#steam iron box

[inverterairconditioner]

Crompton Fabrimagic Plus 1250 W Steam Iron ( White Purple )

Ironing day: the bane of many an existence. Wrinkled mountains of clothes, endless cycles of iron, and the constant battle against stubborn creases. But fear not, warriors of the laundry, for there's a new weapon in your arsenal: the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus 1250 W Steam Iron (White Purple).

Sleek Design, Powerful Performance:

At first glance, the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus exudes confidence. Its sleek white and purple design is modern and eye-catching, adding a touch of style to your laundry routine. But don't let its good looks fool you – this iron packs a powerful punch with its 1250-watt heating element. It heats up quickly and delivers powerful steam that blasts through even the most stubborn wrinkles, making ironing a breeze.

user ironing a purple shirt with the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus 1250 W Steam Iron, showcasing the iron's sleek design and steam output.

Features for Effortless Ironing:

The Crompton Fabrimagic Plus isn't just about brute force; it's loaded with features that make ironing an effortless and enjoyable experience:

Teflon-coated non-stick soleplate: Glide smoothly across all types of fabrics without snagging or sticking, protecting your delicate garments.

Variable steam settings: Choose the perfect steam intensity for your fabric type, from delicate silks to heavy linens.

Vertical steam function: Tackle wrinkles on hanging clothes, curtains, and upholstery with ease.

Anti-drip technology: No more water leaks or splatter marks, ensuring a mess-free ironing experience.

Large 200 ml water tank: Iron multiple garments without having to constantly refill the tank.

Easy-grip handle: Enjoy comfortable ironing sessions with the ergonomic handle that reduces fatigue.

Safety First:

Safety is paramount in any appliance, and the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus delivers. It features an auto shut-off function that kicks in after a period of inactivity, providing peace of mind and preventing accidents.

The Verdict:

So, does the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus 1250 W Steam Iron live up to the hype? In a word, absolutely. It's a powerful, versatile, and user-friendly machine that tackles wrinkles with ease, making ironing a chore of the past. Whether you're a seasoned laundry warrior or a rookie facing the ironing Everest for the first time, the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus has you covered.

Who is it for?

Time-conscious individuals: The fast heat-up time and powerful steam ensure efficient ironing sessions.

Fabric enthusiasts: The variable steam settings and non-stick soleplate protect even the most delicate garments.

Convenience seekers: The anti-drip technology and large water tank eliminate the hassle of constant refills.

Safety-minded individuals: The auto shut-off function provides peace of mind.

Budget-conscious consumers: The Crompton Fabrimagic Plus offers excellent value for its price.

Final Thoughts:

If you're looking for a reliable and effective way to banish wrinkles and reclaim your ironing freedom, the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus 1250 W Steam Iron is a top contender. Its powerful performance, user-friendly features, and stylish design make it a welcome addition to any laundry room. Ditch the wrinkle blues and embrace the effortless ironing experience with the Crompton Fabrimagic Plus! Shop Now at Poorvika Online for the Best Price.

[local-magpie]

clams are just little guys inside

[besthomeappliances92]

Buy ironing products at Philips Domestic Appliances E-store. You get to explore a variety of dry irons, handheld steamers, garment steamers, standing steamers, and more.

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

Hi love! I hope you are doing well ☺️

If possible could I request a Aemond X reader? Maybe something where he takes notice of a hobby reader likes and surprises them with something related to it?

Piece de Resistance

Pairing: Aemond x Wife Reader

Summary: Aemond stumbles upon your love for the arts, painting, drawing, sketching, and the like. <3

Warnings: none I don't think, Aemond being a cute and supportive husband. a good moment of domesticity :)

AN: Hello! I absolutely love this request! I hope I did it justice haha. Thank you so much for submitting it! The picture is from Pinterest! It's St Augustine by Philippe de Champaigne.

It wasn’t often you got a moment to yourself nowadays. With your husband acting as Prince Regent in his brother’s absence, you and he both were kept rather busy. Him with the Small Council and issues of the realm, you with the petty social gossipings and happenings of the Court. So rare moments of peace and quiet like this were highly coveted.

Your marital chambers echoed with emptiness as you entered and looked around. The curtains you had chosen fluttered in the breeze. Aemond had not wanted them, but ultimately he conceded, never being able to say no to you. 

He must be in a Small Council meeting, you thought. Or perhaps training with Ser Criston, letting off some steam. Your husband seemed to have an ever-constant knot of stress in his shoulders and neck. You’d tried to massage it out many a time, but it never seemed to budge, or it ended in a much different sort of activity –

Under your armoire, lay a dusty, maroon-red box. You bent down, moving to pull it out of its little hiding spot. You had snuck it under there after you had moved into Aemond’s chambers. The day after your wedding. Aemond had insisted that you move to his quarters as soon as possible. He didn’t like being separated from you more than necessary. If he could, he would have you seated on his lap in Small Council meetings or even when he sat on the Iron Throne. But alas, that was a touch too far, and people would talk. As they always do –

Your husband was kind and dotting, if not overprotective and possessive of you. You had known one another since you were children. Your house and family coming to visit the Court, your mother and the dowager Queen had been friends since their youth. They had hoped that you and Aemond would get along well, and you did, famously so. When he had lost his eye, you had come to the Red Keep, to offer him comfort and company. You had never left after that. 

Your fingertips graze over the top of the box, as you rest it on top of your bed sheets. Leaving an empty trail in their wake. The lock lay rusted and golden on the front, pulling a small key from the pocket of your skirt, you unlock it. A small, soft resounding click bounced off the walls. As you gingerly opened the lid, the stale smell of linseed oil filled your nostrils. Small metal tubes of colorful paint lay untouched in the box. Clean bristles and dirty brush handles scattered about, small rolls of blank canvas. All of which lay, unmoved, unbothered, from the last time you had used them. 

When you were little, you had complained to your mother once about the bore of your lessons. For your tenth name day, she had brought in a painter from Highgarden to tutor you. He had taught you how to mix colors and paint the prettiest flowers. As you grew older, he taught you more complicated things, like ladies in bushy skirts, and golden dragons in the sky. An odd prophecy of your future.

Taking some basic colors, red, blue, yellow, and white, some brushes, and a small roll of canvas, you set up shop at your dressing table. For the time being, altering it into a makeshift desk. Deciding to paint what you knew best, you began to sketch out a dragon among roses, with some charcoal that you had borrowed from Aemond.

He wouldn’t miss it, you thought. He had a small goblet full of charcoal and quills, hiding amongst the piles of books and scrolls on the table. Which he used to plot his war games, or occasionally take dinner with you. When you both grew tired of his family and their bickering. 

The dragon began to take form on the canvas, it looked slightly like Vhagar, large, old, and wrinkly. Her age showing in her face and eyes. Around her, you drew roses, peonies, daffodils, lavender, a great colorful bouquet. Once you had begun mixing the paints, on a makeshift pallet made of spare parchment paper. The other sounds of the world seemed to fade away, the monotony of the act being therapeutic. A much-desired mindless activity in the middle of the war you all found yourself in. You would never voice this to anyone, but it was silly to you. The hubris and hypocrisy of your husband's family was vast and great, and deadly at the worst. The blood of the dragon ran thick and hot, volatile and dangerous. 

You had become so absorbed in your work that you hadn’t heard the door open, the faint call of your name. Lost on the wind perhaps. Aemond stood, leaning a shoulder against the door frame, a small smile playing at his lips, watching you, intently. He knew and had seen you become absorbed like this in a book or some piece of writing, but he had never seen you do this before. Paint.

The colorful oils stain your fingertips and wedge themselves beneath your nails. The same stale smell of the linseed oil met his nostrils.

 An odd sort of smell, he thought. He crept a bit closer, as close as possible not yet wanting you to know he was there. He silently rested his sword on the bed, the sheets muffling any noise it may have made. You were humming softly to yourself. An old hymn your mother used to sing to you. 

As he crept closer, Aemond could make out the picture you were working on. The colors came to life before his eyes, the eyes of his dragon staring back at him. 

“Gevie (beautiful)” He muttered, under his breath.

Startled, you jumped a bit, smudging one of the petals on the peony you were working on. “Shit��� you breathed out.

“Aemond, Husband, I had not heard you come in!” You stand, turning to face him, stepping in front of your work as if to hide it.

Aemond chuckled a bit, noticing the pink tinge to your cheeks, embarrassed at being caught. He lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the painting behind you, 

“May I see it?” He asked, his gaze meeting your own. After a slight pause, you stepped aside. Aemond walked past you, placing a loving hand on your waist, holding you to him slightly. Aemond has developed a habit of always having a hand on you, as if scared you were going to be snatched away, stolen from him. 

Again, he muttered a “Gevie” under his breath. He turned to look at you, your face twisted in anticipation of what he may think. You had hidden the hobby from him not out of malice, but rather out of embarrassment. Other ladies and some lords of the court had mentioned that painting was a poor man's job and that someone of “noble blood” needn’t concern themselves with such silly things. You had been worried that he would have agreed with them, not liking it. 

“I didn’t know you painted. This is lovely,” The hand on your waist moved to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind your ear, it had fallen loose from your braids. 

“I was afraid you would disapprove –” 

“Why on earth would I disapprove my love? This is beautiful, you have a talent”. Your cheeks turned impossibly more pink at his praise and approval. 

“Actually, I would like it very much if you were to paint something on my sword. Vhagar perhaps –” He trailed off thinking, “Or maybe the seas or those flowers are quite lovely too–” You had placed a finger over his lips, laughing. Aemond stopped talking, kissing the digit instead. 

“Yes husband, I would love nothing more,” Your smile matched Aemond’s from before. 

“I would like to show it off–” He murmured against your finger, kissing it again. You moved your hand to his cheek, cupping it lovingly. This small moment of domestic bliss was needed, for the both of you. 

“Well then, go and fetch it, and I shall get to work,” With the excitement of a little boy, your husband retrieved his sword from the bed, unsheathing it, placing it on the desk in front of you. The previous painting moved to the windowsill, to dry. Aemond pulled up a chair, sitting beside you. 

He rested his elbow on the corner of the table, chin in palm. The only free spot on the table, not littered with paints and brushes. You began to work, and he watched you, with nothing but love and admiration in his eye. He could sit here, happily, forever, watching you work, with the setting sun twinkling on the ocean water outside of the windows. Your delicate hands painted the hard metal of his sword. He would let you paint the whole damn keep if it made you happy. And now, with the conqueror's crown resting upon his brow, maybe he would –

Tag List:

@helaenaluvr  @anukulee   @stuckinaf4nfiction

@darylandbethfanforever9

[gojoest]

—reunion ;

how many times was it, you wonder.

that you opened the closet in your shared bedroom and found yourself staring at satoru’s clothes, and teared up because the last time you had them ironed, he was sitting on the bed behind you, throwing silly remarks at how you’re hotter than the steaming iron in your hand. you would roll your eyes and tell him that half of the time you were steaming hot was out of annoyance because he left the toilet seat up. and he would chuckle and say “my bad, love. won’t forget next time”.

that next time never came.

you would tear up every time upon seeing the toilet seat left down. so you got used to his habit and purposely kept it up at all times. because that way the bathroom had more semblance of when he was still around.

you would tear up simply glancing at his toothbrush placed in the holder because the bristles looked too hard and stiff since he didn’t get to use it in a long time. or the sunglasses he left on the nightstand that you couldn’t bring yourself to move and would carefully dust around so you didn’t change the way they were placed. because he left them there. he touched them last.

was it silly to think that as long as they stayed there, part of him would always be in that house? you didn’t know. but you clearly remember the day you had a breakdown in the middle of your kitchen because your friend threw the empty box of kikufuku mochi in the trash. it was the box he bought. the box he ate from. it was just an empty snack wrap, a trash. yet it felt like part of his presence was torn out of your life.

and this morning your alarm goes off. you open your eyes and sigh because you know how the routine goes— get up, see his sunglasses on the nightstand, tear up, wash your face, brush your teeth, see his toothbrush, tear up some more, smile at the toilet seat being up but then cry because it wasn’t him who left it that way but you, see his clothes when picking your outfit, cry, get dressed and go to work with puffy eyes.

but every once in a while, certain circumstances make it so you’re unable to stick to your daily routine. like oversleeping in the morning and then being forced to skip half of the steps in a rush so you don’t run late to work. or missing sunglasses on the nightstand, or the toilet seat left down, or a white-haired man, making pancakes in the kitchen (or an attempt at least).

“is this a dream or..”, you mumble with a shaky voice.

“if i burn the kitchen down— yes! it’s a bad bad dream”

tears build up in your eyes and you quickly rush to nuzzle into his chest, wrapping both arms around him and squeezing tightly.

“you.. you idiot”

“kept my word though— did you see the seat? left it down this time!”

“took you long..”

“my bad, love”, he chuckles resting his chin at the top of your head while squeezing you back into the hug, “but think i need a new toothbrush, this one hurts my gums”

he does need a new toothbrush. and this time you don’t mind throwing away the old one.

[yokohamapound]

POV: You're Fyodor's perfect little housewife and I've been playing with @honeydazai's Husband Fyodor bot way too much. This is Vee's fault. And @amostimprobabledream too, now that I think about it.

Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Contents: afab!reader, femme clothing, gendered terms "wife", "girl", NSFW, controlling relationship, dom-sub themes, sex toys

Fyodor Dostoevsky

The bubbling hiss of sauce simmering in the pan covers the sound of Fyodor's return. Steam from the stovetop billows in warm, savoury clouds against your face whilst you prepare supper. You've twisted your hair up off your neck to keep it out of the way, but little strands escape to curl damply against your forehead and around your ears.

He closes the front door behind him with care, sliding the bolt home. He leaves his coat hanging on the wrought-iron stand by the door, his ushanka on the hallway table. Silent footsteps proceed along the hall, following the delicious smells drifting from the kitchen.

