#strident skirt

[inkwell-intermission]

anyway what if the midnight crew ALSO all banged their heads on the inside of medicine cabinets and glass sliding doors and sewer grates and whatever else and suddenly woke up their alter egos

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 6: 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

title: haunted bang synopsis: when you decided to explored a haunted mansion, all you wanted was to gain more knowledge for your grimoire. you never expected it to be habited, even less for all the residents to agree that sharing is caring. [1.8K] cw: wizard!reader, teratophilia, monster fucking, gangbang, voyeurism, size difference, manhandling, mind connection, scent kink, oral (f!receiving), pet play, pussy drunk, overstimulation, you know that post about "would you fuck your clone?", f in v, monsters included are a eldritch creature, a werewolf, a vampire and a shapeshifter.

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There is so many rumors about the mansion. Some believe it to have been built on top of an ancient cemetery, ending the ghost’s slumber. Others, that a coven filled every room with protection runes to preserve the soul of the late owners. A journal published a profile for an architect that died a day after the construction was completed, but quick research showed he had nothing to do with it.

Lies and gossips spread easily, but those brave enough to walk into the dead-end street can see the truth by themselves. Whoever chained those doors did so sensibly, since nothing sane could ever come out of them. A darkness spreads from within the house.

After making your way in with an old pliers, you explored the first floor. There were many chances of turning away, all of them ignored willingly. At the end, all you had were two options: to stay at home safely, or possibly learning a new spell for your collection.

Wizards aren’t known for making the obvious, easy choice.

Since the moment you sensed the darkness this mansion casted, nothing would’ve convinced you of not coming back to explore the secrets within those walls of bricks and stones. You feel it even better now, this great deal of mana. It isn’t a cursed mansion, only a heavily enchanted one.

A relieved smile appeared on your face when you finally found a library. You invoked flames in the remaining candles on the chandeliers and sat down on a large armchair. With the books floating from their shelves and surrounding your body, you analyzed them quickly in search of something worth your time.

In a few minutes, you found it. Holding an old grimoire in your hands, you blew the dust away. Walking through the library, your excitement blinded you. You put the book down on a table, opening your own to copy any fun spell.

As you begin to read the grimoire, your eyes widened. It takes strength from great old forces, eldritch entities incomprehensible to the average mortal. Based on entropy, it alters the fabric of reality itself.

Ancient magic. Its use is highly forbidden, and usually punished with death. Cleaning your glasses on your skirt, you bended over the table and read every line with an unending curiosity.

The first touch went unnoticed. A soft, quick brush against your arm. As your thigh got pinched, you assumed it to be the work of a hungry insect. But when a cold aura surrounded you, embracing your body and soul, there was no doubt left.

Whatever old force empowers this place; it was right here. Right behind you.

Your quarterstaff materialized between your hands. Your grimoire floated, pages turning as you recite your strongest protection spell. Changing your posture, you were ready to fight.

The quiet nature of this threat shifted.

Something forced its way inside your mouth, putting an end to your attempt of using radiant magic. An invisible force, but not less palpable because of it. As you bit down, trying to stop it, you felt it pressing down on your tongue.

Intruder, a voice spoke inside of your head. Low and strident, all at once. Thief in the night.

A limb embraced your waist, leaving a gelid trace as it fit beneath your shirt. A hand grabbed your left thigh so roughly you had no reaction but to whine with your mouth full. Little by little, there wasn’t a muscle of your body free to fight back.

It lifted you from the ground, forcing your hands open. The quarterstaff disappeared in the air before hitting the floor. Higher and higher in the air, your body trembled. Fully involved by this coldness, you had no way of moving.

Usurper, she hissed inside your mind. Or was it a masculine voice? You couldn’t quite picture it. But thinking back about it, didn’t it groaned and roar? Was it even human? Nothing will harm my home.

Nothing will, you thought. If you could hear its voice, then it could hear you too. You hoped. I mean no harm. I swear.

LIAR.

I want to learn, you tried to bargain. I have no intentions of hurting anyone. I didn’t even know there was someone in here to harm. All I desire is to know more than others. Nothing more, nothing less.

The silence gave you an opportunity to look for your grimoire. Alone on the ground, it was so close and yet so far away. Even if it was near, with you unable to speak or move there were few spells you could cast. And none of them would be of any real practical help now.

A soft caress on your cheeks took you from your hushed thoughts. As your feet touched the floor, you stumbled trying to regaining your balance. It held you in place, the feeling soft and rough.

I can teach you everything I know, it whispered. For a cost. This time, the voice came with pictures in your mind. Do you want that?

In them, you saw yourself. Lips hanging open, forehead covered in sweat, eyes half-closed. You saw tears running down your face, legs spread and trembling, fingers closed tightly around the same table you used before.

And in them, you saw glowing eyes still hidden by darkness.

Yes, I want that.

The same careless limbs bended you over the table, but this time it was gentler. Less worried about safety, more worried about you. Holding your hands behind your back, it placed your legs apart.

Something cold touched your inner thighs. It moved against your skin, lingering. Once more, you invoked flames. Contorting your body, a gasp broke the silence. Kneeled down, eyes fixated on your thighs, you found a werewolf.

“Your scent”, he groaned. His face rubbed against you, inhaling shamelessly. His yellow eyes raised to yours, and in them you saw desperation. His muzzle went away from you and he smiled, displaying his sharp fangs. “Hold her still.”

Once he closed his mouth, you tried to move away. Not because you wanted for him to stop, but because how couldn’t you when he says that? You were forced down, back caressed and head scratched. Like a pet, you were kept still and quiet.

Your skirt was thrown away from your body and he… sniffed you? Half of you bare to whoever there to witness, with a monster between your legs. To know that you’re being watched only makes you desire this more. A huge tongue licked your pussy, you moaned. It was real, just a tad louder than it needed to be.

Putting on a show, it laughed inside your head. Keep on this good work and I might not let you walk away.

Your eyes closed as he continued to ravish you. Restless, he simply continued. Tongue deep into you, teeth sinking into your skin, lips sucking around your clit. Your legs were covered in drool, and you could feel it dripping from your aching core.

A hand grabbed your hair, forcing you to look up. A real touch this time. The candles showed you the tall woman in front of you, nails so long they could be mistaken by claws. Looking into her red eyes, you felt a primal urge inside you.

Everything inside you told you to run.

Nature is such a disappointing force. It is not your fault that you were born a prey, that ancient being spoke. Its voice oscillated, as if it was too far away and suddenly right against your ear. And it is not hers to be turned predator long ago.

“This delicate sparkle in your eyes”, a velvet voice made to your ears. Elegant, but sharp. She smiled, and the fangs weren’t a reason to act surprised. “You won’t allow it to dissuade you, will you? Don’t struggle. There is no use.”

Her free hand closed around your neck. A movement faster than you could see, but delicate enough for you to know she didn’t want you to break apart.

“You are mine now, puppy”, she smirked. “Put your mouth to use.”

As she put her knee on top of the table, moving the black dress enough for you to see her strong legs, the vampire pulled your hair again. “Yes, mistress”, you said.

Satisfied, she forced your head between her thighs. As the werewolf continued to torture your poor pussy, you treated hers like a wine you had to enjoy every little sip. It was easy to get eager, to get lost on your own never-ending pleasure, but you made sure to treat her nicely.

Every whimper of hers made you weaker. Every bite from him made you weaker. Every hold onto your skin, whispers inside your head, made you weaker.

It was no surprise your orgasm would break you in pieces. It was no surprise every single one of you would continue despise it.

As you breathed in, trying to get your legs to work, a hand came back to stroking your skin. It put you on top of the table as if you weighted nothing. Before you could flutter your eyes open, those skilled fingers were inside of you.

Touching in the right place, with the right pressure, at the exact right moment. It was perfect. Did this creature read your mind in a way or another? Or is this fate, and in this wretched place you find someone that really knows exactly how to fuck you properly?

“What a delight”, the vampire spoke. “May I drink from her now?

The werewolf hummed. “Look at her legs. Those pretty lips”, you heard him doing just that. “You can’t. Not yet. I need my plaything strong and capable for the night.”

“But do you really, old dog?” She argued. “No one will judge you for admitting you need to rest. No one but me, of course.”

Her mind is far more interesting, it spoke again. Apparently, everyone could hear it. Her memories taste even sweeter. What a fine thing found us this evening.

“How luck we are”, you said.

But you didn’t.

Opening your eyes, you saw yourself. Fingers deep into your cunt, mouth displaying the most annoying smirk. Eyes glistening with fake innocent.

“Fuck”, you babbled.

The smirk seemed to grow. “Your mind is a interesting place”, that thing said. Even her voice was the same as yours. “But I need to say, your body if far more comfortable.”

Looking into your eyes, all you could do was take it. Let this being have its fill of you. Watch for your tits move. The strechmarks on your waist. Your soft thighs. Those freckles on your skin.

Being used, watching yourself, its voice came back. You want this to stop?

You giggled. “Don’t tell me it’s over already?”

Not at all, the voice came back. Let’s move to the next floor.

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[bantarleton]

Thomas Dowdeswell, by Joseph Blackburn c. 1778. Dowdeswell was a Lieutenant and Captain (a ranking convention peculiar to the Brigade of Guards that I won’t get into here) in the 1st Foot Guards during the American Revolution, and this portrait shows him in the modified campaign uniform he wore in the early years of the conflict.

Superficially it follows what we might expect from an officer’s garb, but differs from standard regulations in many interesting ways. Firstly, Dowdeswell’s hat is not the cocked “tricorn” (to use the later term) that we’re used to – it’s been modified by being cut down into a small round hat, with the lace left off and only one side pinned up, plus a few feathers.

He carries a fusil and bayonet and the accoutrements that go with it – belting and a cartridge pouch, making him appear in this regard almost indistinguishable from a regular private soldier. It seems he doesn’t have a sword. He has kept his gorget and sash, but removed the gold lace from around his buttons. In fact, his regimental coat has been cut down to a jacket, with the skirts shortened.

Besides these more obvious modifications, there are many minor ones that set him apart, from the pointed design of the cuffs to the slender trim of white cord around his collar and turnbacks. It is an ensemble that doesn’t match most regulations, but fits with reality.

Officers rarely modified their uniforms wholesale during the war, but nor were they all strident followers of the 1768 regulations. The traditional rank signifiers of sash, gorget and epaulettes were sometimes present in different combinations. Not, of course, that a formal portrait necessarily denotes exactly what was worn during active service, but in Dowdeswell’s case he seems to have specifically worn his “campaign uniform.”

There are further caveats to this – the Brigade of Guards made a lot of specific uniform modifications prior to deploying to North America in 1776, but didn’t keep all of them up throughout the war. Officers dressed differently in different theatres and at different times.

But I think the Dowdeswell portrait gives a nice indication of some of the variation at play. Much of this comes from the brilliant research of Professor Gregory Urwin, who has studied and analysed hundreds of portraits of British officers from the period. For the full modifications undertaken by the Brigade of Guards in 1776, see this excellent article by William W. Burke and Linnea M. Bass https://www.military-historians.org/company/journal/guards/guards.htm 15/15

[tenjiiku]

on my mind / 18+, au

Springtime in Stockholm this year is particularly sunless. Nearly everyday since April it has rained. Under any other circumstances you would rejoice in such a situation. But you were a lonely adult with no ambitions — and the idea of romanticizing your life, at your cynical age, sent an unpleasant feeling to your stomach. So, you decided to surrender to these negative emotions for once and become a headache for everyone.

