#thankfully it’s the non-dominant one

[mars-ipan]

guess who just nicked itself on a kitchen knife for the first time <3

[sethsclearwater]

You are literally so cool 🤭

I'd like anything with one of the boys (preferably paul) being in their rut. Not necessarily smut but like them struggleing with it (maybe can't sleep, can't think clearly etc.) and reader trying to calm them or helping them out realise some tension.

Thank you! Much love ♡

dawww thank you lol!

...

"are you okay?" you asked, voice quiet as you stepped back into your shared bedroom wearing just one of paul's old t-shirts. your imprinter had gone into his rut almost 2 days ago and, even though he kept up his usual tough guy facade, you knew it was starting to get to him.

aside from the insatiable need to be fucking you most of the time, you and paul had both discovered just how mentally difficult it could be to deal with for him. he wasn't used to having his thoughts all clouded which sent his anxiety levels off the charts - something he was not even remotely used to feeling.

so when you'd gotten out of the shower only to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, anxiously clenching and unclenching his hands, you knew it was definitely starting to get to him again.

at the sound of your voice, paul lifted his head so he could meet your gaze, his features noticeably softening when he saw you but his eyes still remained quite sad looking which had you frowning, "'m fine," he reassured, though the tone in his voice served as a dead giveaway that he was in fact not okay.

with a soft sigh, you padded over to him, coming to sit down next to him on the bed, "c'mere," you murmured, sitting so your back was against the headboard, the pillows softening against your spine as you gently coaxed him over to lay down in between your legs.

normally, he'd never be caught dead doing something like this but you both knew his rut messed with his head way more than either of you liked it to. so, despite his hesitance, he laid in between your legs, resting his head against your chest while you wrapped your arms around him to hold him close to you.

you pressed your lips to his wet hair as paul wrapped his hands around your forearm, the touch seeming to help ground him a little bit as you two remained in a comfortable silence.

with your free hand, you gently stroked your fingers up and down his side, both of you enjoying the few moments of peace in between his rut ramping up again. thankfully, paul's ruts generally only lasted around 3 days so you knew he wouldn't have to deal with much more.

"why don't you let me go on top when you need me again," you murmured after a few moments, "you should try and rest a little bit," you added, knowing just how much he'd insisted on dominating you the past 48 hours. and, usually, that's how both of you liked it but when it was non-stop for days on end, you knew he'd want a break but definitely wouldn't ask for it unless you were going to proactively offer.

paul gave you a small nod, both of you content with his acceptance, "and we should order food from that new place down the street. i don't wanna cook tonight," you suggested, voice still quiet as you gently squeezed his bicep before returning to your soothing stroking.

"that sounds good," paul mumbled, voice a little muffled by the way he had his head against your chest, half asleep in your arms.

a small smile crossed your face as you pressed your lips to his hair again, much happier now that you knew he was at least relaxing a little bit with you holding him.

"you can go to sleep," you reassured, "i'll order the food in a little bit," you added and paul seemed to take that to heart, pressing a gentle kiss to your arm before fully relaxing in your arms as his eyes fell closed so he could try and get some sleep.

[beejunos]

Can you do alastor x fem!reader where she gets injured, so she tries to hide it (cuz he's a bit overprotective), and by hiding it, I mean basically ignoring him but he finds out anyways and he's more mad that she thought she had to hide it or something idk PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I NEED THIS

(Hope this made sense)

Well shit, this one took me some time to write. Sorry about that! Hope you like it! It was very fun to write 🌹

Alastor finds out you have hidden an injury from him

The last extermination battle at the hotel had been brutal. Although you had won, the casualties were enormous. The hotel in ruins with dead bodies, sinners and angels, all around it. It had taken you and your friends days to bury them all on the grounds outside of the city, all while most of you were healing from different injuries. Some more severe than others.

During the battle, you had taken a spear to your shoulder, but it hadn't pierced you deep enough for it to be lethal. 

You just needed to ensure you didn't move your arm too much. Which turned out to not be a too tricky process since you were stabbed in the shoulder of your non-dominant hand. 