Fyodor likes to sneak in sometimes, mostly for his own amusement. He wants to see what his little myshka gets up to while he isn't home, and more importantly, it keeps you on your toes. You'll never know exactly when he might simply walk into a room or appear behind you, so it behoves you to be the ideal little housewife at all times. It is a role you've taken to whole-heartedly. 

Today, Fyodor is treated to the sight of you standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner in anticipation of his imminent return. His sharp violet gaze is heavy lidded as he takes in the vulnerable arch of the back of your neck, a single tendril of hair lying against your nape where it has escaped your chignon.

An apron edged in frills has been tied over your dress du jour—white today, with a tight bodice and a skirt that flares out over your hips, stopping in a froth of silk midway down your thighs.

And then...then there are the stockings that sheathe your legs in gossamer-thin silk, lace tops clinging lovingly to your thighs. Your legs are turned out beautifully thanks to the high heels that keep you ever so slightly off balance, like a newborn fawn—graceful and lovely and oh, so vulnerable.

That isn't the only thing keeping you off balance, of course. Fyodor is a chessmaster. He always has more than one avenue of attack.

Fyodor reaches into his pocket.

His long fingers curl around a small, rectangular device. It's deceptively simple, just a little black box, with two buttons and a dial. His thumb brushes the dial, nudging it up a few notches.

The effect is immediate.

A gasp echoes through the expansive kitchen. You stiffen in place, clamping your soft thighs together. Your hands fumble, grip the counter, and your head droops like a wilting flower. Fyodor's smile widens, his eyes darkening as he twists the dial higher, knowing exactly what it will mean for you. 

You see, under that pretty little dress of yours, there's a pair of panties in the same lace, bridal-white, that matches your stockings. He knows, because he picked them out for you this morning, then slipped a special little reminder inside them, with the express order that it not be removed.

A paired device nestles up against your swollen, aching clit, buzzing and vibrating without cease. Poor thing, you've had to endure it all day, through all of your chores and wifely duties, the intensity subject to Fyodor's whim, the patterns erratic so it can never be ignored.

This new wave pulses through you, heat coiling along your spine as you rock your hips, trying desperately for release. Unaware your tormenter is standing a few feet away behind you, enjoying your predicament. The beastly little vibrator shudders against you, humming on and off, kept in place by the sodden lace and the weight of Fyodor's authority.

"Careful." Fyodor's richly-accented, amused voice lilts through the kitchen. "Don't let the dinner burn, darling."

Your head snaps up. You go to turn around, but he merely pushes the intensity up some more until you can hardly stand. All you can do is tremble, leaning your weight on your arms where they rest on the polished countertop.

"W-Welcome home, Fedya," you manage, your voice shaking. It wouldn't do to forget your manners, no matter the torment he's inflicting on you. You wouldn't want to make him decide you need...correcting. "I..."

"Such a good, obedient wife," your husband, your master, muses. "Dinner almost on the table as soon as I get home. It smells delicious, my love."

"Th-thank—"

Before you can do anything else, you find yourself penned in against the countertop. Fyodor's hands planted either side of you, his breath warming the back of your neck.

"There is something else I have an appetite for, before dinner," he says, his voice low, smoky, in your ear. "I think you can satisfy both, darling."

The word 'darling' is punctuated by a kiss, cool lips pressing to the top of your spine, revealed where the neckline of your dress dips a little at the back.

"I trust you don't object, myshka?"

Not only do you know better than to deny him, your body is all but begging for release. All day you've been kept on the edge, a fraction of an inch from toppling over into sweet, carnal bliss, only to be denied at the last instant as the toy shuts off or changes pattern. You know better than to take matters into your own hands. Even if he's busy with work, Fyodor will know.

He may not truly have a god complex, but he has you convinced of his omnipotence.

You bob your head, an obedient, jerky nod. Fyodor lets out a low, satisfied hum. 

"Good girl," he says. 

He reaches out a hand and flicks the stove off. He doesn't want you to move from where you are, so perfectly positioned for him, but he doesn't want to spoil all your hard work by letting the dinner burn. How thoughtful he is.

Fingertips brush against the backs of your thighs, the touch bordering on icy through the fragile lace. Fyodor traces the backs of his fingers down the sleek line of your thigh, causing the limb to shake. 

Or it might be the incessant pressure against your clit, the syncopated buzzing that makes heat pulse low through your belly. A soft, needy sound leaves you, one that makes him chuckle. Fyodor’s hand slips between your thighs, tracing along the lace of your underwear. You jolt, which only forces you against the vibrator again. 

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Look at you, his poor darling, with nowhere to move that won’t cause you more pleasure. 

Slender fingers stroke your slit through the soaked fabric, fingertips tapping against the toy, pushing it against you just that little bit more. Gripping the edge of the counter, it’s all you can do to keep your footing. Heat simmers underneath your skin with nowhere to go. Restless, you ache, you crave. 

“Tell me, my darling,” Fyodor intones, his voice right by your ear, his breath tickling your cheek. “How has your day been? Did you like my little love token?”

He brushes aside that straying tendril of hair to kiss your throat, lips pressing against where your pulse races just beneath the thin, vulnerable skin. He can feel your voice reverberate through your throat as you utter one, obedient syllable.

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” he all but purrs. “I hope it made you feel appreciated.” An amused hum. “But now your husband would like some appreciation in return. What do you say?”

It doesn’t matter what you say, because his solid form presses into you from behind. While not the most physically imposing man, he holds a power and gravitas that is more than enough to pin you in place when combined with his superior height. You’re far too much Fyodor’s darling little wife to try and wriggle away. 

Fyodor’s excited breath tickles the back of your neck. Long fingers slip into your underwear, stroking your soaked core. A delicate touch, at odds with the insistent, mechanical pressure against your clit. He tugs the lace aside.

The blunt head of his cock slides against you, brushing against your slit, teasing the vibrator still trapped against that throbbing bundle of nerves. 

“Please…” A needy whine. Perfectly pathetic, and exactly what he wants. 

“Well, when you ask so sweetly…”

Fyodor’s cock slips inside you in a single slick, smooth thrust. He plunges in slow, letting himself indulge in how your walls part along his length, twitching and rippling from the constant stimulation you’ve had to endure. He laughs, an edge of a moan in the sound. 

“Absolutely divine,” he says, low, husky. “Dorogaya.”

Thus you find yourself, teetering in your heels, skirt flipped up at the back, bent over the kitchen counter with your devilish husband’s cock stretching your core. 

Fyodor sees no need to hold himself back or give you time to adjust. You’re more than ready for him, slick glistening on the insides of your thighs. You need this. You deserve this, for being so well behaved. 

His thrusts are deep, rhythmic. Slow at first, to force you to feel every inch as it glides in and out of you, to prolong that moment of desperation before you get what you really want. You can’t see his face, but you know exactly what his expression will be. His eyes eyes hooded, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. Completely sure of his own power and delighted with his possession. 

Every push of his hips presses your clit against the vibrator, until it throbs and burns with the constant stimulation. You can feel it now, that hollowness in the pit of your stomach, the tightness in the small of your back. So close you can taste it. 

Fyodor’s hand wraps around your throat. Not a tight grip, just holding it, caressing your vulnerable neck with his fingertips. His lips brush your ear, cool against your feverish skin.

“Perhaps I should leave you little gifts more often, if this is how I am to be received when I come home.”

The only answer Fyodor receives is a wordless whine. His free hand settles on your waist, pushing you down, folding your torso down against the cool marble, as he claims what he wants. Taking you in the kitchen that you work so hard in. Why shouldn’t it be the scene of your reward, as well?

Faster now, cock barrelling back into you with each thrust as he abandons showmanship for the sheer, hedonistic pleasure of taking what’s his, of using you for his own gratification when yours is already guaranteed. The sound of his low, laboured breaths mix with your gasps and squeals, with the muffled thump of your hips against the countertop, with the steady buzz against your clit. 

His thumb touches the dial, pushing it to an extent that leaves you bucking. Your voice is hoarse, your body shuddering with overstimulation and desperation as Fyodor fucks you to his heart’s content. 

All day. All day with that goddamned thing teasing and torturing you, and now this? It’s too much for anyone to take, and Fyodor knows that all too well. He could have predicted down to the second you would let loose a ragged moan. He hisses with pleasure as your cunt contracts around him, your hips bucking, accidentally fucking yourself on him as you ride out the waves of release. 

The force of it steals the breath from you, leaving you weak and boneless, upper body draped across the counter, barely able to feel your legs. Fyodor’s final thrust plunges deep, sinking his cock as far it’ll go, his seed pouring into you. 

He lets out a soft, condescending laugh at the mess he’s made of you. Your hair falling from its style, your skin dewy with sweat, dress rumpled, his cum slowly dripping out of you. He pulls your chin up, turning your head so he can give you a kiss. 

“I’ll take dinner in my study, darling.”

He leaves you to compose yourself before you resume dinner preparations. You lay there a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps die away. Slowly, you pick yourself up, still shaking as you tug your dress and underwear back into place. Taking the time and the reflection in the teapot to tidy your hair, dab away the sweat, refresh your lipstick.

You almost drop your lipstick as something jolts you. The fucking vibrator, right where he left it. A soft hum now, just enough to stimulate your clit, to make you aware of it. With unsteady steps, you go to fetch the plates, wondering what will await you in the study.

He’s not done with you yet.

[granddaughterogg]

You Let Me Complicate You - Part 3

SUMMARY: Simon "Ghost" Riley is a consummate fuckboy who uses fleeting trysts to blow off steam collected at his deadly job. You - the Reader - are a cynical, world weary girl with a penchant for one night stands. None of you are prepared for the horror of Actually Falling In Love. Also - the mask stays on for ridiculously long. Tags: From Sex to Love, Flirting, Random Encounters, First Impressions, One Night Stands, Dirty Talk, Swearing. So. Much. Swearing, Reader Gets Harassed By Assholes, Simon Beats Up An Asshole, Rough Sex. It's all fully consensual tho!

PART 2 HERE

Music pulsated in your temples, but you've completely lost the will to dance. Streaks of murky blue light cut across the dance floor, where the crowd rippled along with the rhythm. You made yourself comfortable on the plush sofa and watched people for a while. Fortunately, this mass of heads, arms and legs in motion was dense enough to hide that wired fucker from your sight.

You hoped to never see him again.

The one you wanted to see has vanished into thin air like Cinderella. A Cinderella who was six feet four, great at chatting women up and built like a wrestler. Who smelled like a heady mix of drugstore cologne, expensive whisky, sweat – and for some fucking reason also like fireworks.

Could it be that his ride has turned into a pumpkin? You would start to ask yourself whether you've imagined him – the man was larger than life after all – but you could still taste that smokey, alcoholic kiss on your lips.

A kiss which was deranged and therefore unforgettable.

You'd have to wipe your brain with a Scrub Daddy to get rid of that memory.

Son of a bitch.

Disappeared, but left the bottle. He clearly had money to throw around.

You ignored the liquor, pouring yourself a healthy glass of water instead.

It seemed that life had offered you an abrupt comedown from this short, all-consuming high. You sat and swallowed tasteless liquid in a sober – and sombre - manner, considering your options.

Option 1.  You could go ask that bartender with the face like a slapped arse whether he's seen your beau around. Which surely would be Humiliating.

Option 2.  You could give up on vanishing hunks and go home. Which was probably the sensible option, if one you didn't feel like taking.

Option 3. You could do what you usually did whenever life served you with a plot twist: have a smoke break.

You were a woman of culture and therefore perfectly aware that those days, smoking is bad form – almost as much as admitting that one does not intend to go vegan. But then, you were also sensible and knew what kind of end awaits persistent cigarette enthusiasts. A cough which sounds just like torn cardboard, a tracheotomy, or death.

The thing is, you've always considered the spectacle of smoking one of the sexiest feats for a man to perform, while the taste of nicotine soothed your nerves and restored you to the state of being serenely one with the universe. All those vapes smelling of fucking strawberries felt as appealing as Boris Johnson's ass.

So you let out a sigh, finished your water, threw on your jacket, grabbed your umbrella and marched across the club, guessing that smokers have been traditionally banished to the outside.

The iron door creaked open like the hatch to a bank vault. 

Your suspicions were correct. Nicotine hostages stood around the entrance, some on the grass, others on the cracked concrete path. Milky serpentines of smoke blew away quickly in the night wind. Fortunately, the rain had abated somewhat. Instead of an icy wave splashing in your face, you were greeted by a cold drizzle.

That you could deal with.

Unfortunately, fate had yet other things in store for you.

You've managed to pat all your jacket pockets, fish out a box of cigarettes, experience relief, because it wasn't soggy, pat your pockets again, find a lighter, and stick a fag into your mouth...It would take in this damp air, so for a moment there you focused on the wobbly little flame instead of your surroundings.

Which was a mistake.

"Need help with this, beautiful?" Asked some stranger's voice.

"Jesus on a stick", you grumbled without even bothering to meet his eye.

"I said", the voice wasn't to be deterred easily, "Do you need help?"

You looked up. Some dude has obstructed the light coming from the small bulb, hanging above the entrance in its industrial iron casing. He was big, even stocky - not as big as your fleeting masked acquaintance, naturally, but quite thick in his own right. Had a pudgy face that you wouldn't be able to describe even at the police station. The patchy beard didn't help either. That's all you could say about him because he didn't spark your interest.

"Nope", you said flatly.

"What do you mean, nope?" 

The man leaned over you, hanging his head unpleasantly close. He smelled like beer and Axe body spray.

You sighed. "I mean it in general. Go away."

"But I've just come here", the dude grinned, as if he'd said something truly brilliant.

"That's not my problem." 