You had accommodated your afternoon to lounging around naked in your apartment and pleasing yourself on the sofa — but a spontaneous fire had broken out in another residence on the second floor of your building and they started evacuating everyone, so your plan had went bust the moment it had just started to become interesting.

At least you had done a bit of makeup and took a shower in the morning. You grabbed your keys, wallet, walkman, earbuds, coat, descended the stairs of your building with a skip to your walk and listened to The Smashing Pumpkins on the way to nowhere.

(You got rid of your phone to avoid confrontation from your in-laws. This was when you still resided in Japan — when you still tried amending for things out of your control.

You quit your full-time job and resorted to the frugal life you used to live when you were just a student. In hindsight, it was a terrible idea. You could have sold it and made some money. It probably would have paid for rent. Alas, it was quite cathartic watching it fall into the river below the bridge you stood over at the time — alone, pathetically alone — humming a Beethoven piece.

You watched it go down, down, down. And then you had started to cry and sob and bawl and scream — alerting the parents of the few children who passed by you on the way to the slide. You remember being particularly happy only about the fact that no one in the neighbourhood knew who you were or what exactly you were doing. You lived like a ghost in your own community. The ducks in the pond gazed at you though, unwary by your strident behaviour and all too familiar with your strangeness.

Twenty minutes after the deed was done you had acquired a walkman to listen to your tunes.

You remember getting very drunk that day.)

You make it three kilometres past your building, walking soundlessly on the pavement, nearing a park when a Nissan pulls up beside you. You flinch a little, and hurry your pace — believing someone is about to abduct you. However, when the driver rolls down the window of their passenger seat you stop when you hear a familiar voice call out to you to slow down.

“You’re going to catch a cold, idiot.”

You turn and your grimace fades into a smile at the sight of the man.

“And will you take care of me if I do, Oliver?”

He doesn’t answer your question, making you pout — not because you feel upset at his indifference, but because you do not care to be cordial with anyone anymore. Oliver has matured with the years and you have become a shallow, rude person. A tall infant.

It is funny, what ageing does to a monster.

“Why are you roaming the streets during a storm?”

“Because I love to be dramatic. It is one of my favourite hobbies. I like to think that someone is watching from their balcony,” you point to a complex nearby, “and is fantasizing about what they’d do with me if they had the chance to buy me a drink and treat me to dinner. You know, I am mysterious like that.”

Oliver stares at you soundlessly.

“Get in.”

You get in without another word.

You sigh at the warmth of the heat permeating in his car. Sinking into the leather seat, you ignore the way he looks at you like a wet dog. You gaze down at yourself, the silk dress shirt you brazenly chose to wear is soaked through, exposing the lovely lace you decided to put on beneath it. The mini-skirt also presses against your equally soaked legs, and you think if you adjust your position in any other way you will expose your underwear. You decided that since you were unable to get yourself off someone else would be willing to.

Meeting your old acquaintance from many seasons ago today, of all days, was not on your mind.

Your trench coat — your ex-husband’s trench coat which you stole because it is three thousand dollars of authentic leather — is soaked, but you use it to cover your chest. Though you have known Oliver since you were eleven years old — and him five — and know almost everything about him, you do not want him to know you this intimately.

He merges into the traffic. You turn away from him, not knowing what to say to fill the silence. You wonder if he had tried to contact you when he came back to Japan. Last time you saw him you were getting married and he was seeing four women simultaneously (Ai-chan, Sana-chan, Emi-san and you forget the name of the fourth one).

That was ten years ago. You thought Oliver would never change. Looking at him now, he looks tepid. Tame, compared to his twenties.

You laugh at the concept. Oliver looks at you, stopping at a red light.

“My building burst into flames,” you sigh offhandedly, a snort of amusement escaping your lips.

He turns his head to you so animatedly it is hard to hold back your smile.

“What?”

“Relax. It is not my apartment. Someone on the second floor was barbecuing in their balcony,” you hum, grinning at him with your teeth because you whitened them the other day. He looks away from you with a grimace, so you continue to talk, “I thought they were testing the fire alarms until I looked outside and saw everyone running for the hills. I wandered around for a bit outside but they aren’t letting anyone back in for a few hours. This is the second fire this month, I am starting to think this community is bad luck.”

Oliver does not respond. You have half the mind to ask him how he found you. A friend of a former friend in your old neighbourhood told you that everyone pronounced you insane when you first left. A divorced women living alone with no children — the title alone was considered blasphemy in your congregation. They were right about one thing — but it was not because of your many qualms or your failure to keep a spouse that caused you to lose your mind.

You think this festering feeling had begun to grow when you were merely seven years old. You were better at hiding it back then. Oliver was terrible at it — making the world his oyster.

Everything has changed. You are thirty three and he is twenty seven.

“Were you looking for me?” You ask softly.

Oliver clutches onto the steering wheel. His neck jolts to the left but it doesn’t make a sound. He purses his lips and turns up the speed of the windshield wipers.

“I was in the neighbourhood. My date flaked so I bought pad thai.”

You nod your head, mouth forming an O-shape. He says something under his breath to the effect of Yeah, I know. Feeling a bit awkward talking to a young man about failing to get laid, you stare out the window and place your frozen hands beneath your thighs. A minute later, you respond.

“Can I have some?”

He laughs. You tilt your head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Realizing this is the first time you have seen Oliver in many, many years, you correct your behaviour. Though the possibility of him becoming normal is thin, it is never impossible. You murmur lowly, “I mean… I am sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, shaking his head.

You decide that is enough talking for now. The heat of the car, though it dries your clothes, makes you feel uncomfortable. Your dress doesn’t stick to you anymore and you feel colder than ever. Raising your hands to the blower motor, you sigh, feeling a shiver go down your spine. Oliver makes a left turn into a residential street, a more relaxing environment.

“I’ve tried to reach you for the past two weeks, since I got back. Did you change your phone number?”

Humming and stretching the tendrils of your neck, you make a noise akin to a choke and a grunt.

“I threw my phone in a river.”

Oliver snaps his head towards you, eye wide. You sink further into your seat, feeling embarrassed that a man like himself is pitying you.

“I erased it beforehand. If some creep fished it out everything important is already gone.”

A moment passes. Then two.

“You’re crazy, woman. Really. Absolutely psychotic — you do know this?” He huffs, shaking his head before looking back out the front mirror. You find it wholly amusing that Oliver, of all people, is calling you such. But it is nothing out of the ordinary.

You grin like a crazed girl. “Oh. Tell me more. Keep going.”

He makes a face that cannot be described. He shakes his head and murmurs a profanity beneath his breath.

“Come on,” you sing, hitting his shoulder with your hand, “You are nice to everyone but me.”

He grins a little. He tries not to. You know a lot about men like him. Spent a decade trying to decode their behaviour. You never got anyone. You are stupid.

“Yeah. Because you’re different,” he says. Though you have an inkling he is lying.

“Different in a good way?”

“Different in a way that you know how to talk my head off.”

“Awh. That makes me special, doesn’t it?” You ask, batting your eyelashes.

He doesn’t answer. Which makes you think you said something offensive or wrong. So you shrink back like a good girl and shut up, because that is what you are best at. You look out the window and start to think.

Oliver is old. You are old. Oliver is levelheaded. You are a child.

Everything is new. Everything is scary.

.

Things have always been the same ever since you were 19. Except you were not really sure when exactly you turned 19. You still strongly believe you are 17. Time has felt as more of a concept than a real thing. You miss your mom most days then remember a sour memory and feel instantly better. You feel ugly — a decrepit mutant living in the skin of a woman. Most days you want nothing to do with yourself. Other days you believe everyone in the world wants you — truly desires you.

You cannot afford a therapist. You cannot go back home. You cannot quit working, because then you cannot afford a coffee everyday. You would be fine living in a cardboard box, if it called for it. You think you would be fine with doing anything — including inviting yourself into a past childhood friend’s home whom you haven’t seen in many years.

(He can be a psychopath. This could be the last people hear of you.)

“Why do you own a fucking walkman?” He asks as you disassociate on his sofa. Your walkman is tossed on top of your wet coat that lounges on the coffee table, because Oliver doesn’t own any hangers.

“I have to listen to my tunes… I’d go insane! Keeps me closer to my roots,” You exclaim, a little louder than you wanted to. You make a small, indistinguishable choking noise. You try to brush it off as you crack open the can of soda Oliver’s brought you (he’s been sober for 6 months, shockingly). But you think he notices, because he stares at you like you have a ghost seated between you both.

“You’re so damn weird.”

You nod, tucking your bottom lip into your mouth. Oliver coughs, rummaging with the bag of takeout. It smells good but you do not feel hungry. Oliver shoots you a look and you shake your head. He probably feels the same way you do, because he gets up from his spot next to you on the love-seat and takes the pad thai with him into the kitchen.

You take the twenty seconds he’s gone to scope out his apartment. It is cleaner than you expected it to be. Smaller, too. There’s a hallway that leads somewhere deeper into his apartment. You have half the mind to wander off. He probably would not mind — you deserve to be intrusive considering he took over most of your adolescence dealing with his erratic tendencies. He has an abstract painting of a monkey and a cloud hung up over a table where multiple appliances sit — a rice cooker, coffee machine, four clocks and a small ceramic plate with multiple keys sitting atop it.

Oliver returns with a soda in hand. He sits next to you. You lean your head back against his couch, looking towards the popcorn ceiling. He copies you.

“What have you been up to, recently?”

You giggle, “Well, I wait for my alimony payments. Then, I like to frequent the ICA five minutes away and make stories about the people there. If they are kind to me, I like to picture them with the loves of their lives. If they are not, I like to imagine them bitter and alone.”

Oliver stills beside you. Then he sighs.

“Any other recent activities that you actually enjoy?” He asks, sighing. He has been doing that a lot, you realize. You have half the mind to accuse of him accusing you of not enjoying judging others, but you let it pass because you are all forgiving.

“Recently I have been trying to workout.”

He chuckles, “How’s that?”

“I just run around in the park and scare the children. None of the parents like me, I think.”

“Yeah. I’d understand them.”

You raise a foot to kick him. Oliver catches it. His hand is cold against the sole of your toes and you feel your stomach drop.

“Let go of my foot,” you say, trying to wiggle free. But the grip Oliver has on your foot is too tight.

“Apologize.”

You don’t want to but you want this exchange to end so you murmur a small, “…Sorry.”

“Good girl.”

He lets go of your foot. You cringe a little at the name he referred to you as and the way he said it. You wonder if he is also regretting uttering such a thing. You cannot believe you are in his apartment. You don’t say anything else, the sudden awareness hitting you like a truck deems you unreadable and full of anxiety. You want to go home.

“Any ladylike habits you’ve developed during the time I’ve been gone? Or do you still like to behave like a stray cat?”

You really want to go home. You sigh, a little peeved, even more than usual because for the first time you do not have alcohol in your system. Curling your feet up and resting your chin on your knees, you wrap around your legs and stare at Oliver soundlessly.

“You’re exactly like baba. He didn’t think I’d be able to manage for this long either,” you accuse.

Oliver nods slowly, drinking your words. A little harsh, but the truth. The elephant had been in the room for quite some time. Was in the car ride here as well. But you are feeling angry and uncomfortable so you have no qualms with uncovering it right now.

“Is that why you refuse to come back home?”