Only lifting things that you could carry with one hand was, making sure that you didn't move your arm in strange ways; it all became a strange dance you did around the others to make sure no one paid you any mind. 

You were the sole healer in the hotel, and therefore, it was essential that you remained at your best. You had only suffered an injury to the shoulder; you weren't dying, so you couldn't let that affect your work. After all, Charlie and the others relied on you to provide medical assistance, and any delay or absence from your side could prove to be disastrous. You had lost count of how many times you had scolded Vaggie or Husk for ignoring their injuries or not treating them with the needed care. However, you were keeping count of how many times you had smacked Husk in the back of the head to stop him from licking his wounds. As of right now, you have hit him five times. You knew that you needed to prioritize the needs of the hotel, and so you decided to put aside your own health concerns for the time being. You trusted that you would be able to care for your injury later when your work was done, but right now, your friend's well-being was the most important priority. 

There was just one person who you feared would put a stop to your work. Alastor, although absent during the hotel's rebuilding as he had suffered a significant injury to his chest that he had, thankfully, let you treat, was probably suspecting that something was wrong with you. But since he hadn't been there during the rebuilding, he hadn't seen you at your worst, and you wouldn't let him see it either. He was caring but could be overprotecting when it came to you, which could be cute if it didn't hinder your work. 

While your partner admired your work ethic, he didn't quite understand why you needed to put everyone else before yourself to the point of ruination. Seeing others as more important than oneself was nonsense to him, especially if one's health was at risk, but you didn't share his worldview. To you, it was important to care for others, to care and shield them, for that is what you were raised to do. To care for those who needed your help, to shield the ones who needed your shelter, and to protect the ones weaker than you. You alone needed to carry that burden; if you didn't, who would?  

­­­The new hotel was magnificent, more stable, and much bigger than before, which worked to your advantage since you avoided the other residents of the hotel. Your injury had gotten worse, making it almost impossible to move your arm without winching. If the wound had been in any other position on your body, you would have cared for it a long time ago, but since it was in such an awkward position that was hard to reach, you had a hard time properly caring for the wound. 

And here you were now, standing in front of the mirror of your bathroom, trying to clean the infected wound. Bloody pieces of paper laid spread out on the bathroom vanity as you dried to reach the infected stab wound on your shoulder. It proved to be quite difficult because no matter how you tried to contort yourself to reach the injury, the infection made it difficult for you to move your upper body without significant pain. 

A small part of you begged you to call for help, saying that you couldn't do this alone, but you refused to be a burden. You could care for yourself. 

You didn't want to trouble the other with something that you should be able to fix yourself.

You felt a chill running down your spine as beads of cold sweat trickled down the small of your back. Your breathing was laboured, punctuated by ragged gasps as you tried to cope with the excruciating pain that was coursing through your body. You attempted to raise your dominant hand to clean the wound, but the throbbing ache in your arm made it almost impossible. It was then that you heard a soft knocking at your bedroom door, which came as a surprise, as you had been so focused on dealing with the pain that you had lost track of time. The ringing in your ears made it difficult to discern who could be knocking, but you knew that you had to muster all your strength to answer it. 

"Yes?" you called out, leaving the bathroom by leaning your hand against the wall. 

"My dear, are you alright?" came Alastor's ever-chipper reply, and you silently swore to yourself, wishing that he would just leave.

"Yes, I'm fine!" you tried to sound confident and happy, but the pain made your voice waver in a way it never did. 

"You haven't left your room all day. I must say, I'm getting quite concerned. Is it alright if I come in?"  

"No! Please, go away-" 

"I'm coming in!" Alastor called out louder than before, and you wondered if he deliberately ignored your answer. Panic pooled in your chest, cold and numbing, as you pushed yourself away from the wall to lock the door before Alastor could get in. However, you had overestimated how much weight your legs could bear in your weakened state. Halfway to the door, your knees collapsed under you, and you fell down to the floor. Your injured shoulder taking the fall. 

Red, hot pain ripped through you like a tsunami, taking all your senses with you, and for a moment, you were blinded by the pain. When you came to it, you saw Alastor kneeling beside you, his hand hovering hesitantly over your shoulder.

"My dear, what have you done?" Alastor said, his voice but a whisper. 

