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floralseokjin · 5 years ago

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;slightly jealous (m)

FIRST LOVE, LAST LOVE

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You’re slightly jealous but mostly annoyed...

pairing; jeon jungkook x reader genre/warnings; domestic, fluffy, smut, some minor ass stuff, and i mean minor, jungkook’s hair 🥵, just jungkook in general 🥺 words; 2,560

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“I’m firing her.”

Jungkook laughed loudly at your dramatic statement. Looking up at you shirtless from where he was slumped on the bed—long given up on taking the rest of his clothes off. “No you’re not.”

“I am.” You insisted, kicking off your heels. One hit the closet door and you sat with your back to Jungkook, perched on the edge of the mattress.

He sat up, sighing softly as he undid the zip of your dress, helping you out without you even having to ask. “For flirting with your boyfriend?”

Okay. Now that he’d said it out loud it did sound a little over the top. Not that you’d admit that though. “Babe, I’m pretty sure that’s not a valid reason.”

“Inappropriate behaviour.” You were stubborn.

You heard him snicker before you were encased in warmth, his arms wrapping around your shoulders. “I love you. You’re silly.” You hummed. Not in agreement. It was just because he was nosing the crook of your neck. Felt good. “And drunk.”

“Fine.” He had you there. You were acting irrational because of the amount of vodka you’d consumed. But that was only because someone new at work had quite blatantly been flirting with him while you’d gone out for drinks. The store you were manager at did get togethers once every few months and you brought along your boyfriends/girlfriends/friends. It wasn’t everyone’s scene, but those who came enjoyed. You’d invited Sungha to be nice. You hadn’t realised she’d grow an uncontrollable lady boner for Jungkook.

“Maybe I can’t fire her but I can give her all the weekend shifts. That’ll teach her.”

You boyfriend laughed again, it rumbled in your ear. His hair, that could probably do with a trim by now—unless he was planning on growing it even longer, which didn’t surprise you—tickled your jaw line. “I must say, this is kinda flattering. Never knew you were so passionate about me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, would you like it if you had to watch someone flirting with me all night?” And shamelessly at that. At one point you’d gone to the restroom and had come back to find her in your seat. There she’d stayed. It was as if you hadn’t introduced him as your boyfriend not two hours previous.

“She wasn’t flirting with me all night.” He felt you stiffen in his grip and thought better. “But no, I wouldn’t.” You kept quiet, lost in your own head. “Hey.” He nudged. “Come on, face me.”

You listened. Ended up straddling him in the middle of your bed. Arms loose around his neck. He squeezed you against him. “You’re not too bothered by this, are you? You know I’m not interested in her in any way, right?”

His voice was gentle. You felt warmth spread over you. “I know. “ Of course you knew that. “I’m just annoyed more than anything. It’s the principle of it all.” God, you were off again. “I’m her manager and she’s only been there five minutes.” Jungkook listened sincerely, nodding in agreement once you were done. You stole a kiss before grumbling. “She was so obviously into you.”

He chuckled softly, rubbing your noses together. “I did look good tonight. That’s what happens when you have a really hot boyfriend, I guess.”

You snorted. “Be quiet.” As if Jungkook could ever be full of himself. You knew he didn’t think like that at all, but he always did such a good job at cheering you up.

It was his turn to kiss you now. He was naughty though. Slipped some tongue in. Distracted you for a moment. “You are hot though.” You agreed quietly.

“You’re hotter.” He squeezed your ass to emphasise. You would think after all these years together your attraction for one another would simmer down. Not in a bad way. It had just been six years and you could still get tingly from one single kiss. The power of Jeon Jungkook.

You shifted in his lap, letting his mouth make sloppy work of your neck. “She’s working next weekend.”

He groaned. Not for why you thought. “You being all stern like this is turning me on.”

“Yeah?” You smirked as he lifted his head. “Tomorrow you can finally build that shoe rack for the closet.”

“That? Not as sexy.” You went to whack his chest but he gripped your wrist, attaching your lips again. He whined in your mouth. “You made me hard.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Genuine question.

“Mm. Have a few ideas...” He noticed your raised eyebrow. “For real? You’re not too drunk? Too tired?”

“I’m merry,” you corrected, much to his amusement. “And sucking dick doesn’t take much effort.” You pushed at his shoulders and he willingly fell back.

“I can’t get all the pleasure,” he insisted as you began to hastily undo his fly. “Let me

go down on you.”

“After.” You dismissed.

“Let’s save time. Sixty nine. Wait.” He looked perplexed. “I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”

You laughed but nodded your head. “Okay.”

His eyes lit up. “Okay!” He wriggled to the correct direction of the bed, jeans and underwear off in a flash. Naked before your eyes.

You were a little slower. Standing up to shimmy out of your dress before bouncing back on the mattress. Kissing again without taking a breath. His dick in your hand as you began to jerk him off, and your ass in his. He squeezed and pulled before giving it a light slap. “Great ass.”

He complimented you like he hadn’t had access to it for years, making you giggle before you felt him tearing at the lace of your underwear. Impatient. Horny. You clambered out of them, your grip on his cock loosening, but he couldn’t take anymore teasing anyway.

“Jump on,” he commanded. Voice uneven. You hadn’t even had a chance to take your bra off yet, but oh well. Needs must.

You didn’t know who started first, but rather frustratingly you did know who finished first. Probably had to do with the fact Jungkook really knew how to work it in this position. Nothing made him happier than a face full of your pussy. His words. And with his dick in your mouth, maybe you were a lot more sensitive than usual. Sensory overload. It was a whole other level of intimate, and you just fell victim to it.

“Knew you’d cum first,” he gleed, mouth all wet and sticky.

Yours popped off his cock to land an insult before going back for more. “Dick.”

He chuckled. “Yeah that’s what you’re sucking right now.” Lightly spanking your ass, he blew cold air along your core. You jumped. A surge of hot, needy want shooting straight through you.

“No, wait!” He panicked, when you slid him from your mouth again. Misreading your movement. “Was just messing around. Oh.” He exhaled, realising what you were doing now as you got out of his grip and moved down to his lap. “Shit. Okay. Thought you were tired?”

You gripped the base of his dick, angling it to your entrance before pushing down. “Want it,” you said, moaning at the feeling of him stretching you out.

He moaned back and you felt him try to sit up a little before he gave up, moaning again when you began moving. He gripped one hand to your hip, unable to stop gliding his hips with each thrust downwards. You leant forward, hands on top of his thighs for leverage, and you just knew he had a great view of your ass. You moved quickly and determinedly. Making rhythm with the squelchy, wet noises coming from between you.

His other hand ran up your spine until he couldn’t reach anymore. “Jesus. What’s gotten into you?” He chuckled in disbelief, breathing laboured. “Slow down. You’re gonna make me cum.”

You moaned. That’s exactly what you wanted. You raised up a little, his hand now at your ass, cupping the roundness, before his thumb slipped between the cheeks. You jumped at the sensation. All hot suddenly. “Mm. This fine tonight?” He asked with a low murmur.

You nodded, realising he couldn’t see you so you tried your best to make some valid noise. “Uh huh.”

You moaned when he applied pressure to the sensitive rim, circling it with a skill he’d had much practice with. He really couldn’t resist anything to do with your ass. In any way, shape or form. “You make me feel so good, baby.” He got out between shallow breathing. “Spoil me. I love you.” Voice sweet with a confession he’d uttered a million times before.

“L-love you too,” you stuttered out, noticeably slowing down now because you were too overcome with pleasure. He moved, thumb leaving you for his hand to hold your middle. Clutching at your stomach. Any skin he can reach really.

“Not fair. I wanna touch you more.” There was a pout in his voice, and before you could even think about replying, he was up. Bare chest against your back. Strong arms around your middle, clinging you to him. “Wh-at are you doing?” You gasped, his dick now lodged inside you deep. You were both slick with sweat, and it just felt so damn good.

He used one hand to unclasp your bra, pulling it down from the centre. It fell against your middle, and he kissed your neck in a frenzy. “I’m taking control now.” He managed to whisper, squeezing one of your breasts, and then you were on your back.

You didn’t know how it happened so fast. You didn’t recall him leaving your body, or when he pushed back in. Dazed. But he had, and it felt amazing. His thrusts fast paced and powerful.

“Oh. Jungkook–!” You cried, wrapping your arms around his neck because that’s all you could do. Cling desperately to him. Your legs followed, tight around his middle.

“Feels good?” His teeth were bared, voice tight as he kept fucking you relentlessly. He grabbed your thighs, hiking your legs up further. The mattress groaned, your body ramming into it harder every passing second.

“Mmmhmm–!”

You were loud and free with your noises now, not caring a damn, because this was what it was all about. This kind of pleasure. And you knew no one else would be able to satisfy you like this. This was the power of years together. Jungkook and you were so in tune that you were one person when connected like this.

He grunted after a few minutes, pace turning uneven. “I’m not gonna last any longer. ‘Specially with you moaning like that.” As he said that, another moan dragged from your throat. “Fuckk.” His face fell into the crook of your neck. He was panting, brow soaked with sweat, and you knew you needed to put him out of his misery. Your pleasure meant the most to him and he wouldn’t give up until he was certain you were fulfilled. Even if he was close to passing out.

“I already came really good thanks to you,” you whispered against where you thought his ear was. “It’s okay. Cum in me, baby. You know you want to.”

He choked on his whimper, coming undone almost instantly because of your words. Hips jerking as he spilled inside of you, until there was nothing left and he couldn’t take anymore. He slid from you naturally, growing flaccid.

“You’re evil,” he whined after he’d come to, turning his head to look at you. You could just make out his face behind all that tousled hair.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Since when has asking you to bust a nut inside me been evil?”

He yawned, chuckling as he rolled off you, slipping an arm under the pillow to prop his head up. “It’s evil. So is jumping my dick when I wasn’t prepared. It’s a wonder I didn’t cum the second you pushed down on me”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t’ve minded. Wouldn’t be the first time...”

“Cheeky,” he chided, and you scooched closer to him, a grin on your face. He kissed you and pulled back, running some hair behind your ear. “You okay now? Green eyed monster gone?”

You grumbled. “I wasn’t jealous.” He looked at you with one of those looks. One that told you he thought you were talking shit. “Okay. Maybe slightly.” Like you said, more annoyed than anything. Sungha was still working next weekend. No amount of good banging would distract you from that conclusion.

Jungkook smiled at you softly, hand now on your cheek. “As if I would ever want another woman as much as I want you.”

“Cheesy.” But you couldn’t help your own smile.

“That’s me.” He yawned again, arms in the air as he stretched. You watched him for a moment before he realised. He knew what was coming before you even began saying it. You still did though.

“You need to cut your hair.”

“Shut up.”

He really would not have it. It wasn’t like you hated his long hair. Actually, you loved it. Wish he’d grown it sooner. But he still needed regular trims. You were sick of waking up in the morning thinking you were sharing the bed with Bigfoot.

He went to kiss you but you blocked him with your hands, giggling as he tried to barge his way through. “Hey!” He complained. “Let me kiss you woman!”

He grabbed a hold of your waist, tickling you, and just like that you began shrieking, wriggling about, trying to get away from him. “No, wait! Stoppp,” you yelled, trying to push him away. “Jungkook, stop. Seriously!!” He was rubbing his face against your cheek, stubble on his top lip tickling you even more. “Stop! I’m getting your cum everywhere.”

The amount of times you had to wash your sheets because of “accidents” was getting frustrating. He understood that too. And as much as he loved doing laundry (yeah, you didn’t understand it either...), he didn’t love it that much. He stopped instantly, landing a kiss on your cheek.

“And who’s fault is that? If you weren’t such a cumslut...”

“EWWW.” You roared, pushing him away again. “Shut up, that will never be sexy!”

You two had this thing together. It was weird, but then again you both weren’t exactly normal. He would find something utterly cringeworthy said in porn, or you did—maybe you both did—and you would laugh about it together for days, sometimes even weeks. You’d come out with it at random times, with the sole purpose of making the other laugh. Although you did admit, tonight your reaction was... over the top, to say the least. You were drunk after all. No. Merry!

“Shhhh,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. “You’re yelling the whole place down. We have neighbours, y’know...”

You settled down, giggling softly together before you began to grow sleepy against his body warmth. Of course he had to disturb you. “Got enough energy to get to the bathroom? I need a piss.”

You whined. “Gross.”

“How is that gross? It’s a natural body function.” You stayed quiet until he had to nudge you. “C’mon. We need to get ready for bed.”

“Fine.” You huffed but didn’t move.

“I’ll carry you.” He sang softly.

And he did.

Written 2019. Reworked/Edited 2020 Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. �� floralseokjin 2020

#jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook fic #bts fic #floralseokjin:writings #fic:flll

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nikki-writes-stuff · 5 years ago

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Chaser - Part One

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader, Gang Leader!Din Djarin x Bartender!Reader

Summary: No one knows his name, and no one knows his face, but the man who leads one of the most powerful gangs in New York from behind an infamous mask is still feared throughout the city. You, on the other hand, are just a waitress at the club he owns, someone who’s only just barely dipped her toe into the treacherous water of New York’s underworld. But that doesn’t stop your boss from taking a liking to you, and if you weren’t so terrified of all that his attentions could mean for you, maybe you would notice that fear isn’t the only emotion your employer stirs up within you.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I hope y’all enjoy this - the very first part to the very first fic I’ve ever written about The Mandalorian! Any and all feedback is appreciated - this is my first time writing for Din Djarinn, and even though my love for him is as deep and powerful as the Mississippi, I had some trouble finding his vibe while I was writing this. Let me know if I’m on the right track! (Also, if your name happens to be Rachelle, I apologize in advance. Please just...skip over a certain couple of lines in this story. You’ll know what I’m talking about towards the end.)

You could feel the throbbing of a quick, staccato bassline in your chest; you always could while you were working. The Boss liked the keep the music loud, and for good reason. It was the same reason why smoking was not only permitted but actively encouraged – the thick smoke and thumping music made it all the more difficult to hear and to see what happened in the dark corners of Club Razor Crest. Here, there were only two rules – don’t start shit, and keep your mask on. As long as they followed those two basic principles, the Boss’s patrons were welcome to conduct whatever business they saw fit in the crushed velvet booths and intentionally shadowed halls of his underworld playground.

With the tips of your red, glossy fingernails, you adjusted your mask now, pulling the plastic away from your heated skin by just a centimeter or two. You could have groaned from how good it felt to have cool, fresh air rush in to caress your sweaty forehead; after a week of working at the club, you’d definitely learned why anonymity was so important in a place like this, but you still dreaded putting the blasted thing on in the evenings before your shift.

Greta, one of the other girls who worked there, strutted past you, looking light as a feather as she waltzed around in her eight-inch heels with a tray of drinks balanced above her head. You, by contrast, knew that you had to look as clumsy as a newborn deer in your own stilettos; just like the mask, they were a mandatory part of your uniform that you still hadn’t gotten used to, and though Greta and the other girls had promised you that the constant pain in your feet would soon start to fade, your soles still ached painfully with every shift of your weight.

“Mask on,” your coworker whispered to you in passing. “Boss is here.”

You’d been just about to explain that you weren’t taking it off, that you’d just needed some air, but the words died on your lips when you heard the last part of her warning. Your spine straightened of its own accord, and the hand on your mask promptly fell down to hang by your waist. Scanning the space, you tried to make out the infamous man you’d heard so much about through the dim lighting and hazy air.

“Where?” you asked, but either she ignored you or just didn’t hear, because she kept on walking to her table without sparing you so much as another glance.

You gulped before stiffly making your way to the bar, slipping past the ‘Employees Only’ gate before gathering together the four glasses you’d need for your table’s order. You let your hands and body go on autopilot as you set about assembling their drinks; typically, the waitresses would just drop off their order slips to one of the bartenders and wait for them to make it, but you’d mentioned at your job interview that you had some bartending experience and didn’t mind helping out with the cocktail mixing.

From there, the head bartender, Quill, had sat at the bar and watched you make him an old fashioned right in the middle of your interview. With trembling hands, you’d done so, feeling the older man’s eyes on you all the while as he stroked his bushy white mustache. After one sip of it, he’d nodded his head, and you’d felt relief wash through you as he threw back the rest of the drink.

“You start on Monday,” was all he’d said.

Now, as you grabbed some triple sec from the top shelf, you caught a glimpse of him watching you out of the corner of your eye, and you turned to give him a smile. Quill had been working at Club Razor Crest for as long as anyone could remember, and he was the only person inside the building who didn’t wear a mask; evidently, him and the owner went way back. He was quiet – gruff, even – but for some reason you liked the grumpy older man. And, if you were correctly reading the gleam in his eyes as he looked at you from behind his thick, bushy white eyebrows, you thought that he’d taken a liking to you, too. Or, at least, to your old-fashioneds.

“How’s it going, Quill?” you asked, focusing once again on the long island iced tea you were making. “Busy night?”

You were expecting nothing more than a grunt in response; that was all most people got from him, and ever since he’d hired you, you hadn’t heard anything else, either. But instead, he opened his mouth to speak, only talking loud enough for you to just barely be able to hear him over the music.

“After you finish those drinks, leave ‘em here,” he instructed. “Boss just arrived with some of his friends, and he requested you to serve ‘em.”

You nearly dropped the bottle of rum in your hands, one that was worth more than an entire week’s worth of pay, and your hands scrambled to get a firmer grip on it. Shakily setting it down on the counter, you turned to Quill with wide eyes, your lips parted in shock.

“The Boss requested me to serve them?” Your voice was so high-pitched that it cracked as you said ‘me’, and you cleared your throat before trying once again. “Why does he want me? I’ve never even met him before.”

At that, Quill let out a sigh and turned to you, pursing his lips together until they almost disappeared under his large, unkempt mustache.

“…He likes old-fashioneds,” he shrugged, the corner of his lips jumping up so quickly that you almost missed the half-smile he’d given you. That would have been enough to perturb you for the rest of the evening; you hadn’t seen him smile at anyone after an entire week of working there – not even customers. But, as it was, nothing could cool the anxiety welling up in you as you finished making the rest of your drinks.

“I wonder where he heard about them,” you remarked, and you thought you caught Quill glance at you sheepishly in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes flitted over the room, looking for his booth; someone had said something to you on your first day about the table he kept reserved for himself and his ‘guests’, but you’d forgotten its location completely after the whirlwind of your first day at this new, bizarre job.

After finishing the four drinks and setting them on a tray, you turned towards Quill to ask where the Boss would be sitting. But, an idea stirred in your mind, and on impulse you grabbed a small glass before scanning the selection of bourbons and whiskeys the bar had to offer. Biting your lip, you felt eyes on the back of your head as you perused the different brands, but after settling on a good blend of the two, you turned around to find no one looking at you. Quill was busy taking some drunk guy’s order, and the other patrons at the bar were too busy with their own drinks or conversations to pay you any mind.

With a sigh, you shook off the strange feeling and assembled the rest of what you’d need for an old fashioned, hands moving on autopilot as you heard your dad’s voice in your ear. Make sure you only use enough bitters to saturate the sugar, you recalled him teaching you. Between four and six dashes should do the trick unless someone requests something different. Mix it with the sugar until it forms a slurry, and always add the ice in large chunks so it doesn’t get too watered down. Never overmix it once you add the spirits, just a few stirs before putting in a strip of lemon and orange peel.

Your fingers felt sticky as you snapped the citrus peels in half, spraying just a hint of their sweet oils overtop of the cocktail before rubbing them over the glass’s rim. After dropping them into the drink and mixing it one more time, you turned to see Quill watching you with one eyebrow raised.

“What? You said he likes old-fashioneds,” you shrugged. “Um… could you point me in the direction of his booth?”

Once more, he pursed his lips before pointing towards the far right corner of the room.

“It’s the only circular booth we have,” you heard him mutter as you walked away. “Can’t miss it.”

Making sure to thank him over your shoulder, you straightened your back and made your way through the main room of the club. There wasn’t any dancefloor, nor was there a DJ, but in the center of the space, there was a large, ornate fountain. Water no longer ran through it, but fairy lights had been wrapped around its tall structure, throwing shadows and low, scattered light around the entire room. Tables were centered around it, but typically only the low-ranking or occasional civilian patrons sat at them; the booths were almost always occupied by those who had a deal to make, those who had private (which almost always meant dangerous) matters to discuss, or those who were doing something that was, nine times out of ten, incredibly illegal. You’d walked by tables covered in lines of white powder before, their occupants knowing better than to worry about someone seeing and stopping them.

So long as no fights broke out and everyone stayed anonymous, everyone kept to their own business, and the paycheck was too good for you to worry about the moral connotations of working in such a place. No one had so much as laid a finger on you, and no one would, not while you were under the employment of the infamous leader of the Mandalorians.

After rounding the other side of the fountain, you finally saw the booth Quill had been talking about. It was raised up on a small platform, just high enough to be able to see the rest of the club clearly. Its table was, indeed, in the shape of a circle, and a large booth wrapped around three quarters of its diameter. Seated at it were four men and one woman; three of the men and she were wearing masks similar to your own, but while yours only covered your forehead and the upper half of your nose, theirs descended down their cheeks to their jawline, covering the entirety of their face except for their mouths and chins.

As it was, you would have found them extremely intimidating, but now, you didn’t even spare them a second glance. Because your eyes were fixed firmly on the Boss, and you were certain that you could feel his fixed onto you.

No one had told you that his mask covered his entire head, and as you stood there, in shock, you wondered why the fuck no one had thought to warn you about it before. It looked as if it were made out of thin but quality plastic, and various scratches and scrapes covered its grey surface. A voice in the back of your mind whispered that it looked like the goth version of Jim Carrey from The Mask, and you had to fight down a manic giggle as your eyes followed the bottom edge of it, which ran along his jawline, below his ears, and then, presumably, around the back of his head right below his hairline.

The front of the mask was what threw you off the most, though. Instead of having any features carved into it to simulate where a mouth or nose should be, there was only a T-shaped panel of what looked to be black glass. Or was it tinted clear plastic? You felt yourself lean forward, unconsciously squinting to see if you could make out any features beneath it.

You heard someone close by clear their throat, and heat flooded your cheeks as you suddenly realized that you’d been standing there for God-knows how long, just staring at one of the most powerful men in the city. No, staring at his mask.