The tip of your cigarette finally took hold of the fire. You shielded it with your palms, taking half a step away from the persistent bloke. Only a half, because the door was right behind you.

Unfortunately, your new friend wasn't about to take a hint.

"Oh come on now", he whined. "Don't be rude to me like this. Let's have a talk."

You never had a lot of patience, not even on your best days. Now it was running dangerously low.

"I don't have to be nice to you", you hissed right into his stupid grin. "I don't have to talk to you either. Go bestow the gift of your company on someone who'll enjoy it."

You've made two mistakes. The first one was assuming that gassed pick-up artists understand sarcasm. The second one was using words and not just your boot instead.

He leaned forward and grabbed your arm. It was not a firm grip, but the touch of this stranger's sweaty fingers on your skin made you nauseous.

"You don't understand how much you're fucking yourself over" - he went on in that slow, obstinate manner of a drunkard, sizing you up with a glazed look. " You're depriving yourself of a chance...yes, a chance. For something better, something to elevate that sad, lonely, fuckless life of yours! A man walks up to you like a gentleman...chimes in with utmost tact and gets mauled. Women of today don't understand -"

You didn't find out what is it that women of today don't understand. You hurled your lit cigarette straight into his panting mouth and pressed your elbow against the handle of that cursed door. It swung open with a groan - not loud enough to drown out the surprised yelp of your aggressor. He let go of your hand. You jumped inside, trying to slam that door right in his face, but even an agile woman, one well aware of her surroundings is much weaker physically than an average man. 

It was a long time since you had to grasp that bitter truth because you had avoided places like this. Well, that was your reminder.

The dude broke in when you were already halfway into the dark club premises, walking as fast as possible without just bolting it.

Music blared from the speakers, making the walls tremble, but you were still aware that he was coming after you. Slow but tireless, like fucking Michael Myers. You didn't have to look over your shoulder to know. Every woman has this radar installed.

You hauled ass, pushing people aside and collecting bemused looks. You headed straight for the bar like a sailor towards a lighthouse in a storm. You intended to chain yourself to that bar; to make Geoffrey call the cops if necessary.

Eventually, you managed to come ashore. You pushed your way through the crowd of patrons queuing for a drink, ignoring their shouts of disapproval. You climbed onto the first available stool and set your elbows on that cold concrete counter. The bartender was nowhere to be seen. Ain't that just the way.

"Hey, Governor!" you hollered towards the row of glittering bottles behind the counter. "We have a problem!"

"Why hello there", said a high-pitched voice to your left. It didn't sound particularly friendly.

You jumped as if at the push of a spring, spinning around on that stool. Your heart jolted abruptly. For in the dim light, you spotted this long-haired fuckhead from the dancefloor. He sat there, measuring you with a glassy look and sporting a wide, deadpan grin.

You took a long swig of air. This was a fucking nightmare, a Halloween special, and you were drowning in it. Drowning in the waters coming up to your chin, black as ink. A woman who went out simply to have fun.

"I thought I'd find you here", he continued, his voice eerily flat, his gaze pinned to yours. "You ugly slut."

"Geoffrey, shake a leg!" you yelled into the void behind the counter. 

"Think you can just walk around and kick people?" asked the long-haired man as casually as if he'd wanted your opinion on the weather. He leaned closer, adding in a low voice:

"Rabid bitches like you shouldn't be let off the chain."

From what you could gather he wasn't that muscular, but you'd already met men with such hollow eyes and a flat affect. Getting into a tussle with one of them was always a bad idea. Whatever fueled this fucker – illegal substances, his own charming personality or both - you didn't feel like dealing with it.

You jumped off the stool, putting him between you and the guy, spun on your heel...

... only to run face-first into the armpit of that specimen from the front of the club. It turned out he didn't stop his TED Talk this whole time.

"...men and women ought to be friends, there should be a sense of CAMARADERIE between them, a sense of friendship, not this, whatever this is. I am being FRIENDLY to you, I am treating you with reverence, yes, REVERENCE and what do I get in return? I swear -"

Two gorilla arms pawed at you, pressing you against his chest. Your nostrils filled with his nauseating smell and the odour of Axe. You couldn't breathe.

"...this war between the sexes must end, or you will all die alone and you'll be so UNHAPPY, you hear me?" He panted into the top of your head. "You will cry your eyes out, surrounded by sex toys and CATS instead of children -"

You gathered all your strength and pulled yourself away from the numbing stench, driving your nails into your assailant's chest. The dude yelped and let you go. You fell back, parting the crowd. Suddenly two capable hands held at your shoulders, firmly but without causing pain.

You got enveloped in the familiar mix of scents - man, cheap cologne, expensive whisky, fireworks.  Oh, thank god.

"One can't leave ya alone for a minute, eh?" said Skullface, calm as ever.

You almost burst into tears of relief - and into tears of anger, too. He's left you all alone in this shithole and let it happen.

You jumped back, darting your head up to look into those dark peepers of his. There he was, all composed, towering effortlessly over everyone in sight. Tall like an unconquered mountain.

"Where the fuck were you?! I'm being harassed by creeps!"

"Plural?" The skull mask tilted in amusement, but you've noticed how his eyes swept the perimeter, and his hold on your shoulders loosened, but not to the point of release.

"You sure are popular."

You scoffed. 

"This shit ain't fun. But seriously, what were you doing?"

He shrugged. With shoulders like his it was a pronounced shrug.

"Pissing."

"For that long?!"

It was an undignified squawk, but you didn't care. You were stressed. You felt scared and fed up.

The man fell silent for a moment. Then he scratched the back of his head.

"If you really need to know, I also laid a brick."

You stared at him in disbelief, but that covered face betrayed nothing, and his eyes seemed sincere.

"What? You asked", he added.

It was as if some lever had been pulled inside your stressed mind. Suddenly you no longer felt like tearing him a new one. Instead, you wanted to burst out laughing.

"Alright then. I hope you washed your hands", you murmured, stepping forward and touching the front of his hoodie. He cupped your much smaller hand in his big one, tracing over its back with his long fingers. They were so warm.

You both smiled. His eyes looked strangely charming when they creased under all that eyeshadow...or whatever that black stuff was.

"You don't have much faith in the opposite sex, don't ya."

"That's EXACTLY what I've been saying!" 

The stocky dude from before emerged from the fray, pushing people aside and beelining to you as if the three of you were good friends. 

"I'm trying to explain to her how DETRIMENTAL this hostile approach towards men is, but she won't listen -"

"That's Creep No. 1", you murmured.

Skullface got visibly alert. He put you right behind him, blocking access like a guard dog. He straightened up to his full impressive height, but you stuck your head out from his armpit anyway. Now that the danger has dissipated, you felt curious as to how this shit would end.

"You." Said the masked man, pointing his finger at the idiot. "Get bent."

"The fuck you saying to me, mate?" The TED Talker was clearly an obstinate drunk.

"I'm a free man, a citizen of a free country! Can do whatever and talk to whoever I please, including this stuck-up bitch right here and you can't make me -"

Skullface's long, bulky arm shot forward, hand closing around the neck of this champion of men's civil liberties. You watched, transfixed. Your eyes have barely registered movement.

"The lady doesn't want to talk to you", Skullface explained, his tone almost friendly. "You better apologise."

The other dude stared at him with bulging eyes. Then he glanced at the large hand, gripping him like a vice. He tried to swallow – not an easy feat when your airways are being compressed – and finally tapped at Skullface's hand with his own shaky fingers.

Your masked friend released him. The bloke staggered, massaging his throat and breathing heavily. He was anything but frail, clearly possessing some strength of his own. And yet there he was, reduced to an ungainly, panting mess. 

"Alrighty then", he gasped. "Sorry..."

"Not to me." Skullface's already deep voice dropped a notch, dark and metallic. You felt a sudden chill licking at your spine. " To her."

The other dude cut you a quick look, his eyes wide and scared. Drunkedness has clearly been choked out of him. 

"Yeah yeah, sorry to you both. Jesus, mate. Chill.."

A snigger tore out of you while you watched that asshole slink away. It felt great. 

"Having fun?" Skullface's tone dripped with amusement.

"Yeah!" you admitted, stepping past his wide frame and looking him in the face. "I wish I had popcorn!"

He blinked at you. Slowly, like a pleased cat would.

"Let's go," he ordered and began pushing his way deeper into the club. You followed suit.

You two found yourselves back in that corner near the dancefloor. Skullface reached for the flask of whisky.

"We're leavin', eh?" he asked.

"Let's," you agreed. "That's enough clubbing for one day." 

You looked around, searching for your jacket, but it was nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck," you hissed. 

He raised his head. "What's goin' on?"

"I left my jacket at the bar. Don't disappear on me again, okay?”

"You got it." 

He sat comfortably and poured himself some more liquor, downing it promptly. You wondered about this man's incredible alcohol tolerance but didn't have the time to ponder on it. 

You squeezed your way back through the crowd, grappling with rapidly growing irritation. First, you'd shout "Excuse me!" again and again and then you'd just work your elbows. 

You told him the truth; you were fed up with partying, with the crowd and with the noise. Wherever this masked man was going to take you would be an improvement.

You finally made it to the bar, threw your jacket on and turned on your heel, starting the journey back immediately, like a ferry connecting two shores.

"Excuse me, excuse me, oh, fuck, sorry, excuse me -"

You stumbled over someone's foot, fell face forward into their T-shirt, pushed yourself away with both hands and then got grabbed by the wrist, which someone held at and jerked it so abruptly that you heard a crunch. Your whole body pivoted, led by the force of inertia. You tried to break free but to no avail. The man twisted both your arms and pinned them to your back, his breath right in your ear, hot and stinking like beer. His words were a searing sludge of intoxication and malice.

"Sorry's not gonna be enough."

You looked up - right into the blank face of that psycho from earlier. His pupils were two black holes. Icy panic flooded your veins, raising little hairs all over your body. He was dragging you somewhere away from the bar, his grip strong and painful. He was elbowing his way through the fray, and nobody around you in this densely populated club seemed to care – or notice for that matter. If they did, they cast you both one glance and decided that they don't want trouble.

You tried your darnedest to fight him, tensed all over in an attempt to break out of his hold, but with your arms twisted there was not much room for action. Or the guy was simply stronger than you. 

Every average man is so much stronger than an average woman, after all. A reminder of this truth came back to you in a bitter wave while your unwilling feet scraped over the concrete floor. 

In moments like these, you saw everything in razor-sharp HD. The dregs of intoxication evaporated from your system while you gained a cool, detached view of the mess you were in.

You looked in all directions, trying to find something that could aid you. It crossed your mind to call your new friend for help. But what name were you supposed to use?

The attacker dragged you into some dark corner and threw you onto an armchair standing there. Its aged springs groaned under your weight. The man pressed both hands into the wooden backrests and leaned so close that you smelled his sour breath.

"I'll put you back in your place", he promised, undoing his belt buckle.

To do this he had to let go of you. It was a small opening, but you took it.

You sat up, reached quickly into your loose chignon, slipped out the hairpin, clenched your hand around it and swung, aiming for the gut -

"The fuck you doing?" he sniggered, grabbing at our hand and stilling it mid-way. "I'll cut you open, you daft cow -"

He did not, in fact, cut you. He didn't do shit, because a dark mountain shaped like a man appeared behind his back.

This time Skullface didn't engage in Manly Posturing. He struck your assailant once, somewhere between the ear and the jugular. The bloke staggered, fell forward, but regained balance, turned on his heel and pounced. Skullface dodged, fast like a bullet, grabbed the other man's arm and twisted it downwards with a profound crunch, at the same time driving his other fist into his stomach.

The dude let out a stifled groan. For a moment he sagged like a rag in your companion's grip but came to quickly and began thrashing around, emitting some unintelligible, high-pitched noises. 

Skullface picked up the floundering man as if his opponent was a rowdy cat. Then he held him at full arm's length, clearly considering the way forward.

"He's on drugs!" You offered. "I don't think he feels pain!"

"Figures," he said. "Should've gone down already."

"Then take him down!" You asked, growing impatient.

Skullface shot you a look from under creased eyebrows.

"S'not that simple,", he explained. "If I hit him again, it prob won't cut the mustard. Bloke's foamin' at the mouth, see? But if I hit him real hard, he might stay down for good. And then Price will yell my noggin' off -"

"SUCK COCKS IN HELL!!!" Chimed in the subject of his deliberations. 

Skullface shook him a little.

"Who's Price?" You asked.

"My boss. He's a real stickler when it comes to those things."

"What things?" Your head was swimming. " Killing people?"

Skullface rubbed his nose with his free hand.

"He says we have an image to uphold...that we need to inspire public trust. Some such tosh." 

He noticed the hairpin, which you were still holding.

"Gimme that. I got an idea."

You handed him the pin and watched in a stupor as he hurled the guy to the floor, using a kick to stretch him flat. The man spat, snarled and threw himself around like a fish out of water, but it didn't do squat. Your masked companion grabbed him by the forearm, pressed it against the wooden backrest of one of the armchairs - and drove the sharp end of the pin right into his outstretched palm, literally pinning him in place. Blood gushed out.

You held your breath. The man howled like a thing possessed, but Skullface had already turned away.

"You broken?" He asked, hunkering down in front of your armchair. His eyes scanned all over you, seeking for signs of injury.

"What?.."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Nevermind. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, he didn't have the time to do anything..." You moved your affected hand and squirmed, seeing a fresh bruise. "Apart from fucking up my wrist, maybe. but I'll live."

"Good."

He stood up and helped you clamber out of the armchair.

"Let's go", he said.

You followed him while he shouldered his way through the club.

You two arrived at the bar, where Geoffrey The Pinched Face begrudgingly poured someone a tequila.