Oliver asks, his voice the softest you have ever heard it to be. Usually you would get a sample of it when he’d call girls in the middle of a family gathering, tucked away near the dining area while you were made to clean the dishes. He’d join you after the call to tell you about her and the other girls he ran into at the bar. He was only eighteen at the time. You probably should have looked after him a little better — but you had your own variety of problems at the bitter age of twenty four and you were scared of teenage boys and teenage love. So you forgive yourself if only for a fraction of a moment before your mind rudely invades your senses and reprimands you for your sheepish behaviour and cowardly disregard.

The cycle continues again and again and again — a clock with no arms but endless of tickings. It never stops. You don’t think it ever will. You don’t think you will ever want to go back to feeling like that — to go back home. What ever were you doing for twenty years?

“I don’t want to come home for a plethora of reasons,” you murmur.

“Plethora. That’s a big word. Where’d you learn that from?”

You seethe as his audacity and roll your eyes. Your tone is blatantly drenched in annoyance, “From basic grammar classes. You’d know if you actually paid attention in junior high and didn’t pay me to do your assignments.”

You sounded meaner than you intended to be. Oliver brought out the worst from you. Though you know you are a terrible person, he never reminds you of it. Rather, he brings to you a sense of awareness that is enough to make you drop to your knees.

The rain outside is loud — imposing and beautiful. Blue light drenches the room. It paints Oliver’s chiseled features and it soothes you.

“I missed you,” he whispers into the quiet.

You shift slightly where you sit. You look down at your lap, caressing the sides of the soda you hold with two hands.

“Okay…”

“I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Like, really. I mean it.”

You laugh uncomfortably, cracking your neck. Your eyebrows raise and you feel your pupils shrink, “I mean, thanks, I guess. I don’t know.”

The rain sounds louder now. With Oliver sitting beside you, you feel as though you are in Japan. You feel at home. It is a disgusting, horrid feeling. You never want to go back.

“You’ve changed.” He whispers into the soundless room. His voice and his attitude have shrunk from his early twenties. He seems like a petulant child who has been left alone for several days.

You turn your head to him. You furrow your eyebrow and pick at your bleeding cuticle of your right index finger. You hate him. You hate people like him. Assuming you are a constant fixture — like a lamp they bought once, believing you will illuminate at their command.

“You’ve changed, asshole.”

Oliver laughs at this, pissing you off more.

“How?”

“You’re clean shaven.” You mumble, pressing your thighs together and raising your legs, turning them away from Oliver’s, “I mean… no rough patches. And your hair is more… put together.”

Oliver hums and his lips lift into a half-smirk, “So, what you’re saying is that I’ve mellowed out?”

Your lips lift up into a pitiless grin, “I mean. Yeah. A little.”

“You’ve gotten shorter.”

“That’s not a thing, idiot.”

“I know. It’s just…, you look so much more…unkempt.”

“That’s a unique choice of word. Maybe you were paying attention in school.”

The conversation dips into a small lull. You hear the vents start up and the white noise sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. You wrap the sherpa-lined throw around your body. It smells like Oliver. You rub your legs together.

“Sayori-san got married last month. Ma told me.”

(Sayori, your high-school boyfriend’s, Makato’s, illicit affair. You have never had luck with men. Or their taste in women.)

“That witch got married? Let me guess, to that pushover, Makoto?”

“Nah. Some foreigner who works at a bank in America. Think his name is Leon.”

You snort at this.

“Can’t believe that wench got into a committed relationship before me.”

“Well, least it’s not Makoto marrying her.”

“That asshole can have her. I couldn’t care less,” you spit, chuckling into your soda. You take a sip and feel Oliver’s eyes examine the column of your neck. You feel a little self conscious so you massage it with your cold hand, turning away and looking at the carpet by your feet.

Oliver is silent for a moment, then he says, “You’ve grown more vulgar. You used to be so nervous around everyone. Ma made me go with you everywhere.”

You look at him and feel Oliver shrink under your gaze. You smile. You both came from the same congregations — both of you knew the rules. You, sooner than Oliver. Him, later than you. And yet years later you are the only one suffering the consequences, it seems. What good was it — all those years wasted on something that was to only die? Oliver was shameless, egocentric and everything above overzealous. But he lived fruitfully. You could not say the same for yourself. Not back then, and not even now.

“Well, you sort of lose all of your apprehensions when you’re in your mid-thirties and have been through your first divorce.”

It comes out before you can stop it. You do not care anymore. Oliver’s pity comes swiftly and with pain.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and sigh. You open your mouth and a noise between a gasp and yawn leaves. You open it, close it, and open it again.

“You know. I think I loved him at one point, and I hope he loved me. But I don’t think he ever did. I dropped out of school for him. Worked three jobs for him, at one point. Quit, because he told me it made him look bad. I listened to his every word. I made his interests mine. I think I fell in love with the times he chose to love me.”

Oliver is too quiet. You look at him and swallow the breath that becomes stuck in your throat, sighing softly.

“How come you never told me this?”

Your lips lift slightly, and you bite your bottom one to stop from smiling. Shrugging your shoulders, you mumble tepidly, “You would have called me stupid. I mean, I was. I guess I was sort of in denial. And, you were in your own little world. Who am I?”

“What made you leave?”

You laugh at his question. It is funny that Oliver is the only person offering you sympathy in this situation. When you had told your mother she’d called you stupid.

“He was sleeping with a coworker. I found them leaving a love hotel I passed by on the way home, carrying groceries to make him dinner.” You huff a little, feeling a tightness grow in your throat. “Mother told me stay with him, ‘He makes good money. You should stay with him. He’ll fix his habits if you give him a little more attention. Lose some weight.’ I knew he started working at a good company. I managed to stay a while longer.”

You feel Oliver come closer to you. His body radiates a warmth that feels very familiar and comforting to you. You do not dare voice this concern. You hope he notices how your legs twitch and your knees touch.

“He asked for a divorce soon after. I agreed, thinking it would make him happy. He got with his coworker three days later,” you laugh again, feeling a little nervous with Oliver’s eyes on you, “I am a stupid woman! But I guess you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re not,” he hisses, and he sounds mad. Which does not make any sense. It does not make sense why he is so angry at the accusation of your being stupid. And what is more concerning, is why Oliver of all people is mad on your behalf, “You’re not stupid. Not in the slightest.”

You rub your eye and you finally turn your gaze to him. You smile at the way his face falls flat, “Thanks for the words. Maybe Watari would have stayed if I told him them.”

You look at Oliver. Really look at him. He really is clean shaven. His hair is no more, a shaved buzzcut replacing it. You sort of miss the way his hair would fall on his forehead. Staring at him like this feels wrong. Like the two of you are children again. In a way, you almost could be taken for such, given your behaviour in the recent years.

“You two always got along quite well. I should have known.” You mumble, shaking your head and smiling down at your can. You sigh, placing it on the coffee table as Oliver utters.

“What are you talking about?”

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that?” You retort, looking at Oliver accusingly. He stills and you think he knows what you are getting at.

“You’re exactly like Watari. He thought I was stupid. I can be oblivious sometimes but I’m not daft,” you furrow your eyebrow, suddenly growing mad. You do not know why you are angry. “I’m not a little girl anymore. Everyone… everyone thinks I’m dumb. I’m not. I never was.”

“I know,” Oliver says, sternly and louder than you. It scares you and you flinch. He sighs and rubs his forehead .

“Fuck. You think I don’t know?” He mumbles. He is closer than ever now. A large palm suddenly touches your cold face. You melt into it and feel your lips tremble.

“I want to kill him for what he did to you,” he hisses. And for the first time in your life you can confidently state that Oliver is telling the truth.

It makes you smile. You feel his breath against your lips. The winds of the typhoon grow louder. The ticking of the clock you gave Oliver years ago, hangs on his wall, and is loud and imposing. The drink you had earlier might as well have been alcoholic.

“Are you going to touch me?” You whisper.

You feel Oliver’s hand twitch.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he mumbles.

Taking that as his omission, you take the other large hand resting on your thigh to your breast. Awkwardly and nervously, he touches you.

“Touch me here,” you murmur lowly, sighing as he kneads the muscle.

He listens, the knuckle of his index finger teasing your nipple. You moan softly, dragging him closer by the collar of his shirt and pressing your lips against his.

His mouth is warm and inviting. Unfamiliar, which was to be expected considering you had never kissed anyone but Watari before. The idea makes an itch grow between your legs. You feel your knees buck, and Oliver senses this too. He breaks the kiss, flushed cheeks and all, and helps you undo your shirt and bra.

“Yeah? Where else?” He mumbles against your collar, and you mewl when his warm hand travels down, under your skirt, “Where else do you want me, baby? I’m yours.”

You arch your back, tears filling your eyes when his hands find purchase on your underwear, massaging your clit through the lace. You laugh a little (suddenly realizing who it is who is touching you), which slowly morphs into a moan as Oliver kneads it a bit rougher — probably in response to your amusement.

“Oliver,” you whine, hissing as he peels your wet underwear off and massages your clit directly. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, whimpering as he slips in a long, thick finger — reaching a part of you that has not been touched in months.

“Yeah? Yeah, baby?” His voice is deep and naughty, raspy in a kind way. He asks you gently, nibbling at your earlobe as you drench around his digits, “You like the way I touch you? Yeah?”

Your hips buck when he slips in a third, and you feel yourself starting to reach a high already. It feels scary and unfamiliar, but you welcome it because it is so close.

“Please—Please?” You whimper, a questioned tone to your wrecked voice. Oliver does not response directly, choosing to furrow his eyebrows at your moans and swallow them with his mouth.

His fingers dig deeper into your cunt, and you bite down on his lip when you come. He hisses in your panting mouth, and as your chest heaves up and down, you watch as he licks the fingers that were inside you moments ago, languidly, with his tongue. You blush, and look away, not knowing how to respond to his attempts of seducing you. And you suddenly realize you are half-naked on the sofa of your childhood friend you abandoned, who just made you come on his fingers as though it was second-nature to him.

“Oliver,” you whisper, voice raw. He shushes you, and stands up with you in his arms. You let your head fall on his broad chest, and you shiver as his warm body envelopes your cold one.

“Let’s take this inside,” Oliver murmurs against your temple, softly and gently. He treats you the same — like you are fragile and precious, like you are worthy of being treated like fine goods.

His bedsheets are warm and they smell of the laundry detergent your mother used to wash your clothes. You were fifteen when she stopped doing so.

It is why you are gone in the morning before he awakes. Leaving a memo behind and stealing 200 SEK from the jar by his nightstand and your underwear on the floor by the bed-frame.

.

Oliver. It is not because of you I left. It is not because of Watari. It is not because of anyone. Thank you for everything. Truly.