“I-I,” you stammered, looking down at the floor in horror. It was then that you saw the glass that you were still holding, and you sucked in a breath before looking up again.

“Sorry about that, sir,” you apologized, clearing your throat. You leaned forward, setting the drink down in the center of the table. “Quill mentioned that you liked old-fashioneds, so I took the liberty of-“

You cut yourself off, eyes widening as you realized your second mistake. You looked down at the drink and then up to the Boss’s mask, right at where his mouth would be if he weren’t wearing something that covered it completely. Therefore making it impossible to drink what you’d just offered him.

The horror from just a moment ago paled in comparison to what you felt now as you watched him slowly reach forward, the leather of his black gloves squeaking as he picked up the drink you’d brought for him. His head tilted to the side as he examined it, twisting the glass around between his fingers before setting it down again.

“Lemon and orange, huh?”

You jumped when you heard the voice that came from inside the mask; it was clearer than you’d expected it to sound, but it also had a filtered edge to it. Your guess what that there was some sort of microphone-like device inside of it that projected his voice so it wouldn’t be muffled while he spoke.

“U-um, yes sir,” you nodded, lacing your fingers together and resisting the nervous urge to wring your hands. “That’s how my father taught me how to make them. It adds more of a refreshing aftertaste. Or so I’ve found.”

He let out a short hum, pushing the glass towards the woman seated beside him.

“Was her father right?”

You saw her eyebrows jump up under her mask, but without hesitation she did as instructed, taking a sip of the amber cocktail. Without realizing it, you held your breath as she swallowed, running her tongue along the front of her teeth for a moment as she studied the aftertaste.

“It’s good,” she decided after a moment. “Actually, hold on. That’s really good. Damn. Don’t tell Quill, but I like yours even better than his.”

Relief surged through you, and a smile came to your lips as you let the air rush out of your lungs.

“I promise not to tell him; thank you very much, ma’am,” you nodded, jolting when she let out a loud bark of laughter.

“Ma’am? Pfft.” She turned to the Boss, nudging her shoulder against his as she drained the rest of her drink in one gulp. “Hear that, Mando? She called me ma’am.”

“A decision I’m sure she won’t make again,” he remarked dryly, not even turning towards her as she placed the empty glass at the edge of the table.

“Well. Either way, if you can do that with a drink I don’t even usually like, I’d love to see what you can do with a long island,” the woman grinned. “Think you can do that for me?”

“I actually just made one a few minutes ago,” you informed her; under normal circumstances, you would have felt offended by her question, but something in her smile told you that she didn’t mean it seriously. “What can I get for the rest of you guys?”

From there, you tried your best to recover gracefully from your little bout of foot-in-mouth syndrome. Pulling your small notebook out of the hidden pocket in your dress, you wrote down the rest of their drink orders, noticing that two of the men asked for old-fashioneds. From there, the last of the Boss’s party ordered a whiskey sour, and when you’d turned to ask if he’d like anything as well, he’d simply shaken his head no.

After letting them know you’d be back in just a few minutes, you turned and all but fled to the bar, hands balled up into fists as you approached Quill from behind.

“Why would you tell me,” you demanded, “that he requested me because he wanted to try one of my old-fashioneds if he can’t even drink with that mask on?! Why did you just let me bring that drink over, like an enormous buffoon-“

The older bartender turned around to face you, and you took a step backwards when you saw the wide grin stretched across his face. His shoulders were shaking with barely-controlled laughter, and you watched, stunned, as he fought to gain control over his expression again.

“You were the one who assumed that he wanted to try your drink,” he corrected you, busying himself with salting the rim of a margherita glass. “I never said anything like that, just that he enjoyed them.”

You sputtered in disbelief, throwing your hands up in exasperation before starting on your drink orders.

“So it was just some kind of hazing thing, then, was it?” you asked, not able to deny that you felt a twinge of fondness stir in you after seeing his typical stoic demeanor slip.

Quill snorted, cutting his eyes over to you as you worked side by side with him.

“You think I’d bother with that sorta thing?” You turned to see him watching you with amusement still glittering in his eyes. “Just needed some entertainment to get through the rest of this shift.”

A smile tugged at your lips, and you shook your head with a chuckle before returning to the whiskey sour starting to take shape in front of you.

“Well, laugh it up, cuz I’ll have you know I looked like a complete idiot in front of him.”

“I promise you he’s used to that, kid. Don’t worry about it; as long as you get your work done, he won’t pay you a second glance.”

Feeling mildly comforted by his words, you started on the woman’s drink, eyes darting up towards his table. Now that you knew where it was, you could just barely make out the flash of his shiny helmet through the smoke that had settled around the room. Goosebumps ran up and down your arms as, once again, you felt as if you were being watched, and you hastily turned your attention back to drink making.

When all four of them were assembled, you placed them on a tray before stepping out onto the floor once more. You were hyper-aware of the drinks as you balanced them while you walked, and you kept your eyes fixed on only your tray and the ground in front of you. You were not going to spill any of them; you’d already made enough of a fool of yourself, and you were determined not to add a third strike to your record with the Boss.

And, so, you didn’t catch the way his mask had followed your every movement as you crossed towards his table, nor did you notice the knowing smirk the woman beside him was wearing as she glanced between the two of you. You were blissfully unaware of any undue attention to yourself as you passed out each of the drinks respectively before tucking your tray under your arm and turning to the table with a smile.

“Can I get anything else for you guys?” You kept your tone light and friendly, even though you were mentally begging them to not need anything else.

“Just send Quill over; tell him I need to speak with him,” the Boss said. “Cover the bar for him until he gets back.”

“Yes, sir,” you hurriedly assured him.

Biting your lip, you hurried back to the bar and relayed the message to Quill, who just rolled his eyes and set down the glass he’d been polishing.

“Why he can’t walk over on his own two legs is beyond me,” you heard him grumble under his breath.

From there, the rest of your shift went by pretty normally; you made drinks and polished glasses until Quill came back to the bar a few minutes later, once more only answering you with grunts and noncommittal shrugs. He’d waved you off after you’d asked what he wanted, telling you to return to your section but to keep your eyes on the Boss’s table in case they needed anything.

Which they hadn’t. After returning to take their glasses, they’d declined your offer to get them any refills, and when you went to check on them ten minutes after that, they were gone. From there, you only had an hour left until your shift ended at its usual time – 3:30 am. You could have hugged the girl from the morning shift who came to relieve you – as it was, you’d thanked her so profusely for taking over your section that she’d looked worried for you.

“Um… Have a rough night?” she’d asked, eyebrows pinching together under her mask.

“You have no idea,” you sighed, heading towards the back room. “See you around!”

But your walk to the back came to an abrupt halt when Quill called you over, having to shout your name twice before you heard him over the music. Frowning, you walked over to him, leaning against the bar.

“What’s up?”

“Boss wants you to bring an old fashioned to his office,” he grunted, wiping his hands off on a towel. “Something about not getting to try the last one you made.”

You felt the color drain from your face, and you gulped, nodding quickly before making your way around to the other side of the bar.

“Um… Well, I was just about to go home; it was the end of my shift five minutes ago. Could I ask someone else to bring it to him?”

“Boss asked for you specifically,” he shrugged. “It’s on you if you wanna go against his request.”

Well. Shit. You’d made mistakes in your time, but you couldn’t see yourself ever being dumb enough to deny the kingpin of, arguably, the most powerful gang in Brooklyn.

“I…see. Um. Where exactly is his office?”

“Smart choice.”

After making your thousandth old fashioned of the evening, Quill gave you instructions to the office, and though you were still a bit lost on what to do at the end of the third hallway he mentioned, you had a pretty good idea as to where it was located. And so you set out, holding the drink in a white-knuckled fist as you made your way through the twists and turns of the old building.

A few minutes of wandering later found you standing in front of a door made out of solid, dark wood, and a bronze plaque on its surface read Management – Please knock.

“Well,” you whispered under your breath, “here goes nothing.”

You raised your hand and rapped your knuckles against the door, trying to stamp down the butterflies in your gut as you waited for a response. Several seconds passed by, and you bit your lip as you looked around the hallway you were in; the door to the Boss’s office was the only one on this short hallway, but someone had taken the time to put a potted plant next to the door. You smiled, reaching out with one of your fingers to brush against one of its leaves, and it was in that moment that the door rushed open.

You snatched your hand back, as if the plant had burned you, and looked up to see the Boss standing on its other side. After swallowing thickly, you plastered a smile on your face and straightened your posture.

“Hello, sir,” you greeted, holding out his drink. “I brought that old fashioned for you.”

Without a word, the masked man turned on his heel and walked back into the room, gesturing for you to follow him inside.

“Close the door on the way in.”

You paused, heart pounding as you took a step into his office; the two of you were the only ones there. Glancing behind you to the door, your eyes lingered for a second on its handle, wondering what the smartest thing to do here was. If you said no, then he could do so much worse than just fire you. But if you did as he said, well… Anything could happen to you behind that closed door, and how likely was it that the loud club outside would be able to hear you scream?

“Jesus Christ, I’m not gonna shoot you.”

You jumped so hard that you almost spilled his drink, but hearing his voice spurred you to quickly grab the handle and shut the door without another moment’s thought. You turned back to face him the same moment it slammed shut with a bang, and you winced at how loud of a sound it made.

Smooth.

“S-sorry, sir,” you stuttered, hesitantly walking towards him. You held out the glass, looking up at where you hoped his eyes were beneath his helmet. “I hope it lives up to the hype. The drink, that is.”

His shoulders twitched upwards with a short huff of laughter before taking the glass from your hand, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You felt heat rise in your cheeks as your eyes fell from his mask, taking in for the first time what he was wearing.

In the low light of the club, you’d thought his suit was black, but now you could see that it was actually a dark forest green instead. The button-down shirt beneath it was white, and the top two buttons of it were undone, showing off a patch of tan skin just below his collarbone. For some second, your eyes lingered on it, inexplicably fascinated by the only bit of skin visible on the man in front of you.

Directly behind the Boss was a large desk cluttered with notebooks, folders, and stacks of various papers and envelopes, and you watched as your employer cleared off a small space to set his glass down on. You were finally able to break out of your bizarre thoughts about his clavicle once he turned back to face you, and you silently hoped that he hadn’t caught you staring at him again.

“Turn around.”

You blinked once, and then twice, before speaking.

“I, um… I don’t understand, sir-“

“Turn around,” he repeated, twirling his finger in the air. “Face the other way.”

Not fully understanding the purpose of such an order, you bit your lip, reminding yourself that he’d told you earlier that he wasn’t going to shoot you. Slowly, you obeyed him, lacing your fingers together and squeezing them tightly. You were now looking right at the door you’d walked in from, the one you were so tempted to walk through right now.

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the sound of your breathing, and you nearly shrieked when you heard his voice from what had to be just inches behind you.

“Don’t look back,” he commanded. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded, noticing a trembling strand of hair out of the corner of your eyes. In fact, your entire body was trembling ever so slightly, and you took a deep breath to try and calm the frantic beating of your heart.

Needing to ground yourself, you looked around at your surroundings, focusing on them instead of what your boss could possibly have in store for you. The walls and floors were a sandy concrete, just like the rest of the club, but there were various personal touches dotted around the space that your eyes lingered on. On either side of the door, there were huge bookcases filled with, yes, books, but also binders and folders and trinkets you wouldn’t have thought a mobster would keep in his office. Things like the small, carved figurine of a horse he had resting next to a copy of Webster’s Dictionary, or the small vase of roses he had balanced on top of a pile of magazines.

After looking over the bookshelves, your eyes scanned the furniture dotted around the room. To your left, there was a black leather couch on top of what had to be a genuine Persian rug. To your right, facing the couch, a loveseat was shoved up against the wall, and hanging above it was a huge mirror in a gilded, ornate frame. As you turned to look at yourself in it, you realized that you could catch a bit of his reflection as well, and you startled when you saw that his hands were on the back of his mask, unsnapping a clasp that held it in place. With a silent gasp, you turned to face forward again, eyes wide.

You held your breath when you heard him pick the glass up again, and it suddenly made sense why he’d asked you to turn around – he just wanted to try the drink without you seeing his face. Your shoulders slumped with relief; you didn’t care if he hated how it tasted. You were just thrilled that he hadn’t brought you back to punish you for staring at him earlier.

There was a long pause as he drank it, and you had to stop yourself from shifting your weight or appearing too restless as you waited for his verdict.

“…Cara was right,” you finally heard, and you gasped at the sound of his pure, unfiltered voice. “Your old-fashioneds are better than Quill’s.”

“Thank you, sir,” you breathed, still recovering from the shock at how rich, how deep, his voice was. “I promise not to tell him.”

“Oh, he already knows,” he assured you. “He told me himself after you got hired.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and you couldn’t fight back a quiet chuckle.

“Quill’s just full of surprises tonight,” you mused.

“Hm. I saw him laughing at you earlier at the bar,” your boss went on, and you heard him pause before something shifted and clicked behind you. “You can turn around again.”

His voice was, once again, the same processed, slightly staticky one you’d heard before, and as you turned around, there was a pang of disappointment in your chest when you saw the mask staring back at you once again.

“People usually have to work here for at least a year before they see him so much as smile,” he went on, turning the glass between his hands as the ice inside clinked together. “And here you are, not even a week in.”

“Well… it’s probably just because I’ve been helping him out behind the bar,” you explained. “I don’t think any of the other girls mix their own-“

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “He has other bartenders to help him with that, and he hates them just as much as he hates the rest of the workers here. But not you.”

You didn’t know what to say, and so you said nothing, wracking your brain for anything – a thank you, an apology, a party trick – anything that could make the air feel less awkward than it had suddenly become. But, eventually, your boss broke the silence, though you never would have guessed what he’d been about to say.

“You’re not a server anymore,” he declared. “I want you behind the bar full-time now. You can replace, uh…” He tapped his fingers against the lip of the glass, and you saw his head tilt upwards as he thought. “…Rayanne? Rachel?”

“Rachelle?” you supplied weakly.

“I was close enough. You can replace her,” he continued. “She can be demoted to a server to take your place, and you’re promoted to bartender to take hers.”

“B-but, sir, I,” you stammered, adjusting your mask as you took a step towards him, “I can’t just steal Rachelle’s job; she’s been working here for three years-“

“And Cara still hates her long islands,” he once again cut you off. “I’ll have Quill email you a new schedule.”

Your mouth was open, but no words came out as you stared at the blank slate where his face should be; this wasn’t really such a bad thing, right? You’d gotten the position honestly, and Rachelle had never been particularly nice to you, anyways.

“…Thank you, sir,” you finally said. “I… I appreciate this opportunity.”

“Mm. How much do you wanna make?”

You pressed your lips together, your nose scrunching up as you mentally did the math.

“Um… Does $13 an hour work?”

Your employer snorted, shaking his head before taking a step towards you. You froze as he reached for your wrist, being surprisingly gentle as he brought your hand up between the two of you, and as you looked up, you knew that his eyes were boring into yours, even if you couldn’t see them. You found that you couldn’t look away as he pressed his empty glass into your hands, making sure your fingers were wrapped securely around it before pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Remind me,” he exhorted, ��to never let you negotiate a deal for me.”

You blinked rapidly as he backed away, brain still fizzling a bit from how close he’d just been to you. The spicy scent of his cologne still lingered in your nostrils as he turned back to his desk, and it was only when he leaned against it and inclined his head towards you that your mind caught up with what he’d just said. What had been wrong with $13 an hour? Was it too low or too high? Had you just screwed yourself?

“Um…”

You watched his chest rise and fall with a sigh, but you could have sworn you heard a smile in his voice as he spoke next.

“Report to Quill tomorrow at the beginning of your shift,” he instructed. “You’re getting $15 an hour; he can tell you more about your benefits.”

Too low, then. You paused, not knowing what to say, and, he tiled his head towards the side as he waited for your response.

“…Did you just say benefits?”

This time, it was a full-blown laugh that you managed to coax out of him, and a tentative, hopeful grin spread over your lips as you watched him nod his head.

“Yes, I did,” he confirmed. “Now go home; get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, sir…”

With that, you turned around, opened the door, and floated down the hall to the break room. In fact, after grabbing your things and getting in your car, you floated the entire way home. It was only when you reached for your steering wheel that you realized you were still clutching his glass in your left hand, but you didn’t bother bringing it back; what was one missing glass out of the hundreds, if not thousands, the club already owned?

_____________________

Din sat at his desk for a while after that, half-heartedly doing the least glamorous part of his job – paperwork. Over the years, he’d done a number of horrible things to even worse people, but he still hadn’t hated any of it – the arson, the beatings, the murder – nearly as much as he hated paperwork. But tonight, he was grateful for the easy, mindless task; he wouldn’t be able to focus on much else, not with you on his mind.

The door to his office suddenly opened, but he didn’t bother glancing up to see who it was; Cara had already gone home with some pretty young thing she’d picked up at the bar, and there was only one other person who would dare come in without knocking.

“I gave her a promotion,” he said, not looking up from the check he was writing. “You’ve got yourself a new bartender. Thought you’d like not having to deal with Rachel showing up late anymore.”

“…I’ve been telling you to replace Rachelle for three years,” was his only answer.

Din looked up, watching as his old friend slowly lowered himself into his favorite armchair, groaning with the strain it put on his knees; he’d always had trouble with his joints.

“…Really,” he finally hummed, turning back to the check and scrawling his signature (which was just a wiggly line that resembled more of a curly fry than it did an actual name, but that only helped him in his efforts to remain nameless) across the bottom right corner of it. “Didn’t realize it’d been that long.”

“Because you blew me off and told me to quit complaining anytime I mentioned it,” he fired back. “Why now, all of a sudden? Why her?”

“Look, do you want me to keep Rachel?”

Quill opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off before he could, already knowing what he would say.

“Rachelle – whatever her fucking name is,” he grumbled. “You get my point.”

“It still doesn’t answer my question.”

Something in the older man’s tone made Din pause, slowly setting his pen down before turning to Quill once again.

“What’s it to you?” he countered. “You got something against working with the new girl?”

“No,” the bartender sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you know it. Just…remember what happened the last time you took a special interest-“

“Out.”

His friend sighed, standing up with a grunt and taking a step towards him.

“Now, Din, don’t get me wrong-“

“I said…”

He stood from his desk, pressing his palms flat against its surface and leaning towards the older man.

“Out.”

Quill bowed his head, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he frowned, but he didn’t feel anything but contempt as he nodded and turned towards the door. Slowly, Din lowered himself down into his chair once more, but his muscles tensed when he saw his old friend pause on the way out.

“I’m just as much worried for you as I am for her, you know,” he murmured. “It would kill me to see you go through…that again.”

The old man shook his head, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“It would kill me,” he whispered.

With that, he stepped out and shut the door behind him, leaving Din with nothing but bad memories and the taste of bourbon and lemon peel lingering on his tongue.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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beyondconfessor · 4 years ago

Text

Principle Decisions [14/24]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Zelda Spellman/Lilith

Summary: “I want to play with you. I want to fuck you if you would have me. I like you, Zelda. And if you don’t want any of this at all, I would very much so ask that we could be friends.”

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. This is pure fantasy, please suspend your disbelief.

With Christmas just around the corner, Zelda found herself at the local grocers, picking up last minute things that Hilda had otherwise forgotten in the last few shops or fretted that she didn’t have enough of for the pre-Christmas feast with Sabrina. There were only half a dozen items, but as she found herself perusing the flours, trying to find corn flour, she ended up stepping backwards into none other than the very same woman she had ghosted a few weeks ago.

Zelda drew in a breath, trying to steady the sudden need to run whilst mentally kicking herself for going to the same grocers as she had when she’d last ran into her.

Lilith looked well. Dressed in a thick woollen coat over a button-down shirt and a set of trousers. Her hair was out, cascading down her back, and her eyes were wide and bright in contrast to the dark colours.

All Zelda could think about was how much she wanted to kiss her. Her brain was short-circuiting as her heart leapt into her throat, and it annoyed her to no end when she’d spent the last few weeks trying to shove those feelings aside.

She’d been tempted to call Lilith––especially when her headaches eased, and her sex drive returned––, but like her emotions, she’d pushed aside that desire. After all, their relationship had grown too complicated. Lilith would never be interested in her like that, and if she continued down that route, she was only going to have her heartbroken when the woman clarified that whatever they had was for sex and kink only.

Lilith had not reached out either, but why would she? Zelda was just her client, after all.

“Zelda,” the woman said, her expression neutral, face tilting as her eyes glanced to where her long-since faded bruises had been. “You look well.”

“Thank you,” Zelda said before swallowing, feeling the awkwardness build between them. “I ended up having post-concussive symptoms after the fall. Apparently having migraines makes you prone to them,” she explained, feeling the words spill out of her without intention. “I haven’t…”

“Had much of a sex drive?” Lilith enquired. “I promise my feelings are hardly hurt in the matter.”

Zelda felt the sting from the comment. She doubted Lilith intended it, but her saying that did hurt her feelings. She had wanted to feel important with her, feel as if she mattered to Lilith, no matter how utterly ridiculous that was. At least it solidified that she was doing the right thing. “I see,” Zelda said. “Well then, I won’t bother you with your shopping then.”

Lilith’s hand snatched out as she turned away and Zelda paused, turning back to glance at her. She pressed her lips together and knew that a rather icy expression crossed her face.

“Are you okay, though?” Lilith asked softly. As if she cared.

“I’m perfectly fine. The sun does not revolve around you,” she said, shrugging off the grasp. Lilith laughed, and the sound caught Zelda’s attention.

“I thought that perhaps you were upset with me because you hit your head.”

“I––no, not because of that.”

Lilith’s expression faded into a frown then, her brow pressing together. “But you are upset with me?”

Zelda drew in a breath and looked around the store. This was not the place she wanted to have the conversation and Lilith seemed to pick up on that.

“How about a drink. On me tonight. I don’t have an issue if you are requesting to finalise services with me, but I am concerned if there’s something between us that’s unresolved––after all, I am the principal to your niece and I wouldn’t want unnecessary…awkwardness if there’s something I can do to fix it.”

Zelda swallowed, “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Try me,” Lilith insisted. “At the very least, let us clear the air so we can part amicably?”