"Geoff, call the coppers", instructed Skullface, putting both forearms on the counter. His voice was low and confidential.  "You've got quite a specimen in here. Mad as a badger, bein' a nuisance to the ladies. Careless with sharp objects, see. Went and nailed himself to a chair."

"Nailed himself?" Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. "On his own? I swear to god, Ghostie. If I didn't like you so much..."

"Then you'd have casualties here every fuckin' Friday." Skullface extended a hand. "Gimme the key. We'll wait this out upstairs."

Geoff silently handed him a small key. The masked man set off across the dark hall. You had to run to keep up with him.

" Ghostie?  Should I start calling you that?"

"It's Ghost", came from behind his broad back. 

"What kind of a name is Ghost anyway?" you inquired, but he didn't grace you with an answer.

You've reached the foot of a winding, narrow staircase made entirely of wrought iron.

"Up there", he ordered. "Watch your step."

You did as you were told. Your boots raised sharp echoes in the steps. The stairs winded upwards for what felt like forever; finally, you stood very high above the dance floor, in front of a black door. The paint was peeling away. A red neon reading HELLO adorned it, but the O had gone out and HELL alone remained.

Fitting,  you thought.  I'm following a stranger into an unknown place. A man who is darkness, yet somehow I am not afraid. 

You were hardly the naive, virginal Persephone. But hey, even myths need to get on with the times.

"That was seriously cool what you just did," you said, turning to your companion, walking right behind you. " Stab! Right between the metacarpals!"

"He'll stay put until the law arrives." He didn't seem to be impressed by your high praise.

"You've sharpened it, didn't you”, he added. "The hair thingie."

You shook your newly freed hair and shot him one incredulous look.

"I'm a woman who's endeavoured a solo night on the town in a tiny dress. What do you think? Of course I've sharpened it."

Ghost nodded slowly.

"A woman after my own heart..."

"Aw, thanks!" you sent him your best seductive smile and invited yourself into his personal space, your back almost leaning on his warm chest and head tilted upwards.

He only pulled you closer.

"Can we go back to having fun now?" You asked. "I'm fucking tired of being hunted for sport."

His long forearm settled across your chest, hand drawing small circles on your opposite shoulder.

"Yeah", he said softly. "We can."

He had to loosen his embrace to insert the key into the lock. The door swung open, creaking ghastly. Your nose filled with the scent of wood and rooms long un-aired. It looked like a typical attic with slanted wooden walls and a small window just below the ceiling. When Ghost turned on the light - which was faint red - you saw low tables and soft futons scattered across the floor.

Music from the dancefloor reached in here too, although it wasn't as loud.

Truth be told, you wouldn't care if they stored onions in there. 

Your attention was fully on the man.

His mask went up again. He slammed the door behind you with a kick, hand already cupping your chin. Then he leaned down. The rough cotton of his mask rubbed at your cheek, followed by the silky flutter of his eyelashes.

You opened to him without hesitation, but this time the kiss was slower, more deliberate. His lips traced over yours, tasting you, discovering this fairly new sensation, nipping and sucking at your mouth with delighted curiosity. He's clearly had a lot of practice.

You tried to fall into this fickle rhythm, but impatience got the best of you. You bit at his lower lip.

A low noise reverberated in his throat – not quite a chuckle, almost a grunt. He turned you to face him, embracing you tighter than before and gave you his tongue. You nipped at the sensitive tip and that's when he lost it. Suddenly your mouth was full of him, claiming you voraciously, setting your blood on fire once again, and you heard your own breathless moan. Somehow your fingers traveled under the back of his mask and ran through cropped hair at his nape. It was butter-soft. He groaned with pleasure under your touch and that sound pierced right through you, making your insides soft and wanting. 

"Oh my god", you panted right into Ghost's mouth, holding at his nape. "Can we just screw already -"

"That's the plan." Could that rough voice of his get any deeper? Smile tapered the edges though, like a glimpse of gold in gravel. 

You weaved your wanting fingers into the longer part of his fade, sliding the mask further up.

He stilled your wrists. 

"Hey. Hey", he whispered cautiously into the bridge of your nose. "Don't even think about it."

"So...the mask stays on?... Like, all the way?" You inquired breathlessly between nipping at his mouth.

"Yes."

You looked this peculiar man in the eyes, now gleaming with fun, but dark and puzzling nonetheless. What was he hiding? Scars? Being a plain ol' butterface? Facial deformity of some kind?

You examined this thought thoroughly and found out that you don't care.

"All right", you said. "But tell me one thing. Are you Deadpool?"

He snorted softly. "I'm just Ghost."

"Ghost?.."

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

And kiss you he did.

Holy fuck, he was so good at this. Even when he let himself loose, abandoning all fuckboy moves in favour of feral lust. 

And maybe especially then.

Your tongues entwined in a blind dance, devoid of any rhythm. It was as un-romantic as humanly possible and you liked it that way. That frenzied, rushed approach of his told you that the man was truly starving, losing himself already in this newly acquired flavour, in your feminine warmth. His desperation set your blood ablaze. 

Because you were hungry too.

Ghost finally broke contact, but before leaning away he glided his tongue over your half-opened mouth. It was as if he just couldn't part with the taste.

"Hold on...fuck, you're something else." He sighed and put both of your hands around his wide neck.

"Hold tight, love", he cautioned as if you two were boarding a ride. 

When you did as told, he grabbed at your ass.

You yelped when his hands pressed into the soft flesh under the thin velvet of your dress. He effortlessly pulled you off the ground and lifted you up. 

"Wrap your legs around me", he asked.

You were not a dainty lady. When other guys attempted such stunts, you usually started to fear for their backs. But not for Ghost. This guy was born for heavy-duty activities. You recently watched him sweep the floor with a grown man.

He could take you. You suspected that he'd carry you out of a battlefield as well.

You pressed both thighs to his wide waist, crossing your booted legs over the small of his impressive back. You felt his firm core underneath you, covered with a healthy layer of soft flesh. That width of his didn't come just from muscles, and the discovery excited you. You liked your men strong, but not starving.

"That's right..." Ghost slid his large hands under your thighs, tearing another yelp out of you, followed by a stifled moan as he pressed your ass against the nearest wall. 

"What are you doing?" you breathed, holding on for dear life.

"Keepin' a promise." That low gritty voice reverberated in your bones.

Right, he had said this earlier.  I could pin you to a wall if you ask nicely.

The next moment all thoughts - the very ability to think - drifted away from you, for he glided his tongue across that space behind your ear. You moaned, your head falling back as if electricity had just pierced you. He chuckled into your collarbone and was already going lower, kissing, licking and sucking the sensitive skin of your throat. His tongue felt like a flame.

"Jesus Christ...", you breathed. "You're gonna fuck me like this?"

"If that's what you want".

"I dunno. It's kinda – aah! - uncomfortable..."

You tried really hard to rein your thoughts, but they fell apart while this impossible man held you against a wall.

It felt like being sandwiched between cold wood and a living furnace.

As if trying to make the thought process even harder, Ghost dug his fingers deeper into your buttcheeks, bunching up the fabric. It slid up your thighs, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from you.

"This fuckin' skirt is in the way", he murmured. After some more finagling, he got away with the velvet and stroked at the sheer pantyhose underneath. His long fingers nudged the lacy elastic, keeping your stay-ups in place.

"Stockings?" He asked, as if unable to believe his luck.

"Yep", you grinned at him.

" Fuckin' hell."

That came out low and guttural. You felt a sharp tingle within as if someone tugged at a string attached to your core.

That narrow strip of lace awakened something in him. He stepped away from the wall and threw you onto the nearest futon. You landed on your back with legs splayed out, but you didn't have time to collect yourself because he was already on top of you, pressing you to the ground with that huge torso, obscuring the dim light, filling up your whole world. He put his arms over your head and pressed them against the soft surface.

Then he leaned over you and dragged his mouth across your cleavage, biting on the skin on your throat, eliciting another moan, and then he let go. You moaned again, protesting this abandonment.

"I know, love", he murmured into your mouth. "But we need to get rid of your knickers."

A breathless, joyful noise tore out of you when he was pulling up your dress.

Ghost's hands pressed firmly into your buttcheeks, sliding the soft cotton down. Yeah, it was your everyday cotton. You preferred stockings over tights simply because they didn't gradually slide off you, creating that abysmal webbing situation in the crotch. You didn't leave the house tonight expecting to get lucky.

He threw your underwear away and held at your hips with more force.

"Listen, are you gonna...", you asked and got quiet mid-sentence. He was already putting your thighs on his shoulders.

His hot tongue glided along your fun parts, making you almost choke on air. He licked you up and down, parting your folds with the tip of his long tongue, tasting you, exploring you, driven by the shameless joy befitting a kid in a toy store. His hungry lips have found your swollen clit and sucked on it as if it was candy. When you answered with a prolonged, ragged moan, his mouth curled up against your pussy. He was smiling.

"You know what I dreamed of at night, sitting out there in some shitty safehouse in the desert?" he asked all of a sudden. 

You had no idea what was that about, but you didn't have the bandwidth to process it either, for he sucked at you again. Your synapses flared up with pleasure.

„Of what?...” you panted with your head thrown back, all tense and wanting.

He looked up, his stare mischievous.

"Of a girl in black stockings, but with no panties on".

"Hey...you got your wish."

Ghost tilted his head and pressed his face against your pussy. The tip of his long nose parted your pubic hair. He stilled, taking in your scent like a yearning animal.

"Fuuuck, love. Need to taste you."

He licked at you again, across the slit and slid his searing tongue inside of you. Your whole body yanked up, suddenly electric. He was exploring you shamelessly until he found that special point within your wet inside. He pressed his tongue to it, forcing a loud, ragged sob out of you. And then he pulled out.

Cool air licked at your moist, swollen, exposed pussy. The unfulfilled desire in your veins surged with fire. You felt like screaming in protest. Instead, all that came out of your mouth was an uneven, helpless, rather embarrassing moan.

He slowly licked his lips, savouring your taste.

"Need me inside you that bad, huh?" He asked, his voice thick and heady. He slurred over his consonants even more than usual.

"Yes!.." you cried out in frustration. "Will you spare the ceremonies and fuck me already?"

Ghost tilted his head and lowered you onto the futon. You could see a thought forming beneath the black cotton, under that surprisingly soft hair of his.

"You don't like being eaten out?"

"Nah, not really. It's usually boring..." you admitted. "Nothing ever comes out of it. It feels like a waste of time." 

Ghost leaned over you, his massive body obscuring all the view. His masculine scent tinted with sweat filled your nostrils, your mouth - and now probably your nether regions as well. You were keen with desire, wanting more of this. More of him.

"One day I'll show you how it feels when it's done right", he murmured.

"Mhm". You cared little about empty promises. 

You cradled his head, pulled his face close and kissed him deeply, relishing his heat and his musky taste, now mixed with yours. Your tongues intertwined again in this dance without fixed steps. For a while all that you heard were the sounds of kissing and your rushed breath. 

Your hips raised on their own, moving up to press against his. 

Ghost grunted in appreciation and ground onto you. You felt his tantalising hardness poking through the fabric. He rubbed onto your exposed sex and you lost yourself in the sensation. Dissolved into this big man tending to you as if you belonged to him. As if he was never about to let you go.

He sold this illusion so well.

"You got a condom?" you whispered into his mouth.

„Always. ”

He sat up, reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a shiny metallic rectangular.

"Allow me", you offered, sitting up as well. He kneeled right in front of you, those powerful tights splayed. You sidled closer and met his gaze while opening his fly. Thankfully the zipper didn't put up a fight. He let you do it. Watched with his lips curled up when you palmed his hot bulge, clothed in plain black cotton.

"Holy fuck", you breathed, pulling his cock out of its confinement. It sprung out half hard, not as ginormous as you were imagining, but decidedly girthy. You sighed in appreciation, sliding your fingers up and down its pale, hefty shaft. It was enchantingly warm and as smooth as fine suede.

You got reminded how much you love dicks. Beautiful, supple creatures.

"It's so shapely. May I...?" You raised your eyes at Ghost again.

He nodded and repositioned himself on the futon to be more comfortable. Those legs of his seemed to just never end when he sat with them splayed. A smile glinted in his eyes.

You curled your fingers around his root, placing your other hand on his thigh. Then you leaned down, giddy from want. His pink tip felt smooth like porcelain – if porcelain could be alive and searing hot, that is. You noticed a shiny bead of precum and licked it away.

Ghost sighed when you wrapped your lips around him.

He tasted like all men tasted, but also uniquely like himself. You detected a day's worth of sweat, a note of fresh laundry, the faintest whiff of that woodsy-citrusy cologne of his - and salt, for he was already leaking into your mouth. 

Greedy boy.

You didn't try to perform any feats worthy of a porn star. You just sucked, licked and rubbed your tongue at that tender bundle of nerves right under his crown, enthralled with the sensation. He was so smooth and  robust and expanded by the second.

You've always preferred to give head than to be given.

He hardened in your diligent mouth. You could feel his large thigh tensing under your touch, too. You glanced up – he was watching, eyes wide, blinking slowly, those featherlike white lashes of his giving him an ethereal look.

He seemed entranced.

You smiled around his cock and sucked harder, giving it all you've got.

A long, ragged sigh tore out of him.

And that's when you pulled away. A string of saliva bridged his glistening tip and your open mouth, gleaming under the red lights.

He stared at you, dumbfounded.

"Not so fun when it's being done to you?" You gave him a shit-eating grin. " You're lucky that I'm really, really horny. Now give me that rubber."

Ghost snorted, handing you the silver packet. You made short work of it and then used your fingers once again, this time to roll the condom down nice and easy. It slid effortlessly over his stiff manhood.

He swallowed loudly somewhere above you.

"Hands-on approach."

"Yeah." You held at his nape, pulling him closer until you were breathing each other's air.

"Fuck me, Ghost", you asked.

You didn't have to tell him twice.