[cultfed]

the  world  holds  no  room  for  child-like  wonder;  morbid  be  the  boy  whose  eyes  sought  the  nameless.   vindicated  by  excuses,  children  were  so  inclined  to  vivid  imaginations,  pay  no  heed  to  the  terror  writhing  at  blackened  peripherals.  he  understood  silence,   the  necessity  to  hold  one’s  tongue,  even  as  strident  chatter  rung  in  his  ears,   the  grotesque  creaking  of  a  neck  as  it  rotated  to  stare  at  him,  unblinking.   his  stomach  churned ,  hands  clammy.   he  yearned  to  tow  his  mother’s  skirt ,  seek  haven  in  the  familiar ,   he  wondered  what  that  reprieve  was  like.   swatting  hands,  dismissive  -  tremoring.   she  raised  her  voice  enough  to  drown  them  out  until  her  rejection  was  the  only  sound.   he  sat ,   eyes  affixed  to  translucent  wings,   in  the  light  they  shone  prismatic.  it  was  too  large  to  be  an  insect ,   too  other-wordly  to  herald  from  anything  other  than  his  imagination.   the  other  children  avoid  him ,  laughter  raucous ,  its  wings  echoing  a  soft   hum  as  it  takes  off.   a  rock  skitters  to  a  halt  in  its  shadow  ,   retrieving  him  from  the  apparition’s  thrall.  he  doesn’t  know  whose  voice  it  is  but  one  of  them  lurches  forward  ,   hands  planted  firmly  on  his  hips ;  calling  him  a  weirdo,  a  freak.   he  wanders  home  that  day,  fingers  wrapped  firmly  around  his  bag  straps  turning  it  over  in  his  thoughts.   a  freak ,   was  his  mother  right.  his  father  was  not  inclined  to  hear  of  his  drivel  but  did  not  don  consternation  in  the  furrow  of  his  brow  like  his  mother.   he  comes  home  late ,  the  sky  pitch  black,   even  the  stars  withered  in  his  wake.   a  man  walks  in  behind  him ,   an  important  person,  the  stark  white  of  his  clothes  and  kindness  that  creases  his  eyes  says  so.   he  says  that  this  child  will  find  salvation,   his  parents  are  relieved  so  it  must  be  a  good  thing.  others visit  sometimes,  often  in  the  evenings  and  are  met  with  profound  gratitude ,  he  had  learnt  to  also  be  thankful even  though  he  did  not  know  why.  he  learns  that  reticence  appeases  them,  that  his  uncanny  descriptions  are  the  reason  he  is  disliked.  he  ruminates  upon  it ,   asking  quietly  why  he  is  the  only  one  who  can  see  them.  the  neighbours  have  stopped  coming  over  ,  he  doesn’t  inquire  why  but  his  mother’s  face  tightens  around  their  ostracism.  her  words  wane  into  cruelty,  her  patience  a  river  -  dried ,   earth  worn  down.   his  father  says that  they  will  be  moving  soon  and  that  there  will  be  no  more  of  his  absurd  ramblings.  he  doesn’t  look  forward  to  it  -  but  feels  that  he  should.  dark  lashes  flutter ,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  tree  he’s  fallen  into  the  past.  it  haunts   him  sometimes ,  a  dull  aching.   part  of  him  wants  to  return  to  his  youth  if  only  to  tell  the  child  that  he  is  not  alone.  laughter  passes  the  familiar  ,  blithe  grin  of  his  classmate  -  satoru  and  somewhere  ,  under  the  warmth  of  the  afternoon  sun,  a  translucent  pair  of  wings  flutter.  

a little rambling i've had in my brain courtesy of @sugurau's hc's. <3

[okruchlodu]

The air outside is sharp and cold, wet with the promise of rain. A stillness hangs in the air, a dead-weight. There’s a sense of foreboding in the chilling frost that encroaches upon the city of Cidaris; a warning, something desolate and hungry about it– too much ice. Winter will soon come, harsh deep and pure, drowning the Continent in its frosty darkness. Yennefer does not mind it; she is shadow and frost herself, a sharp shard of ice, will not warm under a warm touch; has only ever warmed for him; and now he's gone and she has shut that warmth inside an icy heart, unyielding, fixed, unreachable, malefic. There's only cold water under the ice, only sharp winds. She does not mind it; here, in her winter, she is powerful; here in her winter, she does not wilt: she thrives. No one can touch her. Nothing can crawl under her skin; only what she allows.

Yet, life remains, around her. The city is vibrant and thriving in breathless anticipation of the ball meant to be thrown at Vartburg castle tonight, pulsing with energy, the strident bustle of Seaside Bazaar at noon, the ornate streets full of people from the world over. White houses adorned with sloping roofs which glint like shards of shattered glass under the harsh glare of a cold sun, swarm the square and from an open window, a child can be heard, squalling like a seagull. A flock of crows abruptly rises from the frozen cobblestones like dark brume, crowding the skies above. Murmurs of song, and roars of laughter pierce the air which too thrums like a thing alive, and merchants bawl and shriek over the roaring of the furious ocean, flaunting their goods, the many curiosities brought to the port from the world over, many of them, truly astounding. The sea on the horizon burns like a jewel. The creaking of a carriage through the streets, then, black horses snorting and stamping their hooves as it comes to a halt. A man emerges from it, undoubtedly a sorcerer in his coal black garments, the sharp, coldness of his eyes. He has dark, slightly waving deep brown hair that falls to his shoulders, a sharp jaw bristling with stubble and hooded eyes, fire bright and full of amusement. At his ear, some magical symbol, a singular earring, glimmers.

Yennefer of Vengerberg, swathed in black silks and velvet, soon follows, grasping at his forearm so that she might not slip; she descends from the shadows like river water, dark and mysterious, gleaming obsidian. Her violet gaze, cold and aloof, dispassionate and menacing, drapes to her feet as she gathers the rich silks of her black skirts in one lace-gloved hand, flowing around shapely legs; her face, pale under the sunlight, radiates with fierce, provocative beauty. Dangerous. Shamelessly alluring. And dazzling. She tosses her head and draws the hood of her ink black velvet cloak trimmed with white fur back, shakes out her hair, and a mass of raven black curls cascades down her back to her waist. They ripple and shimmer under the sun, like spun silk. She deigns to smile at their driver, bestows an apathetic, cool look upon him. The mage draws her closer and she links her arm with his, says something sharply when he asks her a question. She's beauty and menace, loose hair and an excessively tightened belt round a willowy waist, a lace halterneck, plum lipstick. Wonderfully narrow, full lips press into a sharp smirk as she hastily unfastens the brooch from her cape, revealing white lace under its velvet, enveloping her breast. The sweet scent of crushed lilacs and gooseberries fills the air around her, mixing with the sharp tang of the sea coming to her in long slow drifts as they begin to pick their way down to the square, as she huffs coldly, says something to her companion, nervously toying with the obsidian star hung upon her slim throat, its active diamonds pulsating, sparkling like silvered flames.

The sky above them crackles with distant thunder.

@itinerunt

[tertuliadetodo]

From the streets of Manhattan to Ipanema's beach without scales, Carolina Herrera arrives with her first show in Brazil

On the first of June, the brand Carolina Herrera did her first fashion show outside of New York, and they chose nothing more or less than Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The city was the one to present the Resort 2024 collection.

When we think of Brazil, we almost feel the smell of the sea, the sunscreen, and the joy that comes with the summer. This essence was the inspiration for Wes Gordón, the creative director, to make this collection.

The day of the show started with a lovely sunset and a particular challenge: a storm rose above the city, but far from inhibiting the people, it made bloom a particular emotion because, on that day and until June 30th, the time of the Festas Juninas is inaugurated. San Antonio, San Juan, and San Pedro are thanked, but they also ask for rains that generate a good harvest. The water created the perfect climate for the models, who had to recreate the girl from Ipanema.

The runway: a sunny day of vacation almost indoors

The collection was characterized by colors and textures that were everywhere. Flowered dresses, fringed skirts, polka dot prints, and barefoot models with heels in hand were seen throughout the show. The mixture of the elegance that characterizes Carolina Herrera with the stridentness of Brazilian culture generated a balance that allowed fantasy in the mundane. Carolina managed to show that holidays and everyday life are nothing more than an open show. Not surprising, this season she sought to portray the world with a "reinforced spirit of relaxed confidence."

Although the New York style was not left out since the accessories achieved the fusion between the wonderful city and the one that never sleeps, A new collection of sunglasses accompanied by elegant and, at the same time, funny heel shoes was presented

Golden closure on the Brazilian night

The collection itself was not only a challenge due to climate issues but also because of what it meant to break into a country with a very different lifestyle. In times of the internet and a booming culture of cancellation, it is highly difficult for these combinations to be correctly achieved. However, it seems that Carolina Herrera passed the test. The brand knew how to mix the best of each world, generating new designs that they transmitted to each place without losing their essence. Chapeaux for this challenge achieved in pure color!

[ireflame]

@goyouku

They  bask  in  the  after-glow  of  death  as  if  they  were  godlike,  scarcely  swathed  in  the  gossamer  cotton  of  cheap  hotel  bed  sheets  they  verge  upon  something  divine.  It  was  reverence  that  compels  him  to  notice  it,  the  spun-gold  of  his  tousled  hair,  the  wide,  obsidian  depths  of  his  eyes,  the  way  his  pursed  mouth  curled  up  at  the  corners  and  became  an  incarnation  of  the  sun.  If  anything,  touya  todoroki  was  an  irredeemable  sinner,  all  that  his  filthy  hands  touched  were  sullied  with  ash  and  death.  Yet,  somehow,  beneath  his  influence  the  hero  spread  the  majestic  crimson  of  his  plumage  and  sang  his  name  like  a  sinful  hymn.  fuck,  he  really  was  high.  His  hands  pause  in  their  ministrations  as  Hawks  grins,  lackadaisical  and  overtly  fond.  When  their  foreheads  came  to  rest  together  the  rest  of  the  world  was  swept  away,  the  climbing  tendrils  of  darkness  burgeoning  and  rendering  every  other  detail  nugatory.  It  was  as  if  it  were  just  the  two  of  them  suspended  in  that  darkness,  nothing  else  could  encroach  on  whatever  their  degenerate  hearts  desired  when  they  were  this  high,  this  content.  Dabi  would  have  had  a  visceral  response  to  the  honeyed-murmuring  of  the  amorous  hero  but  right  now  he  was  malleable,  forged  of  undulating  tides  and  keenly  aware  of  every  breath  that  they  shared.  When  they  kiss  however  it  turns  molten,  the  fire  that  inched  beneath  his  skin  recast  from  ire  to  lust,  every  collision  of  their  mouths,  the  way  Hawks  tongue  presses  in  past  his  teeth  curling  around  the  protruding  metal  bar,  it’s  all  augmented  by  the  drugs,  emphasized  to  the  point  of  blinding  euphoria. 

His  hand  drifts  from  where  it  was  resting  curled  in  his  hair  to  his  throat,  cradling  the  back  of  his  neck  as  they  kiss,  the  room  pervaded  with  the  obscene  sound  of  their  mounting  desire.  He’s  so  immersed  in  it,  in  the  way  their  edges  blur  and  unify,  the  way  Hawks  sucks  on  the  invasive  tip  of  his  tongue  earning  a  guttural  groan  that  he  almost  doesn’t  hear  the  strident  wail  of  his  phone  as  his  ring-tone  plays  again,  again  and  again.  He  makes  an  indignant  noise  in  the  back  of  his  throat,  frustration  languorously  draws  his  brows  to  furrow,  the  hero’s  feathers  skirting  along  his  peripherals  in  a  streak  of  nebulous  crimson  before  returning  with  his  pants  hanging  pendulously.  Hawks  rustles  around  in  them,  pulling  out  the  offending  phone,  he  doesn’t  get  a  chance  proper  to  even  consider  his  response  to  it  when  Dabi’s  demeanor  shifts. His  hands,  which  had  been  previously  occupied  with  grabbing,  caressing  all  but  outright  fondling  Hawks,  launches  out  and  seizes  the  infernal  device  between  his  gaunt  fingers.  It’s  too  late,  even  if  the  hero  had  urged  the  caller  to  fuck  off  and  call  back  later,  Dabi  has  taken  notice  of  the  large,  lurid  colour  of  text  that  blurred  in  and  out  of  focus  across  the  screen.  every  nerve  ending,  every  synapse,  burned.  ❝  kinda  rude  interruptin’  use  like  that,  don’t  y’ever  stop  working.  ❞  the  innocuous  gaze  that  blinked  up  at  him,  inert  and  glittering  gold,  doesn’t  seem  to  be  fully  cognizant  of  the  danger  he’s  put  himself  in.  His  hand  retreats  and  he  opens  it  to  reveal  the  phone,  or  what  was  left  of  it,  the  viscous  metal-plastic  that  encased  it  was  melting,  the  lines  of  his  hand  glowing  blue  with  heat  under  the  wan  light  overhead. 