With a surprising amount of strength, Alastor lifts you up from the floor without putting too much pressure on your wound and walks into the bathroom, where he places you on the toilet seat. He looks around at the bloody mess that was your bathroom vanity with an emotionless expression, and hadn't you been so experienced with reading his body language, you would have missed the flexing of his hand that he only did when he was frustrated or angry.

"Why didn't you tell me?" A shill travelled up your spine when he said that, for there was barely any radio overlay on his voice. Refusing to look at you, Alastor picked up one of the pieces of paper you had used to try to clean your wound. 

"I didn't want to be a burden," you mumbled, looking down at your feet. Shame swam around in your hollowed stomach, making you feel sick and empty.   

"A burden?" You could hear the disbelief in his voice, "Have I made you feel like that?"

"No!" You hastily say, "No, never." 

"Then you don't trust me." He's still not looking at you. 

"No, I trust you," you plead.

"Then why did you not tell me that you were hurt?!" You can hear the anger and hurt in his voice, but worst of all, you can see it in his eyes. A swirling storm, contained chaos, rages within him, dribbling out within the bathroom walls as it licks against your skin. You're sure that your shame radiates from your body as tears form in the corners of your eyes, and you look down again, unable to meet Alastors anger, his anguish. 

"I... I don't know," you whisper, and you genuinely don't know. What you once believed and told yourself was so important now felt so small and stupid. To forego your lover's caring hand for a duty you had put on yourself. 

Your vision fills with red as Alastor goes down on one knee before you. He takes your shaking hands within his.

"My love, please, come to me whenever you need help. I couldn't bear to see you destroy yourself; you are too important to me for that." He lifts one of his hands and gently caresses your cheek. Closing your eyes, you lean down and press your forehead against his.

"I'm sorry," you say and genuinely mean it. After all, you would have been angry and hurt if Alastor had done something like this to you. 

He sighs before he closes his eyes and says, "Don't apologise, my love. Only promise me that you will come to me whenever you need it."

"I promise," you say and kiss him on his cheeks and forehead before you finally kiss his lips. Featherlight and sweet, a seal to your promise. 

"Let me help you with your injury," he sighs and stands up again as you turn around, showing him your shoulder. 

Alastor helps you with your wound for the rest of the evening, and never have you felt so cared for. Even if the situation was laced with a bittersweet pledge. 

[4allthefours4]

A Punishment to Remember

(Use of the word cunt. Reader doesn’t mind feminine clothing.)

Minors DNI

Kinks/Warnings: Bondage, Toys, Overstimulation, Dacryphilia, Mean Dom Tighnari

I’m a hardcore Tighnari simp, don’t judge my fantasy. Lmao

Being in a relationship with Tighnari let you discover a few things about yourself. One, being the fact that feminine clothing made you feel more free. Two being that you absolutely loved headpats. And three, you’re one horny bitch.

“Nari, p- please...” you stutter, body jolting with every pulse of the toy inside you.��

The fox simply glances at you, fidgeting with a small device in his hand before returning to reading. This was supposed to be a punishment, but the man couldn’t say no to your tearful face, at least sometimes. 

You writhe in your place on your shared bed, hands still tied together behind your back. Your feet and legs are separated with a bar, giving the fox the perfect view of your lower half whenever he wishes to look at you. You take the few moments you know you have to gather your breath, shifting in your place to a better area covered in less of your fluids than the previous. The punishment had been going on for at least an hour, the fox leaving the bed after only a few minutes of watching you squirm.

The reasoning for the punishment was dumb, really. You had gotten particularly distracted in trying to beat Cyno in a game of TCG, completely forgetting to return the book you had borrowed from the library a week prior. Your perfect record of non-overdue books had been broken, because of a simple card game. Honestly, if it were anyone else Tighnari wouldn’t care. He’d simply remind you of the book in your satchel when you returned home and he’d watch you leave the house once again to return said book. Unfortunately, or... fortunately, you were a horny bastard telling him to punish you anytime he deemed it necessary. 

Electricity shoots up your spine as the toy continues its previous vibrations, the intensity much higher than before. A rabbit vibrator was the toy of choice for today’s activity, the toy being able to stimulate both your insides and your tiny dick. 