She wanted to decline, but instead, she found herself nodding. “What time?”

“Six? We can go somewhere neutral, though there are few places we could go to. Perhaps..the Richmonds bar, if you’re so inclined?”

“The one in Riverdale?” Zelda asked. It was a little way out of her ways.

“No, it’s down the street, near the bookshop. They’re more of a pub, really, but it’ll do. No one will pay attention to us. Otherwise, you could come over to mine?”

Zelda felt the shiver run down her at the implication of going to her house. A drink with Lilith seemed very dangerous then, and Zelda felt the effects of last time wash over––legs spread, ass high and the sting of each hit.

God, she wanted that more than she should.

“The local bar is fine,” she agreed. She couldn’t remember having ever attended the so-called Richmond bar––but if she had, it hadn’t been a long time ago.

“Six,” Lilith confirmed, and Zelda was nodding again. “Don’t be late,” Lilith said with a stern look before she grinned, and then she was turning away, and Zelda was trying to quell the rising emotions in her.

As it was, she found the cornflour and tossed it the basket before heading to the cashier. A part of her hoped she’d stumble across Lilith again, but she did not. The line was long with other last-minute shoppers, and Zelda felt the minutes tick by, her thoughts drifting to what six pm would look like.

“Next,” the cashier called, and Zelda dropped her basket down, placing things out to be packed away. Then she was taking the groceries to the car, getting in the car, driving home, her thoughts still going over Lilith’s eyes as they’d looked at her. Her laugh, her smile, the way her hand had caught her wrist.

There was a fluttering feeling in her chest, and despite how she wanted to talk herself around the feeling, she couldn’t help but come face-to-face with the fact that despite weeks of not seeing Lilith, she still liked her.

Hopelessly so.

She went home and placed the groceries away into the fridge and pantry, and then she showered and dressed in new clothes, changing into a dress that she quite liked the look of on herself, and lingerie that she spent far too long choosing between.

She shouldn’t have worried about it, given that she was trying to convince herself that it was one drink at the bar, and yet she did, knowing that if the opportunity did arise, she wasn’t going to refuse her.

It was cold, so she pulled on her jacket, advising Hilda that she’d run into a friend and was going to meet for a few glasses of wine.

And then it was five-thirty. She was half an hour early sitting in her car, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

She hated the feeling in her chest, hated the growing fuzziness and the way her heartbeat pounded. She hated how her mouth felt dry, and all she could think about was Lilith’s laughter in her ear and how she wanted to see if she could make her laugh and moan in the same breath.

Zelda closed her eyes, and drew in a breath, pressing the feelings down. Sex was certainly one thing, but everything else needed to be ignored until it was eradicated.

She headed into the bar, her clutch in hand and threw her eyes around the room. She was still early, despite sitting in her car for however long, and Lilith had no reason to be here early.

So she went to the bar, ordered a drink and took a seat in a booth, ignoring the stickiness of the floor near the bar, and the fact that the only occupants were middle-aged men and women who all had an expression like there was nothing they wanted more than to hit something or cry.

She was beginning to regret being here.

Still, with a drink in grip, she sat down in the chair, trying not to let herself sit too far back, lest her back hit the spine of the rather stained chair.

She barely took a sip when the door opened again, and Lilith entered. She was dressed as she had been in the store, her face flushed from the cold as she undid her jacket, eyes sliding around the room until she saw Zelda and gave an acknowledging smile.

Zelda shifted in her seat, feeling the familiar flutter fill her as she watched Lilith walk up to the bar, and order, before she was taking her drink and coming over, setting it down on the table, opposite to herself.

“Zelda,” she greeted. “Don’t you look lovely?”

Zelda flicked her eyes away, hating how it was obvious that she’d taken the effort to change her clothes and make-up. There was no reason for her to have done it, and yet she had.

May as well be a giant neon sign before her flashing Down to Fuck.

“As do you,” she returned, though there was no warmth to her voice as she lifted her drink and sipped it, feeling the alcohol slide across her tongue and down her throat. This was a bad idea. She realised a bad idea to have alcohol and Lilith in close proximity to one another. At least this way she knew they wouldn’t engage in anything kink related.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Zelda advised. “Fracture’s healed, I had a recent follow-up imaging done, and everything’s perfectly healthy. My doctor wants me to see a neurologist but honestly, if the scans are fine, then I’m certain the headaches will ease.”

“Do they happen often?”

“They were happening regularly, debilitatingly so, but since the winter break has started, they’ve been occurring less and less.”

Lilith smiled and didn't comment any further to that, and Zelda was thankful for it. The last thing she wanted was to have Lilith lecturing her again.

“Not to sound like a broken-hearted girl, but was that why you haven't been coming to see me?” Lilith enquired, her eyes flicking to hers. There was a mischievousness to the way she asked the question, though Zelda supposed it was a mask more than anything else. She was curious as to why Zelda had ceased seeing her when by all other means, they should be fine.

“In part,” she admitted.

“And the other part?”

Zelda took a sip of wine. As she’d dressed that evening, she’d gone over if Lilith were to ask the question, what she might say. Make a feigned reference to money––that she could no longer afford the sessions, but that was hardly true––or refer to the fact that she was seeing someone, also not true. The lies presented and fell and Zelda was left with either the truth or worse, a fabricated story that would defer blame to Lilith.

But she didn’t want to do that, and the woman’s expression was curious as she watched her, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think whatever this is, is blending into something complicated and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

Lilith nodded. “That’s fair. We can set clearer boundaries if you prefer. I admit I’ve been…unethical in how I approached this, especially with the football game and my office. Not to mention the time you stumbled across my little home.”

Zelda lifted the glass to her lips as she tugged down her skirt, trying not to remember the incident in the office.

“Do you want to keep playing with me?”

Zelda sighed, looking up at her. “I do,” she admitted. “I want…everything we had before.”

“Everything?” Lilith asked. “Or would you like more?”

Zelda felt her cheeks heat up, and was thankful for the dim light.

“I want more,” Lilith said, taking the first step and Zelda’s eyes turned and looked to hers. “I enjoy playing with you, Zelda. Quite a fair bit more than I enjoy playing with any other clients. And I wanted to ask you a while ago, but I was…worried that you didn’t feel the same.”

The words sent a warm flush through, and Zelda felt a smile tug on her mouth. “I feel the same.”

“If you like…we could engage into an arrangement,” Lilith offered. “It doesn’t have to be a romantic relationship if you’re not ready for that, more of a…between. I suppose.”

“And just what sort of an arrangement would that be?”

“Well, simply stated, I could become your Mistress, and you would be my…” she paused then as if tasting the words to find the right fit.

“Pet?” Zelda asked dryly, brows raising.

Lilith shrugged. “I feel there’s a more fitting word there somewhere, not to say that I wouldn’t enjoy collaring you.”

Zelda drew in a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t mean to, hadn’t even realised until it happened that she had, but there she was, staring at Lilith, wondering how it would feel to have the woman’s fingers setting a collar around her throat.

“You’re far too insubordinate for slave,” she hummed, and then Zelda could feel the toe of the woman’s heel stroking up her calve. “Servant, perhaps. Or maybe…” and she paused then, her grin all teeth as her shoe fell away and Zelda was left sitting upright at the table, clutching her glass tighter. “Handmaiden.”

Handmaiden, Zelda blinked, feeling the brush rise across her face. “And what sort of…duties would such a position require?”

“Oh, we’d have to negotiate that. But sex…kink…anything you want, anytime you need it, wherever you desire.”

Zelda drew in a breath and held it in her chest, looking away. “And what would I need to pay for such a privilege?”

“This is an entirely separate arrangement. It would be entirely about mutual satisfaction.” So no payment. Lilith was asking her to engage in a full D/s relationship. There was much to think about, much to consider and how it would affect her life—but the truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to think about any of that. She just wanted what was offered before, plain and simple. “I want to play with you. I want to fuck you if you would have me. I like you, Zelda. And if you don’t want any of this at all, I would very much so ask that we could be friends.”

Zelda nodded, swallowing as she held the woman’s stare. Lilith liked her. Truly liked her. It was enough to feel her heart race. “I want those things too,” she admitted. And then she pulled back, straightening in the booth as she felt the reaction shiver down her spine. “What would this involve?

“Are you asking, or are you asking?” Lilith asked, and then she was sliding around the U shape of the booth, and Zelda could feel her body heat against her own. “Because we can talk if that’s what you want, but I need to know what you want right now.”

They should talk, sort everything out plain and simple, but Lilith’s eyes were on her mouth, and Zelda could feel the woman’s fingers brushing against the back of her hand, and all she wanted was to feel those fingers shoved down her underwear. But not here.

“We should…go,” Zelda said, “elsewhere.”

“Go where?”

“Wherever you can fuck me.”

Lilith smiled and then they were up and out of the booth and walking out of the bar and Zelda wasn’t sure how many steps they’d taken, but suddenly she was pressed around the side of the building, and there were bricks against her back, and Lilith’s mouth on hers as her the hem of her dress was being shoved up high on her thighs.

“Part your legs for me,” Lilith murmured.

Zelda obeyed and was rewarded with the woman’s fingers sliding underneath the band of lace, and sliding over her sex in a long, firm stroke that had her head rolling back against the wall as she gasped.

“Someone could see us,” Zelda said, but her hips rocks and she did not attempt to pull away. Only clutching at the labels of Lilith’s jacket tighter, tugging her closer. “Shouldn’t we––“

“Shh.”

Zelda’s words felt silent, though her mouth remained parted, a whine building in her throat at Lilith began to kiss down her neck, pressing against her pulse point, before the kisses began to have teeth and then Lilith was sucking against her shoulder as her fingers continued to stroke. It was all Zelda could do to focus on holding onto the jacket.

She looked up at the night sky, finding nothing but darkness with the heavy clouds that held over the town. It was early, too early for this. People could come across them, and yet there was no anxiety of anyone finding them, only a building thrill that they shouldn’t but they were.

“Good girl,” Lilith coaxed, and Zelda rocked against the fingers, biting down on her bottom lip to hold back from crying out.

She could feel the bricks against her scalp, dragging and catching against her clothes. There was cold air against her legs and a hot breath on her throat.

Lilith had one hand in her underwear as the other hooked underneath her leg and held it up, over her hip.

“You are an absolute divine calling, Zelda. I’m so glad we ran into each other.”

Zelda whimpered, and then Lilith’s mouth was on hers, and she was moaning into it, feeling a shudder build low in her belly before it built and built and then Lilith was increasing her speed, a finger running over her clit just right as––

“God,” Zelda hissed between them as Lilith laughed, low and warm against her mouth.

And then Zelda was coming in the parking lot of some bar, against a woman who used to be her paid dominatrix, now her mistress and all Zelda could think was how beautiful Lilith looked when her lipstick was smudged, and the distant golden street light haloed her.

“Come home with me,” Lilith said as she pulled up her underwear, smoothing her dress back down. Zelda nodded, feeling the tremor rush through her.

“I drove…” she whispered.

“Pick it up tomorrow. I’m not done with you yet.” It wasn’t a request, and Zelda swallowed back the noise in her throat as she felt her fingers lace with Lilith as the woman lead her to the black sedan. Before she could even think of argument (not that she wanted to), she was being guided into the seat, the door shut beside her, and then Lilith was sitting down in the driver’s seat, smiling at her like she couldn’t believe her eyes.

She hadn’t even drunk half of one glass of wine, and yet she felt the excitement buzz through her as if she’d downed a bottle.

She wondered if this was a good decision, and then decided she didn’t care as the car was started and Lilith was backing out of the car park. There was a flutter in her chest, and as they pulled out to the road, she glanced to Lilith and noticed the woman’s expression had turned into the familiar expression of her queen.

“Take off your underwear.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you’ll know when you need to beg,” Lilith said, and Zelda watched her eyes flick to hers before returning to the road. “Take off your underwear.”

Zelda felt the command wash over her, her chest warming with excitement. She didn’t wait to be asked again, reaching up to under her dress, she pushed her hips off the seat and slid her underwear down her legs, before sliding them off her feet.

“Good girl.”

Zelda sat up taller in the seat and waited, wondering what would happen, but Lilith was biting her lip, seeming to hold back her own excitement as she watched the road.

From memory, Zelda knew that the drive was fifteen minutes until they got to the house on the side of the forest, and as such, the idea of sitting there in the seat, underwear off was enough to feel the present growing wetness between her thighs.

But Lilith had other plans, she realised, as the woman’s hand slipped over her knee, drawing up her thigh. The other remaining firm on the steering wheel.

“Shift forward for me,” Lilith whispered, and Zelda did, because she was told to and Lilith was her queen.

Biting her tongue, she felt the woman’s hand slide up her thighs. She turned and watched as Lilith bit her lip, eyes on the road, and then Zelda was moving forward on the seat, and Lilith’s fingers were stroking over sex again, and it was she could do to draw in a tight breath.

“Don’t hold back,” Lilith said. “There’s no one here but you and me.”

Zelda sighed, giving a small moan as Lilith worked between her legs.

It was slow and steady and then she was sliding inside of her and Zelda was lifting a foot onto the console to spread her legs wide, pushing further forward on the seat so Lilith would slide deeper inside of her.

She didn’t hold everything back, but there was still restraint as she moaned, drawing her head back against the leather seat and pressing her hips up to Lilith’s hands, meeting her tempo.

She glanced towards Lilith again, watching as the woman stared out at the road, her face firm and focused, but there was amusement in her eyes. And then, all at once, she was pulling off on the road, and her fingers were sliding out of Zelda, placing the car into park shoving the hand brake on before the seat belt was unbuckled, and before Zelda could so much as gasp, the woman was on top of her, fingers burying deep inside of her again as she kissed and fucked her like they were running out of time.

Zelda’s eyes flew shut, heel pressing to the console of the car. The car was cramped and small and yet, Lilith showed no sign of being encumbered, fucking her as if the world depended on it and god Zelda’s world very much so did depend on her getting fucked right now.

“Lilith,” she whispered between them, feeling herself teetering on another orgasm faster than she could bear.

The woman nipped at her mouth, and Zelda’s mouth parted as she panted, unable to focus on kissing or fucking, or she could feel was the building sensation low in her belly as she squeezed around Lilith’s fingers closer and closer until there was nothing else she wanted but to be in that moment for all eternity.

“Look at you,” Lilith said, “You’re all mine, Zelda.”

“Yours,” she agreed with a keened noise as Lilith laughed, hitting just the right spot in her strokes, her thumb on her clit so Zelda’s foot slipped and she was coming again, harder than before.

And then Lilith’s hand steadied, and the woman pulled back, smiling at her. “I hope you didn’t have any plans for tomorrow, because I plan to fuck you until you use your safe word.”

Zelda shuddered out a breath, “Well, how can I argue with that,” she said.

Lilith smiled, and then she was sliding her fingers over Zelda’s sex again, despite how the intensity of it caused her to rock away, pulling from the severity of the touch. “I––“ she said, but Lilith’s mouth coaxed at her neck and Zelda found herself sighing again, melting against the woman as Lilith somehow managed to fuck out another orgasm from her (small enough that it ached and she wanted another, almost asked for it, but held back the words as she watched Lilith arched an eyebrow and climb back into the driver’s seat, licking her fingers with more arrogance than she had any right to).

And then Zelda’s leg was dropping to the ground, and she was deeply aware of how wet and aching she was, despite being fucked however many times in probably…half an hour?

She wasn’t sure. She barely knew what the time was and at this stage, if she was going to count, it may as well be orgasms. She doubted that minutes or hours would mean a whole lot if Lilith was planning on playing with her as much as she promised.

They drove in silence, the tension thick in the air between them as Zelda pressed her knees together, feeling the cool air of the air-con brush over the heat of her skin.

And then they were parking the car at the house, and Lilith was climbing out, opening the door for her to slide out, and they were walking up the wooden stairs, to the front door. Zelda watched as Lilith unlocked the front door, flicked the foyer light on, before setting her keys in the bowl by the door and then she turned on her heel and smirked at Zelda.

Her eyes ran over Zelda’s face, to her body, all the way to her shoes and then up again. “Get undressed,” she said.

“Here?” Zelda asked, eyebrows raised. “Truly?”

“Here,” Lilith confirmed.

The house was nowhere near as cold as outside, but there was a chillness to the air.

Zelda flushed, obeying as she pulled off her jacket, before undoing the zipper of her dress. Setting her clothes aside she stepped out of her heels and then watched as Lilith folded her arms, her lips pressed together in a pleased smile, brow-raising as if to say, well, go on then.

Zelda drew in a breath and removed the slip, before, reaching behind her as she undid her bra and slid that off too.

Then she was standing before Lilith, naked and ready. Her body burning with excitement.

She drew in a deep breath and watched as Lilith stepped closer. Entirely dressed, heels on still as she settled her hands on Zelda’s hips.

Now, because Zelda was barefoot and Lilith was in heels, the woman towered over her and Zelda couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement with that.

It shouldn’t have had as much effect as it did, but Zelda found her chin tilting up, mouth parting to taste her as Lilith’s face loomed closer, promising, but not quite close enough to kiss her.

Lilith’s eyes were watching hers, drawing across her expression before she smiled, and leant forward, kissing her. It was gentle, promising and Zelda melted against it, feeling a cold shiver run across her.

And then Lilith was pulling away. “Stay here,” she said, before turning away, walking up the stairs. Zelda sighed, feeling the coolness wash over her.

She watched as Lilith’s hips swayed, walking up the stairs, her hand trailing up the bannister before she disappeared.

And then Zelda was standing alone in the front room, coolness washing over her. Her clothes were cast around her, and Zelda felt herself begin to shift on her feet with excitement.

She could hear rustling upstairs, and a part of her wanted to walk up curiously, but she knew that she’d been told to stay, so she stayed, feeling her excitement turn to tense anticipation, dreaming up all sorts of things that Lilith might be planning to do to her.

And then Lilith was coming down the stairs, seemingly with nothing new in grip, though she had a grin that was far too bright for there to be nothing. “Be a dear and light a fire,” she said.

Zelda swallowed, not sure of the game they were playing, but turned to the fireplace nonetheless. Kneeling before it, she moved the kindling and wood into the hearth, setting it up properly, before she took the match and lit the kindling.

It took a few moments, and then the fire caught on the pieces of wood and flourished, allowing Zelda to close the door of the fireplace and step back. Behind her, Lilith was sitting on the armchair, reclined back comfortably with a knowing expression on her face.

Zelda stepped forward, all the more aware of her naked body as she felt the firelight warm across her, and then she was standing before Lilith, watching as the woman’s hands reached up to her waist and tugged her forward onto her lap.

One leg on either side of Lilith, she straddled the woman’s lap and went to sit down, when she realised what exactly Lilith had gotten from upstairs.

Her mouth parted open, a slow deep intake of breath pooling into her lungs as Lilith watched her with a vested interest.

“Go on,” she said, and Zelda swallowed, before her hand reached to the zipper of Lilith’s pants, unbuckling the button before she pulled down the fly, and then she was reaching in to pull the dildo out.

Lilith grinned at her, amused by her excitement.

And god, Zelda loved that look. She wanted to slap it off her face as much as she wanted to kiss it as she felt the strap-on press against her thigh, nudging just below her sex.

Lilith’s hands settled on her hips and then she was slowly, carefully, encouraging her onto the toy and it was also Zelda could do to sigh, feeling the warmth pull in her lungs as her hips rocked over the tip, feeling it press against her clit before nudging down, lower to her entrance.

“Lilith,” she said.

“Ask me nicely,” Lilith said, and Zelda rocked again, feeling the embarrassment flush over her. She wanted to ask, wanted to plead because there was nothing she wanted more than to feel that fill her. “You can ask me,” Lilith coaxed.

“Please,” Zelda whispered, and Lilith brightened at the word, arousal washing over her face.

“Please what?” she asked, softly between them.

“Please will you fuck me with your cock?”

It was filthy, and terrible and should have sounded awkward coming from her and yet Zelda’s felt the embarrassment wash away as Lilith looked at her like she was starving and Zelda was a feast to be had.

Lilith’s lips parted as she nodded, and for once it seemed she was at a loss of words, and then her mouth was drawing up, and Zelda was leaning down, and the toy was pressing firmer against her as Lilith kissed hard, hand curling in her hair as she tugged her closer.

“Yes,” Lilith whispered, and Zelda felt a hand drew through her hair as the toy slid inside of her.

Zelda gasped, eyes fluttering as she sunk on top of the woman’s lap. It went in deep, easily filling her. Zelda whimpered against Lilith's mouth as she rocked her hips back and slid deeper on it again.

“Fuck,” she hissed, feeling Lilith’s hand coax her until the entire toy filled her, and then Zelda settled for a moment, drawing in a breath as she smiled at Lilith before she began sliding up and down.

She could feel her body adjust, squeezing around it. Then, when she was comfortable, Zelda tossed her hair over her shoulder, hands settling on Lilith’s shoulders as she began to ride the strap-on as Lilith watched her, completely enthralled as she rocked over it like it was a dance between them.

It’d been a while since she’d had any cock inside of her––outside of her own toys––but there was something intimate about riding a dildo with someone watching her. When she bit her lip, biting back a moan, Lilith’s face shifted, her face soft with amazement, hands gripping at her hips tighter so that Zelda ground down on the toy.

Zelda flushed at the awe on the woman’s face, feeling it spark through her. She was doing that; she was the cause of Lilith’s expression.

“God,” Lilith said, before clearing her throat, seeming to remember that she was meant to be in control––but Zelda could see it was quickly slipping, especially when Zelda began to intentionally draw high and then sink low, grinding down on it.

Zelda knew she looked good riding a shaft. She’d had many compliments in the past from many paramours, and yet the way Lilith looked at her made her feel incandescent.

Lilith seemed torn between sitting back and watching her and wanting to do more. Zelda could feel her nails digging it, trying to hold back and she couldn’t help from laughing as she bowed her head until their noses were almost touching and said. “I want you to fuck me on every surface of this house so you can’t go anywhere without thinking how good I look riding you.”

“Zelda.”

“Don’t you want to fuck me on that lovely kitchen table of yours?”