❝  can’t  go  askin’  a  guy  to  fuck  your  brains  out  whilst  you’ve  got  someone  else  on  the  side-lines,  you’re  gonna  make  me  jealous. ❞   he  slurs  cruelly,  with  each  elongated  word  the  phone  slowly  liquefies,  the  screen  shudders,  flashing  a  myriad  of  very-wrong  colours  before  going  entirely  dark.  ❝   i’m  sure  you  won’t  miss  it.  ❞  he  leans  down,  that  fierce  fire  that  he  was  renowned  for  kindled  by  seeing  that  name  of  all  things  flashing  across  Hawks’  screen.  Dabi  kisses  him  again,  it’s  firm,  demanding,  sinking  his  teeth  into  a  soft  bottom  lip  and  pulling  back  just  enough  to  make  it  hurt.  He  laves  his  tongue  across  the  impression  in  apology  but  it’s  hardly  genuine.

[maxxmesii]

Leather jacket tailoring adds a significant value to products by maximizing their versatility and durability.

The coolness of leather jackets is undeniable, as they serve for being very stylish and radically bad as well. These are the faithful replicas of classic style for those who want to maintain their classy nature and give additional modern touch to the combination. However, the quality of a leather jacket demands more than simple staining; it needs an artistry tool to be manipulated delicately. Listening to Music during Workout Helps to Maintain Focus and Concentration ● Delicate Material: Leather, as a natural material is special due to its unique structure thus it requires specific handling. Its unique features such as reticulation or relief patterns that are its special qualities might be damaged due to strident chemicals, over wiping or neglect of appropriate cleaning habits. ● Preserving Softness: The act of nourishing a leather jacket goes beyond the cosmetic part only; you do have to submerge it into some kind of softener. It is prescriptive, emphasizing the specific methods, which must be used in order to deal with this problem. The cleaning process that covers all norms contained in thorough cleaning includes applying conditioner to leather coupled with removing any obvious stains and grime. Softening ensures the hair always stays moist and continues to glitter and shine. The process helps keep the hair satiny and luxuriously smooth. ● Preventing Discoloration: Though the time and the climate may be factors damaging leather jacket goods, but their compulsive presence will stand the tests of time. Insufficient or improper cleaning techniques can in exactly the same way bring about discoloration. Leather jackets are such delicate material and you don’t want them to get damaged, thus, the better approach is to use the services of a specialized cleaner, say you could use leather jacket alterations and leather skirt alteration  for that. Utilizing specific cleaning materials and techniques appraise the initial complexion of leather. A Use Case for Modification Steps In The Process Of Creating A Leather Jacket ● Gentle Yet Effective: But their dry cleaning also dries the leather and reduces the color and texture using less solvent-based treatments instead of water. ● Faultless finish: Professionals rather than DIY of course tailor alterations will be able to complete the leather repairs they know inside out and make a perfect end product. ● Preservation: The suit leather Hotfix ensures that the jacket keeps its shape, so the stretching or destruction, which is typical for the other alteration techniques, does not exist.

Vital - Procedures for Mending the Zipper of Your Leather Jacket However, while a minor flaw is not used for the Leather Jacket Zip Replacement and Leather Skirt alteration LUTON the investment in resolving it is not that much expensive. On a small stuff like a zipper popping out from the sides, you can be able to tighten the zip slider and the zipper runs smoothly and works great. As the case may be, the zipper that does not respond to a few corrective actions will completely require to undergo a total replacement. ● A zipper puller with improved grips. ○ A pair of pliers with fine-pointed ends. ● A zipper stopper with new style. Other than causing your image to be ruined, a broken zipper makes you me cautious when you want to give out your new jacket to someone else. Leather jacket alterations and Leather Skirt alteration Hitchin requires the special dealing of alterations, but the very same heavy use may not have the same staying power of the hardware. This kind of progress may point to the fact that equipment maintenance does not mean the machine can't be fixed—either by an expert or by you. Develop Your Leather Coat Experience. Get more and spend less. Finally, I would like to reiterate that prolonging the ageless fashion of your leather jacket means more than simple cleaning. Considering the fact that leather is such a sensitive material that must be handled with finesse, A&Z Tailor and Alterations is a well establish business that one can rely on for authentic Leather Alteration. Pride in the new look of this leather jacket, which marks the timeless and unbeatable impermeability to fashion and style.

[frankmillerturnonyourlocation]

Drabblecember 25: Exchanging Gifts

(another sequel fic! hoorah!)

Word Count: 200

Universe: Detective Pikachu

“Heyyy, hey!” Lucy’s chipped-glitter fingernail pointed a prosecutor’s dagger at her partner in crime. “Don’t even think about it.” 

“Maybe it’s my tradition to open presents the night before,” Tim said, crouching down by the tree skirt. “You don’t know.” 

“I’ll tell your dad.” 

“You think he’s any better than me? Don’t let him near these ‘til tomorrow.” Tim turned a present over in his hands, examining the shape and heft until he noticed the name tag and set it down with a huff. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh, Luce. You gotta come see these ones.” 

“Tim, if I looked at any one present for longer than a second, my brain’s deductive reasoning centers would take over, and I’d spoil it for myself,” she said, the curse of her strident dedication to the truth clearly weighing heavy on her shoulders. 

“You’re insane.” 

“About the sanctity of gift-giving.” 

Grinning dopily, Tim awkwardly draped his body over part of the box’s contour. “Here, I’ll cover it for you. Just come look at this paper!" 

Slowly: “Are those Psyduck?” 

“And Pikachu.” 

“He’s so sweet I could cry.” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“It’s so cute!” 

“Are you glad you looked now?” 

“And so poorly wrapped.” 

“…Yeah.”

[inkwell-intermission]

skirt and debutante toxic girl yaoi? evil yuri? its something

[alatusxiaoo]

first times

synopsis: the “firsts” he remembers with you. (and i can’t wait to make a million more first times, with you.)

character/s: albedo, childe, gorou, kaedehara kazuha, thoma, scaramouche, xiao

note: a short mostly fluff modern au! (because albedo brainrot <3)

albedo, the first kiss.

beneath a stifling monsoon season on a humid evening, hazy silhouettes in abandoned streets and distant blinking city lights, quiet rumbles of the occasional passing vehicles, his firm arms capturing your giddy frame as you both childishly run through the late and slumbering metropolis, moisture of the thick droplets of rain falling sticky against tightly pressed coats, the ghost of your pretty smile pushed against his damp lips at the nebulous memory of 12 am.

childe, the first night.

vague figures and tangled limbs together in the corner of an eclipsed room, illuminated television screen flashing classic and cheesy romance film marathons, the scent of popcorn wafting across his fingers as they absentmindedly comb through your unkempt hair, muffled whispers of childhood stories and the soft echoes of stifled laughter, teasing bright blue eyes that drown into yours, quiet heartbeats and drowsy smiles that linger until the break of dawn.

gorou, the first song that made you cry.

sun-drenched mellow studio and chilly air conditioner breeze, piles of vinyl assortments and record players, little teasing smiles and shyly intertwined fingers, subtle background guitar strums floating through the sequestered space, glazed irises and flushed cheeks as you throw your head back on his body snugly sprawled across cedar shades of the soft couch, comforting chuckles as he bashfully slides his lips onto yours to share an upside-down kiss.

kaedehara kazuha, the first drink.

reverberations of boisterous laughter dawdling through a lively and crowded club, the distant noise of clinked glasses accompanied by ensuing frisky cheers, rosy complexions and drunken smirks as his slender fingers tenderly caress your own, the overpowering flavors of your chosen alcoholic beverage as the foreign liquid slips between your lips, his seemingly proud expression as his arm sneakily wraps around the curves of your waist, lazy yet loving kisses pushed on the borders of your jawline and incoherent whispers of flirty remarks that fill the blur throughout the rest of your night.

thoma, the first look in your eyes when he said i love you.

sunsets with picnic benches and little skirts of daisies, viridescent irises and shy intimate whispers, dainty flowers carefully woven into tousled curls of hair, electric brushes against fingers and hesitant caresses, his strident heartbeat at the pretty sight of sunlight in your eyes, lips softly pressed against your knuckles with a bashful smile, quiet promises that live in the briefest of seconds before they’re gone.

scaramouche, the first fight.

his pristine chambers filled with muffled screams, cold and angry tears streaming down your flushed cheeks, frustration evident in his indigo irises, a large bed and two silhouettes huddled on opposite sides, your barely stifled sobs and quivering shoulders, his guiltily clenched fists and thinly pressed lips, tension that weighs on both of your minds until his lean arm eventually reaches out to encircle around your trembling frame, soft and vulnerable whispers of apologies as butterfly kisses tenderly trail across your neck, his fingers desperately fumbling against yours for a sliver of warmth after cold and empty hours left awake.

xiao, the first dance in moonlight.

moonlight pouring in your parents’ garden, clueless hands gingerly brushing against the sides of your waist, golden amber irises trained on yours with confusion, the hazy memory of your small smile, slow dancing shadows that towered over lush burgeons, stiffened shoulders that loosen in your comforting presence, fingers pressed tighter over your hips when your plush lips raise to affectionately capture his, a slight upturn on the corners of his mouth when he finally realizes that the seconds were no longer a dream.

[silvers-d-me]

Where has my Underwear Gone? OP Edition

Shenanigans on the Red Force. Bad Shanks! Wicked Bad Naughty Shanks!

Notes: Nicknames are used, Sunshine, Darling, etc. Probably smut. Yeah smut. AFAB reader so female parts are mentioned as well as that dick tho. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Crossposted on AO3

You searched through your chests of clothing with increasing frustration. Shirts, pants, sashes, skirts. Things to sleep in, things to sunbathe in, things to swim in. Shirts stolen from the love of your life and captain, Shanks. Stupid capes you didn't want to admit you actually liked. Stockings, hats, what Shanks lovingly referred to as 'ho wear,' that fancy coat you stole from Beckman. Not a thread, scrap, lace, or remnant of your underpants.

Your expensive, made to order, finely woven, unbleached cotton underpants. Cut to your specifications to protect your delicate bits from chafing in your preferred leather trousers, underpants. Only made by two tailors at the far ends of Emperor Shanks' wide territory, underpants. Completely missing from every chest, trunk, and drawer dedicated to clothing in the wide cabin you shared with your captain.

The captain you suspected was behind this Mystery of the Missing Underwear.

"SHANKS!" You bellowed your sweetie's name as you hit the main deck of the Red Force. Around the ship your crewmates froze, shoulders hunching against the strident tone of your voice. "Where are you, you sneaky thieving greedy pirate!" Sweeping your gaze across the deck, not a set of eyes met yours. Everyone was suddenly Extremely Busy fiddling with ropes, retying sashes, peering out into the distance with exaggerated concentration.