He leaned over you, forearms pressed into the futon on both sides of your head, positioning his hips just the right way. You watched his eyes, wide, dark and fixated while he pressed his tip to your entrance, already swollen, tender, open and begging. 

He didn't tease you anymore. Just rolled his hips into a slow, measured thrust.

"Oh riiight", you called out, your insides being parted by his hot, rigid, indomitable presence.

He wasn't crazy long, but he was wide. Thick.  Sizeable. It didn't outright hurt because he only went halfway in - but you sure felt stretched. You buckled your hips, trying to make him go deeper. 

"You okay?" he whispered hoarsely, visibly tense from trying to contain himself. "Fuck, love, you're so tight  - "

"Yeah!... Go for it. I can take you", you pleaded, your stare locked onto his.

His eyes were two starless skies when he plunged into you for real. You both cried out when that happened. 

"Oh god!"

„Oh fuck.”

He withdrew almost completely, but before you could raise your voice in protest – thrust all the way back into you, sliding in and out with more and more ease each time. Your insides softened rather quickly, letting him claim as much space as he needed. Letting him fill you with his delicious, delicious dick.

You needed this so badly.

But so did he. For a moment neither of you said a word. Music still played somewhere beyond on the club floor, muted and unimportant, while you two screwed on the dusty futon, creating your own melody. One consisting of ragged moans and rushed breathing, which quickly fell into a rhythm of its own.

The undone zipper of his jeans chafed painfully at your exposed underbelly, but it was a problem for future you. Right now you didn't have a care in the world.

Not when this enormous man took you, groaning through gritted teeth right into your ear. He licked it from time to time and then took it all into his mouth like a mango slice.

You sobbed out loud when he did this.

Ghost let out a breathless, rumbling laugh.

"Enjoyin' the ride?" He asked, sounding way more drunk than before.

"Yes. Go harder..."

Next thing you knew he grabbed at both of your wrists with his one hand and pinned them over your head. 

You cried out in sheer delight.

His eyes glinted. That unwavering stare of his saw right through your kinky soul.

"You like being manhandled, don't ya", he murmured, clearly enticed by his discovery. His other hand reached down, slid under your long-suffering dress and fondled crudely at your breast. His fingers found your nipple and squeezed it without mercy. You moaned again.

"You like to be made...helpless." Dark delight laced his words.

"Yes", you admitted, shameless and staring into the skeleton mask.

Ghost grinned at you like a wolf. "We're gonna have so much fun."

He amped the tempo. You started moaning nonstop while his cock viciously slammed into you, producing obscene wet sounds.

For you were now loose and dripping. He fit snugly into that warm space while your juices trickled out of you. All for him, the burly stranger. You were being fucked with vengeance, that little poach of flub on his stomach meeting yours with a rhythmic slap. He had you pinned down. There was nothing you could do but let him use your body the way he saw fit.

And that's just what he did. He satiated his gnawing hunger with your body, your warm presence, with your mouth, which he would claim one time after another, covering it with sloppy, fervent kisses. Sometimes he didn't even use his lips at all, just pressed the flat of his tongue to yours. It felt so raw, setting your body and your mind ablaze.

"Fuck...you feel so good." His voice right in your ear was a presence of his own, low and gritty and commanding. " Eyes open. Don't you fuckin' look away from me now."

You blinked. His semi-masked face materialised in your field of vision.

Right now you couldn't put a lucid thought together if your life depended on it.

"I love your cock", you confessed dumbly.

His stare got downright manic.

"You like being fucked hard? Like a fuckin' whore?"

Usually, such terms of endearment made you want to kick the idiot in the face, but not this time. Not with this idiot. 

Somewhere inside your soul sizzled a shameful flame of submission. You could be a  whore  for Ghost, and for Ghost only.

"Come on my cock, sweetheart", he ordered, voice low and dripping with authority. Maybe he heard your thoughts. "Come for me."

He reached between you two, pressed his thumb to your clit and started massaging it, going along with the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. You splayed your pantyhosed legs shamelessly wide, crying out from overwhelming pleasure.

"That's right", he rasped into your neck. "Come for me, ya slag."

"Yes", you wailed. "Yes, oh god – Ghost, don't stop – don't stop – don't stop -"

The sounds that came out of you after that weren't words. You dug your nails into the expanse of his firm back. 

Ghost didn't seem to mind one bit.

"Fuck yeah", he growled. "Dig harder. Fuckin' hell!"

A wave of hot, sticky sweetness was rising fast, drowning your wits, washing away all your senses except for touch. Except for this sensation of being taken, being possessed without mercy. You were full of cock. You were full to the brim like a jug of water, ready to overflow. The wave came crushing over your eyes, so you grabbed at him blindly and cried right into his mouth, cursed, and moaned. 

Or maybe it was a prayer. 

Maybe all of the above. 

He held you through it, anchored you while you felt weightless, pressing your chest flush against his - so hard and wide and still fully clothed.

When you came down from this high, he still held you for a while before letting go and falling flat on his back, long limbs splayed.

"You crazy thing", he muttered in delight, slurring the words.

"Ghost...", you breathed, lying flat like a pancake. That futon must've dented under you. Your throat was sore from all this screaming. " I have a question."

"Right now? T'better not be about maths..." 

You chuckled and turned to the side to look him in the face.

Fuck, those eyes,  you thought.  People shouldn't have eyes this big. Eyelids this heavy. I'm never recovering from this man.

"Can we do this again?"

He smiled at you, half-lidded, relaxed. Then he reached out and traced his fingers over your jawbone. Like back then in the beginning.

"M' not in a hurry tonight. You?"

~~to be continued~~

[radio-fmm]

Withered

Sanji x gardener!reader

Warnings: fluff with a little angst, mentions of sickness and fainting, fem reader

Word count: 1,526 words

Summary: In which you got sick because you worked so hard. From my gardener!reader series but can be read as a stand alone.

⋆ ˚ ꩜ ｡ ⋆୨୧˚

“SANJI IT’S NOT FAIR” Luffy screamed while throwing himself at the cook who was busy prepping vegetables “Luffy we already told you that because y/n is sick the garden is not in conditions for us to eat stuff from it” Nami said for like a millionth time that day.

You had fainted yesterday morning and have had a fever since, you were still very weak, because of this, your powers affected all the plants around the ship… and Sanji’s mood apparently, he had already gone trough half a box of cigarettes and it was just past noon.

“But you’re making something why can’t I have some?” The captain whined once more “This is all the vegetables I could salvage from the garden and its all going to y/n’s soup so she can get better sooner” he explained as patiently as he could. Since the garden was withering the food rations were now just half, and obviously the most affected form this was Luffy since he wasn’t having any snacks between dinners. “I’ve never seen her sick like this” sighed Nami a little worry in her eyes “Don’t worry! We have the best doctor in the world! He’ll take care of her!” Luffy exclaimed, he noticed how Sanji tensed at Namis comment, breath shaky “You know she’s strong, she’ll be fresh as a fruit in no time!” he said while patting Sanji’s back smiling brightly.

He took the vegetable soup steaming hot and walked to your room, opened the door ever so slowly so he wouldn’t make any noise and wake you up. He was greeted with Chopper sitting beside your bed with a cold towel in your forehead “How is she?” Sanji asked in a whisper “Better that yesterday but still has a little fever, she’ll be up in a day or two” Chopper explained with worry… there was something he wasn’t telling for sure “Is it just a fever?” Sanji positioned the soup in the nightstand beside you while looking at the doctor who had started to sweat “Oh yeah yeah just… just that no biggie he he” He answered quickly while looking away from the cook. Sanji tensed, eyes twitching “Chopper…” he went down to his eye level “It wouldn’t be really professional if you lied to me about a patient diagnosis would it?” the reindeer panicked “She made me promise! Confidentiality with my patients comes first!”

There it was… The blonde sighed and massaged his temples “If you don’t tell me I’ll probably go insane” there was a pause, the doctor was getting worried not only about you but now also about Sanji, he looked so disheveled, big bags under his eyes, hair all over the place, his smell of cigarettes stronger than other days and instead of having his neatly tuxedo on he had just thrown in a shirt, no tie, with a couple loosed buttons… he looked like he was going insane. “Fine, just because I know you care a lot” he started “She fainted because she had pushed her body too far. In our last fight with the marines she used her powers to protect us too long and didn’t rest properly” he paused to look at you “Her body is just asking for a break, I scolded her because this is not the first time she ends up sick because of this, and she asked me to keep it a secret”

Of course you did… you always overworked yourself and Sanji couldn’t do anything about its since he did that too, how ironic. He looked back at where you slept, you looked so peaceful for someone so sick, your hair covering the pillow like a spider web and your mouth parted a little. “I gave her medicine and the fever has gone down but she needs to rest!”

“Thank you Chopper I’ll take care of her now” the cook sat at the end of the bed as the reindeer left the room quietly

He admired you for a moment, worry shaking trough his body. You’ve been a straw hat for a long time now, and still felt like you owed everyone. “Sunlight” he spoke up. As he removed hairs from your face, you groaned and wiggled under the covers, scrunched your face as you opened your eyes trying to focus on the man before you “There you are” he said feeling a little better since he could look at your eyes once more.

“Sanji?” You yawned and stretched before you felt a stinging pain travel trough your muscles that made you groan “Take it easy dear” Sanji stood up and helped you sit on your bed “It’s ok I got it” slowly but surely you made yourself comfortable. “Made you this” Your eyes widened a smiled was painted on your face “Oh god I most be dreaming!” you let out a laugh that made Sanji feel lighter, softer. How could you still be bright as day while you’re sick? “Thank you! You didn’t had to tho” you tried to take the plate from his hands but he backed up “Slow down there sweetheart” he grinned playfully “Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I let a sick woman eat by herself?” Maybe you should get sick more often if it meant having this kind of treatment form the cook, your whole face turned all shades of red and you stiffened. But the day you decline Sanji’s food, is the day you’ve gone mad, so you leaned and took the spoonful.

You happily ate the whole plate between chatter laughs and shared stares “Sanji I really don’t know how you manage to outdo yourself every time!” You always made sure the cook knew how amazing his skills were, which always made him smile proud and puff out his chest feeling absolutely unstoppable “Thank you dear” you smiled and thanked him for the hundred time “Can you do me a favor Sanji? Before you leave?” The mentioned felt his legs babble at the way his name left your lips, whenever you asked him something, which was very rare because you’re not the type to ask for help for anyone, your voice always flowed in such a way, like a soft plead, that made Sanji’s breath and heartbeat stop “Anything dear!”

“Could you open the blinds for me?” without missing a beat he opened them so that the sun could pour in your room, you closed your eyes and sighed in satisfaction, taking in the rays of sun like a flower opening her petals Sanji thought, you looked angelic

“Can I now ask you something y/n” your eyes opened in fear, whenever the blonde cook called you by your name without nothing endearing attached to it he was about to say something really serious “Of course” all your attention was on him who sat now in the chair next to you so he could see you better and closer “Why are you overworking yourself?” a silence was followed, nervousness hanged in the air piercing both of your ears, you’ve talked about this with Sanji before but nothing ever this serious. You looked at him and notice his weary eyes, you sighed “I… don’t know” your eyes ran away from his face “I just want to be of use for everyone in the crew… did Chopper said something?” The cook nodded with a little guilt as you covered your face in your hands, embarrassed to be somehow a burden.

“You all make me so happy, so this is my way to pay you back” you offered a smile as Sanji sat there, wordless, it was like he was hearing his own thoughts, your hearts were so much alike that it stunted him sometimes, so, he said what he would like to hear himself “You’re not a tool or a maid, you’re a strawhat” he leaned in to take your hand in his “Luffy invited you to join this crew not only because of your powers or strength, but also because he believes in you and likes you… as so do I” you felt your eyes water a bit which made the blondes heart hurt “Your health and happiness is important to everyone in the crew”.

You sighed and hugged Sanji, tightly and with such eagerness and grateful you could always count on him to make you feel wanted and important, you were always strong and kind in front of everyone but he always managed to get your vulnerable side out “Thank you Sanji, I promise I won’t do that ever again” you whispered in his ear, Sanji felt like floating, your hug was so full of love that made his head spin, heart pounding hard and pink creeping trough his neck, you were so sweet “But I must ask you the same, please let me help you too” he stiffened, he sure wasn’t ready for that talk.

He cleared his throat before pulling out of your embrace which hurt him like hell and taking the plate “You don’t worry that pretty head of yours dear” he walked towards your door “I’ll keep an eye on you cook!”

Oh please, do~

⋆ ˚ ꩜ ｡ ⋆୨୧˚

I sweat next one in the series would be a confession I had this idea and got carried away lol, as always you can request what you wanna read about these two and correct me if I made any mistakes English is not first language!

[contentloadingandstuff]

Happy Birthday, Kujou Sara! - Kujou Sara x Male!Reader

AN: Happy birthday to our favorite bird general! Enjoy your little fluffy gift.

You pull on the string, stirring the doorbell to ring out. As you wait for her attendant to open the door, you quickly adjust your wear. Kujou Sara, even if she was your friend, didn't deserve to be treated with anything but your absolute best. Even if the evening was rather stuffy, you chose to prepare your more formal outfit - a blend of dō and hakama, perfect for both official business and casual meetings. 

After a moment, the wooden gate is opened and one of Sara's maids greets you with a polite bow. She motions towards the garden where, just a few steps from her, the Tengu stands. She's wearing clothes one would rarely see adorning her body - a modest kimono, decorated only with the sash and her mask. The smile on her lips is as uncommon as her attire. 

“Hello! I’m glad you're here.” She speaks, approaching you. “Thank you for coming.”

You meet her halfway. “It's good to see you too, Sara.”