“I want you to apologize to me for wasting perfectly good daylight playing card games when you were supposed to be returning this book.” Tighnari  finally speaks, shutting the book in his hands with a loud snap.

“I’m sORrY!” You start, the vibrations inside you intensify making you arch your back. A sinful moan leaves your swollen lips as you cum for what felt like the tenth time that night. In all honesty, you had lost track of your orgasms after the third.

A small chuckle leaves the fennec fox as he watches you squirm in your place on the bed. He watches as your walls desperately try and push the toy out, a small string thankfully keeping it in place. He had thought of everything to make this the most pleasurable punishment he could. 

Before another loud moan can rip through you, soft lips smash against your swollen ones, swallowing the moan in your throat. Tighnari’s tongue forces your mouth open, not that you were complaining, fighting yours for dominance. Almost as quickly as the fight starts it ends, you happily letting the man’s tongue explore your mouth. No spot is left untouched as your tongues dance together in a passionate make out.

You freeze as a particularly loud moan leaves you, almost biting the other’s tongue off. The toy had turned to its max, the harsh vibrations make you cum once again, mouth opening in a silent scream. Tighnari watches with wide eyes as liquid sprays from your cunt, chuckling as your legs twitch much more than before. 

Tears stream from your eyes as you beg the fox to stop the vibrations ripping orgasms out of you left and right. Your sensitivity had finally caught up to you, making the once pleasurable vibrations almost unbearable. 

“One more, love. I know you can give me one more like that.” Tighnari whispers, rotating the vibrator inside you. He separates the other part from your dick, choosing instead to rub the nub by himself. His hands are skillful as he watches your cunt pulse with each movement from his hand. His left hand grips the handle on the toy, thrusting it in and out of you as his right speeds its assault on your dick.

Your back involuntarily arches as a pornographic moan leaves your throat. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you squirt once more, vision going white for a few seconds. 

“There you go. Is my handsome baby satisfied?” Tighnari whispers in your ear. You nod your head as much as you can, sleep threatening to take you. “Sleep, my prince. I will take care of this mess for you.”

You let out a small hum, vision going black as you pass out from exhaustion. The last thing you hear is a faint chuckle from the man beside you.

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓘𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Emotional conflict and distress. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Man...it has been a while. I've had this sitting in my drafts since May. It feels amazing to finally get it out. So sorry for the long delay! I hope you all enjoy! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

“Damn it–!”

A sharp gasp of shock escapes you as your dominant hand betrays you, releasing the cup of tea seconds before it can reach your lips. The fragrant liquid, thankfully lukewarm, splashes on your lap and coat before thudding to the floor, thankfully undamaged.

Curling your hand into a fist, you draw it close to your chest, holding it with your other hand.

A sharp, burning sensation radiates through your fingers and palm, each pulse of agony sending jolts of discomfort through your arm. Inhaling sharply, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to bear with the pain.

The pain was getting worse.

You were already well aware it was from the long hours you imposed on yourself as Fyodor’s translator. The lengthy days working away over these pages, treating each of his chapters with care to ensure each was translated perfectly from his native tongue into English, without his story being changed or translated incorrectly.

Well, at least hoped you were doing a good job of it.

You exhale sharply, releasing your pulsing hand from your gentle hold as you get up.

Bending down, your fingers curl around the gold handle of the cup, preparing to return it to its place on the small, new rolling table Dmitry had dropped off for Fyodor over the weekend. It's intended purpose was for a laptop but it made for a pretty good work space too.

Olga had bought it for him when she went into town, Fyodor had said. You smile. The last time you had tea with the couple had been pleasant…even if Dmitry had trouble speaking in English.

Your thoughts are disrupted as another jolt of pain shoots through your hand the moment you lift the teacup by its handle. Like a thousand little lightning bolts rippling through each digit down into your wrist.

Grimacing, you use your non-dominant hand to scoop the cup up, placing it down before you make your way to the bathroom to freshen up.

The bathroom in Fyodor's cottage was simple and practical, with only the essentials. Practical like him, you thought.