Lilith’s expression hardened, and the woman almost growled at her, “I’m enjoying the show.” But Zelda could hear it in her voice as it trembled, that she wanted something more. She wanted to fuck her, really fuck her and Zelda would allow it.

“You can do whatever you want to me. No hard limits tonight.” It was a dangerous thing to say, and yet Zelda already knew that the things that interested Lilith, interested her very much so. There were things she hadn’t tried that she would happily explore under Lilith’s guiding hand.

She squeezed her thighs, drawing her hips up and down, kissing Lilith hard as she felt nails scrape down her thighs.

“I bet you wish you could feel this,” Zelda said between a kiss, feeling Lilith groan against her.

“You have no idea.”

Zelda laughed. The last few months, it’d been Lilith in control, but here, it was her domain and Lilith was hers to play with.

She fucked herself on the shaft, riding it until Lilith seemed to burn with envy, and then Lilith was holding her still, the toy buried deep inside of Zelda as the building climax died suddenly––she’d been close, but not so close she felt frustrated by it.

“Enough. Get off. On your hands and knees.”

“Which am I supposed to do? Get off, or get on my hands and knees?”

Lilith’s expression tightened, annoyance creeping over her face at the backtalk. “Get on your hands and knees before I change my mind.”

Zelda laughed, climbing off of her. And then she settled on her knees on the floor, before the fire, but didn’t bend over just yet. If Lilith wanted to reign back control, she was going to need to work for it.

Lilith stood up, and then she was buckling her pants back-up, the shaft returned into them as she zipped it up. And then Zelda watched as the woman slid her jacket off and undid the button on her sleeves, before rolling them up.

Zelda swallowed, watching the hardened expression of the woman as then reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the set of leather gloves.

“Disobedience will be punished,” she said. “Last chance, bend over, and it won’t be so severe.”

Zelda watched the gloves, feeling the flicker inside of her to obey, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to see what would happen.

Lilith smirked. “I was so hoping you’d make this difficult.” She stepped behind Zelda and drew her fingers over her hair, smoothing it back, and Zelda softened, her eyes fluttering shut before she looked up at Lilith.

“Do you remember your safe word?” came the familiar question, a soft, earnest expression reminding her that this, what was to come, was just a scene. Lilith was right there when if she needed her.

“I do.”

Lilith nodded, and then her expression shifted back into that of her Queen and Zelda felt it pull inside of her, a deep longing ache as the hand drawing through her hair suddenly curled, tugging her head back roughly. Zelda gasped, feeling her self pulled up straighter on her knees.

And then Lilith’s thumb was swiping over her mouth. Zelda parted her lips and felt as two gloved fingers slid over her tongue, pressing against it and pushing her jaw open wider. It didn’t hurt, the discomfort of it made her wince, and she watched as Lilith’s smirk tugged into a grin.

“Open wide.”

Zelda opened her mouth, and then Lilith’s fingers were retracting, though the hand in her hair remained firm, curling tighter so the nerves electrified.

“I know what you want is for me to spank you, but I think that would only encourage you to act like a brat.” She moved closer, and Zelda could see the bulge in the pants before her as Lilith shifted to stand in front of her.

With the toe of her boot, Lilith nudged at Zelda’s knees apart until they were awkwardly shifting apart.

Zelda’s muscles tightened as she tried to sit-up tall on her knees as she spread them wide.

Her hands hung at her side, closing into fists and Lilith looked down her, the warm firelight casting a golden hue over her face, making the blue of her eyes only all the more bright.

Zelda’s mouth slackened, sore from keeping it open, and the hand tugged harder at her hair. Zelda whimpered, looking up at Lilith. “Did I say you could shut your mouth?”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No, my Queen.”

“Open up then. You’re mine, now Zelda Spellman, and I intend to fill that mouth.”

Zelda shivered. Eyes holding Lilith’s, she opened her mouth. And then the woman’s brow was rising as she nodded for her to get to it.

So be it.

She undid the pants, unzipping them again as she had before, and pulled out the toy until it stood erect before her.

Scene aside, Zelda had to admit it was an aesthetically pleasing toy of black silicone. It was shaped nicely, somewhat larger than she’d expected with a decent length on it.

“Be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.”

Lilith’s hand, cloaked in black leather, adjusted the toy, so it sat where it needed to, and Zelda felt her breath pull. It’d been some times since she’d done this for a man, an action she reserved for paramours who’d proven equal in bed. But Lilith had worked very hard for her pleasure, better than anyone else.

If this was to be her punishment, she didn’t mind at all. She only wished she could truly show off her skill.

She felt the hand in her hair gently tug her closer to the dildo and Zelda submitted. Taking the toy in her mouth, Zelda ensured that it was much as a show for Lilith as the woman wanted, despite the flush of embarrassment she had warming down her body.

She let her tongue glide down the shaft, lips drawing over it, and she drew forward until she felt her tongue coated with her arousal. She slid her mouth over and then sucked, drawing back. And then her eyes fell shut, feeling the hand coax her deeper onto it before drawing back. Her tongue sliding down further and then up.

And then the toy was no longer tasting of her arousal and Zelda was looking up at Lilith, pulling back.

“Did I say you could stop?” the woman asked.

Zelda squirmed, shifting forward again and drawing her tongue back over it. She sucked the cock like it was a bodily attachment to Lilith. Her head bobbed, eyes drawing up to watch Lilith’s eyes dilate with arousal, her mouth parted in desire before Zelda was pulled off the toy.

Lilith smiled down at her, but it was not the warm, proud smile of a job well done. It was sharp. Zelda shivered, she wasn’t done being punished yet.

“On your hands and knees.”

The hand in her hair let go, and Zelda obeyed this time, bending over.

She was wet, absolutely, dreadfully drenched to the point it was sliding down her thighs, and Lilith knew. The woman’s gloved hands came, adjusting her hips and Zelda felt the gloved finger draw over where wetness had dripped down her thigh, slipping over it.

“Whatever am I going to do with you,” Lilith sighed. “Ever my darling masochist, aren’t you, Zelda?”

Zelda swallowed, dropping her head down to stare at the rug on the floor. Nothing was occurring. Nothing was happening, and she ached. Even though Lilith had already fucked her more than three times that evening, she felt very aware of how empty she was, how much she wanted the woman to slide inside of her.

And then, as if sensing her distress, she felt the glove fingers sliding inside of her.

Zelda whimpered, feeling the finger draw against her walls before they slid out again. The gloves felt strange, wronginside of her. She wanted her to do it again.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

A hand slapped at her ass, and Zelda gasped, feeling it rush over her. She bit her bottom lip, as a moan escaped.

“Let’s try that again. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Good girl,” Lilith said, and then Zelda was rewarded as she felt the head of the strap press against her, sliding purposefully across her sex, nudging up and over to her clit—and with it, Zelda moaned.

She heard Lilith laugh, her hands drawing her hips and Zelda realised what she planned to do.

This wasn’t going to be about her pleasure. This was going to be entirely about Lilith’s.

The woman tugged her hips, and Zelda felt herself slide back, until the shaft filled her suddenly, completely. And then Lilith’s hands, cool with the leather, began pushing her hips back and forward, leading her in a tempo. Zelda obeyed, biting her lip as she thrust her hips obediently.

“There we go,” Lilith teased. “Doesn’t that feel nice to be obedient for you, Queen?”

Zelda rocked her hips, feeling the woman’s pants bite into the back of her. She couldn’t deny the eroticism of being completely undressed. At the same time, Lilith remained completely dressed behind her, bouncing her back and forward on the shaft as if she didn’t care if Zelda would come from it––though undeniably Lilith did. The game they played allowed the confidence in Zelda to know that if she asked, Lilith would give her everything she needed.

“Spread your legs wider. There’s a good girl,” Lilith said, and Zelda spread herself as wide as she could, feeling her muscles aches.

And then a leather-clad palm was pressing high on her back, pushing her down firmly. Zelda’s face pressed against the rug on the ground, her forearms and hands splaying over it as she kept her ass up.

It was a fucking, meant to remind her that she was a bitch in heat for Lilith and Zelda’s eyes fluttered, feeling lost in the moment as she listened to Lilith fuck her.

There was a building tension growing in her, a pulsating need in her clit as a part of her wanted to reach between her legs and stroke just enough to get herself off––but she wouldn’t. She knew that if she did, Lilith would just as quickly slide out of her and then that orgasm growing inside of her would die away, leaving her hollow with desire.

“Lilith,” she moaned, her nails digging into the carpet as she squeezed around the shaft. “Oh God,” she exhaled sharply, feeling her breast drag against the rug, her nipples dragging with enough friction that she clenched again, feeling the aching desire building.

“What do you need?” Lilith asked, and Zelda felt her press against her back, her hips still fucking deep inside of her with a skill Zelda could not fathom.

“You,” Zelda assured. It was both a desire to say she wanted more and a soft whisper to ask for a reminder of her care. And then she felt Lilith shift behind her, watching as a single glove was tossed away to the floor before Lilith’s hand dropped down, her fingers entwining through one of Zelda’s hands on the carpet, holding her steady.

And Zelda squeezed, her fingers clenching around Lilith’s like that very act of tenderness seemed to let her know that Lilith was right there, it was a scene, it was a game, and they could stop if she wanted to.

She didn’t want it to.

Her hips rocked harder, as she gasped loud and sharp in the air, and felt as a mouth pressed against her shoulder blade, kissing it gently before it parted and teeth bit her. Zelda gasped desperately as the pain focused her, and then she felt Lilith’s other hand drawdown from her hips, to between her legs, to stroke over her clit.

It was gentle and then firm, and Zelda founded herself nodding and gasping “Yes, don’t stop.” Until she was coming forcefully, rocking over the shaft as her body tightened, nerves electrifying inside of her and over her skin as she cried out.

And then she was collapsing, dropping forward as she let go of Lilith’s hand to catch herself from smashing against the rug.

Carefully, Lilith withdrew from her and then she was nudging Zelda onto her side, and then onto her back as she looked down upon her, grinning brightly.

Zelda watched as Lilith lifted her gloved hand to her face (the bare one pressing warmly beside her) and used her teeth to tug it off before she discarded it over with the other.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hi,” Zelda returned, brows rising.

“You are heave sent, Zelda.”

“I’ve been told that before,” Zelda teased, smiling up at her as she felt a flutter in her heart as she watched as Lilith laughed, equally amused by her antics. And then when her laugh settled, and the smiled softened into a look of adoration, Zelda couldn’t help but lift her hips against the thigh pressed between her. “Tell me, my Queen. What else do you have planned?”

“Are you not satisfied yet?” Lilith asked, her brows raising with mischief. “And here I thought I’d thoroughly fucked you.”

“I don’t believe I said my safe word?” she teased, and then reached up, settling her hands onto Lilith’s shoulders to tug her closer. “Unless…you need to rest?”

“Insatiable,” Lilith said, leaning forward to kiss her. “I’m pleased that I ran into you today.”

“As am I,” Zelda said, genuinely meaning it. She’d been running from what she wanted for far too long. She didn’t know if this was a romantic relationship, or if Lilith only wished to continue the sex and kink in personal quarters—but whatever it was, Zelda wanted it.

She wanted her. Entirely, completely, however, Lilith would have her.

As Lilith kissed her, settling between her legs, hands cupping underneath Zelda’s knees to drag her into position, Zelda sighed with contentment.

She’d worry about the rest tomorrow. Tonight was about them, it didn’t matter the fine details, so as long as Lilith looked at her like that, she could pretend that they could stay in this sex bubble for a little while longer.

In the morning, she’d allow herself to worry about her family, about Sabrina and Ambrose, about if this really was a good idea.

But tonight? She was permitting herself to be selfish.

_______________

#lilith #zelda spellman #zelith #madam spellman #caos fanfic

13 notes · View notes

arti-pops · 4 years ago

Text

Thank some god she didn't throw a fit. Well, if you believe in any.

Entrance exam for @taiyuu-oct !

Yep. She was going to do this. Aki was on her way to become a hero. If she passed that is, but there is no doubt she would. Her grandfather and her aunt were counting on her, her parents too, probably, from up there. She was already on the train sitting next to some kid with a witch hat. It looked cool but them as a person looked weak as fuck. Hope they don’t pass. But thankfully, they were quiet, although that might be because of the threatening glare Busujima sent them. She looked out of the window to see lots of water, just stretching to where her eyes cannot see. It was weird.

Eventually, though, they got to their destination. Aki practically jumped out of the train in excitement, but sadly there was still the written exam on the way.

-+-----------------------------------+-----------------------------------+-

Finally, it was finally time for the practical exams. She just couldn't wait! And- oh. Oh, she was not participating on the first test. She had to wait more?! You better thank some god she didn't throw a fit, at least she's participating on the second. The principal explained what the others would be doing and led them somewhere.

She had time to prepare herself, rest. The thing is, Aki didn't like rest. She knew she'd need it but god was it tedious. She looked around at the other people waiting, one or two were asleep, some were stretching, some were talking and some were just observing, like her.

Less than an hour had passed and it was over, the teacher leading the next test, whatever his name was, came to explain what the possibly soon-to-be students had to do. “You will all go to a forest and try to not get caught by wolves.” Some people seemed terrified, and the teacher sighed. “They are made by my quirk, touching them gets you disqualified.” Wolfsboon, Aki remembered, finished explaining. “Any questions?”

Very few people raised their hands, the first to speak was a blue haired girl with horns “Can we pet them?”

“No, any form of touching them gets you disqualified.” He seemed annoyed at having to explain, heh. And with that, the two other hands went down. Seeing as there were no more hands up, he led them all to the forest. “I will give you a minute before releasing wolves at you.”

They all ran, looking for big bushes to hide in, trees to climb, or space free enough to run without obstacles. Aki had just gotten to a tree herself and started to climb, she saw some people around her doing the same thing. The wolves were out and she was staring at where they came from, her tree wasn’t too far from the starting point but not too up close either, so the wolves started coming and her tree had moment of peace for a small second until one of them smelled Busujima and started to try and climb it.

The girl jumped from the tree in the opposite direction and ran, footsteps making loud noises, but there were many others with the same problem. The wolf was close behind her and she made a small bomb rise from the palm of her hand. Yellow? Really?! Well, the only thing she could do was throw it at the ground, at the small place between her and the wolf. Once it hit the dirt, the bomb exploded into a huge amount of sprinkles. As the wolf stepped on them, all they did were sink into the dirt, but at least it served as a small distraction and the distance between Aki and the wolf was a bit bigger. Pulling out another bomb, she got purple. Yes, that will be helpful, fucking stupid wolf! She threw the bomb directly at the animal, a sticky goo came from it and it seemed to have a harder time moving, being lightly stuck and on a slippery surface.

She ran a while more, finally having the wolf off her back as she came across two others, together in front of her. She pulled out two bombs this time, one was purple and another was red. She threw the purple one at them, but it only seemed to stop one of the wolves and make the other slip once. So she ran, and threw the remaining bomb in a random direction. Lots of different flowers came from it and the smell attracted a few wolves but didn’t get that one off her back, a sneeze was heard in the distance, oops. Eventually it caught up to her and touched her with it’s mouth. Mad, Aki went back to where the disqualified people were. At least she wasn’t one of the first five.

-+-----------------------------------+-----------------------------------+-

There was, again, another test before she could go to her next one. As much as Aki had promised herself to do something on the next break, she was tired and allowing herself to rest before her next test was a very great idea, so she closed her eyes and waited until a teacher, or the principle, came for the next round.

After half an hour, which was too long in Aki’s opinion, all of the participants plus the same teacher that led her first test came back. She really couldn’t remember who the teacher that explained the next one’s name was, or the other teacher beside them. “You will be climbing a steep six foot wall, with some hand and foot holds. If you fall, do not worry. Both of us will be there to make sure you don’t get badly injured. Preferably not injured at all.” The teacher beside them gave a big grin. And so, they were led to the wall.

Aki tried to look at the holds to try and find which ones would be easier to grab and yet were kind of out of her reach. As soon as she found some she made about two bombs that she threw back where no one was at, until she got a glitter one. With that in hand, she threw it on the ground while jumping just above it, the impact gave her a small boost and she got a hold of the holds (hehe), almost slipping on the one her right foot stepped on. The rest was fairly easy, since no one was allowed to get on someone else’s way, there were even possible future students talking. Only slipping once or twice, Aki got to the top. There were already a few people there, which got her disappointed, but there were still people climbing so she guessed it was okay.

-+-----------------------------------+-----------------------------------+-

This time it was two. Two rounds she had to wait until her next one. She did take one of them to rest again, but as the students came back and she didn’t go, Aki decided she could stretch a bit. Who knew what they were going to do next? So she did a few simple stretches, nothing too tiring. Someone with colorful fire on their skin joining her along the way. She stopped and they seemed to carry on for a bit longer as she sat down. That was cool of them. Maybe.

And so the people came back and what they were doing for the next round was explained. “You’ll be rock hopping from stone pillar to stone pillar, on the ocean, out to an island and back! The water is only a meter deep, but if you even think about wading you’ll be disqualified.” The teacher warned.

And so they were brought to the ocean. Well, they weren’t in it, but they were close and they would be hopping on top of it in just a second. “START!” Everyone ran towards the pillars’ direction and started hopping. Aki didn’t really have any strategy, so she just stepped on the closest and started hopping to the nearest unoccupied pillars, sometimes she waited for the people on them to jump. Some of the ones in front of her were wet because of people who fell down.

On some, she slipped and almost fell, on others she didn’t jump correctly and with lots of luck didn’t fall. As she was getting close to the end, there was a smaller piller and it was very wet, apparently it had caused two people to slip, yet it still seemed like her best option. So she jumped. And she could feel herself slipping and falling to the side, until she felt someone grab her hand and shoulder. There was a person on the pillar next to that one who was kind enough to help her, well, she would be too much of a jerk if she didn’t thank them. “Thanks, I guess.” She said to someone with big asphalt hands and bangs that covered their eyes. That actually looked pretty cool.

“NO PROBLEM!” They yelled, hopping away to the finish line. Fuck, she also had to go. Having no more problems with the few other pillars, Aki made her way to the finishing point.

-+-----------------------------------+-----------------------------------+-

Getting back home she was pretty confident. She was definitely going to pass. And once she arrived, she discovered her aunt was visiting. Sitting down on the living room floor Aki told her grandfather and aunt about the exams, telling them about how she surely passed, without a doubt and having Ichika tell her that even if she was amazing, she should lower a bit her expectations, which her grandfather and Aki herself strongly disagreed on.

#Taiyuu #OCT #Taiyuu oct #Busujima Aki #Entrance exam #round 1 #Nerva Rekka #yuyuko dakuabisha #tsunoda yukino

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recurring-polynya · 4 years ago

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Hello! To start, I absolutely love all of your stories!! I found your fanfiction only recently and it is so good! I was wondering if you could write a Drabble where Hisana is alive and has a baby with Byakuya? With Renji and Rukia in the story? Thank you so much! I can’t even tell you how much I enjoy your stories :)

My first reaction, of course, why would I ever need to write this, when you could just go read @proceedwithcaution ’s A Thin Red Line again?, but maybe my valiant asker just read it and needs more? One of the major tenets of fanfiction is, just because it’s already been done (and better) doesn’t mean you can’t write your own. Also, I’ve always wanted to write Renji and Hisana in the same story and this seemed like a fun opportunity.

These sorts of requests are actually much harder for me than it would appear, because I’m not the sort of person that can just write a story in a vacuum. If Hisana is alive, what AU is this? What’s different? When does it take place? What is everyone’s relationship to one another? It’s too much!

So, I sat back and said, what is the tiniest possible AU I can make? In A Thin Red Line, Hisana makes sure that Rukia and Renji never have to be separated, so everyone’s relationships get all mangled, but what if she never found out that Renji existed? What if Rukia and Byakuya, stubborn and emotionally constipated as they are, just never mentioned him until he shows up 40 years later? In other words, what if this timeline is exactly like the regular one, except Rukia has a much cooler older sis and Byakuya is, like, 3% more chill, and maybe tried to help Rukia not get executed, instead of ::waves hand vaguely at canon::

Anyway, I got charmed by this idea, and inspiration isn’t something I’ve had a lot of lately, so I just decided to go for it. It’s not so much a drabble as a series of drabbles-- I have 5 of them in various drafty states, I may or may not write more, depending on inspiration and if anyone cares about this, so if you like this and want more, lemme know! I’m just gonna leave this one with a ? number of chapters, which is not usually my way, but it’s not really a story, it’s just some stream of consciousness scenes.

Takes place shortly after the end of the Soul Society Arc. Warning: I have been reading a lot of Jane Austen lately, and also, my mind has been completely poisoned by this prophetic @unohanadaydreams take on what Byakuya’s kid would be like. The title comes from Pride and Prejudice.

a little in love now and then | ao3 | ff.net |

Summary: Abarai Renji doesn't have a fortune, but he does appear to be in want of a wife, at least in Lady Kuchiki's opinion. Fortunately, Lady Kuchiki also has a sister, and a woefully eligible one, at that. (itty bitty Hisana Lived! AU)

Rating: T, because Hisana drops a curse in some later part

More chapters coming over the next few days

It was going to be really hard to defeat Kuchiki Byakuya in combat, Renji realized. Not because the man was absolute perfection in battle-- insanely fast, ridiculously strong, utterly unflappable. No, what was going to make it really, really difficult was the fact that the man’s wife was incredibly nice and very, very beautiful, and also Renji was terrified of her.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Abarai!” Hisana trilled cheerfully as she barged into the Squad 6 captains’ offices. “Oh, Byakuya isn’t here?”

“He’s at a captains’ meeting, ma’am,” Renji explained. “My Lady.” He couldn’t remember which was correct.

“No matter, I’ll find it myself! Here, hold this!”

Byakuya hated people touching his things, especially his desk, and Renji should probably have stopped her, but he had two armfuls of the 18-month old heir to the Kuchiki Clan and if his reflexes hadn’t been so good, he would also have had a small wooden top up his nose.

“Settle down, Future Lieutenant Kuchiki,” Renji murmured, extracting the top from Touma’s slightly sticky hand, and settling the boy on his lap. He pushed the half-done paperwork on his desk to one side and set the top a-spin. Out of all the skills he had spent 40 years honing, he did not expect throwing tops with Momo’s bratty brother on school vacations to be one that he would find useful as a vice-captain. He had found there to be very little about being a vice-captain that had aligned with his expectations.