You bow slightly, Sara returning your gesture. Your eyes meet for a moment. Her golden pupils gleam in the red light of the setting sun. You smile. Sara’s lips shift as well, but her demeanor turns a little sheepish as she averts her eyes. 

You can't help but think the slight red tint on her cheeks might not be makeup. 

Observing the situation, the maid steps in, bowing cordially. “May we invite you inside for a meal, my Lord?”

Sara shakes her head, suddenly brought back to reality. “Of c-course. Please, Y/N, come inside. I've prepared something for the occasion.”

You nod eagerly. “I can't wait to sample your cooking.”

The maid leads you through the gardens and into the guest room where a small table awaits you. You hand over your katana and equipment, taking a place on the mat opposite Sara. 

The table is full of various snacks. Crisp and plump Lavender Melons and Sunsettia, cut into sizable slices, shine at you invitingly, perfectly complimenting a wide variety of juicy maki rolls and golden brown tempura. Before you can even reach for one with your chopsticks two bowls of steaming ramen are brought to the table. The thick, soft noodles float peacefully inside the broth, the clouds upon which rests a soft boiled egg accompanied with various greens and a few pieces of ham. The sight of the vibrant yolk lazily streaming down into the soup, let alone the scent of the whole meal, hypnotizes you. 

Ironically, it would be a shame to eat such an inviting meal. If it wasn't so delightful, that is. The room fills with quiet, but still enthusiastic clicking of chopsticks as both of you tear into portions. Sara glances at you hopefully from time to time, gauging your reactions. You make sure to nod appreciatively. It takes what feels like mere moments until, amongst comfortable silence, the soup is eaten. 

Wiping the remnants of it from your mouth with a tissue, you sigh with satisfaction. The dish was possibly the best thing for this weather, even if the air was so humid. But now that you've eaten, it was time to give Sara something special. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Sara.” You say, reaching your hand inside your sleeve where you hid the gift. 

“Don't mention it, please. It's the least I can do to thank you for coming. I'm sure I've distracted you from important matters...” She drifts off when she notices the small, ornamental box in your hand. “What’s that?”

You chuckle. “It is for you, silly. It's your birthday. Surely you didn't expect me to come empty handed?”

“Oh! I…” Her hands move up, covering her mouth in surprise. “T-thank you. I hope the gift wasn't too much trouble…” 

She takes the gift from your outstretched hands and begins quickly unfastening the ribbons. When her fingers lift the lid, a set of jars is revealed. Curious, she picks one up and starts examining the label. 

Seeing her confusion, you chime in. 

“This is, um… that's coconut oil, for your wings. So they remain as pristine as ever.” 

Sara looks up at you, slightly wide eyed. Her silence speeds up your heart. Was this a bad idea? Does she already have some? Did you just offend her? 

You feel blood rushing to your cheeks. 

“I've talked to a scientist from Sumeru some time ago. He told me a lot about the birds of paradise in Sumeru and how they are taken care of in captivity”, you explain hastily. “To keep their wings shining and vibrant, their caretakers use coconut oil to lubricate the feathers. He said that it's better than sesame oil as it helps protect against illnesses and insects. So… I thought of you.” You wave your hands, smiling shyly. “You don't have to accept it if you don't like it though!”

As she listens to you, her mouth opens slightly as if she wants to speak, but closes without a word. She's speechless. 

You sigh as your smile fades. Just as you think of how to apologize, Sara speaks out. 

“This is incredible. I don't have the words to express how… How happy I am.”

Her voice is quiet and slightly trembling with emotion. The Tengu quickly looks back towards you, a small blush on her face. “Nobody has given me such a thoughtful gift before…”

A stone’s weight is taken off your heart as you see her flustered expression. A genuine smile of happiness and relief creeps onto your features. 

After a while of cordial thanks, you finally convince Sara that it wasn't too difficult to get, even if you had to import it from Sumeru. Having received this gift, Sara's mood was only improving as the evening went by, filled with idle chatter. You've shared stories of other generals, funny encounters you've had, as well as more genuine hopes for the future. 

The night came long ago, and it was time to go home. Sara, although clearly tired, insisted on walking you at least to the estate doors. But as you were walking through the garden, unbeknownst to you, Sara discreetly dismissed the maid following you. She quietly disappeared behind the nearest corner, leaving you two alone. 

You pull the door, opening one of its wings enough to slip through. Your turn to Sara. 

“Thanks for inviting me. They say you're stiff, but they don't know just how enjoyable hanging out with you really is.”

Sara shakes her head. “No, no, I’m the one that's more thankful here. I couldn't even begin to imagine what this day would look like without you. Had you not come, it would simply be another lonely evening.”

“Signing yourself off to the grave already, Sara?” You chuckle. “I hope next year's celebration is even better than this one.”

She snickers as well. “Impossible. Nothing will best today.”

“I surely hope not!” Your turn back towards the door. “See you tomorrow-”

“Wait!” Sara says hastily, grabbing your sleeve. You stop dead in your tracks. 

“Yes, Sara?”

“I know it might be inappropriate of me, seeing as you've given me so much already…” Her eyes shift between the pavement and you. “But, if I may have one more wish to ask of you.”

“Of course. It's your day, after all.” 

Silence. 

“So what would you like me to-”

She steps up and embraces you. You let out a surprised sigh, but quickly welcome her gesture. Her arms wrap around your torso as her face buries in the crook of your neck. 

“Thank you”, she whispers. “Thank you so much.”

Thanks for reading!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 38

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I've been awake since 2am.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

After breakfast, you get ready to go into town with Frigga and Hela upon their vaunted ladies’ trip. An air of uncertainty persists around what exactly that means. Flowers, shopping, and what else?

You try not to let the mystery overshadow the Odinsons’ hospitality. You’d hate to come across ungrateful after all they’d done. Odin and Frigga hadn’t asked for anything in return all while receiving you with an open hand. Just like with all things, you go along to get along.

The drive has you in a sort of trance as you watch the landscape pass. The lush greens and speckles of violet and pink across the fields, thickening to looming forest of coniferous pines and towering oaks. Finally, the wilds thin into even ground and open into a township with a painted wooden sign.

The buildings are old but well-kept. Not like the large city with its pitted brick and steaming sewers. Every street here is like those that surround Laufeyson’s own estate. Curated and pristine. Just like the Odinsons themselves.

You pull in at a large gated lot. The iron barrier is overgrown with flowers and as you enter, you gape around at the expanse of petals and stems. You’ve never been anywhere so spectacular.

You trail behind Frigga as she browses the selection. You shy away from Hela but she’s hardly concerned with you as she admires a bunch of dark roses. You peer around as an assistant approaches at Frigga’s signal.

“What do you think, dear?” Frigga calls to you, “we want white for the event. Lilies, baby’s breath, gardenia?”

You blink and give some thought, “what about daisies?”

She smiles, “daisies, so simple but pretty.” She turns to the assistant, “do you have many?”

“We should have a few boxes ready for delivery,” she answers.

“Wonderful, we will have some daisies. Oh, and we could have some wisteria hanging. Mm, and miss, white tulips? You have those too?”

The assistant scribbles on her pad, “we can do those as well.”

“Hydrangea,” Hela insists as she approaches, standing behind you, “for the posts.”

“Yes, certainly, hydrangea,” Frigga repeats with a sharp point to the assistant. “Oh and lastly, I spoke with Val about the moonflowers, tell me they’re ready.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson, we have those set aside already.”

“Good, good,” Frigga remarks, “well, we’ll look around a bit more and let you know if anything else is required.”

“Yes, Mrs. Odinson,” the assistant nods and prompts strolls away.

“You wouldn’t like a splash of red, mother? Maybe some black?” Hela muses, “this Walpurgisnacht will be blinding.”

“Oh, tosh,” Frigga dismisses, “we have a theme. Which reminds me, darling,” she turns to you, “do you have a white dress packed?”

“White?” You blink, “um, no, I didn’t…”

“Not to worry, it’s why we came to town,” she tweets.

“Oof, mother,” Hela cringes. 

“Well, I know you certainly don’t have suitable attire,” Frigga reproaches.

“Actually, I’ve a marvelous white jumpsuit selected for just the event,” Hela challenges, “I can listen, I just often choose not to.”

Frigga gives a pinch look before she returns her attention to you, “well then, our task will be easier. I think chiffon might be nice…”

“You know, mother, I do feel as if I’m being replaced,” Hela snickers. You send her a guilty look but her smile holds no malice. She winks and arches a brow. “And yet I do think this little creature will look delectable in white.”

“Mm, yes,” Frigga side-eyes her daughter, “you do have a way with words, don’t you?”

“Oh, pardon me, I should be more like my brothers, would you prefer Thor,” Hela mocks and reaches for your hand, taking it as she caresses it emphatically, “oh lady, you are beautiful, I should wonder if what you hide under your skirt is equally as stunning–”

“Hel,” Frigga exclaims, mortified as she snatches her grasp away from you.

“Ah, alright, Loki,” Hela clears her throat and stiffens her posture, adjusting a non-existent tie, “yes, you are rather adequate. Hm, very acceptable.”

“Don’t,” Frigga commands, “you didn’t have to come if you’re only going to make a joke of it.”

“Oh, mother, that’s simply what it is, a joke,” Hela bats her lashes, “loosen up. Is that not what this day is for? To enjoy ourselves?”

Frigga sighs and shakes her head as she turns away. Your mouth slants as you watch after her nervously. Hela clucks and flicks her fingers dismissively, “once she has a taste of wine, she’ll let go.”

✨

You stand in the fitting room, staring dreadfully at the two hangers. One chosen by Frigga, the other by Hela. They are both beautiful but you’re not certain either of them suit you. You feel the long chiffon as you mull over the choice.

“Well, darling, let us see,” Frigga calls through the curtain.

You wince and recoil. You pull down the longer of the two, the flowy chiffon that caught Frigga’s eye. The one-shoulder cut cinches to draped skirt which drowns you. You look at yourself in the mirror and frown. The fabric seems to drown you.

You turn with a swish and pull back the curtain, stepping through awkwardly as you tug the skirt out of the way of your feet. Hela makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a gasp. Frigga fawns and daintily touches her cheeks.

“Oh, gods, that is gorgeous, isn’t it?” She comes forward and pinches a fold in the skirt.

“She looks like she’s caught in a snowstorm,” Hela muses, “please, she won’t be able to do much in all that.”

“I suppose,” Frigga backs up and folds her arms, “but I like the style, perhaps we might find something similar with less length.”

“Try mine,” Hela demands.

You look between them, not daring to argue with either. They seem to do enough of that. You spin and sweep behind the curtain once more. You shed the chiffon layers and pull on the satin sheath. There isn’t much to it. Thin straps and not much length, a slit up your thigh. It’s more lingerie than a dress.

You peek out shyly before you make yourself come out. Frigga’s face flushes and her lips part. Hela smirks and tilts her head as she bites her lip.

“Oh, fabulous,” Hela remarks.

“She cannot wear that,” Frigga throws a hand up.

“Why not, she has nice legs.”

“That isn’t… appropriate.”

“Well, mother, she can’t dress like an old matron either.”

“It was a perfectly nice dress–”

“For 1912,” Hela shoots back.

You shrink before them and let their back and forth fade into the background. You glance over the rack of white garments and zone out. You just want this to be over. You’re tired of being pulled back and forth like a game of tug-of-war.

Your name draws you back and you focus on the women watching you. You wince and teeter on your feet, “sorry, I was distracted.”

“I was saying,” Hela intones, “we should let you choose.”

“Me?” You blanch.

“Well, it is your dress,” Frigga utters reluctantly.

“Oh, but I… don’t know much about… clothes.”

“Never too late to learn,” Hela insists, “go on, have your pick. Surprise us.”

You glance back at the rack and wiggle your fingers. You slowly approach as the two other women retreat, still muttering to each other. You push through the hangers; too heavy, too stiff, too sheer.

You think you like this one. A simple sheath lining with a mesh overlay, little crepe flowers sewn into the out later. The straps are slender but the bodice is straight cut. It’s wonderful and dreamy. You take the hanger and quickly scurry back behind the curtain.

You switch out the short dress for your pick. You look at your reflection and nearly stagger. You love it. It’s adorable. You go to the curtain and brace yourself. What if they don’t like it? You exhale and ready yourself for disappointment.

You step through and the women face you. Neither say a word as they look at you. They consider you, eyeing you head to toe. Oh no! It’s hideous, isn’t it? You have no taste.

“I love it,” Hela chirps, “what about you, mother? Isn’t it gorgeous on her?”

“I… it’s so… you,” Frigga squeals, “yes, it’s perfect. And the little flowers. Ugh, amazing.”

“Really?” You stand on your toes nervously.

“You must have it,” Hela insists, “next, shoes… the pairing must be perfect.”

“Shoes…” you murmur. Does it ever end?

✨

Your day doesn’t end after the boutique. The tumultuous night slumps in your shoulders and droops in your eyelids as the hours stretch on. Your next stop is a sleek white building with sparkling glass doors. As you enter, the sterile lobby has you minimizing yourself in fear of staining the pure white tile or breaking the crystal counter.

Frigga and Hela strut towards the woman who stands behind the glass table and greet her breezily. She welcomes them by name as you trail behind like a mouse. You don’t belong here. Not a place like this. You might be with them but you’re not one of them.

Once more, you sink into a daze, trying to distance yourself from the present. From those feelings of unbelonging. Those old wounds from the schoolyard when you stood by the fence and kicked rocks, not daring to provoke anyone with an errant gaze.

“Dear,” Frigga jars you as she gently touches your arm, “did you have ID?”

“ID?” You say dumbly, not processing her request at first.

“They serve alcohol so it’s required to check-in,” she explains.

“Oh, um, yeah,” you clumsily grab your purse and unzip the top. You dig out your ID card and hand it over. Frigga has a brief glance at it before handing it over. The twitch beneath her eye worries you; has it expired?