You couldn't help but admire the clawfoot bathtub, a novelty for you, and notice that there used to be a mirror above the sink, despite its absence now clearly marked by an outline on the wall.

You shrug off your burnt orange coat as you step into the cramped room, placing the wet fabric gingerly onto the sink, letting the dry portion hang off the side. With a determined effort, you grab the old sponge scourer nearby and begin scrubbing, trying to lift the sweet liquid from the fabric.

As you draw the sponge down the material, the pain flares up again. You wince, your hand trembling with each stroke, the sponge slipping through your fingers as searing pain ignites in your palm. You grip the sponge tightly, each squeeze sending waves of agony through your wrist.

‘Grit and bear it,’ you quietly whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath in to steady your nerves, ‘You can’t let something as silly as this stop you.’

You resume cleaning the coat, each movement accompanied by a few sharp huffs of pain.

Anger flares in your chest, mixing with the burning sensation in your wrist. You can't let something as trivial as a sore wrist stop you from salvaging your coat.

How pathetic would it be if a wrist injury kept you from cleaning your favourite coat? It would end up with a permanent stain, a constant reminder of your failure, and you'd have to abandon it—

Your anger falters, and your hand pauses mid-motion. 

Abandoning your coat was unthinkable. It’s a prized possession, one you couldn’t bear to part with. But if something loses its usefulness, it’s cast aside for something better, something newer, something more valuable.

No…no, no, no. You can’t let that happen.

As pain grips your hand like a tightening vice, you stifle a whimper, continuing to scrub the wet patch with increasing aggression. The determination to remove the stain overrides the pain throbbing in your wrist and hand.

You can’t let it lose its usefulness. You can’t let it be replaced by something better. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t…

No...no, it's okay....the stain is coming out...it’s all okay now… it's not damaged....it's still okay...It’s still wearable. It’s going to be okay…it’s still useful. It hasn’t lost its usefulness…

Breathing shakily, you glance at your wrist, the bandage damp. It’s not broken. No bones are sticking out, your fingers are intact, and your palm is still in place.

It’s just a bit of pain, that’s all. Some ibuprofen and you’ll be fine. There’s no reason to delay work over something that can be managed with a few pills.

As you hang your coat up to dry, you nod to yourself before leaving the bathroom.

You’ll take some ibuprofen and get back to work. The pills will ease the pain, and if they don’t, it really isn’t that bad. You can endure it. You have chapters to finish translating and only five days until the convention.

You have to keep going. 

You have to.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A silvery light cascaded down upon her cheeks, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to transform her countenance into something otherworldly.

The teardrops that glistened upon her skin resembled stars, tracing a sorrowful path along the delicate contours of her face, only to fall, tumbling through the air like unheeded dreams.

It was in this moment that the true weight of my words struck me—a realization that pierced my very being. With my tongue wielded as a weapon, I had unwittingly thrust it into her heart, inflicting a wound far deeper than I had ever intended. How cruelly could one soul harm another in the throes of passion and despair?

My mind scarcely registered the sound of her chair scraping against the stone floor as she rose, her back turned to me, a sob escaping her lips that shook her entire form, quaking as violently as the bitter winds of winter might.

A constriction seized my throat, and my voice, once vibrant, was stifled in the depths of my anguish. In an instant, my body sprang forth, the chair clattering to the ground with a resounding thud. I could not permit her to leave. My heart, that treacherous organ, would not allow it; it throbbed with a fierce determination to bridge the chasm I had unwittingly created.

“No, wait, don’t go…!” I cried, leaping from my chair. I reached out to her, grabbing her wrist–

I tried to reach her—

Grabbing her hand in mine, I—

Fyodor’s pen clatters onto his desk as he rubs his face in frustration, letting out a soft groan.

No matter how hard he tries, the words refuse to flow from his pen as they once did. Gently, he pushes this page to join the other drafts for the latest chapter on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. 

Just days ago, his inspiration had been explosive. Like a match tossed into a canister of petrol, igniting his mind with a flurry of ideas so intense that he hadn’t slept, desperate to get every thought down.

Ideas had sprung to life like a box of fireworks.

Intense.

Bright.

Uncontainable. 

