to know Elsa’s been staring at her the whole time. She doesn’t have to look into her eyes to see the thoughts churning around her head. Still, she leans against her work truck, not caring about the rust soiling her green dress.

“Will I see you again?” Anna asks, reaching into the glovebox and passing her own name card to Elsa, “Or do I have to get myself injured?”

The valet calls Elsa’s name from afar. She bites down on her lip as she takes Anna’s card. There’s an invisible string still tethering her chest to the girl before her, but she snaps it with an imperceptible shake of her head. Elsa extends her hand, “You’ve been a pleasant company, Ms Miller.”

They soak in the warmth of each other’s touch for the last time. Slender fingers and calloused palms.

Neither wanting this night to end.

And neither wanting to let go.

None of the half-dozen songs Elsa composes and strums to herself over the next month can rid her mind of Anna’s smile. Her desk is more cluttered than usual, a single name card adorning its austere desolation: ANNA MILLER - DIRECTOR, MILLER ENGINEERING & CONSTRUCTION.

She would’ve framed it up if she could. Or just texted Anna back.

Perhaps it would’ve stopped the accident claim from landing on Elsa’s desk with Anna’s name printed at the top. Courtesy of Mercylight Trauma Centre.

“Oh no,” Elsa slumps into her chair, inevitable dread gnawing away at her, “no, no, no-”

Fumbling fingers dial Anna’s number. No answer. Neither is the frantic text of: Ms Miller, I’ve received an accident claim with your name on it. Please let me know you’re alright.

She doesn’t so much as think before getting out of her cubicle and buying the most expensive bouquet of flowers downstairs. Scribbling what she truly felt into a card and breaking all the speed limits on the way to the hospital. Freaking texting and driving when Anna doesn't answer her calls.

plz anna plzplzplx tell me ur ok :( Im freakin out rn

When she reaches, it only takes a few minutes of searching before she finds Anna in the ER corridor. Arms folded as she peers within a ward.

She’s fine. She’s standing right there. Not maimed or burnt alive or electrocuted like any of the dozen harrowing scenarios that plagued her mind.

The sight freezes Elsa in place, a bouquet of Carnations dangling from her hand. Anna spots the primly dressed woman in a dark suit amongst the bustle of white-frocked nurses moving about in a blur, and trots over. Drawn to the woman like a magnet.

“Elsa?” Anna asks, brushing her elbow, “What’re you doing here?”

It’d been only a month, but the girl’s delicate features sends a rush of warmth into her face - like the first day they met. Her trembling lips struggle to piece a reply.

“I received a claim from you,” Elsa answers, “and I came over.”

Anna ponders, before she turns and points at the ward, “An employee of mine got injured. Some asshole drove a JCB into him. He’s fine though, will be out tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Anna looks at the flowers. The card’s half-propped open between flower petals, neat handwriting visible beneath the glaring hospital lights.

I JUST DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU GET HURT.

PLEASE GET WELL SOON

“D-did you think I was injured?” Anna asks.

Elsa slams a hand against her forehead, “I’m such a fucking idiot aren’t I?”

The rare display of emotion sends Anna surging forward.

“No, no, no,” Anna whispers, wrapping her arms around her. Not caring that she smells like sawdust and motor oil. Or that they’re standing in the middle of a busy hospital corridor. The flowers drop to a chair as Elsa breathes in every last trace of this girl’s presence.

“You’re here in the middle of a work day,” Anna asks, “What’d you tell your colleagues? That you’re visiting a customer?”

Elsa shakes her head, “A loved one.”

Rough, dirty fingers thread through hers.

“And what if they caught you lying?”

“I wasn’t lying.”

Anna smiles, and looks down at her boots. Perched a miniscule distance from Elsa’s Louboutins.

“Is this you saying that you love me?”

Once again, Anna’s question catches her off guard. Her brain’s still frazzled from the drive, from seeing Anna uninjured. From everything. She struggles with a reply.

“Look, Anna - I-I don’t know. I j-just wanted to make sure-”

A single finger on Elsa’s lips cuts her off, “Stop.”

“You’ve already broken so many rules coming here,” Anna’s voice grows heavy, “I’m not going to place any more rules on you.”

Elsa ruffles a hand through her hair. Some strands come out of place, but she doesn’t even care anymore.

“Just forget everything for a moment,” Anna whispers, before her eyes flutter shut, “pretend you’re not an underwriter. I don’t work in construction. And it’s just the two of us. Tell me what you really feel.”

She waits there with closed eyes, unsure of what Elsa’s next words will be. Instead of a stuttering sentence, Anna feels the faintest of breaths upon her lips. Before it melts into a gentle kiss. Her mind goes blank for a moment. Her face numb with pleasure. Right before she cradles Elsa’s jaw and kisses her back.

There’s an audible gasp when they part. The scent of Elsa’s Dior perfume gives way to antiseptic as reality swims back around them.

Anna’s eyes are still heavy-lidded. Despite the verbose chattering Elsa’s adored her for, there’s only one word left on her lips. Like the entire English lexicon had been stolen from her by a single kiss.

“Why?”

This time, there’s barely a trace of hesitation behind Elsa’s words, “Because I can’t risk living the rest of my life without knowing what that felt like.”

Anna touches a finger to her lips, and her voice shakes, “Y-yea, some things aren’t worth the risk.”

#elsanna #september 2024 contest #prompt: risk #cw: injuries #submission

5 notes · View notes