You wait as Hela taps her short nails on the counter top. Finally, the woman behind the counter approves you for entry. You still don’t really get what this place is. There’s no signs aside from the marquee in swoopy cursive; Hvergelmir.

Another woman appears and takes you through an angular doorway. You’re guided to a private room with robes on hooks, cushioned benches and small cubbies. You watch Hela and Frigga as they remove their heels and set them on the low rack. You do the same, doing everything they do at a delay.

They tuck their bags into the cubbies and undress without shame, keeping only their underwear on as they wrap themselves in the silken robes. You face the corner as you strip and pull on a robe yourself.

It isn’t until you move on to the next room that you realise what this place is. A spa. You’ve never been to one but it’s exactly like you’ve seen on television. You recline as a woman smears your face with a mask and places cucumbers over your eyes. It’s relaxing even if it feels a bit strange.

After laying there for what seems like forever, a woman comes in to offer stemmed glasses of sparkling wine. You remove the sliced veggies from your eyes and accept one in kind with the other women.

“I think I might get a wrap,” Hela declares, “I need the cleanse.”

“Mm, I think I might do the steam room,” Frigga drawls before she sips from her glass. You take a tiny sip, reminding yourself of your last indulgence and the disaster that followed. Hela downs half the glass in a single gulp.

“What about you?” Hela looks at you pointedly. “Would you like to join me for the seaweed wrap?”

“Um, what is that?” You ask.

“Oh, darling,” Frigga sits up and grabs a leather folio, “have a look. You can choose whatever you like.”

You accept the little booklet and open it up to the laminated inside. You read through each item and the description below. The steam room sounds uncomfortable, you’re not a fan of sweating, and the seaweed thing sounds slimy…

“Mud bath?” You read allowed.

“Good choice,” Hela praises, “I might join you after my wrap.”

“Oh, okay,” you close the book and put it on the small round table close to you.

Frigga picks up the small golden bell and rings it. The same woman appears and Frigga lists off the treatments for each of you. She’s led away first, then someone comes to fetch Hela, and finally, you’re taken away by another woman with a high ponytail.

The woman helps you cover your hair with a towel and hands you back your wine glass. She leads you into a room with long rectangular tubs filled with reddish brown muck. She points you to one at the end and you put your glass on the little ledge that juts out from the side.

She helps you remove your robe, “you can keep your underwear on if you like. We can provide a fresh pair after, but you may want to remove your bra.”

You nod and dip your head down to unhook your bra. She reaches to take it and you hesitantly hand it over. She hangs your robe from a hook on the wall and leaves you there. Alright, so you just get in?

You step over the high wall of the tub and lower yourself into the warm mud. It doesn’t feel too bad. You slide around slightly before you’re able to find your bearings and reclining against the slanted back. Is this relaxing? 

You close your eyes but not for long. You end up staring at the lines between the ceiling tiles. You stir the mud with your fingers. You feel childish, like you're making mud pies.

You stop as you hear voices. You peek over for just a moment as someone else enters. A tall woman with a swirl of black hair escaping the towel on her head strides in, her tall figure draped in one of the ivory robes. The attendant takes her to the tub across from yours.

You try not to watch as she opens her robe, revealing her sleek body shamelessly. She eases into the tub with a sigh and the attendant leaves. You keep your eyes up as tension fills the space.

“The mud is nice today,” she says, startling you.

You nod and look at her as she stretches her arms around the walls of the tub. Her chest is barely concealed by the muck.

“You don’t come here often. I’ve not seen you around.”

You shake your head, “first time.”

“Ah,” her blue eyes gleam, “special occasion?”

“Erm, not really, I… Walpurgisnacht,” you pronounce the word delicately.

“That’s not for a few days,” she intones.

“You know it?”

“Yes, of course, everyone around here does. And this year, with Frigga hosting, it will be a spectacle.”

“You know Frigga?” You wonder.

She laughs, “of course I do. Who doesn’t?” Her tone is dry and her expression haughty, “how do you know her?”

“Um, I… work for her son,” you utter flatly.

“Thor?”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you correct her.

“How amusing,” she smirks, “what’s your name?”

You answer, your chest binding up tightly. You feel like you shouldn’t be talking to her. Something about the way she grins.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she purrs, “I’m Sif. You might tell my ex-husband I send my regards.”

You swallow dryly and stare at her. Your heart is pounding and your ears ringing. Sif? In the flesh? She’s absolutely gorgeous. You can see why she haunts the Odinsons. She’s perfect. 

Now you know why you will never live up to Laufeyson’s expectations. Why he’s so hard to please. Compared to her, well, you can never compare to her. She is immaculate.

[besthomeappliances92]

Purchase Steam Iron at Philips E-store. The products come with specifications like a built-in calc-clean slider, drip-stop system, steam glide and more.

[dawns-beauty]

I wanted to go a slightly different route for the Elderly Elves edition of Dravynea the Stoneweaver.

I actually started with her original face as a preset, and tried to use Expressive Facegen Morphs' sliders to tweak her existing features to not be so 'out-of-the-box' Skyrim. Additionally, I darkened and saturated her skintone (because I hate that Skyrim Dunmer are super washed-out looking.)

In the Truly Elderly version, she will have slightly younger skin than the previous elves I've shown off (but still, plenty of wrinkles and stretch marks.) Additionally, she has a custom salt and pepper hair texture.

Most notably, she has a magic stone eye based on Tiger Iron.

My thought is that she damaged her original eye and, instead of restoring it, decided to use her skills in alteration magic to alter it into something more useful for her line of work. I like to think it has a kind of heat detection, useful for finding steam vents and any miners who might find themselves trapped in rubble.

Click to see the detail better. It has swirling bands of different shades of red and orange.

The iris glows and the scalara has a subtle pulsing sparkle effect

Prior Elderly Elves posts: Nurelion, Neloth, Runil, Calcelmo, Elynea, Body Textures, Elynea Final, Body Textures Variant WIP

[itacats]

Through Sickness & Solace (mini-series)

FT: Price x gn!reader

Warnings: being sick (cold), panic cleaning, not cleaning up while sick (?), please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: The final story in the series will be out tomorrow, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one! Thank you for sticking with me through the journey so far. I also hope you’re all taking good care of yourselves—whether you’re battling the sniffles or just need a little extra self-care. Stay cozy, and I’ll see you at the finale tomorrow!

SUM: A weekend spent in solitude, where illness and loneliness begin to unravel your sense of independence. As the cold sets in, the familiar comfort of being alone turns into a stark reminder of how much you miss the warmth of companionship, especially the presence of John Price. When he unexpectedly returns early from his mission, his quiet care and tenderness help you realize that strength isn’t always about handling everything alone. Through his gentle attention, you come to understand that allowing others to care for you can be its own form of strength.

Simon Riley Soap MacTavish Gaz Garrick

Take Care of Yourself

The weekend had always been your fortress, a quiet retreat from the noise of the world. You'd wrap yourself in thick blankets, lose yourself in the soft glow of a candle, and sip tea while sinking into the familiar embrace of your favorite shows. There was a certain kind of peace in the solitude, a chance to recharge, to exist entirely on your terms. But as this particular weekend approached, a shadow of old memories whispered at the edges—recollections of childhood nights spent alone with a fever, a blanket tucked up to your chin, yearning for someone to sit by your side.

John Price’s last-minute mission left you with a familiar pang of emptiness, though he’d promised to be back by Sunday. You missed his steady presence, but the plan was clear: you’d dive into the weekend with Netflix as your companion, tackling the sniffle that crept in on Friday evening. You’d handled worse before—what was a minor cold? Armed with ginger tea and an iron will, you resolved to ignore the ache in your throat, savoring the comfort of your own space.

But Saturday dawned with a vengeance. The cold sank into your bones, each sneeze and cough wearing you down bit by bit. Determined not to let it defeat you, you bundled up with a box of tissues, a steaming bowl of soup, and settled on the couch. Episodes blurred together as you cocooned yourself, losing hours to fictional worlds as your own grew increasingly dim. 

By the time the afternoon waned, your little sanctuary looked more like a battleground. Mugs of half-finished tea cluttered the table, and the tissues piled up like fallen soldiers in the fight against your relentless cold. You wanted to straighten up, but every movement felt like wading through water, your limbs heavy, your mind fogged with fatigue. The more you stayed curled up, the more the silence around you seemed to amplify, filling the room with an eerie quiet that made you long for Price’s laughter, his calming voice. Alone, the sickness crept into your mind as much as your body, filling the silence with a dull ache.

That evening, as your body curled deeper beneath the blankets, the pang of loneliness returned with a biting clarity. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the weight of isolation settling over you like a second illness. It was absurd, you thought—you had long prided yourself on self-sufficiency. But in this weakened state, it hit you: independence wasn’t quite the balm you’d once believed. You missed the warmth, the companionship, the ease of leaning on someone else. You blinked back the sting of tears, vowing that by the time Sunday arrived, you’d have everything back in order, even if it took every ounce of strength you had left.

Sunday evening arrived in a flurry of tissues and empty tea mugs, and the mess felt like a reflection of your own struggle. You looked around in dismay as the familiar comfort of your home had transformed into a chaotic sprawl of sickness. Fever settled in like a heavy fog, pressing on your senses and leaving you teetering between helplessness and frustration. Driven by a sudden burst of energy, you threw off your blankets and clambered to your feet, determined to clean up before Price returned. But every step was a struggle, and as you reached for a mug, dizziness swept over you. You felt yourself wobble, the room tilting—

Then, a familiar creak. The front door opened, and there he stood, John Price, his rugged face softening with a mixture of shock and concern. His eyes swept over the scene before him—your unsteady figure, the scattered mess, the feverish flush on your cheeks. Without a word, he crossed the room, steady hands guiding you back to the couch.

“Whoa, easy there,” he murmured, his voice gentle but firm. “Sit down. Let me handle this.” His hands were a steady warmth as he pressed you back into the cushions, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made you want to cry. 

You tried to protest, a weak murmur of “I can take care of myself,” slipping out between coughs, but the fight was slipping away, and you sagged back into the cushions, allowing him to take the reins.

As he moved through the room, picking up the mugs and clearing the tissues with a quiet efficiency, you watched him through half-lidded eyes. A warm, unfamiliar feeling spread within you, mingling with the fever’s heat. You’d built so much of your life around the idea that strength meant handling things alone, that needing someone else was a sign of weakness. But watching him, hearing the clink of mugs being cleaned and feeling the weight of the blankets he carefully arranged around you, that belief began to unravel. Maybe, you realized, true strength wasn’t about bearing every burden alone.

A quiet sigh escaped you as Price returned, placing a cool hand on your forehead and adjusting the blankets with a gentleness that only heightened your sense of vulnerability. You felt the weight of his presence settle beside you, grounding you, his warmth a silent reassurance.

“Next time, don’t try to be a hero, yeah?” he said, his voice a blend of teasing and concern. His hand lingered, brushing a stray hair from your face, and you managed a small smile, a spark of warmth flickering within. For the first time that weekend, you felt truly at ease, wrapped not just in blankets but in the simple, undeniable comfort of not being alone.

As you drifted off, his voice murmuring softly in the background, the room seemed to breathe with you—a space no longer echoing with loneliness, but instead filled with trust, quiet companionship, and the kind of warmth that went beyond physical comfort. In his presence, the walls of solitude softened, the silence became a gentle hum, and the sickness felt more manageable. You closed your eyes, letting yourself surrender, not just to sleep but to the knowledge that sometimes, strength lay in letting others care for you.

And there, in the quiet glow of the evening, the two of you settled into a new rhythm—a quiet understanding that, at least in moments like these, you didn’t have to face the world alone.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[silverskye13]

wait silver if renbob visits hels has he met the red king? and if so are they disastrous or iconic together

"Deliiiiivery! :D" Renbob calls in a sing-song voice, holding a stack of boxes in his arms. "RK, where you at my brother?"

He stands in the empty loading dock at the back of the Colosseum, smiling expectantly at the vacant bay. He likes hels. It's warm, and the people are interesting. It could stand to be a little more colorful, but not all pretty places are colorful. Like the beach for example! It's mostly just yellow and blue and hot, and it's still pretty.

(That's perfect actually! Hels makes him think of the beach: hot and monocolor, but somehow still interesting once you get past all the sand. Hah! Imagine a beach in hels! It'd be like a sauna, all steam and rocks.)

"RK I know you can hear me," Renbob calls again. "I can't hold these boxes all day! Well I can, but I will get bored you know?"

There is a grumbling, growling sound that comes from everywhere, but mostly the back of his head. It starts as several whispered and snarled words, and slowly coalesces into a string of coherent thought, "I don't answer to the name RK here, lad."

"My bad, must've gotten you mixed up with someone," Renbob chuckles. "Do you want your delivery?"

"Loading bay?"

"They won't let me park the van anywhere else, my brother. Oh! Please bring your favorite sword, if you don't mind? :)"

There is a cacophony of barks and growls as Red's presence slips out of the back of Renbob's mind. He wonders if Red knows that's the sound his thoughts make: an angry pack of wolves. They aren't kind wolves. They whisper a lot of unkind things when they trail after Red's thoughts. He wonders if that's why Red is always so nice to people: he's keeping the wolves from the door, so to speak.

Red strides into the loading bay, one hand on the wall as a guide until it ends in the open room. He steps confidently even when the wall is gone. The iron crown, sunk down low over his eyes, either doesn't hinder his sight, or he's memorized enough of the Colosseum that it doesn't bother him anymore.

"What sound do my thoughts make :O ?" Renbob asks. Red, who'd been walking a little too far to the left of him, twitches his big, wolf-like ears and realigns his path, meeting Renbob where he stands in front of his camper van.

"What sound do ye... Thoughts make?"