Now, pens lay empty on his desk, dried of the ink they once held, mere shells of their former selves. He had gone through so many pens and sheets of paper, he'd already needed to call Vivian purchase a restock of supplies on his behalf.

But now, he can barely write a few paragraphs without tossing the draft aside.

He’s gone back, rereading every chapter from the beginning to the latest. He’s even reviewed your translations, hoping that the sentences you’d woven beautifully in English would reignite something, anything within him.

But it has only led to more crossed-out sentences, reworked paragraphs, and shredded pages.

At one point, he even considered rewriting an entire chapter. One of the first chapters. Inhaling deeply, he pushes away from the desk and stands, moving through his room, lit solely by candlelight.

His steps are soft, boots gently tapping against the floorboards. As he moves, Tolstoy rises from his spot under his chair and trots after him, mewling and weaving between his legs.

Fyodor huffs, watching as the old cat bumps his head against his leg, meowing several times. Tolstoy lifts his paws towards him, making a kneading motion in the air. A plea to be held or pat.

“I’m fine, Tolstoy,” Fyodor murmurs, pacing the small room, his footsteps echoing around him. His gaze drifts from the feline to the cluttered shelf of books on his desk. His eyes skim the spines, each one bearing the name of a close friend.

The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust so dense that Fyodor’s finger leaves a clean trail when he brushes over them.

When he withdraws his hand, his fingertip is entirely black. He rubs the dust between his finger and thumb, studying the imprint with a thoughtful expression.

He moves along, using his fingertip to uncover each title, freeing each from the clutches of the dust that clings to them.

Each name represents a fond memory. Each book a reminder of his past, of times part of his heart still ached for. All of these books were cherished, beloved by him.

He felt as though these books were more than just the stories written inside. That they held his past memories in them as well.

Memories of when he received these books and those who were gracious enough to give them to him. It was foolish to yearn for the past. He was foolish to yearn for it.

His slender fingers continue along their path until–

His gaze shifts to the last book on the shelf, one coated with a thicker layer of dust than the others. Thankfully the dust had only accumulated on the plastic covering the book had been delivered in.

The grey hardcover book was missing its name along the spine, a fault by the manufacturer when they had first been in production five years ago. Fyodor was given the first copy to keep while the rest of the errors were destroyed.

It was his first published work—anonymously, of course. Vivian had created his pseudonym, a gesture for which he remained grateful, despite the name alias now representing something more painful.

His fingertip hesitates over the dust-covered spine, pausing as if uncertain whether to disturb it. It lightly caresses the edge of the plastic covering the spine before withdrawing, as if he had touched something he wasn’t meant to.

Inhaling deeply, his right hand caresses the back of his left hand, gently running up to a little ways above his wrist before slowly caressing down as he exhales. 

As he inhales deeply a second time, he focuses on the gentle caress of his right hand on the back of his left hand. With each breath, his hand traces a path up to just above his wrist before slowly descending again, as if following the ebb and flow of his breath.

The delicate movements were almost hypnotic. He exhales slowly, his body relaxing.

Why was he doing all of this?

His reason to write, to create and weave stories was no longer present. His writings, his novels….did any of it have a reason to exist when his own raison d'être was no longer–

He sharply exhales, glaring at the wall.

Suddenly, a loud mewl rouses his attention. He looks towards his desk as a furry paw plants itself on his arm. His dark eyes turn, gazing down at Tolstoy as he paws at his arm, mewling and chirping at him. He huffs, finally reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

“I said I’m fine,” he whispers, much more softly than before. His hand runs smoothly down Tolstoy’s neck, enjoying the softness of his plush fur. He follows the curve of his spine to the base of his tail before lifting his hand, returning to scratching behind his ear.

He turns his gaze towards the clock above his door. He hums softly in thought, finally pulling his hand away from Tolstoy’s soft fur. He gives a soft mewl, reaching out to keep patting at his arm.

However, Fyodor steps away, moving towards the door.

“It’s almost midday,” Fyodor murmurs to the feline, encouraging him to follow. His voice sounds breathless, even to his own ears as he runs a hand smoothly through his ruffled locks of hair, “I’m sure Огонёк has already gotten started on lunch.”