"Uh huh. Well GOSH I guess the Boss is GONE what a SHOCKING SURPRISE!" Once again you eyed your crewmates. Bonk Punch was ostentatious tuning his worn guitar, brows (or where he should have had brows) furrowed in peering concentration. Limejuice, Hongo, Yasopp, and Rockstar were huddled around a broad barrel playing Liar's Dice, drinks to hand and Definitely Not Noticing You. You turned in place, hands resting on your hips and quite close to the hilts of the twin long knives that always rode there. Lucky Roux was in the galley, cooking or hiding.. Gab and Building Snake were on maintenance..  one of the young apprentices was busily scouring stains out of the main deck, another was sitting in the shade of a sail practicing knots.. No Shanks, and oddly no Monster. Hmm.

Bootheels tapping you made your way to stand by the boy. You could actually hear him gulp when you slid a glance his way. Big wide eyes under a floppy bucket hat met yours. "Kid. Everyone sure is busy today. How are those knots coming?" You knelt on one knee, reaching out to inspect his work. Under your breath a mutter of "a hundred beri if you tell me where to find Boss" was met with a startled glance at you then up towards the back of the quarter deck. "Fine work, Kiddo, keep it up."  You stretched, squinted up at the warm sun, ran your fingers through your hair, the very essence of Nonchalant Pirate. Who you? You were just hangin' out, nothing suspicious here. Quietly you worked free from your boots and set them down as soundlessly as you could manage, then climbed carefully up a stack of crates -- you were pretty sure it was all booze --  to slip over the polished handrail and onto the quarterdeck.

Yep, there was your one true love, Redhair Shanks, Chief of the Redhair Pirates, a man with a bounty of over a billion beri, the man who could cause entire crews of bloodthirsty violent men to faint from his simple presence. Shanks, famed for his generosity and charm, and for the way he treated those under his care. Shanks, on the way to becoming an Emperor of the Sea, ruthless in his intentions and implacable when moved to fury. Shanks, two out of three sheets to the wind and it was barely past noon. He sat in an honest to gods chaise lounge. That's what the man who had given it up as tribute called it, anyway. It was oversized which was fortunate, a pretty red-toned wood making up the sweeps and lines of the piece, the cushions a plush deep amber with gleaming bronze hardware holding it together. Pity Benn had nailed it to the deck but such was the way of furnishings on the everchanging and temperamental seas of the Grand Line. A spare sail had been rigged up to form a pleasant shelter while still affording the lounge's occupant truly breath taking sea views. Not so much of area directly behind Shanks' luxurious perch which was exactly where you landed, crouched on almost entirely silent feet to seize your lover in a surprise grip. Who were you trying to kid? This was Shanks. He'd probably known what you were going to do before you decided to do it.

"There's my Sunshine!" Shanks had set down his sake cup to slide his big hand around the back of your neck, planting a warm but somewhat uncoordinated kiss to the side of your face as he 'helped' you over the lounge to sprawl on his lap. You glared up at him, huffing at the hair than now slid over your face in your less than graceful position. Shanks literally beamed at you, his eyes almost closed with the sincerity of his flashing smile. This was one of the best sides to Shanks, all warmth and affection and goodwill. He called you Sunshine but you called this particular mode Sunny Bunny Shanks. Not today however. "I thought I heard you calling for me," said Mr. Innocent as if you hadn't been shouting his name loud enough to be heard over a gale. "What can I do for you, my darling? Moon of my night, flower of my heart?" He brought your face to his and kissed you gently between each compliment, sweet from the melon-flavored sake he preferred, a trace of salt from the sea air, and the taste that was uniquely Shanks. No! No distractions! Bad shanks!

"It's no use trying to distract me, Shanks. Bad Shanks!" This as you batted away his hand from the tie that held your Honestly Truly a Pirate Shirt closed, saying the words from your internal dialogue. "You don't deserve titties!" That brought an actual gasp of horror as his hand stopped momentarily, ruddy eyes widening as much as possible at such a terrible thought. You struggled to sit up and get up out of his lap but appalled as the no titties comment had made him, he hung on to your waist and really.. it was surprising what he could manage with that half an arm. "You are a greedy bad stealing greedy bad man. Where are all of my underpants? The real ones not the thongs or those strings you and Benn thought counted as actual panties. Where are my panties Shanks??" 

Oh yeah, floated through the pirate captain's buzzy brain. She did find out, who figured that? Oh Benn had. Pfft, stupid Benn. Shanks started mouthing at the soft skin of your throat both to distract you and because he just loved the taste and feel of you.  The press and soft suck of his lips and the scratch of his stubble had you stuttering, he super loved that so much. Now his mouth wandered up your chin to latch to your lips, maybe he -was- greedy with the way he suckled at your plush lower lip until your mouth parted in a gasp and he could slip his tongue inside. Mmmmm so much better, and who needs panties? Not us. He listened to your protests as your shirt was undone and somehow, without you registering it, slipped off and tossed away, giving him access to your breasts. Shanks took advantage of that opportunity gladly, deftly sliding you under him into the firm cushions, their smooth satiny texture adding to the sensations causing your skin to shiver. Warm mouth to one breast, tongue teasing gently then pulling hard to make you cry out and arch against his sculpted chest; the other breast in his large capable hand, the callouses of sword play and hauling rope just rough enough to make you wriggle against the two contrasting pleasures. You both still had pants on, for the love of loot, and you were no longer in control of this conversation that wasn't actually happening.

Shanks was a force of nature. Whatever he turned his considerable mind and implacable will to received his full attention, and like most of the world, you were simply pulled into his aura and clung on for dear life. He loved you, he truly did, he cherished and valued you, he respected you. All of those strong emotions communicated to you not just in his murmurs of adoration but in the way he touched and teased you. Shanks was a romantic and while he had every intention of bringing you to undone pleasure and ruin beneath him, it wasn't to conquer and pillage. You were his pirate queen and his greatest treasure and he loved little more than bringing these cries of pleasure and shock from your panting mouth, as he was now.

"Sh-shanks!" You hands on his shoulders didn't actually do anything to his large frame or the wonderfully solid press of his weight against you. "I'm not.. I'm not done fussing at you!" Your protest was a weak pro form at this point as his lips moved to plant firm kisses down your stomach. Ding dong you are wrong, suddenly you were laughing and the blush staining your face wasn't just from lust as Shanks blew a loud raspberry against your twitching skin. That was one of the best things about sex with Shanks: he never lost his sense of joy. Of course he never stopped being a cunning pirate either since the raspberries were a distraction for him to strip you of your trousers, slick as anything. His shoulders were simply too large for your thighs to do anything but spread wide for him, and he absolutely did that on purpose, scooting down the lounge to smile fondly at your exposed pussy like it was his best friend. (It sort of was.) You twisted your fingers into his profoundly red silky hair and pulled hard to make him look up at you. "Shanks for real! I need those underthings. They keep me from getting chafed and sore when we're running around fighting. I don't want sore skin there!" It was your last chance to put any kind of sane reason into his airy head.  Those slanted eyes, their light red hue that always entranced you, caught on yours for a moment and you saw that thread of clarity run through the sake and sex haze that was piloting 99% of his brain.

"Oh no, we can't have that," the pirate agreed far too easily. He nudged your thighs even wider apart and bent to brush the softest of kissed against the skin in question, soft and stubbly caresses to the tender skin where the line of said panties would sit. "Poor Sunshine, we have to take good care of you." He hoisted your leg over his shoulder and bent to his task. A lingering swipe of his hot tongue against your folds had your grip shifting from demanding to simply finding something to cling to, skillful strokes of that wicked tongue leading into gentle nips at the your hooded pearl. Shanks had spent the last dozen years manwhoring up and down the Grand Line and he was very pleased to put the talents he'd gained to good use. Alternating between swirling his tongue around your swollen clit and biting into it tenderly, he had you straining against his face as your first orgasm rolled right on through and over you, holding you to him as your body tensed and shook. So beautiful. He used that moment to shuck out of his pink-with-pineapple-print-breeches off and kick them away. Then he slid his fingers along your thigh and over the clipped curls of your mound, parting the wet pink folds as he placed a kiss on your other thigh. He couldn't help suddenly sucking a span of your flesh into his mouth with hard pull, biting onto it to leave mark to match the ones littering your throat and chest like a leopard's rosettes. Your cry of surprise and enjoyment choked off when he slid two thick fingers into, savoring the way your tight muscles gave just a little as his digits stretched and pressed into your cunt.

"I'm so sorry for any offenses I've committed against this pretty pussy, Sunshine." He timed the strokes of his fingers to his words, sounding so sincere that only when your opened your eyes to glance at his face did you see the lust and power glowing there. "How will I ever make it up to you?" As if the steady stroking and the curl of his fingertips wasn't apology enough. Your hips twisted against his body, hands both pushing at his shoulders and pulling them closer as he worked your tensing frame up towards another giddy peak, the sheer gravity of the man pinning you under him. "What can I ever do to make it up to you?"

"Just fuck me already!" Quite a bit of exasperation and fondness both from you as you dragged at Shanks, pulling his face up towards yours. His laughter was loud and bright, vibrating through your chest as he settled atop you. One thing about this damned fancy couch: he could lean his quarter arm comfortably and prop over you with no accidental acrobatics. His mouth grazed against your panting one, tastes of sake and yourself in the long tender kiss you shared. "Anything for my pirate queen." You felt the thick tight head of his cock nestle against the flutter of your eager hole then sink in, bit by bit, the familiar ache and stretch just delicious and making that heated juncture the absolute center of both your attention. Shanks held his breath, eyes closing as he buried himself in the welcome sear of your cunt. It was nearly communion, the way you locked into each other, muscles shivering and nerves fizzling with delight, skin sliding against skin as once again you and your lover tried your best to become one being.

Then he started to move, hips thrusting smooth and sinuous, one hand gripping your thigh to pull you into the exact perfect angle to grind against that one spot perfectly. Every time his dick wedged solidly against the end of your silken tunnel the little cry you gave made him swear and move a little faster, the glide of thick hard flesh into hot slick flesh becoming a wet slap as your pussy flexed around him, your arousal just adding to the sensations of Shanks pulling you towards climax, Shanks' mouth at your throat and lip and ear,hoarse voice muttering curses amid the string of praise and your name falling with love into the heated scant space between you. Your hands were all over him, tangling in his sweaty hair, smoothing down his neck, gripping his shoulders, nails dragging down his gleaming skin, hands kissing down his straining back to clasp his hips hard and urge him to more, more.. when your greedy hands clapped his ass loud enough to be heard over the pants and cries he muffled a laugh in your hair and moved faster, stronger, fucking you into the lounge like he meant to drive you through to the deck. One particularly sweet thrust spilled you right over into an intense peak, Shanks holding on for dear life as your body writhed and tensed in its bliss. Shanks shuddered above you then in you, hard pumps of hot seed flooding you as you pulled Shanks into orgasm as well, joined bodies straining to pull tighter and shove away. One climax slid into another as overstimulated nerves were pushed past endurance with the rocking of your locked forms, waves of sparking joy all-consuming.

Several moments of your hearts racing together, pace gradually returning to normal as your breathing eased, sweat-stained skin cooling in salty ocean breeze. This was when Shanks was unfailing sweet and tender, no matter how high the alcohol content of his bloodstream, kisses all over and strokes down your cheek, holding your jaw so he could murmur endearments into the corner of your lips. His weight was so good pressing you down, your legs tangled with his heavier ones, just feeling everything as your bodies relaxed from the incredible high you'd just shared. "Mmm. Shanks." Your soft voice in his ear made him shiver, hand fondling one of your breasts like his favorite sake cup. "Amazing as that was, and it was amazing, I still need my clothes back." The pirate sighed against your throat.