Young Touma squealed with delight, and his mother briefly looked up from the mess she was making of Byakuya’s desk (she had moved one pile of mission reports 3 cm to the right, and Renji expected to hear about it all afternoon.) “He likes you,” she observed simply.

“He likes anyone who’ll spin his top for him,” Renji corrected.

“That is categorically untrue,” Hisana informed him, and started in on the drawers.

Regardless of Touma’s feelings for Renji, the kid was yet another reason Renji felt like he might hesitate before punching Captain Kuchiki’s ticket. Touma was a sweet kid, if perpetually sticky, and more importantly, he was Rukia’s nephew, her own blood. The little guy mostly took after his pop, but Renji kept finding things-- the way his hair curled at the back of his neck, the bossy look he got on his face when he wanted something-- that reminded him of Rukia in her youth. Not that he was all that familiar with Rukia-of-late. She was practically a stranger, to be honest.

“Aha!” Hisana announced, waving a folded piece of correspondence. “Invitation to Aunt Etsu’s 475th birthday party. I knew she sent him one!” She tucked it in her sleeve smugly. “Sometimes, I think people send letters to him at the office just so that he’ll forget to bring them home.” She narrowed her eyes at Renji. “You don’t happen to open his mail for him, do you?”

“I don’t touch his mail, ma’am.”

Hisana’s face fell.

Renji had watched his captain read his mail, though. “If I put another letter tray on his desk,” he offered hesitantly, “and label it ‘Home’, I bet he’d stick stuff like that in it as he’s opening it, and I’m sure he’d bring it home at the end of the day. He loves empty trays.”

Hisana jabbed a finger at him. “I like you.” She marched over and retrieved her son, who was not very happy to be retrieved.

Ignoring the tearful child getting snot and tears all over a kimono that was worth more than everything Renji owned, Hisana took a moment to regard the Lieutenant of the Sixth. Her gaze was penetrating, stripping him down to his bones. “You’ve met my sister before, yes? Rukia? You helped Byakuya stay her execution?”

That was one way to put it, Renji supposed. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

Hisana nodded definitively. "You should come to dinner,” she declared.

“Dinner?” Renji echoed, his voice hollow.

“At the Manor,” she clarified. “It will be at six.”

“Ma’am, I can’t,” Renji excused reflexively. Of course, he wanted to see Rukia again, that was part of the whole plan, but Kuchiki Manor was not a place where Renji belonged, not yet, anyway. Byakuya didn’t want Renji in his house. Rukia probably didn’t want him in her house, either. Renji had this under control. He was working up to it. He was currently in the process of writing Rukia a letter. He had been working on it for a week. It currently consisted of a single sentence, which he was considering re-writing.

“We’re having grilled unagi,” Hisana added, before disappearing in a swish of silk.

“I must regretfully decline?” Renji called after her.

- - -

Byakuya stared at his desk. “My wife has been here.”

“I am sorry, sir. I couldn’t stop her.”

“No, she is not your responsibility,” Byakuya sighed. He settled himself behind his desk, then looked up. “Did she have Touma with her?”

“Yes, he was very cheerful, right up until he had to leave.”

Captain Kuchiki considered this, and nodded. “He loves the Sixth already. A fortuitous sign.”

Sure, why not? Renji saw no reason to argue. “Er, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

Renji winced. There was no easy way to put this. “Your wife invited me over to dinner. I tried to turn her down, sir, politely, of course, but she… ignored me.”

“You cannot decline,” Byakuya stated simply. “When my wife invites you to dinner, you remain invited until she decides otherwise.”

“Oh.”

There was a long silence. Byakuya contemplated his new mail tray, which he did not recognize, but approved of, in principle.

Renji swallowed. “Sir, I am sorry to have to ask but… does Lady Hisana know about me and Rukia?”

Byakuya had been trying to get his pile of mission reports back to its exact previous position. He looked up, horrified. “What is there to know about you and Rukia?”

Renji waved his hands frantically. “Nothing! Nothing, sir! Just us growing up in Rukongai together, remember I told you about that? When you asked me to commit treason with you by destroying the Soukyoku and keeping her from getting executed?”

“Ah, yes, I do remember.” Captain Kuchiki paused for a moment to consider whether or not this information had reached his wife's ear. “I have no idea.”

Renji changed his mind. He could probably find it in himself to kill this man after all.

#renruki #byahisa #bleach fanfiction #my writing #asks #drabbles #byakuya has such a 1950's newspaper-reading-dad vibe in this #don't worry rukia shows up in the next part

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notapaladin · 4 years ago

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harmonic orchestra (the teocatl edition)

so, I refuse on principle to wedge all these mini-fills into their own separate posts on here because they’re all so SHORT, but I can and will organize them loosely by theme.

Have the teocatl ones! You can also read them on AO3.

They sit on the steps of the Great Temple and watch the sun go down, and Acatl looks sidelong at him (golden in the sunlight, gold as the imperial regalia) and thinks, There is my future Emperor.

Teomitl's promised to be patient, to bide his time—to let Tizoc-tzin reign a few more years, no matter how cruel and craven the man is—and Acatl wonders, even now, if he can trust him or if he'll spend those years looking over his shoulder, praying that his former student's ambition doesn't break the Empire apart.

Then Teomitl turns and smiles at him—turns and, gods, takes his hand—and he decides that, for once in his life, he'll take the risk.

No matter how much he loves Acatl (gods, more than he thought it was even possible to love anyone), Teomitl has to admit there are...certain downsides to being intimately acquainted with the High Priest for the Dead.

"You know," he grumbles, "just because you deal with corpses all day doesn't mean your hands have to be as cold as the grave.”

“Sorry,” Acatl mutters with a wince—they’ve only just seen each other after too long a time apart, and now Teomitl supposes he’s sort of ruined the mood.

Well, if he’s ruined it, it’s his responsibility to fix it. “Come here, love. I'll warm them for you."

“If anyone’s earned the right to keep calling me by my name, it’s you.”

Acatl blinks, and blushes, and has to avert his eyes. “You are my Emperor now,” he manages.

Ahuitzotl—no, no, he is Teomitl, he will always be Teomitl to him—smiles, radiant in gold and turquoise and jade, and takes his hand. “But you still love me, don’t you?”

“...I do...Teomitl-tzin.”

As he knew it would, the honorific makes his beloved flop theatrically backwards on his mat with a groan, and the tension breaks. One day, he muses, he really should ask why Teomitl hates when he calls him that, but for the moment he’ll pull him close, and kiss him, and reassure him that yes, he is loved very much.

The carved obsidian takes the form of one of Quetzalcoatl's feathered serpents, with its fanged head swallowing the hilt and the feathers picked out in delicate spines along the edges; it was dug up from Teotihuacan centuries ago, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't imagine ever using it in combat.

Teomitl presses it into his hands, face red, and mutters, "You said you wanted practical gifts, didn't you? I thought you'd—well. I thought this would please you—unless it doesn't, and you want something else—"

He stops his lover's mouth with a long, sweet kiss, and when they pull apart they're both smiling. "I love it."

Your soulmate's birth day is on your wrist, laying against the vein that leads to your heart, but that doesn't mean anything—hundreds of infants are born on a day Six Reed or Eight Death or Ten Rabbit, and so it could be any one of them. And besides Acatl is a priest, and priests give up all claim to their soulmates when they take their vows; he shouldn't be lonely, shouldn't look at his wrist and wonder about the person whose sign appeared on his arm when he was twelve. It doesn't stop him.

So, of course, he finds his soulmate in the worst way possible. A priestess has been kidnapped and a warrior sent to assist him in his investigation; the young man, arrogant in the bright orange-and-black of a youth who's taken a prisoner unassisted, is halfway up the temple steps and meeting his eyes before the mark on his wrist starts to burn.

"You would be...Acatl-tzin?"

His name on the man's lips resounds like a bell in his heart, and it's all he can do to remain standing.

(That's bad enough. But then a week later he finds out young Teomitl is the Emperor's brother, and all he can think is Fuck.)

Teomitl is not yet Master of the House of Darts, not yet keeper of Tenochtitlan's armory—he's just another one of the dead Emperor's dozens of brothers, with only a few prisoners to his name and no great claims to glory—but when he strides through the palace halls, the courtiers and servants and slaves scatter out of his way like quail before the hunter's footsteps. He does not look around. His limbs do not tremble. His eyes are clear, though they burn with rage.

(The smart thing to do would be to run—to rescue Acatl-tzin and Nezahual-tzin and his valuables, to flee somewhere they can take refuge until Tizoc's paranoid rage subsides. But Acatl-tzin is not here, and he's not feeling especially smart at the moment.)

His brother—the man who will be Emperor, once their brother's funeral is over—has the nerve to look surprised to see him. He rises from his mat, eyes narrowed, and demands, "What are you doing—"

"Acatl isn't the one you should worry about betraying you," Teomitl says.

Tizoc's blood splatters his hands, his cloak, his face—and he smiles. And thinks, with some relief, There. Now we're safe.

"I'll think of something," Teomitl says with confidence he doesn't quite feel (gods, he fucked up, he fucked up, and how Acatl can stand before him and offer him food and say there's no need for apologies he doesn't know—he'd worn his full battle dress on the distinct chance of his former teacher just punching him in the teeth—), but then he smiles, and Acatl smiles back, and it's so hesitant and genuine and real that he has to look away and make some comment on how the city looks stretched out below them.

Honestly, he barely even sees the city, only registering the canals by the glare of the sunset on the water. His mind is too full of all the ways he'd erred (he'd been so arrogant, so impatient, so sure that he knew best and that this was the only way for him to earn respect even when Mihmatini and Acatl tried to warn him, and it had taken his wife all but holding a knife to his throat to realize he was about to do something irreparable—gods, gods, his sister Chalchiuhnenetl had wanted him to kill her, kill them all) and all he can think is that he must have broken things, that he can't understand how Acatl could forgive him (could respect him even when he wasn't Emperor—as one man to another, he'd said, and it had made Teomitl's stone heart melt) when he can barely forgive himself.

But he turns his face back to the temple steps and Acatl’s looking at him like he’s the dawn on the first morning of the Fifth World, and sometimes when things break they heal stronger.

Acatl's hair is wavy. It's unusual, in a place where most people's hair is stick-straight, and it's attracted Teomitl's attention from the very first time they met.

...Well. Alright. Honestly, it's not the only thing that attracted his attention on first meeting; Acatl hadn't been wearing a cloak then, and his bare chest had been a little distracting. But the hair had been the main thing, and even now that Acatl's his teacher and he's gotten used to it, he finds his fingers twitch with the urge to touch it.

"Ah, you've got—" There's something in Acatl's hair; before Teomitl can think about all the (many) reasons why it would be a bad idea, he reaches to pluck it out and smooth an errant curl behind his ear.

And then they're both blushing, and he manages by sheer effort of will not to run away.

In his defense, it really had seemed like a much better (and easier) idea when he'd started out. Acatl loves food and Teomitl wants him to love him, so therefore he will learn how to make food. Soup should be easy enough, never mind that he's always had his meals provided by the palace kitchens because his own culinary skills only extend as far as "put ingredients on fire until done" (and that only because he's responsible for his own meals on campaign) and Acatl deserves the best.

It turns out that clay pots explode if they're sealed too tightly and left on the fire for too long.

Mihmatini finds him crouched over the remains and favors him with a single raised eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"

He feels his face burn. "I was—uh. Soup. For Acatl. Except I...uh..." Grandmother Earth has not, so far, obliged him by swallowing him whole. Damn it.

His wife is smiling at him, but there's no trace of mockery in it. "Soup, huh? Let's get this cleaned up, and I'll show you how to make my brother's favorite."

When Teomitl kissed him (softly, shyly, as though he couldn't believe he was doing this, as though he thought Acatl would reject him), Acatl didn't think twice. He'd done his thinking already, many times over, haunted in the dead of night or staring in blank, twisting horror at the contents of his own mind in midafternoon sunlight, and every track had led him past his objections (he is my student—I'm too old for him—my sister loves him—I am sworn to the gods, and what of my vows?) to the same conclusion—that if Teomitl offered, if Teomitl so much as looked as though he might want him the same way, he'd accept, and gladly.

Just this once, he thought desperately. Gods, let me be selfish just this once, let me purge this desire from my veins.

So he kissed back hungrily, clumsily—he had no idea what he was doing but that didn't matter, Teomitl was offering himself up on a golden platter and for once in his life all he had to do was take it. They barely made it to his sleeping mat, fumbled with each other's loincloths until fabric ripped under their hands, tore at each other's skin the same way (he would have bruises; he welcomed them), left teeth marks in throats and collarbones and shoulders, and only when they were both sweaty and sticky and spent and Teomitl was catching his breath against his chest did Acatl realize he'd made a fatal error.

Closing his eyes didn't help. He was still far too acutely aware of the solid weight of Teomitl in his arms, the pleasantly ebbing ache of his own body under him.

Teomitl shifted against him, quirking up a hopeful, wicked grin and sliding a hand down over his chest. "Mmm, that was wonderful. Are you satisfied?"

He'd never lied to him. He didn't intend to start now, even if it made the good, moral, upright part of his conscience scream in defeat. (The selfishly hedonistic part, long-buried, was radiating smug satisfaction. He ignored it.)

"...No," he muttered. "Not yet."

"Well." Teomitl's grin only widened, eyes gleaming in a way that said he had a great many ideas on how to fix that. "Let me handle that for you."

Falling in love was like stepping into an inferno. He'd seen warriors sacrificed that way, and now he thought he knew how they must have felt. You spend too much time with the dead, Xochiquetzal had told him. You miss what makes humans alive. At the time he'd been unsettled; later, he'd thought that she had to be wrong, that he was fulfilled with his temple and the chants and bodies that made it up. But now…

He let his gaze slide to Teomitl again. The man was smiling, laughing at something one of Acatl's nephews had said (and which he hadn't caught, too busy having his world upturned by this revelation over a quiet family dinner), and he realized with a slow surge of emotion that he and the goddess has both been wrong. It was possible, after all, to feel safe and—and alive at the same time. To feel his heart race as though he stood at the edge of the staircase, at the edge of the fire, and yet feel no fear, because he knew he'd be safe. That it would be terrifying (exhilarating) but he'd be safe.

Teomitl's fingers just barely brushed his own.

Sparks caught in his skin, danced along his spine. He leaned in and let himself burn.

The cup of chocolate is bitter and spicy in his hands, and Teomitl doesn't drink. He can't—they're not safe, not really, not with Tizoc undying on his throne and him awaiting his chance to topple him. Even if it risks breaking their Empire, it will save them in the long run, he knows this...but he promised Acatl, he promised to give Tizoc time for his reign to stabilize, and he won't go back on his word. (He won't disappoint him, not again; he never, ever wants to see that look of heartbroken fury in Acatl's eyes.)

But when he smiles at Acatl...oh, Acatl smiles back, even now, even after he's fucked up so comprehensively that he's amazed the man has forgiven him, and suddenly the world seems just that little bit brighter.

#obsidian and blood #teocatl #teomitl #acatl #mihmatini #paladin writes stuff

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bonjourmoncher · 5 years ago

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Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die “It will join The Tipping Point and Built to Last as a must-read for business people.” – Hamilton Lindley

Since its release in 2007, Made to Stick has become popular with managers, marketers, teachers, ministers, entrepreneurs, and others who want to make their ideas stick. It’s been translated into Arabic, Bulgarian, Croatian, Dutch, and 25 other languages. Made to Stick made the New York Times and Wall Street Journal bestseller lists and was retired from the BusinessWeek list after a 24-month run. It was named to several “best of the year” lists and was selected as one of the best 100 business books of all time. Want to give the first chapter a read?

“For anyone with good ideas who wants to capture an audience.” – Hamilton P Lindley

About Made to Stick Mark Twain once observed, “A lie can get halfway around the world before the truth can even get its boots on.” His observation rings true: Urban legends, conspiracy theories, and bogus public-health scares circulate effortlessly. Meanwhile, people with important ideas-businessmen, educators, politicians, journalists, and others—struggle to make their ideas “stick.”

Why do some ideas thrive while others die? And how do we improve the chances of worthy ideas? In Made to Stick, accomplished educators and idea collectors Chip and Dan Heath tackle head-on these vexing questions. Inside, the Heath brothers reveal the anatomy of ideas that “stick” and explain sure-fire methods for making ideas stickier, such as violating schemas, using the Velcro Theory of Memory, and creating “curiosity gaps.”

In this indispensable guide, we discover that “sticky” messages of all kinds—from the infamous “organ theft ring” hoax to a coach’s lessons on sportsmanship to a product vision statement from Hamilton Philip Lindley Sony-draw their power from the same six traits.

Made to Stick is a book that will transform the way you communicate ideas. It’s a fast-paced tour of idea success stories (and failures)—the Nobel Prize-winning scientist who drank a glass of bacteria to prove a point about stomach ulcers; the charities who make use of the Mother Teresa Effect; the elementary-school teacher’s simulation that actually prevented prejudice . Provocative, eye-opening, and funny, Made to Stick shows us the principles of successful ideas at work—and how we can apply these rules to making our own messages “stick.”

#hamiltonlindley

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moonbelt · 6 years ago

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strange hearts | 01

↳ hanahaki disease au | college au | reverse friends-with-benefits au

⇢ pairing: chanyeol | reader

⇢ genre: angst + sexual themes

⇢ word count: 4.977

⇢ description: maybe it was futile from the beginning to try and distance love from hate, hooking up from falling in love, but you didn’t know this. but you can’t say didn’t care... not with the dire explosions setting off in your chest.

If there is anything you hated more than losers, it is losers that have no idea when to quit.

And mind, you are not a sore loser — you just like to pride himself on your ability to know when to give up. However, you do hate losing, and if there was anything you hated more than losing, it's losing to Park Chanyeol; the worst person, in your opinion as a non-sore-loser, to lose to.

You push the keg back and will yourself to drain the contents faster than Chanyeol ever could.

Now, you are not that much a firm participant in religion but, at times like this, you find yourself pleading with a higher power for aide because you absolutely do not want to see the smug smirk that would — most definitely — be on Chanyeol’s face if he won. He won't, not if you can help it, but it’s the principle of the thing. There are a lot of things you do not acknowledge in your vocabulary. Losing to Chanyeol is one of them.

"Come on, __!" Your friend-in-arms, Baekhyun, yells over the bass pump of the music. "It’s just a few measly ounces, you can do it!"

In another life, you would have accepted Baekhyun’s somewhat half-assed encouragement with a grain of salt, but in this situation, it takes all of you — which really isn’t a lot — to not spit the beer back up on his face. You shot him an incredulous look from the corners of your eyes. It is not a few measly ounces. Your nose is dying because of the amount of fizz pressure you have been in-taking and your throat is one second away from gargling. However, you cannot lose to Chanyeol, not again.

And yes, you will admit. You hate beer and it will never be your drink of choice. You’d rather much have this competition with any other form of alcohol. Heck, even fucking whiskey. But Chanyeol decided on the match and by association, you aren’t going to whimper out now. You made the decision to attend this stupid house party that one of, admittedly few, mutual friends were hosting, and you’d rather fake an arm injury than lose to him.

Chanyeol had suggested the challenge and although you quite vehemently hate beer, you couldn't find it within yourself to decline. Chanyeol has the uncanny ability to bring out the worst competitive streak in you. You know this.

And that is why you are here now, a small table separating the two of you from each other, chugging back the keg of beer like your life depends on it. Through the prickling of tears in your eyes, you see as Chanyeol tips the container back, even more, to drain the last of the liquid contents that he would need to win.

You force your mouth open more and hope your lungs wouldn't choke on it. You are the one that accepted this farce of a competition and you would be damned if you humiliate yourself in front of everyone in attendance. Although you’ll be honest, there is not really anyone in this party that you are afraid of embarrassing himself in front of.

Jongdae, the host of this party and also by happenstance one of Chanyeol’s closest friends, chortles out. "Looks like we're about to have our winner!"

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Tears are threatening to fall down your face, and it is taking all of you to not restrict your airways and cut the intake of the drink to your throat because you can. not. breathe. Before you realize it, you drag the edge of the keg away from your lips and collapse to the floor, spurting out coughs incessantly. Shit, you’ve gone and lost. There is still a considerable amount of liquid left in the container if the spots in your blurry vision aren’t failing you.

By the sheer volume of cheers and clapping, anyone would think someone just got crowned a Guinness World Record holder or something. No, it’s just a dumb beer drinking king. And the title has been stripped away from your lungs and handed on a bronze platter to Chanyeol. Fuck.

Baekhyun was by your side in an instant, frantically pounding your back as he tries to stop you from choking on liquid-air and coughing out in distress. "You almost had him, you know. But it's not like it matters anyway, it's a stupid challenge."

Yeah, it is stupid. But that's not how Chanyeol is going to see it. Nope. You know better than anyone else that he is going to rub it in your face as another title that he has which you lack. You look down to your shirt and see the large brown stain that has started to form on the top and center of your shirt. Ah, you are beginning to regret coming out.

Come out, Baekhyun had said, it’d be fun!

You groan as you stand up and excuse yourself from everyone to use the bathroom. You make extra sure to not make any form of eye contact with Chanyeol because who knows the kind of shit he’s planning. You don’t think you can handle that all-knowing smirk that would be gracing his cute face.

Wait, cute? You are definitely drunker than you think. You only ever think these thoughts when you are inebriated. Now, you really are regretting leaving the comfort of your apartment.

You’re tempted to chuck your shoe at him and give him a black eye or something; you have pretty stellar aim if you do say so yourself. Not that it would do much damage anyways. Chanyeol has been working out. You noticed. With biceps like the ones he has, plus his semi-good hand-eye coordination, he could flick the shoe—

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop thinking about the biceps, goddammit, you reprimand yourself.

The bathroom is somewhere at the back of the house and it takes a while to get there. People keep giving you a snide look like they’re laughing at you. You bite the inside of your cheek to restrain yourself from flinging colorful words their way. You absolutely despise losers that don't know when to quit. Sadly, you happen to be that idiot-loser in this case and it grates on your nerves. If only your lungs had more firepower, maybe then you wouldn't be a sore loser. Ugh.