"Yeah, do they make like, sound? I always figured you'd hear a pleasant background of guitar and ukulele music."

Red tilted his in an expression that probably meant he was raising his eyebrows. It was hard to tell with the crown in the way. "Ye thoughts sound like yer voice. Though there do be a slight... Birdsong type noise."

"Is it chillaxin?"

"Aye sure."

"Groovy! :D" Renbob laughed. "I'll take it then! And like, you can take these."

He passes the stack of boxes to Red, who struggles a bit with their weight.

"What all have ye brought for me lad?" Red grunts, giving up on holding them all and setting them down. "All I asked for were some of those hot chips, and ye lemon squares."

"Oh it's just some bits and bobs, mostly," Renbob hums brightly, counting on his fingers. "There's a shulker of emerald and lapis (you said you were looking for a new color to go with all the red? :V those are opposite on the color wheel might be a good place to start! :) ), a shulker of flowers for dyes (all labeled. Are you color blind? I can't remember. Anyway I labeled the dye colors they make ^_^), three boxes of lemon squares (for you and your hand and a box for your Colosseum buddies! I'm sure they'd love some :D), two bags of spicy chippies, and I got you two bolts of fabric (your cloak is getting so torn up :( you've gotta take better care of your stuff brother!). Oh, and there's a few diamonds in there I nicked from Ren. (He won't miss 'em I promise ;) )."

Red tilted his head to the side, "How...? In the world...?"

"Hmm? :)"

"How do ye make...? With your voice...? Ye know what, it be unimportant," Red chuckled, a growling noise that fractured on the edges, a hint of the wolf-thoughts that leaked into real life. "Alas lad, I did not know ye would bring so much, else I would have had payment ready for such finery."

"Oh perish the thought, RK!" Renbob grinned, waving a dismissive hand. "You know you don't have to pay me!"

"Er... Red."

"That's what I said. :3"

"I see, ye be jesting?"

"Jest so!"

"Ah," Red smirked and leaned against the tower of boxes. "Ye said ye visited Ren. How fares our little brother?"

"He's older than both of us Red!"

"Aye, but he also be shorter than both of us."

Renbob laughed, bright and hearty, and for a moment, sunshine flickered in the Colosseum. Flowers bloomed around Renbob's feet. "Right you are, brother! Though I think he might be taller than me if I took my platforms off."

"Aye, but I see no universe where ye be making that particular wardrobe choice."

"I dunno. I was thinking about going to the beach after this. Do you guys have beaches in hels?"

"Aye, if you fancy soul sand by the lava lake."

"Oh man, I haven't taken a good lava bath in awhile!"

"Ye do love those an uncanny amount."

"It's exfoliating!"

"Makes me smell like burning hair."

"Well, to like, really enjoy it you have to get past the-- wait! You asked me a question?"

"Our little brother."

"Right! Ren's doing well! Gave him a ride over to his new season with his boyfriend."

Red, who had found one of the boxes of lemon squares during the conversation, coughed out a bite of lemon. "Begging your pardon?"

"You know, those go down a lot better with milk. I think hels dries them out a little. :("

"Ren has a boyfriend?!"

"Oh! Yeah, mister Docm77," Renbob beamed. "I don't think they've made it like, Facebook official yet, but they sure were making a lot of plans together for next season!"

Red sighed out a breath of relief, holding a hand to his chest. "Ye be jesting again."

"Mostly. :)"

"Well, when this great Book of Faces writes their names side by side, ye let me know."

"Certainly!" Renbob crossed his arms behind his back. "Oh, hey, before I go, like, could I ask you a huge favor?"

"Aye, lad?"

"I need a sword. Gonna be hopping to some dangerous orbits soon I think, and like, I'm real peace love and plants and all, so I can't make my own. But I can accept a gift, if you catch my drift?"

"Ah, suddenly all the gifts make sense," Red hums. He reaches down to his sword belt and unbuckles it, passing it off to Renbob, sword, scabbard and all. "Must ye take my most precious one?"

"You know how I work, Red. Only gifts given with love," Renbob grinned. It was a little sharper than it needed to be. Red couldn't see all the teeth. But it was nice to smile wide sometimes. "I do really appreciate it, my brother."

"Of course." Red smiled back, also showing a few too many teeth. Renbob felt a swelling of fondness for Ren's helsmet.

(It really was nice to be with kin sometimes, the people you could really be yourself with. Red didn't think he was unsettling, or fae-like. Red didn't go making a big deal about how widely he smiled, or how much he changed when his whims stretched him around. Red didn't begrudge the odd little pacts and rules he had to follow.)

"Well I'll like, catch you on the flipside brother!" Renbob said cheerfully. "Don't die while I'm gone, ya dig? :)"

"Don't go being any stranger," Red returned, picking up a box to carry back to his rooms. He would need help carrying them all.

[eff-plays]

A personal rant about BG3, Larian, and writing fanfic

So let me preface this by saying that I'm weird. I'm a weirdo. I don't fit in. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?

I am not really a fanfiction writer, which is ironic considering some of my first writing was fanfiction. Since then, it's been nothing but original fiction. The Wayhaven Chronicles was the game I started writing actual fanfic for, and that was only a couple of years ago (nobody look at me I haven't updated in forty years). I'm very new to the genre, basically. I barely even read fanfic, as for most of my life I've just been like "Well it's not canon anyway so what's the point of it?" and it's only recently that I've gotten more into it and understood the "point".

That is all to say that when I started writing my BG3 Tavstarion (I know, so new and never seen before) fic, I wanted it to be based as closely on the game as possible. To the point where I would boot up the game to get the smallest details right; which boxes were where and had what in them, the inflection of a character's voice, the movements, the animations. I could look it up on Youtube, but it felt like cheating -- I had to be there, as my OC, and filter it all first-hand through their thoughts. That way, my fic would have a solid foundation of canon on which I would build their story.

I admit, that's the main reason I've kept the game installed despite burning out of actually playing it months ago. Because of my stupid OC that I love. Here's what I even made the Steam banner look like.

It might be silly -- I would never hold a fic I read to these dumbfuck standards, anyway -- but it felt right. I'm writing a canon-compliant fic, so of course I need canon to support it. Maybe not to the extent I was doing it, but the fundamental idea made sense to me. I wanted my deviations from canon to be minimal and well-informed. Because I loved the canon and that's what made me love the game, and in turn my OC. It was all connected, you see?

Which brings me to the patches. The updates. The scene changes. All of it. I wanted to stay true to the game, so I hung onto it for dear life, letting it clog up my PC's storage just in case I needed it for fic purposes. But now ... what's the point? Larian won't leave well enough alone, so to which version am I staying true? Why should I respect canon when Larian can change it at any moment if a vocal minority has issues with something I personally enjoy and want to include in a fic? At this point, my personal experience doesn't matter -- my Tav's version of the game doesn't exist anymore. So looking up stuff on Youtube feels right. In fact, it might be my only choice, if I want to see the version of the game where they first and best existed.

And you might think "Wow Eff, that's a long-winded and melodramatic way of saying you're uninstalling the game!" Well, yeah. This is my personal gaming blog, so of course I will put my big gamer feels on here. That's just what I do. But this is the first time this has happened to me, where I feel like there's just no point in respecting canon at all, and I want to document that feeling. I was trying desperately to stay true to Larian's vision, playing the game when it brought me no joy just so I could then write fic which does bring me joy. But why do that? Larian does not respect me, and more importantly, they don't respect their own stories. So why should I?

Anyway, yeah. I'm uh. Uninstalling the game, finally. I will keep writing my fic, as that still brings me joy, and apologies for getting shit wrong, but at this point the game I remember doesn't exist anyway, so what's the point in getting the current game right?

The only thing I'll miss is being able to take screenshots of my Tav, and making gifs of them. I modded in a unique face for them (and long-time followers will know how much I struggled with that) and now that won't be as easily accessible anymore. I don't think it's a waste, though, not with how much joy it brought me, and I'll still have the files. Maybe I'll come back in a few months and gaze upon them again.

Goodbye for now, my blorbo. You will always be loved. The game you're from? Not so much.

[zolanort]

What is 'Hyrule's Excellent Adventures?' 👀

It’s a 16,000 word unfinished fic with 6 completed chapters that I’ll probably never actually post. It was basically just playing with a how-the-chain-met scenario from Hyrule’s PoV and has a galaxy-brained climax that I was extremely excited about, but I kinda lost steam after some of their canon first encounters were posted. Who knows though, maybe one day I will be inspired to wrangle it back into canon-adjacency. Or maybe I’ll let it go fully divergent? We shall see.

Here’s a silly snip from an uncompleted chapter if you want it.

———

“Hey Sky, want to prank Legend with me?” Hyrule said, just loud enough for the Veteran to overhear.

Legend narrowed his eyes at the pair.

Sky pretended to consider it as though Legend hadn’t heard. “I’m game,” he replied at last. “Have anything specific in mind?”

“What?! Sky—!”

“We’re gonna play the long game,” Hyrule smirked, holding up the blank disguise ring from the shop. “We set this ring so that anyone who wears it looks like me. Then,” he gestured to Sky, “you take this back with you to your era, and it gets passed down for the Vet to find one day.”

Legend halted mid-step. “Wait,” Legend turned, then pointed between Hyrule and Sky, eyes bugging out of his head.

Hyrule held up the blank ring, careful to keep it in Legends line of sight, and slid it onto his finger. It flashed briefly, and an angular red symbol formed on the gold surface.

“You—!” Legend made a strangled noise. He reached for his pouch, pulling out his ring box and poking through it until he produced a golden band adorned by a matching red symbol.

“Din blast it,��� Legend swore, then laughed.

Sky spared a glance at Legend’s reaction, then back at Hyrule, a playful gleam in his eye. “I take it that this prank has already worked, then?”

“You can bet on it,” Hyrule replied, slapping the ring into Sky’s hand. “Legend has been convinced that I’m one of his predecessors for months.”

Sky laughed, then whipped back to face the veteran. “Wait, so that time when—?”

“Yeah, that was me, not the traveler.” Legend said, then paused, mouth curling at the edges. “Although, you really can’t blame anyone but yourself at this point, can you?”

They laughed.

Sky slid the newly enchanted ring onto his own finger, Hyrule’s features fading into place over his own.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “wouldn’t it be funny if three Hyrule’s walked back into camp?”

Legend smirked, sliding his own ring on in answer.

———

“Hey Wind.”

Hyrule nodded to the Sailor as he walked into camp. Wind waved from his spot on the ground next to Four, then looked back down. He and Four had been comparing shields. Hyrule continued towards Wild, who was oiling a cast iron pan.

“Hey Wind.”

A second Hyrule waved to the Sailor as he walked into camp. Wind looked up, waved again, then did a double take. The first Hyrule was doing his best (and failing) to keep from grinning as he watched Wind's eyebrows crawl progressively higher and higher up towards his hairline. Second Hyrule sat on a log with a sigh, stretching and cracking his neck.

“Hey Wind.”

A third Hyrule made his way into camp, walking over to crouch next to Four, who bristled and leapt up like a startled cat. The smith grabbed frantically for his sword, then stopped when his hand caught on the handle. He stared between the sword and Third Hyrule, face so full of conflicting emotions that they all canceled back out into an oddly neutral expression.

“What are you two up to?” Third Hyrule cocked his head, looking between the two identical shields on the ground.

“Oh, just comparing shields.” Wind’s eyebrows had made a miraculous reappearance. “We noticed some similarities. Uh, how about you?”

“Oh that’s neat! Legend and I found out we have the same ring today, so that was something.”

“Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to tell you guys” Wild interrupted from across the camp, “I have all of your old clothes!” He pushed a button on his slate, suddenly donned in Hyrule’s clothes. Plus or minus a hat and a pair of trousers.

First Hyrule blushed, hiding his face in his hands.

“Wait,” second Hyrule called, smirking, “you didn’t used to wear pants?”

“It was a phase,” First Hyrule cried, wilting in place next to a wheezing Wild.

Third Hyrule laughed. “What kind of phase would make you not want to wear pants?”

First Hyrule sank onto the ground in silence, face still hidden.

“I— It was more comfortable,” he hedged, “pants are expensive! And constricting!”

—Second Hyrule nodded along smugly—

“and, well, the, ah, the stories said that the— they said the previous heroes— ah goddess, the hero of legend didn’t wear pants, ok?”

The camp erupted.

Second Hyrule leapt to his feet, mouth agape, as Third Hyrule leaned against Wind for support as they laughed into each other. Four smirked between Second Hyrule and First Hyrule, clearly having figured something out, before looking back down at the shields with a smile. Wild had his hands hooked under First Hyrule’s armpits and was trying to pull him to his feet (to no avail, as he was too busy sulking).

“What happened while we were gone?”

Time stood at the edge of camp, Wars looking around with a bemusement that was directly proportional to Twilight's confusion.

“Hyrule didn’t used to wear pants,” Wild informed helpfully, gesturing down at his own bare legs.

Time scanned the three-and-a-half Hyrules and the two shields with his singular eye, then returned his gaze to Wild.

“I didn’t either.”

The camp erupted for a second time.

———

So,” Legend smirked, sitting down next to Hyrule and splaying his bare legs out in front of him pointedly. “You wanted to be like the hero of legend, eh?”

“I will fight you, Legend.” Hyrule said, punching his arm in a way that wasn’t entirely unkindly and perhaps even borderline friendly if you looked at it in the correct lighting. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of the first time we met, would we?”

Legend laughed, rubbing at his arm. “Not particularly.”

“Can we agree that the order we came in doesn’t matter and that we are equally awesome in our own right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Swear not to use weird pet names like Time and Twi?”

“I would rather die.”

“I can make that happen if you ever try.”

Hyrule held out a hand and Legend shook on it.

Somewhere in the same forest, Time and Twilight sneezed in unison.