"Do you just hafta have underpants?" His words were muffled and just a bit plaintive, almost whiny. You laughed and hugged him, kissing his temple and gently pulling at the silky red that gave your crew its name. "Fraid so, lovey. Time to man up and give me the panties." Shanks lifted up to pout down at you, somehow still boyish for all his power and the fact he was bare-ass naked and still buried in your cunt.

"All right all right. I'll get Monster to fetch them from where he's got them hidden in the shrouds."

Your voice rang out again, this time filling the air not with passionate cries of love but one word in that gale-shattering tone.

"MONSTER!"

[tmnt-tychou]

Since the first few chapters of this fic do happen around Christmas and New Years, I thought I would post them. Current chapters can be found here. This story does have mature scenes later on, but the first handful of chapters just have flirting and language. Click on the link for AO3 tags and read at your own discretion.

@thelaundrybitch @turtle-babe83

 When Leo Met Mona

 Chapter One: Movie Night

Leonardo sat silently on the fire escape, five stories up from street level. Below him, people bustled about their normal, daily lives, unaware of his presence watching over them. The glow from the street lights below couldn't reach him and Leonardo was content to remain unnoticed in the darkness of night. It had begun snowing about an hour ago and the turtle's motionless form was now covered in a soft layer of white. Leonardo did not move to brush it off. He sat with his eyes closed, nostrils flaring as he took in the scent of new snow. The city always seemed better under fresh powder; cleaner, softer. The snowfall seemed to swallow up all the white noise until only the strident blares of a car horn or siren would reach his ears. Otherwise, it was silent and Leonardo coveted the silence. He certainly found no quiet in the lair with his loud family. A light switched on inside the window at the turtle's back. With the yellow glow on his shell, he shifted slightly to glance over. Moments later, the window slid open. "Leonardo!" said a startled, female voice. "You're covered in snow! Get your shell inside before you freeze to death!" The window promptly slammed shut at the last word as to not let in any more of the cold.

Only then did the blue-clad turtle shift his body, coiling his muscles to stand. He was far too large to slip in through the window. Instead, he climbed the fire escape ladder to the roof and used the door to get into the building, brushing off bits of snow before entering. He silently crept down the metal stairway, peering out down the hall of the building's top floor. No one to be seen. The room he was aiming for was conveniently closest to the stairs. When the door opened, Leonardo quickly slipped inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him. A woman waited for him; large chocolate brown eyes, thick brunette hair and wide shoulders. She was dressed very nice with pressed white shirt, black skirt and heels. She had a towel in her hands. "How long were you sitting out there?" she demanded. "It's like 20 degrees outside." She began toweling him down, instead of giving him the towel to dry himself. "It is not that cold," Leonardo countered patiently. "It warms up when it snows." Though his face remained neutral, he silently enjoyed the attention. The fluffy soft material rubbed over the back of his shell, then his arms as she moved to the front, patting down his chest with a softer touch. "It's still too cold to be sitting out in the elements after dark," she ordered as she stood on her toes, looping the towel around his neck so he could use it to dry his face. She held him there, pulling on both ends of the towel to guide his face closer to hers. "I don't want you to get sick." His light blue eyes peered through the darker mask, roving over her face as the side of his mouth ticked up slightly. "Okay, Mona Lisa." She mirrored his smirk with one of her own, knowing full well he took personal amusement at saying her name. Leonardo and Mona Lisa; weren't they a funny pair? Even though he had known her a while now, he liked to use the full name though most people just called her Mona. She finally let him go and turned on her toes, heading for the sink and letting the water run until it turned hot. Mona Lisa owned a studio apartment, so there technically weren't any rooms in the unit, save for a tiny bathroom tucked away behind a door. The rest of the place consisted of an open space with a counter, sink, tiny stove, microwave and fridge for the kitchen area, then the rest of the area contained a mattress on the floor with a bean bag and an old TV in front of it as the bedroom/living room. The whole place really wasn't much to speak of, but it was all she could afford. "How long were you out there?" Mona Lisa asked as she filled a pot with hot water and put it on the stove to boil. "Why were you waiting out in the snow?" "It's Thursday," Leonardo said pragmatically. "Thursday's movie night." "Yeah, but I got called in to work. I left you a note on the-" she pointed to the window to find it empty. There was a piece of paper on the counter, "-counter that I forgot to tape to the window before I left. Either way, I thought you'd go home when you saw I wasn't here, not wait hours in the snow." Leonardo just smiled that patient smile, wet towel in his hands after he had no more use for it. "I didn't mind waiting." Mona Lisa just huffed and took the towel from him, tossing it in the bin in the corner. "Either way, we'll have hot chocolate in a minute. But first, I gotta change out of these clothes and..." she hissed as she peeled the black heeled shoes from her frozen feet. "Man, these stupid things are just tearing me up. I don't think I've worn heels all day since... ever." Leonardo leaned against the counter, slightly amused. "How is the new job going- aside from the shoes?" "Great! This place is so fancy; nearly a hundred bucks a platter, I'm making more in tips than my other two jobs combined. And I could use that money. That's why I said I'd fill in today. You know I usually take Thursday nights off religiously, but I want to make sure these guys know that they can count on me." She retrieved a bucket from under the sink, filling it with hot water, before moving to the corner designated as the 'bedroom' and digging through the clothes on the floor for something comfortable. Leonardo observed her ass in that tight skirt as she bent over. "I like the uniform, too," he added cheekily. "Of course you do," she retorted. She kept her back to him as she unbuttoned her blouse and Leonardo politely looked away. It was the best privacy that could be offered in such a space, but Mona Lisa was used to it; to him. At first, she found it so novel how proper he was when it came to propriety. Now, she just thought it very sweet and was confident she wouldn't have any wandering eyes while she quickly changed. In just a few moments, she was back at the kitchen counter, now wearing a pink sweater and purple flannel pj pants. She took the bucket and sat with it on the bean bag, rolling up her pant legs and putting her feet in the warm water with another hiss. "Gah, my toes are so cold. I think I'm going to have to commute in sneakers and then change at work or my feet are not going to make it." She pulled one foot out, noting the blisters on her heel with a grimace. "Here, let me see." Leonardo crouched before her. Even on his knees, his height and the girth of his shoulders dwarfed her. Gently, he placed her leg on his thigh, lightly touching the damage with his thumb. He grimaced in sympathy at the broken skin. "It will take a while to build up callouses." "In the meantime, lots and lots of band-aids," she joked. Leonardo pressed his thumbs to the taunt muscles at the bottom of her foot and she suddenly gasped, arching a little and clutching the beanbag material in her fist. "What are you doing?" she asked in a breathy voice. "Relaxing the sore muscles. Have you not had a foot massage before?" He continued to rub her foot, and she continued to squirm. "I've never had... anyone touch my feet before." She was glancing around as if looking for someone to save her from his grasp. "Does it hurt that bad?" "No, it feels..." she paused to bite her lip, "...really good." Maybe too good. God, was she that desperate for a man's touch? Satisfied, Leonardo continued with his task, thoroughly working the tight, stubborn cords of a woman who was very used to being on her feet all day. He watched in amusement as she continued to fight the impulse to writhe in pleasure under his ministrations. The small gasps and squeaks were enough to make the turtle happy to be her personal masseuse all day. "You are so sensitive." Mona Lisa instantly turned bright red at the accusation. "Shut up! I am not!" "So responsive. Every little touch." Her hands flew up to hide her face as she jerked her foot from his grasp and put it back in the bucket of warm water. Leonardo remained there, crouched patiently as she continued to hide behind her long, delicate fingers. "I have to do the other foot," he then said. "No you don't," she insisted behind her palms. "I cannot leave a job half finished. It is part of my code as a ninja." "That is a load of crap!" "I'm not moving. I can wait here all night." She remained where she was, coiled and tense, face still hidden by her hands. Leonardo didn't move, didn't make a sound. With a sigh, Mona Lisa relented, lifting her other foot from the water. It was received with large, capable hands. Leonardo pressed his thumb to her sensitive arch, earning another sharp intake of air. Silently he went to work, coaxing out involuntary small breaths and tiny sounds from her throat. For a moment, he closed his eyes, concentrating on his work and those lovely sounds. He committed them to memory so as to revisit them on darker, less friendly nights. He looked up to find that Mona Lisa had managed to snag a shirt off the floor and had put the material over her head to better hide from him. He couldn't stop the chuckle that rumbled from his chest. "Shut up!" she barked, suddenly coming to life. She yanked back the second foot, throwing the shirt at his head. "This is all your fault, you and your magic fingers!" She scrambled away before he could do anything more to her, sitting on the floor mattress to put on some socks and comfortable shoes. That would keep her safe from that turtle menace. In turn, Leonardo took a subtle sniff of the shirt, finding her pleasing scent upon it, then tossed it gently back at her, hitting her right in the face. Mona Lisa merely swatted it away and got up to address the now boiling water on the stove. "Jeeze, I feel like I need a cigarette or something after that." Her face was still a little pink in embarrassment, but the color was fading. "When you train as much as we have, you learn how to take care of sore muscles," the turtle offered. Mona Lisa glanced at him once more before retrieving the cocoa powder for their drinks. This was her reality now, having this massive intelligent being as part of her life and she regretted none of it. As bizarre as the mere existence of the turtle was, maybe their relationship was even more bizarre with how little they actually told each other about their personal lives. She knew his name, but he had never told her exactly what he was or where he came from, and she had never asked.

In the few months they had known each other, Leonardo only told her just a few things about himself. She knew he lived somewhere underground, she knew he had a family: a father and three brothers. She knew the family had trained in ninjutsu all their lives. She knew his brothers were also turtles like him. His father, she wasn't so sure what his species was, but the way Leonardo had talked about him, Mona Lisa assumed he was different than them. Maybe human, maybe something else. Mona Lisa had never been to his home and had never met any members of his family. She never asked to, and Leonardo had never offered. For now, she was okay with that. Having one giant talking turtle in her life seemed like plenty, and she was comforted knowing he had others like him to return home to. She also had an idle suspicion that while she knew about Leonardo's family, they did not know about her. And for now, she was quite okay with that, too. "You hungry?" she then suggested, opening the fridge. "How does reheated lasagna sound?"

“Sounds good to me.” Leonardo had yet to say no to any food she offered him. Sometimes she brought home dishes from the restaurants where she worked and other times she cooked herself. She secretly enjoyed cooking for more than one. In Leonardo's case, it was more like cooking for about four. It look a lot of fuel to power that large body, those strong muscles. As she put a nearly full pan of homemade lasagna in the oven to reheat, she glanced over at the form sitting patient and cross-legged on the floor. His shell was to her and she watched the twin swords strapped to his back. Those dual blades she had only seen unsheathed once, the day she met him. Otherwise, they had remained harmless and snug in their homes, but Leonardo never visited without them. As the food heated, she padded over to kneel next to him, placing a steaming mug of hot chocolate in his hands. He took it with the same grace he did everything else and daintily sipped it. Mona Lisa was left feeling a bit awkward next to him despite his bulky form. "So, um..." she began, playing with her hair. It was a nervous tick she displayed whenever uncomfortable. "I was wondering... I know you have a family and all and you probably have plans, but... do you maybe want to do something Christmasy before Christmas sometime? I was going to work the holiday anyway." Leonard glanced over at the top of her head as she continued to play self-consciously with her hair. He knew Mona Lisa did not have any family. At least any that were a part of her life. That's all he knew. It was a very strange feeling to know a human who had less than he. When he was young and undisciplined, he recalled being insanely jealous of the humans who could walk around as they pleased, who had everything he did not. It seemed like a charmed existence to be human. But things were not always as they appeared to be. He always had his brothers and a father that supported him. Mona Lisa, at least at this part in her life, had no one. "Like we could go get you a Christmas tree?" he offered. She snorted. "Where would I fit a tree in this dinky little place?" Yet, the idea of bringing Leonardo to a tree lot was amusing. He could probably carry one tree home in each arm without breaking a sweat. She was suddenly greatly entertained with the idea of him effortlessly swinging a Christmas tree around like a baseball bat. "My brother has this Christmas tree hat that lights up. How about that?" She smirked. "Only if you wear it." Then she added. "We could make cookies or something and watch some Christmas movies?" Alas, there was very little else they could do together aside from watching movies in her tiny apartment. "No presents required. We'll just have a little Christmas party. I'll make dinner." He raised a brow at her. "Are you getting me a present?" She grinned at him. "Maaaaaybeeee. Is there something specific you want?" He sipped his cocoa with dignity. "Dinner is all I want." She huffed. "Fine. Since Christmas is a Thursday, how about we do the Christmas party Tuesday?"