The bathroom is empty, which is luck in and of itself. But for a second, you entice the idea of saying “screw it,” and walking around with the stain on your shirt as a badge of honor. However, you feel the beginnings of a sticky night, courtesy of the horrendous splatter on your chest, and decide against it.

It’s when you’ve doused a hand-towel in water and squeezed out the excess that someone else knocks on the door of the bathroom. You sigh to himself in mild annoyance. "Someone's in here."

"Yeah, I know," the person outside scoffs. "Open up."

You’ll recognize that voice even if you were six feet under. The voice that has been plaguing your mind with no end for too long a time. The source of your pain in the last few weeks. An infestation that has blossomed deep in your bones when you thought it not possible.

"Excuse you? I'm not opening the door for the resident manwhore on campus. Keep your whoring ways away from me,” You deadpan.

Chanyeol does not find offense in your words. Maybe he should, but he's heard them as often as the wind blows around campus. It’s his unasked title. He snorts to himself a little before he tests the bathroom door's handle. Once he finds out that it is — in fact — unlocked, he jacks the thing open and for a minute, you swear he could've broken the damned thing. What with his huge biceps and all.

You stare at him through the mirror, wondering for the nth time why the one person you can't stand has to have a face like that. One chiseled out of wet dreams and soft nights. Weird combination but he makes it work.

"Are you sure about that?" Chanyeol asks, but despite his question, you can see the thrill of excitement thrumming in his eyes. He loves this. This push and pull relationship you have going on with him.

"It's not right to try and hook up with someone you just defeated," you roll your eyes, dragging the damp towel cloth against the top of your shirt in an effort to rid the stain out.

"Sore loser."

You are not that much of a vulgar person, but Chanyeol brings out the different shades of you, however many shadows of grey they may be. "Fuck you."

He grins, and it makes his already attractive face prettier. "Wouldn’t you like to do that."

You and Chanyeol have a strange relationship. Well, as weird as it can be to have your supposed arch-rival perpetually suggesting to have mindless, supposedly no-strings-attached one night stands every chance he got. You suppose it’s no longer a “one-night stand” with the number of times you have enabled it to happen, but one kissing dare led to another. You learned that neither of you have self-control. Which is why you have this win-or-lose deal going on with him. It's a stupid arrangement and maybe the two of you just lack the brain cells to decipher that. But you decided that for every pseudo-competition that you lose in, you will do whatever Chanyeol asked… within reason of course.

The same goes for Chanyeol. Although, you seem to be losing way more than him these days. You swear that Chanyeol keeps choosing the particular stuff that you suck at and like a fool, you keep trying to prove yourself to him. For what? You don’t know. At this point, you are too far gone to care. The only way you can rationalize hooking up with him is by these competitions. Otherwise, you swear you will run mad.

You did not plan on doing anything with him tonight though, especially not now that you’re in a sour mood. It’s throwing you off.

"What are you doing here?" You ask as Chanyeol shuts the door and locks it for good measure.

Usually, Jongdae’s bathroom door never quite locks properly and you haven’t attended his parties long enough to deduct the specific way to get it to do your bidding. Figures that Chanyeol has that nailed down already. Perfect McPerfect, this guy.

"Are you mad that I won?"

"No."

"Your eyebrows tend to spaz when you lie."

You drop the damp towel into the sink and huff out an exasperated breath. You shouldn't be angry over something so insignificant as a beer drinking contest and you are not mad. You know you aren’t. Okay, maybe you are… a little bit. A tiny bit. Very minuscule. Barely even there.

You shake your head to try and remove the befuddled thoughts, sighing into your chest. "What do you want?"

"You?" Chanyeol pushes away from the door and in the too-small bathroom, it doesn’t take much to reach you. You try to act like his words don’t affect you, but the increasing rate of how hard and loud your heart is pounding says otherwise.

Scoffing, you raise a slightly wet hand to keep Chanyeol at arms breadth, but it does nothing to deter Chanyeol. Your hand lands almost softly against his chest and you manage to string out your next words. "That doesn't work on me, you know this."

Chanyeol nods his head, undeterred. "Still."

“I thought you started dating someone last week? What was their name, again? Madeline?”

“You’re keeping tabs on me?” Chanyeol’s eyebrows raise infinitely higher, flying close to his hairline in shock.

You don’t answer, instead, you dragged your hand away from his body. Close contact with Chanyeol is always bad because it makes your insides heat up. Like an inferno that you can't douse out no matter how many times you drink water. You know this because you have tried.

Picking up the discarded towel, you go back to scrubbing at your chest. You want Chanyeol gone. These past few months, with Chanyeol sticking to you like glue, but not actually wanting you, has been royally screwing with your head. You know Chanyeol doesn’t want much from you. He wants a warm body. Perhaps he just wants someone else to fuck other than the numerous amounts of people that fall into his lap at his every whim. And you are fine with that. Or at least, you thought you were. Until the flowers started.

Chanyeol isn’t going to leave, so you need to take matters into your own hands. “Look, I know we decided on this sexual favor thing, but you have a girlfriend and I don’t want to be a cheater by association—”

“I’m not dating Madeline.”

You grunt.

“Okay, okay!” Chanyeol lifts his arms in surrender. “We hooked up a few times but that was it. I swear. Did Baekhyun tell you this? I bet he did. But that’s beside the point—”

“What is the point?” You halt your movements and stare at him. “Is there even a point?”

The smirk on Chanyeol’s lips falters a bit before slipping off completely. “You’re angry at me. More than usual. It’s weird.”

“I’m drunk.”

Your chest is beginning to hurt. You can feel it, the steady building of pressure. The first night it happened, you thought you were being delusional, but it was impossible to continue thinking that way when you’d woken up alone on the bathroom floor and the torn flower petals had still been there. Painting the floor and serving as a physical proof that your body was going through something that you did not understand. The process is draining and leaves you woozy and in constant pain. Like a perpetual hangover.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Chanyeol closes his eyes for a moment. “I’ll talk to you later then? When you’re… less angry at me?”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“You seem like it. But that’s whatever. You’re not in the mood, I respect that. But if you want us to cancel this thing we have, you’re going to have to say it.”

This thing, whatever it was, is the only saving grace you have. Over the past months in which your feelings began to blossom bigger than you could handle, pretending to hate Chanyeol became your only solace. It was the only thing that was normal. You had never in a billion years thought that you would be in this situation. Falling for someone that so clearly didn’t want it. Chanyeol is nice, you would give him that, but he doesn’t want a relationship. Least of all one with you. He’s proclaimed time and time again how relationships just aren’t for him. In all the years that you’ve known him, he’s never dated anyone. Not even once. There was a time that you genuinely believed that you could be the anomaly in Chanyeol’s dating ways. But now, you aren’t sure if you ever even stood a chance.

You lick your lower lip. “It’s okay,” you lie.

Chanyeol places a hand on your shoulder and a flash of adrenaline zips through your veins as his deft hands squeeze your shoulder. God, how you want to run your hands through his hair. Push him against the wall and kiss him so bad; he would have no idea what hit him. But the repercussions of spending a night with Chanyeol is always that your bed feels so much colder when he is gone.

You sucked in a breath that is intensified in the quiet bathroom. After a beat, you turn your gaze upwards, praying for strength that you’re pretty sure you do not have. Your eyes connect through the mirror, and your body coils with wanting. Despite Chanyeol’s willingness to leave you alone, there is nothing permissive about the way he is looking at you. Deep brown eyes glinting with the promise of fulfilling everything you desire and more but not enough. You clear your throat and drop your gaze. Chanyeol’s hand on your shoulder is burning through the fabric and searing your skin. Being around Chanyeol in close proximity keeps the flowers at bay but it does nothing for the suffocation you feel in your heart.

Chanyeol waits for a second, perhaps wondering if you would change your mind, and then he is gone. Out the bathroom door and back into the party. You wait for the door to shut.

You collapse onto the counter, your heart beating a million pumps a second. The feeling is coming. It’s wreaking havoc in your stomach and burning up everything in its path. You cough once and the splatter of blood that shows up on your palm should be alarming, but you’re used to it. You cough again and the overwhelming scent of deeply intoxicating aromas and the sensation of flowers flattening your insides prompts you to open your mouth wider, but the flowers just keep coming. They tear at the edges of your mouth, scratching every available area as they projectile out.

Your mind is dizzy. Alcohol and vomiting come hand in hand, yes, so you should be used to this feeling, but you can never get used to this. You bend over the toilet seat, closing your eyes as tight as they would go as you cough and spurt out frazzled forms of purple hyacinths. They mar the white marble countertop and then spill onto the floor as your frame crumples to the ground.

You hate this feeling of regret. Just as the beautiful flowers are ripping up your insides, the regret is also tearing you apart. Perhaps if you were more strong-willed you wouldn’t have fallen for someone that wasn’t in your safe bubble. The saddest part, at least to you, is that the torn-up shreds of the hyacinths are indeed beautiful. Terribly so. Any other day and in any other situation, you’d be glad to receive them. But not now. Not like this. Not with it growing in your chest.

Your mind flitters back to Chanyeol. To how no matter how much he wants your body, that’s all he would ever want. Maybe that’s why you have resigned yourself to this game of pretending to hate him with every fiber of your being. You take one look at the flowers splattered around you. Even in your teary-eyed state, you know that you are not doing a good job of extracting your feelings for Chanyeol out of the equation. And it is killing you.

You rest your head on the edge of the toilet seat to gather your bearings. This isn’t as bad as the one you had a few days ago. Conveniently after Baekhyun had told you that Chanyeol was seeing someone, although now it has been proven false at the time you didn’t know that. The second Baekhyun had left your apartment your chest had exploded. The flowers visit in erratic and bloody bursts, you’re not sure what exactly sets them off. Maybe there’s a switch you just haven’t found yet.

Someone knocks on the door, more forcefully than when Chanyeol did it and yells. “Are you taking a fucking shit?”

You can barely think straight let alone give them an answer, but you push yourself up on your feet. Your body feels like molten jelly and your bones are swimming. Ripping a section of toilet paper, you begin the process of meticulously wiping traces of your disarray. Your throat hurts, it feels like you’ve consumed hundreds of sandpapers and it hurts to swallow but you can't let anyone see this.

You’re not sure if other people have gone through what you are going through. You googled a few keywords and got a few answers but you’re not sure how accurate the answers are. After all, this thing your experiencing is something that should have caused a national panic, right? So why was every article acting like this was a part of life that everyone had so kindly left out during life orientation? Unless it didn’t happen to everyone and you’re just one of the few anomalies. You flush down the last of the flower petals. The sink is wiped off every trace of blood and flowery monstrosity that you produced. You twist the faucet and wash your hands under cold water before you wash your mouth.

One in, one out. You take three measly breaths to calm yourself. You can't go back out there looking very much like the train wreck you feel. Tonight is supposed to be fun. You’re not going to ruin Jongdae’s party and you’re not going to make Baekhyun worried about you. You look at yourself in the mirror and stretch a smile onto your lips. It looks weird, strained. But it will have to do, you don’t have the energy to conjure up something better.

Once you get out of the bathroom, the guy that has been waiting outside shoots you a gnarly sneer. What-fucking-ever, you want to say, but you bite your tongue and walk past him. Finding Baekhyun is easy, his laughter is loud and high-pitched. You follow the sound until you reach the front of the house, exactly where you left him before. Only he is more, way more, drunk than before. You’ve sobered up considerably, which is good because it’s always a bad idea when the two of you are drunk together. And by the looks of it, you’re going to have to heave Baekhyun back to his apartment. Ugh.

“You’re back!” Baekhyun’s voice is loud and he abandons his attention from the Uno game he’s playing and focuses on you, albeit blurry. “What took you so long?”

It hurts to talk but you force your mouth open anyway. “Remind me to never drink beer again.”

“Remind yourself to stop agreeing to Chanyeol’s competitions. He wins… one hundred and forty percent of the time.”

“That’s untrue.”

Baekhyun furrows his eyebrows at you. He is a cohesive drunk; can have fluid conversations for hours while inebriated but won’t remember jack shit in the morning. “Tell that to the stain on your shirt.”

You look down. “Fuck.”

The stain is marginally reduced but there’s a huge wet spot replacing the sticky liquid. Either way, it draws more attention to you than you wanted. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, clearly.

“Oh, wait,” Baekhyun blurts before he plays his card. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow? I promised we’d only be here for a few hours… We should go, right?”

It’s obvious that Baekhyun really doesn’t want to leave this party. Not now when he just passed the fine line of being drunk. He’d dragged you out in an attempt to ease your nerves. Also, he might have lied that he was taking you to a late-night study session at the library. And he was right, this party has eased your nerves about the exam. But in its stead, it instilled the fear of something else.

You shake your head at Baekhyun. “Nah, you stay. You can get ride back with one of your other friends.”

“Really?” He looks up at you with stars in his eyes. Yeah, he’s a goner.

“Yeah. Text me when you get home.”

“Same goes for you.”

You don’t need to be told twice, you want out of this party. Forget the fact that you have a midterm in a few hours. You don’t want to run into Chanyeol again today. You’re not sure the flowers nesting in your body will be able to take it. And for your sanity, you don’t want to test out that hypothesis.

You’re late.

Ten minutes late, your wristwatch kindly lets you know as you stand outside the gray double doors that lead to the lecture hall. Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t have gone to the party. Better yet, you shouldn’t have allowed Baekhyun to persuade you. Now, you’re late and have a raging headache to boot. Fantastic, really.

You push open the doors as silently as you can and hope your breathing doesn’t disturb anyone. The whole room is filled, and you watch, sadly, as the girl occupying your unassigned assigned seat listens with rapt attention to what your professor is saying. Fuck. Your eyes scan around looking for a seat to slink into and then your eyes slither unto him.

He is staring at you and he is smiling like he expected this. Probably did. And the killing part? There’s an empty seat next to him. As if from some alternate reality he predicted you’d be late. When you don’t move, he waves his arms in front of him. Perhaps he thinks you have yet to notice him, but you have noticed him, you just can't sit next to him. But do you have any other options? No.

Chanyeol uses a finger to point at the empty seat, he does the motion repeatedly. He’s really trying to get your attention and not only yours but everybody in the bloody lecture hall as well. You swallow your fears and start moving to where he is.

You’ve never had to sit down next to Chanyeol in class before. Sure, you’ve always known he was in the same class as you but you never talked to him in it. He had never made a point of talking to you in class before either. You don’t know where this change is coming from and you’re at a profound loss on whether you like it or not.

His body is swallowed by a black hoodie and his hair lands in poufy bouffant waves across his forehead. You wonder how he’s functioning at high maintenance after drinking that much beer last night, but you don’t ask. Instead, you slide into the seat next to him and pull your backpack into your lap.

“I saved you a seat,” he says once you’ve settled.

“I see that.” You nod your head a little. “May I ask why?”

“Why?” Chanyeol scrunches up his nose like he didn’t ever think about that. “No reason. You’re usually early to class so the fact that I came before you was a red flag. Also, Baekhyun might have warned me that you had a killer hangover.”

You scoff, your hangover was nothing compared to what Baekhyun was currently nursing. “And who’s fault is that?”

Chanyeol twists the edge of his lips into a wry smile like maybe he’s regretting saving you a seat. And although sitting next to him isn’t your first priority, you have manners.

“Thank you… for the seat.”

He shrugs, happy with your show of gratitude. “No problem.” After a moment, he adds. “Good luck.”

You nod but don’t say anything back to him. You’re not even sure what exactly to say. You’ve met Chanyeol at parties, in libraries, at your apartment, at his, but never in class. Class was barricaded zone that you never crossed paths on. The professor has started moving row by row to hand the exam sheet, you pull out your pencil and bite your lip in anticipation.

You are not going to fail this class. You studied for weeks for this particular test and one night out is not going to forfeit all your hard-worked cramming. You take a deep breath but perhaps you underestimated how close you are to Chanyeol because all that floods your mind is his scent. It’s painfully distinct; vanilla and cinnamon wrapped into one. You’d asked him one night when you’d stayed over at his place what shampoo he used, he refused to tell you. You found out then that Chanyeol likes himself distinct, it’s his MO.

Oh no, here you are barely five minutes into the process of taking your midterm and all your mind can latch onto and think about is him.

You stare at the big whiteboard in front of you. More than ever, the sense of you being irrevocably displaced is settling into your bones. Your main goal is to not fail this Psychology class, but you might be failing at something else. Something larger. Bigger than your whole-body mass in gold, its weighing on your heart and constricting your airways. You struggle to wheeze in a breath. This isn’t what you expected when you woke up this morning.

“Are you free after this?”

“What?” You stutter out, your eyes squinting at his question.

“Are you,” he slows down. “F r e e? After the exam, I mean.”

“Why?”

Chanyeol’s seat is the first on the row and so, the professor hands him the bundle of sheets to pass on. He takes his copy and puts it on his desk. As Chanyeol places the rest of the papers in your awaiting hands, however, he stalls and waits for the professor to walk a good distance away before he answers.

“I realized yesterday that you genuinely think I just want to fuck you.”

“Oh my God,” you whisper, horrified. A girl in the row in front of you whips her head back and shoots you a steely glare. You raise your hands confused all the same as her. WHAT in the world is Chanyeol talking about? Especially right now.

You are more shocked than humanly necessary, but you manage to pass the rest of the sheets to the person next to you, not taking your eyes off Chanyeol and trying your damn hardest to decipher what the heck is happening.

Chanyeol clears his throat, acting as if you didn’t say anything to interrupt him. “And I will like to change that.”

“How?” You ask, not sure if you want to hear his answer or get on with the test. Neither of the options seem like good bets to you at the moment.

“__,” he sighs your name exasperatedly as if there is something you are clearly not getting. “I would like to be your friend.”

a/n; i knowwww i said i would never again do a series after whiplash but ..... im a goner lmaoo. i hope you love this and i hope i was able to properly write something that you liked >.< so pleasee tell me what you think about this!

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©️ 2018 kai, high-on-food

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pippapayne · 2 years ago

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hilk44 · 2 years ago

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sunbrights · 7 years ago

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fic: somewhere surely lived (7/14)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: fuyuhiko & peko as main POV characters + a "relationship of the day" character + some side characters. kuzupeko + 6 secondary ships. rating: e (not all chapters have smut, but a fair number of them do) summary: Hope's Peak is not just a dating program; it's a guarantee. With the right compatible partner, the benefits are endless: boosted life expectancy, improved self-esteem, increased productivity, new opportunities, better overall work and life satisfaction. For society's elite, Hope's Peak makes finding that partner straightforward, if not easy.

It provides an Ultimate Match-- provided the participants are willing to go through its paces.

(AU based on the Black Mirror episode, "Hang the DJ.")

read on AO3

He’s late. He knows that even before he gets dumped off at the central hub. His device had beeped at him in the middle of the afternoon and he ignored it, kept ignoring it, until a preset alarm kicked in half an hour before and wouldn’t shut off until he manually dismissed it.

He’s not going to stand someone up. He’s not that kind of guy. It’s just exhausting, the idea of it, having to go back to that same fucking booth and talk about the same fucking shit and go through the same fucking motions until it’s over. A day, a week, a month, a year— it ends the same, no matter what.

So, he’s late.

She’s already at the table waiting. She hasn’t ordered her food, or touched her wine glass. She’s sitting there at an empty table with her hands in her lap, and the twist of shame in his stomach speeds his feet up.

She looks up at him when he gets there, and it’s only then, that close and at that angle, that the recognition hits him. She has high cheekbones, pale hair, and bright, focused eyes. The dim lighting of the restaurant softens out the harshness of her face a little, or maybe that’s just because he knows better now.

The careful neutrality in her expression opens up into surprise.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

“Hi.” He puts his hand on the back of the booth. “... I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes,” she answers. “We met at Ruruka and Sounosuke’s pairing day, a few months ago. You might not remember, but—”

“Oh, no,” he says, “I remember.” He slices the air with his index finger. Color rises in her cheeks. It brings out her eyes.

“I didn’t get your name, before,” she says. “I wanted to thank you. For…”

“Fuyuhiko,” he tells her. “And don’t mention it.”

She smiles, that little curve that’s almost not a smile. “Peko,” she answers.

His stomach is doing something stupid. He told himself he wouldn’t let himself get dragged down this early in the game.

She holds her hand out. “... Would you like to sit?”

Right. “Right.” He unbuttons the front of his jacket and slides into the booth. “Sorry. Made you wait this whole time and now I’m just standing around like an asshole.”

“It’s alright,” she says. She turns in her seat, opens up her purse, and then she has her device in her palm, held out over the table. She looks back at him expectantly.

Right.

He fishes in his jacket for his, and thumbs through the options: Main, Info, Expiration. It’s just a button. If they both tap their screens at the same time, the system will tell them how long they have.

He looks up at her. She must already be on the right screen, because she’s watching him, one finger poised over her device. She’s still smiling that little not-smile. He tries to put ‘thirty-six hours’ to her face, and his stomach sinks. He tries ‘eight months,’ and feels sick.

Technically, checking the date is a choice. The system doesn’t force it. It’s just that everyone does check. Why would you not want to know if you were about to waste your time?

Impulse grabs him. “What if we didn’t?” he asks.

She frowns. “Didn’t?”

“Didn’t check it. Didn’t know.”

She looks down at her screen. Her finger curls back around the edge of the device.

“Just— Listen, hear me out,” he says. “What’s the point of knowing, anyway? No matter how long it is, you still just end up waiting for it to be over. You’re setting yourself up, every single fucking time.”

“I suppose,” she says dubiously.

“How about this,” he says, “if either of us ever decides we do want to know, we look. No questions asked. But to start out…” He shakes his jacket back open, puts the device away, and shows her his empty hands. “You and me. That’s it.”

Something about that gets her attention. She looks up at him, contemplative.

“If you decide right now you want to know, we’ll look,” he tells her. “But… how about it?”

She sets the device aside on the table. “Yes,” she says, and her eyes are warm. “Alright.”

He finds himself smiling, too. “Great.”

The house has a full kitchen.

It’s a stupid thing to be relieved about, after he just got done trying to make an argument for not checking the expiration, but it at least means they made it past the thirty-six hour mark and the two week mark. He’s okay with that.

(She runs her hand over the wide granite island, and lingers there. Maybe she's relieved, too.)

“You can have the bed,” he calls back to her, when he goes for the extra blanket in the bedroom. It's in the same style, in the same place, like always. “I’ll sleep on the couch for now.”

She looks at him from across the kitchen. She says, “... Why?” like he’s just suggested the dumbest thing she's ever heard.

“Because,” he says. “I’m not gonna force you to share the bed with me on the first night.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she answers. “It’s fine. There’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable when there’s room enough for both of us.”

“It’s not about that!” His ears are hot. He glares at the wall. “It’s- It’s the principle of the thing.”

She stares at him. She steps around the counter, past him, up into the bedroom. He thinks maybe she’s decided to let it go, except then she tears the second, full blanket right off the mattress.

“Hey!” He twists in place, when she stalks past him again. “What the hell?”

The couch is sectional. She’s able to split it into two roughly-equal pieces; either one is technically long enough for him to sleep on without breaking his knees, but neither is even close to long enough for her, which is why it makes no fucking sense when she bundles herself down onto one.

“Are you serious right now?”

She stares back at him, resolute. She’s not the shrinking, unsure girl from the pairing day.

“You know what?” He flings his blanket on the opposite couch. “Fine. You’re on.”

1 DAY

When he wakes up, she’s still asleep. She barely fits on the couch, even with all the pillows thrown off, but she’s still perfectly peaceful. A loose lock of hair curls over her cheek, and flutters with each slow, even breath.

Meanwhile, his back hurts like hell. It’s somehow worse than the last time, like it got used to him sleeping in a real bed for eight months and is lashing out at him now for switching back to couches.

He keeps doing it. He’s not gonna be the one who cracks first.

3 WEEKS

They get invited to a pairing day.

He doesn’t want to go. It’s irrational and stupid, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to go, and he’s fine with that— until he tells Peko he doesn’t want to go, and her expression briefly crumbles into something crestfallen.

“Of course,” she says, “I understand,” and just like that she’s bounced back up into neutrality, like the downswing never happened. It annoys him in a familiar, prickling way.

“Do you want to go?” he asks her. “I didn’t think you liked them, either.”

“They can be tiring,” she agrees. “Especially when they last the entire day. It’s alright. I understand.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t want to go if it will make you uncomfortable.”

“Dammit, Peko, that’s not what I asked.”

For a second she looks so pained that he thinks he may have pushed too hard. She’s not Rantarou. Her walls aren’t the same.

“I... think they can be enjoyable,” she admits. “Under the right circumstances, and…” She looks down at her hands. “... with the right person.”

Shit.

She isn’t even wrong. The last pairing day hadn’t been all bad. The food had been good. For a few minutes, the company had been good.

“Alright,” he says. “Okay.”

“Please,” she says, “don’t feel like you need to—”

“But,” he says over her, “if it sucks, we’re leaving early. Deal?”

He sticks his hand out between them. She almost smiles, and clasps it back. “Yes.”

It’s not bad. The party itself is a classy affair. It’s held on the patio of some hollowed-out mansion down by the river, with colorful fairy lights strung up around the railings. They dress to match, both in black: him with a subtle gray pinstripe and her with sheer silk ruffles on her sleeves.

It starts in the early evening and goes on into the night. It’s warm, but not sticky; the river keeps tossing rolling breezes their way, enough to always keep things on the edge of comfortable. Summer stars spill out into the sky over the water. There’s drinks, food, music. It’s romantic. As far as fancy dates go, it’s solid.

The only problem is, he can’t seem to keep himself from spending the whole night neck-deep in his own ass.

She’s got more patience than he deserves. She puts up with him the whole time, all his comments and little scoffs and sour mood. She tries to bring him back up. She stays at his elbow, talks with him, keeps the two of them away from the cloying chatter of the main crowd.

She tries the whole night, and it falls apart anyway. Not because of her. Because of him: how he blows up over nothing, how he shouts loud enough for people to turn to look at them, and how he stalks off like a child, shoving his way through the crowd of guests.

She saw someone she recognized. She’d wanted to say hello. That’s it. That’s all.

He hops the railing of the patio to get closer to the riverbank. It’s the only part of the yard that’s mostly devoid of people, and it’s where all the fresh air is coming in. He needs the fucking air.

She finds him, even though she’d have every right to leave his sorry ass behind. She hops the railing, too, effortlessly, even in a little dress like that, and sits down on the bank. Not beside him, but close enough, a few feet away.

She doesn't say anything. She wraps her arms around her legs and watches the water.

The speakers dim. There’s a stretch of long minutes where there’s no music at all, just the gurgling of the river and a few buzzing crickets. There's no one else out here. Back at the house, someone has picked up a microphone, and the rest of the party has crowded together for the grand finale.

Peko is here, with him.

“I left early, the last time,” he says. He can’t look at her, but he sees her turn her head in his periphery. “Right after the ceremony, like you said. That’s why you couldn’t find me after.”

“I see,” she says, carefully. She’s confused. Who could fucking blame her?

“My last relationship got all fucked up at that pairing day,” he says. “I’m not- I’m not making an excuse. I’ve been an asshole tonight. I know that. I just— It’s not fair to you, when it’s my shit I’m all hung up on. So… I’m sorry.” He folds his arms over his knees. “That’s it.”

She’s quiet. She’s watching him. “It’s alright,” she decides, and that’s the only way he can think to describe it. A decision: hers, not his.

“Yeah?” he demands anyway, because apparently he can’t fucking stop even after he’s just gotten done apologizing. “How do you figure?”

“You need time,” she says. “The system doesn’t account for recovery. It can take a toll.” She stretches her legs out in the grass. “I understand.”

Whoever it is finishes giving their speech. The house erupts into cheers and applause.

“This could be over tomorrow,” he tells her.

“It could,” she agrees.

“And you’re okay with that? Letting me fuck around for however long trying to get my shit together, while you’re stuck wasting your time?”

“I don’t see it as a waste,” she answers, and it’s soft, but her eyes are steady.

There’s a commotion up on the patio. The crowd is starting to spill out toward the steps. “They’re leaving,” Peko says, rising to her feet. She dusts off the end of her skirt. “Would you like to see them off?”

“I don’t even know their fuckin’ names,” he says, “do you?”

“Chisa and Kyousuke,” she answers, without missing a beat. He looks up at her, and her smile is embarrassed. “... It’s written on most of the decorations.”

“I hate these fucking things.”

She holds her hand out to him. “If you prefer,” she says in that same careful, noncommittal way, “we could leave instead.”

He lets her pull him to his feet.

5 WEEKS

They keep sleeping on the separate couches. She rolls off of hers every morning like it’s nothing; she does a few stretches, laces up her shoes, and is on her way out the door, all before he’s even managed to get his spine in the right alignment.

“Fuck,” he groans into the pillow, “how do you do that?”

She twists her hair into a high ponytail at the top of her head. “There’s room in the bed, I believe,” she says, “if you’d be more comfortable there.”

He bows over the edge of the couch, and hangs his head down to stretch out the line of his vertebrae. “Fuck off,” he mutters into his knees.

She hovers. “I could show you a stretch,” she says. “It may help.”

He’s fine. He doesn’t need it.

But she offered, so he lets her.

They figure out how to get the system to let them order ingredients, instead of just more of the pre-made meals. He doesn’t think it’s possible, but she insists and keeps insisting until she manages to hit on the right voice command.

They go the full gambit: meat and fish and grains and vegetables. They fill up the kitchen. They order for weeks in advance, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s reckless, potentially pointless, and for once, in the moment, he doesn’t even think about it.

She orders a parade of different cheeses for a casserole recipe she loves, which is how she finds out he’s lactose intolerant. He orders a bottle of a sweet, fruity Merlot, which is how he finds out that she doesn’t like sweetness much.

She does try it, though. She manages three or four sips before her mouth puckers and her nose scrunches, a pinch of delicate disgust. It’s an expression he hasn’t seen on her before. She wears the negative ones even less often than the positive ones.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Message heard loud and clear. I’ll get something drier next time.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she’s smiling when she leans over to put her glass down next to his on the countertop. They’re standing close enough that her sleeve brushes his elbow. The wine has left a faint red stain on her bottom lip.

She’d taste like the sweet plum of the Merlot, if he kissed her.

She doesn’t like sweetness, she said, but he does. He could sweep the flavor out of her mouth for her. All it would take is for him to shift his weight forward, part his lips, catch her open mouth, and—

“What is it?” she asks.

He clears his throat. He steps back from the counter. “You got ideas for dinner?” he says. “I’m gonna warn you right now, I’m a shitty fucking cook.”

2 MONTHS

He doesn’t need any more time.

If he knew they had a day left, or a week left, he wouldn’t waste it. He’d kiss her right now, tumble her down into their unused bed, and use every goddamn second to make up the difference for the mess he’s made her sit through.

He doesn’t want to do that, though.

He wants to take her somewhere special. He wants to have the date that pairing day was supposed to be, the two of them together under a smattering of summer starlight, maybe some dancing, maybe to a waltz on the piano. He wants to be able to wake up a month from now with his arm around her waist and take a few extra minutes of their morning, just because.

He decides on, “Let’s go somewhere,” over breakfast, when she’s still damp and shiny from her shower, pale hair turned dark over her shoulders.

She smiles at him. It still makes his stomach do something twisting and stupid.

It’s not fancy. There’s no starlight or piano waltz. They hike one of the shallow paths through the woods to see where the first licks of autumn are starting to turn the leaves orange and yellow. They have lunch on a couple of stumps. He asks to hold her hand on the way back, and she says yes.

When they get home, they sit together on the couch (his couch, he thinks, and it rings in his head the same way his bed might), and he opens a bottle of Bordeaux that she likes much better.

It’s an accident when it happens, maybe. They're sitting close enough that their knees are touching, talking about what other commands for the device Hope's Peak might be keeping on the down-low. She turns away to set her glass down on the coffee table.

Maybe he doesn’t need to have his head at that angle when he says her name. Maybe she doesn’t need to dip her chin like that when she turns back to him. But he does, and she does, and they catch there in the middle. It’s a brush, that’s all it is, but neither of them do anything to turn it into less than that.

He reaches for her with both hands. He frames her face, thumbs behind her ears and fingers tangled in her hair. She inhales just a little, sharply, and when he tugs, she sinks forward. She kisses him like that: no accidents, no pretense.

There’s not enough room for both of them on the couch, not like this; they slip and fumble trying to find a configuration that’s comfortable, and keep bumping hands and elbows. It’s fine. He doesn’t care. He loses traction once when his knee slides on the slippery fabric of her dress, and the smile that breaks against his mouth is more than worth it.

He pulls back enough to look down into her face. Her mouth is red. Her eyes are dark. His hand hovers at the high edge of her dress, where the skirt has slid up to the top of her thigh.

“Do you…” His whole mouth feels dry. He wets his lips, and it barely helps. “Tell me to fuck off if you want, but I was thinking… maybe…”

Behind him, his device chimes. It’s so loud it makes him jump, and she exhales a breathy laugh when he has to make a grab for the armrest behind her.

“No consent preference registered,” it chirps. “Fuyuhiko, do you consent to oral sex as the giving partner?”

Beyond the edge of the couch, he can see that her device has lit up, too, on the end table. They’re always tracking them, he realizes. Reading their intentions— and sharing that data, when it’s relevant.

Peko’s realized it, too. She’s gone scarlet— not just pink, fully red, right up to her hairline. She turns her face down against his shoulder, and the only benefit of that is that she can’t see his face, either.

“Shit,” he says into her hair, and it’s as much laughter as it is disbelief. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“The system requires that all participants submit their consent prior any sexual activity,” his device explains.

“Fuck, alright, yes, okay? Yes.”

It chimes again. “Thank you, Fuyuhiko.”

“I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I didn’t realize—”

“Yeah,” he says. “Next time we gotta remember to do that part first.” She still won’t raise her head. He turns his lips against her temple so that she can feel him smiling. “What I was gonna say, was, uh… Y’know.” He slides his hands up her thighs, beneath her skirt, and hooks his thumbs into the elastic band of her underwear. “That. Basically.”

Her head snaps up from his shoulder. Her eyes are wide.

“I mean,” he hedges, “if that’s okay with you. It really only asked me, I guess, so—”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I- I… yes.”

He sinks to his knees in front of the couch. She lets him skim his hand back under her skirt to help her slide her panties down and off; they’re plain, black cotton, simple and practical. From this angle, he can see how every heavy breath rolls from her belly through her chest and out her throat.

She’s flushed and beautiful.

Her device chimes. “No consent preference registered. Peko, do you consent to oral sex as the receiving partner?”

She draws both hands up the inside of her thighs, and lets the hem of her dress catch on her fingers. She murmurs, “Yes,” with her eyes on him, lidded and intense, and it makes him feel like his hair is standing on end.

“Thank you, Peko.”

He leans in.

The angle’s bad, at first. The couch cushions are soft and deep; that’s fine for when he’s trying to sleep, but not so much when she keeps sinking back too far for him to keep pressure where she needs it. Her hand flutters on his shoulder, clenching and releasing. He’s getting a crick in his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and then, “Hey,” again, until her eyes flutter open. “Try- Try scooting up a little.” He spreads his palms wide on the outsides of her thighs. “Closer to the edge, so I can…”

She bites her lip. She’s flushed down to her chest. “But...”

“It’s okay,” he tells her. He scoops his arms around the small of her back in a clumsy hug, the most he can think to do. “I got you, alright? Last thing either of us want is for you to fall on your ass, I swear.”

She nods, unsteady. She lets him draw her down to the edge, and lets him lift her knees over his shoulders. It leaves her sprawled on the couch cushions, dress hiked up around her waist, with her hips pressed close and spread open.

He brushes his lips against her, not even a kiss, and she inhales, sharp and quick.

“Oh.” She pulls his collar hard against the back of his neck. “That’s… That’s better.”

He laughs against her, so that the sound vibrates on her skin, and her breath stumbles back out. “Yeah?”

Her hands scrabble for purchase against the back of his head. She’s trying not to press down, and doing a bad job of it. “Yes,” she whispers. “Go- Go, please.”

She’s dead fucking silent, the entire time. She lies there with her head tipped back against the cushions, her throat bobbing with every swallowed sound, and he thinks he’s fucking it up, at first. He starts to pull back, means to ask her what he’s doing wrong and what he could do better, when her fingers twist around his ears to keep him in place, hard enough to hurt.

He switches gears. He turns off the part of his brain that focuses on sound, and focuses instead on the things that make her knees tremble around his ears, or her nails rake back across his scalp. He figures out where her line is, learns to feel when she’s right up on that edge but not letting herself past it.

“Come on,” he growls against her. He sits up on his knees, and smooths his thumbs into the grooves of her hips. “I got you. Come on.”

She shudders. She spills over. She gasps, “Fuyuhiko,” at the ceiling, and it hits him like a stone, right in the gut.

He carries her through it. He tries to. Maybe the best he does for her is make sure she actually doesn’t fall on her ass. He has to come up for air as much as she does when it’s done, when she’s looking at him like that, lips parted and eyes dark, with the fingers of one hand curled around his ear.

“Fuck, I wanna kiss you,” he manages. “Can I kiss you?”

She surges forward, and grabs him by the face with both hands. She kisses him, full-on and messy, even though his mouth must still taste bitter and slick. She wraps her arms around him and drags on his shoulders until he gets the memo to come up off his knees.

He holds himself over her, both hands on the back of the couch. He has to brace one knee on the cushion between her legs to keep himself upright. “Shit,” he whispers against her mouth. “You’re incredible.”

Her lips move against his, too, only he can’t concentrate on what she’s saying because his blood is roaring in his ears and she just thumbed through the button on the front of his slacks. She fumbles with his belt, finds his zipper, and then she stops.

He’s dizzy. It’s a struggle to find her face, until he realizes it’s because she’s bent her head forward, against his chest.

“Wh-What?” he pants. “What’s wrong?”

She tilts her chin. He can see the flat edge of her smile. She’s trying not to laugh. “It wants to know… if…”

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Goddammit.” He rearranges his grip on the backrest, and clenches his eyes shut. “I consent, you stupid piece of shit.”

“Thank you, Fuyuhiko,” his device chirps behind him.

The momentum is broken. Her thumb at the top of his zipper feels more awkward now than promising. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I- I should’ve thought this out better. You don’t have to— I mean—”

She turns her face back up to him. Her fingers curl around his cheek. She presses gently, until he tilts his head in the direction she wants, and then her lips are on his again, softer this time, slower.

Her hands settle on his hips. Her thumbs hook in his waistband, tug until it slides down enough to give her room to work, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Peko,” he gasps against her mouth.

It doesn’t take much, even after all that. The warm curl of her fingers, the touch of her tongue to the roof of his mouth, a few quick twists of her wrist, and that’s it: he’s done. He tries to garble out a warning, but she just presses her free hand against the back of his head to hold him in place while it shudders through him.

They’re a wreck, the both of them, when it’s over: her with her hair a mess and her makeup smudged, hanging off the edge of the couch, and him half-draped on top of her, barely able to keep his balance.

He touches his forehead to hers. She traces the curve of his jaw with her thumb.

“Bed?” she asks.

He breathes in her smile. “Yeah,” he answers, “fuck this.”

It’s the best goddamn sleep he’s had in months.

When he wakes up, it’s abrupt, and dark, and cold. He doesn’t know much with his brain operating on empty like that, but he does know that his half of the bed is wider than it’s supposed to be. He reaches for her, paws out into the space, and finds the edge of the blanket again. He drags it back around his shoulders.

He just barely remembers to grumble, “Peko.”

“Go back to sleep,” she murmurs, and there, she’s there, close to his ear. He can’t keep his eyes open long enough to look at her.

“What the fuck,” he slurs into the pillow. “It’s nighttime.”

“It’s morning,” she corrects. “I shouldn’t miss my run.”

He swings his arm blindly sideways, and finds the curve of her shoulder. He grabs, and only gets her sleeve. “Don’t go.”

She presses a kiss to the side of his neck, just behind his ear. She’s smiling. “Go back to sleep.”

Somewhere along the line, he does.

10 WEEKS

“What do you think about tiny dogs?” he asks her. They’re on the couch together, sharing a blanket, his legs tented over her lap. “The yappy, strung-out looking ones?”

She traces the line of his shin with her thumb. She doesn’t want him to see it, but the corner of her mouth tugs sideways. “I think they’re nice,” she answers.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fuckin’ crazy,” he tells her. “They’d bite your fingers off as much as look at you.”

She doesn’t rise to his bait, and she doesn’t take back her answer. It’s her turn. “Are there any sports you like?”

“Baseball,” he answers. “Played it for a while. I’m better at watching it, though.”

“I see.”

“Right, so, if you—”

She squeezes his knee. “I get to ask again.”

“What?” he laughs. “No, you don’t. How come?”

“You asked two.”

“Bullshit I did! ‘Seriously?’ doesn’t count.”

She holds her ground. She lifts her chin at him, and she’s not smiling, but her eyes get narrower underneath like she is.

“Alright,” he says. He leans forward, his elbow on the back of the couch beside her head, and lets his knees fall flat into her lap. “Fine. What’s your second one?”

Her hand finds the side of his face. The tips of her fingers trace the edge of his ear, and it tickles, but he’s determined not to show her any weakness. He sighs, a long, slow exhale, and touches the tip of his tongue to his lips.

Her eyeline drops down.

“Peko,” he says, and it rises back up, painfully slow. He’s won, and she knows it. “What’s your second one?”

(He’s an idiot. He’s underestimated her, like he does every time.)

She curves her thumbnail along his hairline, dips her chin, and asks him in a murmur, “What would you like to do next?”

He loses, right then and there. No chance. He accepts the defeat gracefully, and rolls her over so that she's the one in his lap.

3 MONTHS

He wakes up with his arm around her waist.

They take a few extra minutes in their morning, just because.

15 WEEKS

“You’re not paired with her,” Natsumi tells him. “You know that, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that just because you dumbasses didn’t check the expiration, it doesn’t mean you don’t still have one.”

“Obviously,” he says. “I know that. We both know that.”

She stares at him over the lid of her smoothie. It gurgles as loudly as she can make it.

“Really?” she asks. “Because it kinda seems like you don’t.”

4 MONTHS

He counts the days up. Four months, almost exactly. They’ve overshot it by a few, and it turns out he likes that less than if they’d been a few days shy.

He’s done the math. His average is two months. Hers is five. They’re sitting pretty at almost exactly the point their expiration date should be creeping up on them.

He doesn’t say anything to her. It’d defeat the purpose. Just because he let Natsumi get under his skin again doesn’t mean that he should be making Peko anxious about it, too. What they have is working. Letting the system shove its nose between them adds nothing and takes away everything.

Still.

It’s too late for the summer stars, but the autumn ones are just as good. He takes her out by the river, down to the spot where the sprawling, rickety house they used for the pairing day is sitting empty. She lets her arm unwind from his and steps close to the water, her chin tipped up to the sky. Moonlight and starlight spill over her, and gleam silver in her hair.

He taps his device. The hidden speakers in the trees fade in: a slow piano waltz.

She looks up at the sound, and then down to him. He holds his hand out. “Dance with me?”

Her lips turn up into her not-quite smile. Color rises in her cheeks, and brings out her eyes. She reaches her hand out, too, and her fingers curl into his.

They spin lazily together, there on the riverbank, in the grass and soft soil. It isn’t even a real waltz; it’s way too slow and uncoordinated for that. But his arm fits around her waist, and she’s looking back at him with her eyes soft and open in a way they hardly ever are, and the rest of it doesn’t matter. None of it. The steps, the device, the system, the goddamn fucking wall.

The song slows down. So do they, swaying steps devolving into swaying shoulders.

He imagines that tomorrow is their last day. He imagines that this’ll be the last time he sees her like this, touched by silver moonlight like that, looking back at him with her eyes like that. He imagines her at a pairing day with someone else, beautiful in a light spring gown, with her name on all of the decorations, and he kisses her.

When he pulls back, her eyes are shining. She presses her knuckles into the corners of them. “Wait, wait.” He wraps his hands around the back of her neck, tugs her down until her forehead is pressed against his. “You— Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

She blinks the tears away. She shakes her head, just a little, just enough for him to feel it. “I love you, too,” she murmurs against his lips. “That’s all.”