“A party of two?” he asked.

“Aren't those always the type of parties we have?”

He smiled slightly. “I will be there.”

She cutely scrunched up her face and made a happy noise before skittering off to get him a plate of food.

Soon, they were settled on the floor in front of the TV, dinner in their laps. Mona Lisa started whatever movie she happened to get from the Red Box around the corner. One day she hoped to be able to afford some sort of way to get Netflix to increase their viewing choices. Maybe this new job would help her with that. Until then, Leonardo was at the mercy of whatever title she felt like renting at the time.

This week's selection was another paranormal-induced horror story and Leonardo was not surprised. Mona Lisa liked to watch them, but was too scared to watch them by herself. Leonardo didn't mind too much. Ghostly horror movies weren't really his thing, but it was hard to say no to Mona Lisa nearly crawling in his lap by the end of the movie, her soft breasts pressed against his arm as she clung to him, staring wide-eyed at the screen. But at the end of the movie she would peel herself off him and put the dishes in the sink while Leonardo prepared to leave, knowing any offer he made to help with the dishes would be soundly shot down.

“Thanks for dinner,” Leonardo said as Mona Lisa checked the hall for any eye witnesses.

“Always,” she smiled. “Work wants me to come in again next Thursday night, but I'll make sure I take that Tuesday before Christmas off, okay?”

Leonardo nodded as he slipped out the door. “See you then.”

He heard the door close behind him as he silently padded up to the stairwell and then out into the cold of night. The big fat snowflakes that had been falling earlier had now slimmed down to emaciated flecks of white floating weakly in the air.

Out of curiosity, he climbed down the outside fire escape to return to her window, taking a few moments to watch her clean dishes in silence. Then he cheekily knocked on the glass and smirked when she jumped at the unexpected noise.

Her eyes flashed over to the window and she stalked toward him, yanking it up.

“You sure you'll be okay alone?” Leonardo teased. “That was a pretty scary movie. What if that evil spirit comes to get you?”

She smirked back at him. “Please, this little place? What's it going to haunt?” Leonardo smiled at her, but he could picture Mona Lisa in bed in the dark, blanket tucked to her chin while she stared wide eyed at the ceiling. She would listen for any little sound, freaking herself out as the movie's curse hung over her head. The notion of that mental image filled Leonardo with an urge to stay, to join her in her bed and keep her warm and safe. And that idea wandered into other thoughts involving them and the bed that were entirely inappropriate and he quickly chased them away.

“You need to go home and get out of the snow before you catch a cold,” Mona Lisa then said. She reached out and touched his forehead. “You already feel chilled.” “I'm a turtle. My body temperature is lower than yours.” “Just go home. I don't want to worry about you.” “Yes ma'am.” Leonardo smiled as she shut the window in his face. That smile continued all the way into the sewers.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #1: White with Envy

Prompt: cross || Master Post || On AO3

“You do know,” Aymeric drawled, one elegant black brow raised, amusement and exasperation in equal parts glittering in his ice blue eyes, “that it’s not me you have to convince about this?”

Synnove grimaced, fighting down the urge to pick at her nails, and peered over her shoulder, towards the back corner of the property where the open chocobo stable was.

Chantilly glared from beneath the eaves, feathers fluffed in agitation. She clacked her beak twice, a loud SNAP-SNAP.

She turned and faced forward again, just looking at Aymeric.

Her knight, in the middle of taking a sip of tea from his mug, pointed an accusing finger at her. As he lowered his tea, he said, “Do not use the sad eyes on me, lady mine. It’s one thing to have your creature friends visit, it’s another entirely to decide to keep them. I have no issue with allowing the poor thing to stay, but I’m not going to be the one to literally live with her.”

Synnove huffed a heavy sigh. Aymeric had, over the years, become even more blasé than her sisters about her peculiar gift with beastkin and cloudkin, to the point he could and would conspire with her chocobo into assisting in keeping her out of the office or doing anything arcanima-related if she had been banned from the Guild by Thurbyrgeim for overworking and was trying to skirt the banishment by doing it at home. It was, probably, not a good thing that Aymeric and Chantilly had developed similar You are a ridiculous creature, Synnove faces.

Aymeric was also slightly better at negotiating with Chantilly. Chantilly saw Synnove as a strange mix between mama and chick and as the hen got older, she had gotten stubborn.

The Highlander sighed and slumped. Her beau was right, though. It wasn’t often that impulse overtook her good sense—at least when it came to everything that wasn’t arcanima and experiments, and even then, the impulse was tempered by safety guidelines—but it certainly had this time, and it was her responsibility to fix the problem. Time to woman up.

Synnove turned and trudged across the yard and through the kitchen garden towards the chocobo; she flicked her fingers in a rude gesture over her shoulder at Aymeric’s amused chuckle. Chantilly warked, sharp and strident, as Synnove came closer, and the white hen turned her head away, beak in the air with eyes closed, in a classic I’m ignoring you pose.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Synnove said as she ducked into the stable. The building was big enough to have enough nests for six chocobos (or three rounceys, one enormous destrier, and one jennet, when Synnove’s sisters were visiting), and could be shuttered in bad weather, but otherwise Chantilly and Aymeric’s Inkstain were well-behaved enough to have free rein of the property. Chantilly, beak still turned up, stalked over to her nest, and plopped into the carefully sculpted pile of hay with a huff; Inkstain cracked an eye open, took note of his stablemate’s sulking, and went right back to sleep.

Sighing, she walked over and plopped down next to Chantilly, crossing her legs. The hen stuck her head under her wing and took a theatric snore in response. Synnove rolled her eyes and reached out to scratch the base of Chantilly’s neck.

“I am not replacing you,” she said sternly. Chantilly snored again, but Synnove continued, “Yes, she’s going to need more of my attention, but that’s not because I think she’s prettier or more interesting, but because she’s sick and needs help.”

Synnove glanced over her shoulder, out into the yard at the other end of the acre. The alkonost was crouched in the corner next to the rose bushes, her green feathers visibly dull and greasy and the points of one horn broken and the other cracked. Tyr was loafed next to her, his vibrating purr able to be faintly felt even at this distance, while Aymeric was backing off from having left a few handfuls of hay in the formel’s reach that she was eyeing but hadn’t yet moved toward.

Truly, she hadn’t intended to adopt an alkonost, especially during a trip to Bozja entirely meant to be providing feedback on the council’s proposals regarding the education system once more families resettled into the rebuilding city. But the meeting was being held in the reclaimed Castrum Lacus Litore, and she had passed by the old beastmaster pens, and Synnove wasn’t one to turn up the opportunity to say hello to the beasts under the Bozjans’ care. And she certainly hadn’t expected an alkonost formel, rescued from one of the abandoned Zadnor outposts, to frantically escape her pen and actually follow her onto the airship home.

Synnove was…not quite used to creatures so scared she couldn’t calm them down and ensure they stayed with their keepers. And the formel had not taken well to airship travel, and Tyr’s purring had been the only other thing besides her own presence able to soothe the cloudkin.

Chantilly, for all that she was well-trained and sociable, was a bit of a possessive chocobo and didn’t like to share Synnove with the creatures that would come to visit. At the end of the day, however, Ixion or Unkteki or whomever had come to say hello would wander back to their territories, satisfied with their received attention. Synnove had arrived home with an alkonost trying to keep her head tucked beneath her arm, wary and clearly with zero intent to go anywhere.

Her jealous hen didn’t perform another overdramatic snore, and Synnove took the opportunity to shove her hand beneath Chantilly’s flyer’s shaffron to scritch the feathers on the top of her head. “You’re still my good girl, and you’re still going to be who I take with me when it’s time to be a Warrior of Light,” Synnove said. “And you’re still mostly certainly top hen.”

Chantilly huffed, sounding a little less annoyed. Synnove sat quietly for a bit longer, just scratching and petting her chocobo, and added softly, “I’ll need your help, too, sweetheart. She’s scared and we’ll need to teach her she’s safe here, but also we’ll need to teach her good manners. And you’ve got the best manners of all, she’ll be looking to you on how to behave.”

Finally, the chocobo took her head out from beneath her wing, and plopped it down instead in Synnove’s lap with a sad kweh.

Synnove chuckled and rubbed Chantilly’s cheek. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she scolded. “You love showing up the other ‘bos in how much of a good girl you can be. Now you can have a not-so-little protégé to help you keep order in the stable.”

Another kweh, but then Chantilly was pushing herself upright and shaking herself to settle her feathers back to sleek elegance. As Synnove clambered upright herself and brushed stray straw off her legs, the chocobo purposefully strode out of the stable and towards the newest member of the household, puffing up her chest proudly.

Inkstain opened his eye again and warked softly. Synnove snorted and reached over to rub the top of his head. “She wouldn’t be Chantilly if she wasn’t a drama queen on occasion,” she agreed, and followed her ‘bo out into the sunlight.

BEGIN! || NEXT PROMPT

[pulchramsolis]

[@wcrriorhearts sent]: Do not address me so informal. ( older Elaena post war 🥺 ) Pls come and break my heart with all the memes

Abrogail stops in her tracks, her arms still outstretched until slowly, the lady lowered them. She is twenty-two years old, and her heart hurts painfully at the sight of this little girl. A woman grown now, but still barely more than a child.

"I apologize, your Grace," she whispers, curtsying as always. Elaena is the king's sister now, and her other brother is in the hands of the Lyseni. Tears well in her eyes and it takes everything inside of her to not reach for the strident, stiff figure, the beautiful young woman before her. All she can remember is how she once laughed at being cuddled and tickled. Of funny faces and tiny dragons curled in the hearth. "I thought you were dead." Her voice cracks. She's been through too much to help it.

She wants to tell her she's lost all she's loved, but it's not true. There are too few of them left, and all but one stand in this keep. Elaena stands there, and little Jaehaera still breaths, about to be wedded to her cousin-nephew and Abrogail will kill anyone who tries to harm her. Just as...

A delicate little face with cherub cheeks, and large, violet eyes peers out from around her skirt. Silver hair curls around her little face as she looks up at the lady before her. Abrogail smiles, mouth trembling and picks up the toddler who snuggles uncertainly against her mother's chest.

"This is my daughter. Elaena. I..." She cannot find words and so falls quiet, averts her eyes and strokes her daughter's hair. Protective. Afraid.