22 WEEKS

He keeps counting. He can’t help himself. Once he knows the number, each morning is another increment. Each new total carves itself into the inside of his skull like tic marks on a prison wall.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

They’re having breakfast, toast and coffee and sliced fruit. She has one hand on his knee below the table. They don’t have anything planned for the afternoon; she’d wanted a quiet day in, just the two of them, and so had he. He wants as many of those as he can get, from however many days there are left.

There are soft frown lines between her eyes, and he needs to be honest. It’s too late now not to be. “We've been together five months,” he tells her. “More than that. Hundred and fifty-seven days, tomorrow.”

She doesn't understand, at first. Her gaze goes soft, at first, like he’s told her good news, because it is. It should be. It’s something they should be proud of. A mark of what they’ve done, and what they could do.

It isn’t, though. Not where the system is concerned.

She sees it in his face, maybe, or maybe she just knows him well enough now that she understands the implication of his counting. She gets there. Her hand lifts off his knee.

“You want to check the expiration date,” she realizes.

His stomach twists. “No!” He leans forward, and his elbow jostles the edge of his plate. It sends cutlery to the table with a clatter. “No. Peko, no, that’s not it.”

She’s not listening. Her device is on the table, by her elbow, and it lights up under her touch. She swipes through the menus with quick, deliberate precision: Main, Info, Expiration.

“Peko—”

“We agreed,” she says. “As soon as one of us changes their mind, we look.”

He has this sudden, irrational panic that she’s going to look at it without him. He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, and he grabs her wrist anyway. “Stop it,” he says. “I didn’t change my mind, alright?”

“Will it make you feel better?” she asks him.

He hesitates.

“Then we should look,” she says, and holds her finger over the screen.

“You're not listening to me.”

“Please,” she says through grit teeth. Emotion still manages to tremble its way through. “Whatever time is left, I…” It trembles out into her fingers. She clutches the device to keep hold of it. “I don't want it to go to waste. So if doing this helps you, then…”

“This isn’t gonna fucking help!”

It’s louder than he means, sharper than he means. He seizes her hands with both of his, and shoves the face of the device down into the table. It makes a sound like splitting plastic, but he knows it won’t break.

“Maybe it would make me feel better,” he tells her, and forces his volume down. “Maybe. For a second. That’s not what this is about, okay?” He swallows. Breathes. “I don't want to know when it ends.” He can feel her trembling. He drags his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. “I don't want it to end at all.”

Peko is looking down at their hands. She’s not crying. She’s wearing the same sort of carefully neutral look she had when he was late for dinner the very first night, lonely and quiet, slightly strained at the edges.

“The system makes mistakes,” he says, and now he's trembling, too. “99.8. That’s .2 percent of people who get fucked over. You wanna look at me and tell me this doesn’t feel like a mistake to you?”

She looks at him. She doesn’t say anything.

“Everything happens for a reason,” the device chirps, muffled between their fingers.

She kisses him every morning, before her run, while he’s still half-asleep. She brushes her lips wherever she can reach him, between the tangle of blankets: his cheek, his temple, his chin, his wrist.

He teaches himself to count those, instead.

6 MONTHS

He’s in the bedroom, fixing his tie in the mirror. She’s in the kitchen, packing their boxed lunch for later. It’s too cold for a picnic now, but the central hub has a cozy little lounge area with some fireplaces and worn-comfortable loveseats. They’re going to the aquarium first, then lunch, then a concert in the evening.

“Yo, Peko,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“When is this thing tonight again? I was thinking if we have some extra time, maybe—”

His device chimes on the vanity in front of him.

It's programmed with maybe four or five distinct sounds. They all get used for different things: notifications and alerts and acknowledgements. They overlap in a lot of places, by categories. There’s only one that’s unique. There’s only one he can recognize without trying to, or needing to, or wanting to.

He looks at it through the mirror, and the letters are backwards, but he knows. He knew before he looked.

END

He thinks: they didn’t even make it to thirty. She’s given him twenty-six sleepy, early-morning kisses since he started counting.

He barely even remembers the one from this morning. He tries. He grips the sharp edge of the vanity until his palms hurt, and tries to remember. She kissed him on the shoulder, he thinks, the outside curve of it. It’d been lazy, a brush. She’d been tired, too. She’d wanted to stay in bed with him, but she hadn’t.

He grabs the device. He turns on his heel, and stops in his tracks.

She’s already in the doorway. Her device hangs from her limp left hand, but it’s still lit up. He can still read the face of it.

END

“Peko—”

She talks over him. “I would like to say something.” Her voice is steel bent to its maximum; her face is a sheet of ice about to shatter.

“The relationship has ended,” their devices say in echoing unison. “Both participants must vacate their living quarters.”

“I want you to know that I have treasured every moment we spent together,” she says, rushed and clumsy. She struggles. It’s not like her at all. “And that I- I will always treasure them. It has been… unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life.”

“The relationship has ended. Both participants must vacate their living quarters.”

“I know that it’s selfish of me to ask. I know that this will pale in comparison to the connection you will have with the person you are matched with, when you meet them. But I… I hope, if you can, that you’ll remember this, too.” There are tears in her eyes, and she lets them spill over. “I hope that you’ll remember me, too.”

“No,” he rasps.

“Fuyuhiko—”

“How can you still not get it?” Emotion bubbles up his throat, and then his eyes are stinging, too. “How can you stand there and say that kind of shit to me? Like- Like I was going to forget anything. Like I ever could, like I’d ever want to?” He can’t stand it. She talks about herself like she’s a ghost, like she doesn’t matter, and she’s so goddamn frustrating. “I don’t want their fucking match, Peko!”

Her device lights up: a red, flashing ring around the face. He can see the reflection of it on her skin. He looks down, and his is blinking, too.

“Failure to vacate is considered a breach of system rules. Failure to comply with the system may result in banishment.”

He drops it. It hits the floor flat on its face and goes spinning into the wall. He crosses the space between them in two long steps, and reaches for her with both hands.

“I want you,” he tells her. “Only you.”

She sways into him. She lets out a breath, shaking and damp. Her free hand comes up to curl loosely around his wrist, and the other presses her device into her stomach, where the pretty lace of her blouse swallows up the warning light.

He sees it in her eyes. He swears he does. A spark, like possibility.

“Failure to vacate is considered a breach of system rules. Participants have three minutes to vacate, or security will be called.”

He watches her let it wink out.

She whispers, “Please.”

He lets go.

#fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #sdr2 #YOU KNEW IT WAS COMING MY DUDES #also: pour one out for my poor battered schedule #hopefully the fact that this is MONSTROUSLY LONG makes up for it #and/or my inaugural kuzupeko smut #what a rollercoaster of a revision #fic: somewhere surely lived #sunwrites

46 notes · View notes

directlyjewelrysupplier · 3 years ago

Text

how-to-make-a-cross-necklace

This super-simple wooden cross necklace will take you about fifteen minutes to make, and it’s perfect for a monk / priest / Friar Tuck costume. While monks were not actually allowed to wear cross necklaces (or any necklaces), when it comes to Halloween there is no easier way to let people know that you are not a Jedi or Sith Lord, you are are a monk. This one has special knot that allows you to adjust the necklace size, too.

Supplies you will need a piece of wood (around 3″ x 5″ x 1″ thick) a piece of string (preferably leather lacing) Tools you will need a band saw (or coping saw, or hand saw) a drill (optionally) a sander I made it at TechShop (techshop.ws) Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 1: Draw the Cross on the Piece of Wood

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Draw the Cross on the Piece of Wood Sample dimensions shown.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 2: Cut Out the Cross

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Cut Out the Cross No need to turn corners: just make each cut straight from the edge. Be careful when you join the cuts at the corners: any gouges you make here will take a long time to sand out later.

If you don’t have a band saw, no worries: the cuts are straight, so you can use a hand saw, a coping saw, a hack saw, a sawz-all, or just about any saw (though a rotary saw will be difficult).

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 3: Sand the Cross

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Sand the Cross Sand the rough edges and any pencil marks. Square up your cuts. Remove any gouges. A belt sander will make a lot of this easy, but you��ll probably have to finish with some sandpapering by hand.

If you want to finish the cross really nicely, start with a rough grit sandpaper (like 60 or 100). Once you can’t do anything more with that grit, move up to a finer grit (150 or 200) and then finer and finer until you’re satisfied with the smoothness. I only went up to 150 grit.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 4: Drill a Hole in the Top

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Drill a Hole in the Top Use a piece of scrap wood to brace the cross. This will make drilling easier, and it will also keep the wood from chipping where the drill bit exits the cross. Make the hole big enough for your string to pass through.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 5: Apply Finish

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Apply Finish To make the cross look a little nicer, you can put some oil on it to bring out the grain. Lindseed oil is good. So is teak oil and about a bazillion other oils. I used Neat’s Foot oil (which is actually made for leather) because my teak oil had dried up. In a pinch you can even use vegetable oil or butter, though I’ve had a problem with ants when I did this.

Just rub it in and wipe off the excess with a cloth before it dries and gets sticky.

If you want to change the color, you can buy some wood stain (or use some shoe polish).

If you want to finish / protect the wood more, you can get a urethane coating, spray-on shellac, or other type of clear coat.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 6: Thread on the String

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Thread on the String Thread your string through the hole in the cross.

Measure about how long you want the necklace to be. Then cut the string about six inches longer.

If you’re using leather lacing, you can cut the tip of the lacing to a point to make it easier to thread through the hole.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 7: Tie an Adjustable Slider Knot

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Tie an Adjustable Slider Knot The principle of this knot is simple if you’ve ever tied a fishing line to a fishing hook before. You create a loop, wrap around the string several times, and then go back through the loop.

Do this with one end of your string (green), looping your loops around the other end of your string (red). Tighten. (Steps 1-3)

Now repeat with the other end of your string (red), looping your loops around the first end of your string (green). Tighten. (Steps 4-6)

Now you can adjust the length of the necklace by sliding the knots.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 8: Adjust Length and Place Around Neck

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Adjust Length and Place Around Neck Adjust Length and Place Around Neck Slide the knots to adjust the length, and then loop that bad boy around your neck. Grasp the loop in both hands. The cross should be dangling at the bottom, and the loop should be open wide, with your left hand on one side of the loop and your right hand on the other side. Raise the loop until the center is at eye level. Duck your head forward so that your forehead just touches the bottom of the loop. Slide your hands (which are still holding the loop) backwards over the top of your head. Your right hand will slide just over your right ear, and your left hand will slide just over your left ear. Continue sliding your hands down the back of your neck until you feel the string touch the back of your neck. At this point the cross should be dangling just below your chin. Carefully release the loop with both hands. If you have done this correctly, the cross will not fall to the floor, but will be suspended from the string, which is supported by your neck.

Making A Cross Necklace Out of Nails {A Religious Craft for Kids, Teens and Adults} With Video! – Kid Friendly Things To Do

This beautiful Cross Necklace Made out of Nails has always been a popular Religious Easter Craft for kids and adults. It’s a nice rustic looking necklace that would be a great fit for Men, Women, Teens, and Kids. I think this is such a cool idea for making cross necklaces, key chains or a Sunday School craft for Easter.

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Cross Necklace Religious Craft for Kids

Cross Necklace Made out of Nails – A Religious Easter Craft… Here’s a short video on this Easy DIY Cross Necklace for Men, Women, Teens, and Kids to Wear…

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An Easter Craft for Sunday School

Years ago, my son’s Sunday School Teacher made this with his class for an Easter Craft. I absolutely fell in love with the idea, and I knew you all would too.

📷

A DIY Cross Necklace for teens

I love the rustic appeal to the necklace.

DIY Religious Craft for adults

I really love the fact that the Cross Necklace is made from Nails.

Religious Craft for Teens‘

For those of us that celebrate the resurrection of Christ, using nails for the cross necklace carries meaning behind it.

Making a cross necklace out of nails

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When I first posted this craft, I hadn’t actually made the craft myself. I just went by the example I had to explain the process. This time, I went out an purchased supplies to make it for a more specific tutorial for you.

Here’s What You’ll Need for your DIY Religious Easter Craft…

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Making a cross necklace out of nails

You’ll Need:

4 (2 inch) Masonry Cut Nails – the ones shown are (2 inches) Leather or Hemp Cord – about 24 inches (leather is more comfortable on the back of the neck) Glue Dots – Line Roll (I recently found out that glue dots come in rectangular 1-inch pieces now. You could also use the original circles, but I really liked how perfectly the strips of glue fit the edges of the nails) Optional – jewelry wire Low temp glue gun and glue sticks Here are my top Amazon Picks for this Cross Necklace craft: (affiliate links)

Here are instructions for this Easter Cross Necklace Craft…

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Making a cross necklace out of nails

take 2 of the Cut Nails and place them opposite of each other *Notice that they are “not” completely aligned at the ends. That is so the nails will be defined on the necklace better Use glue dots to secure them in place Do that again with another pair of Cut Nails

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Making a cross necklace out of nails

Now form the 2 pairs of nails into a cross Use a glue dot to secure them together

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Making a cross necklace out of nails

Take the leather or hemp cord, and at the middle of the cord wrap a loop at a diagonal around the middle of the cross

Secure with a knot at the back

Now, start wrapping the middle of the cross alternating with the pieces of hemp cord around where the middle of the cross meets

When you are finished, tie a knot on the back over the top of the X you have formed with hemp cord

*Another option would be to take jewelry wire and wrap the cord to the necklace so it makes it’s way up to the top of the nails and secure the nails with the wire at the top

Slip the necklace around your neck or use someone else as a model

Find the perfect spot to tie a knot in your hemp cord to form a large enough loop to pull on and off the head easily

tie the knot and you are finished

Use a low temp glue gun for any spots that don’t feel secure

Don’t forget – If you need a better visual, watch the 1-minute video for help in assembling the cross…

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Is It Okay To Wear Religious Symbols For Fashion?

Though cross necklaces have been around since the Roman Empire was Christianized, recently, crucifixes have become popular tropes among jewelers like New Top Jewelry and Instagram-popular brands like Bagatiba and Vanessa Mooney for fashion’s sake. Obviously, anyone who’s danced to Madonna or Billy Idol knows that the “fashion cross” isn’t a new phenomenon. In fact, it’s long been used to criticize conformity and chastity, which critics identify as two hallmarks of the Christian faith. But in 2018, there are far fewer people wearing the cross as a subversive act, and many more wearing it as a purely aesthetic one. Perhaps it’s because, in today’s climate, we’re holding each other to a much stricter standard when it comes to wearing sacred symbols out of context. With the upcoming Met Gala touching on the intersection of Catholicism and fashion, some are wondering whether coopting religious symbols for purely style-related reasons is fair game. Ahead of the event, I asked a few people who buy and make the pieces to share their thoughts — and across both designers and everyday Instagram followers of mine, there’s no definitive answer on what’s right or wrong when it comes to religious jewelry. Because for every practicing Catholic or Christian who wears the symbol religiously (take blogger Sami Weaver, for example, who sometimes shares her religious views on Instagram stories and has also worn vintage cross pieces on her page), there are those who are religious and choose not to — whether it’s because they’re no longer practicing regularly or feel there are other ways to express their faith than through clothing or accessories. Then there are those who don’t wear it for fear of offending someone, those who wear it to offend and comment on Christianity. Read ahead for their thoughts. 1 OF 15

“I’m not religious, but I do believe in a higher power. Four out of five of my best sellers on bagatiba.com are religion-related. A few years ago I decided to give people the option to shop ‘Religion.’ I gave Kendall Jenner our best-selling piece, the D2C Necklace I designed four years ago, and the trend took off immediately, in my opinion. I think 80% of my customers buy religious pieces for fashion purposes. I don’t think they understand what the crosses and charms mean, but that’s not my place to judge. They see girls like Kendall and Bella in them and think of it as a trend, rather than a lifestyle.” — Jessie Andrews, Founder & CEO, Bagatiba 2 OF 15

“We believe this trend is about personal expression. Jewelry is an essential part of expressing personal style, and unique style is closely tied to personal beliefs. We sell cross jewelry for this reason — to allow our customer to express themselves in the most authentic way possible. We find that our consumers are intentional. Wearing socially and environmentally responsible accessories is becoming more and more important to today’s informed consumer. Since Moissanite is both beautiful and conscientious, many of our customers are making personal statements by wearing our jewelry, and Moissanite crosses are no different.” — Sarah O’Dea, Director of Marketing + Communications, Charles & Colvard 3 OF 15

“Jewelry, to me, is simply expression. I come from a Christian Orthodox family from Lebanon and Syria. Naturally, the cross symbolizes what generations of my family has believed in. It’s a symbol of love and hope for my family and I. As a child, rather than getting toys for holidays, it was tradition for my family to give us pieces of jewelry. Only did I realize as I got older how much those pieces mean to me.

“Growing up, I worked with my father in the Diamond District in New York City. Seeing the cross in silver and gold has always been a constant in my jewelry box and my life. The trend may be here right now, but it personally doesn’t represent itself as a trend for me.

“I am religious in my own way. I believe everyone is entitled to their own spiritual journey and beliefs. I do believe there is a greater place my deceased loved ones live. I believe in angels, luckily I have a few.

“I took a trip to the Vatican last year. I have never seen so many rosary-style and religious jewelry in my life. The shops had them hanging all over the walls, different colors and materials. Although it was inspirational, it made me come to the fact that jewelry can hold such a powerful meaning to the beholder. I realized, whether it is religious jewelry piece or not, it is a moment in time, a sentimental feeling, a connection that can last a lifetime.” — Kelly Shami Creative Director, CEO, Shami 4 OF 15

“When I had [my brand] Lyell the first time around, it was a running joke that in every insane situation that comes with a clothing line business, I would say ‘have faith.’ Around the same time, I worked with a photographer who had it tattooed on his arm, and I also took it as a sign, — and to heart. It is something I do live by even though it’s hard to maintain all the time…just mentally.

“I am not Catholic, but I love the cross. I love how it looks on the wall and on the body. I have always had a little vintage one I planned to give my daughter. I plan for Lyell to do different things with them: earrings, colors, and beyond.” — Emma Fletcher, Founder and Designer, Lyell 5 OF 15

“Symbols are tricky things, because context dictates so much of their meaning. And while we sell a fair amount of religiously symbolic pieces to people purchasing them with their faith in mind, I love that we also have customers that find and appreciate beauty in objects that are outside of their beliefs. We need to cross more borders, and if wearing pretty things is a path to that, I’m all for it.”

0 notes

secretladyspizza · 3 years ago

Text

Is It Okay To Wear Religious Symbols For Fashion?

📷

Draw the Cross on the Piece of Wood Sample dimensions shown.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 2: Cut Out the Cross

📷

If you don’t have a band saw, no worries: the cuts are straight, so you can use a hand saw, a coping saw, a hack saw, a sawz-all, or just about any saw (though a rotary saw will be difficult).

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 3: Sand the Cross

📷

Sand the Cross Sand the rough edges and any pencil marks. Square up your cuts. Remove any gouges. A belt sander will make a lot of this easy, but you’ll probably have to finish with some sandpapering by hand.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 4: Drill a Hole in the Top

📷

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 5: Apply Finish

📷

Just rub it in and wipe off the excess with a cloth before it dries and gets sticky.

If you want to change the color, you can buy some wood stain (or use some shoe polish).

If you want to finish / protect the wood more, you can get a urethane coating, spray-on shellac, or other type of clear coat.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 6: Thread on the String

📷

Thread on the String Thread your string through the hole in the cross.

Measure about how long you want the necklace to be. Then cut the string about six inches longer.

If you’re using leather lacing, you can cut the tip of the lacing to a point to make it easier to thread through the hole.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 7: Tie an Adjustable Slider Knot

📷

Do this with one end of your string (green), looping your loops around the other end of your string (red). Tighten. (Steps 1-3)

Now repeat with the other end of your string (red), looping your loops around the first end of your string (green). Tighten. (Steps 4-6)

Now you can adjust the length of the necklace by sliding the knots.

Add TipAsk QuestionCommentDownload Step 8: Adjust Length and Place Around Neck

📷

Making A Cross Necklace Out of Nails {A Religious Craft for Kids, Teens and Adults} With Video! – Kid Friendly Things To Do

📷

Cross Necklace Religious Craft for Kids

Cross Necklace Made out of Nails – A Religious Easter Craft… Here’s a short video on this Easy DIY Cross Necklace for Men, Women, Teens, and Kids to Wear…

📷

An Easter Craft for Sunday School

Years ago, my son’s Sunday School Teacher made this with his class for an Easter Craft. I absolutely fell in love with the idea, and I knew you all would too.

📷

A DIY Cross Necklace for teens

I love the rustic appeal to the necklace.

DIY Religious Craft for adults

I really love the fact that the Cross Necklace is made from Nails.

Religious Craft for Teens‘

For those of us that celebrate the resurrection of Christ, using nails for the cross necklace carries meaning behind it.

Making a cross necklace out of nails

📷

Here’s What You’ll Need for your DIY Religious Easter Craft…

📷

Making a cross necklace out of nails

You’ll Need:

Here are instructions for this Easter Cross Necklace Craft…

📷

Making a cross necklace out of nails

📷

Making a cross necklace out of nails

Now form the 2 pairs of nails into a cross Use a glue dot to secure them together

📷

Making a cross necklace out of nails

Take the leather or hemp cord, and at the middle of the cord wrap a loop at a diagonal around the middle of the cross

Secure with a knot at the back

Now, start wrapping the middle of the cross alternating with the pieces of hemp cord around where the middle of the cross meets

When you are finished, tie a knot on the back over the top of the X you have formed with hemp cord

*Another option would be to take jewelry wire and wrap the cord to the necklace so it makes it’s way up to the top of the nails and secure the nails with the wire at the top

Slip the necklace around your neck or use someone else as a model

Find the perfect spot to tie a knot in your hemp cord to form a large enough loop to pull on and off the head easily

tie the knot and you are finished

Use a low temp glue gun for any spots that don’t feel secure

Don’t forget – If you need a better visual, watch the 1-minute video for help in assembling the cross…

📷

Is It Okay To Wear Religious Symbols For Fashion?

0 notes