He pushes open the door, gratitude washing through him as he notices you kept the curtains closed and the candles lit just as he asked for hours prior.

He furrows his brow, puzzled by the unusual silence. Normally, you would already be bustling in the kitchen, clanging pots and pans as you prepared lunch.

You would look up and tease him, either about what took him so long to come help or ask if he was that worried about you burning the cottage down. A faint smile briefly flickers onto his face.

His leather boots echo against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the only other room you could be in.

Suddenly, a sound of discomfort reaches his ears, prompting him to quicken his pace towards the living area. He grabs onto the door frame for support as he calls out in concern, hoping for a response, “Огонёк? Are you–”

He pauses, his voice catching as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes scan your figure, starting at your bandaged hand that is clutched tightly to your chest. Your other hand grips it fiercely as if trying to suppress the pulsing, burning pain underneath.

Pages are strewn about on the rolling table and the carpet, creating white patches around you. Even your pen is lost in the mess. But what captures his attention the most is your expression.

Though your eyes widen in surprise at his abrupt arrival, your face is twisted in agony.

 Your eyebrows are furrowed together, lips pulled back in a scowl, and your eyes are glossy. It's not difficult for Fyodor to piece together what happened.

You pushed yourself too hard.

Again. After he had told you not to. After you promised you wouldn't.

You should have listened. Why didn't you listen??

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, yet again.” His eyes are like cold steel, assessing every detail of your struggle, his eyes moving from your bandaged hand, to the twisted look of pain on your face.

How could you keep doing this to yourself? Why do you insist on suffering this way? Did you enjoy making yourself suffer, when he was right here to help?

Why didn't you ask for help?

He continues with a chilling calmness, each word enunciated with a surgical precision, “Your discomfort is palpable, and yet you persist as if it’s inconsequential.”

Were you doing this on purpose?

“Mr. Dostoyevsky–” You open your mouth, attempting to explain, but Fyodor’s narrowed eyes cut you off, silencing you with their intensity.

“It’s as if you’re deliberately ignoring the physical damage you’re inflicting on yourself,” he continues, his tone devoid of warmth. “Do you honestly believe that this relentless drive will yield any true satisfaction, or are you merely too obstinate to face the consequences?”

Why are you being so stubborn? Why can't you just listen to me?

You bristle at his words, your frustration bubbling to the surface. You move the rolling table to the side, “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t handle!” you snap, moving the rolling table aside with a forceful shove. Fyodor’s eyes widen slightly, his usual composure momentarily disrupted.

He hasn’t seen this side of you before now. 

“I’m not going to stop just because you think I’m overdoing it!” Your voice rises, defiant and fiery as Fyodor goes ridged, his arms crossing over his chest, “I don’t need your approval or your pity!”

Fyodor doesn’t waver, his cold demeanor unmoved by your outburst,  “It’s not about permission or pity,” he counters, his voice retaining its unsettling steadiness. “It’s about your responsibility to yourself before you jeopardize your future.”

Your anger intensifies, a wave of frustration surging through you. “I don’t need a lecture on responsibility,” you retort sharply. “I know my limits. I’m capable of pushing through–”

Fyodor steps closer, his presence imposing, his tone taking on a steely edge. “Do you truly grasp what could happen if you persist?” His gaze pierces through you, forcing you to step back, dwarfed by his intensity. “This isn’t mere discomfort or fleeting pain. You risk a permanent injury that could render your hand useless.”

His voice drops to a frigid whisper, “Envision living with that consequence, knowing it was avoidable. Picture squandering your entire future because of a few extra hours of work. That’s the reality you face if you don’t step back and take care of yourself.”

For a moment, he notices your brows knitting together, your lips twitching as if about to curve downwards, your eyes appearing slightly glassy. But then, the fire reignites in your gaze as you step back, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “A few extra hours of work isn’t going to cripple me! You’re just being paranoid–!”

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа.”

Fyodor’s tone, colder than the snow that fell two days prior, makes you flinch, your eyes widening in shock. He remains unmoved, his gaze penetrating as if seeking to unravel the deepest recesses of your soul.

His jaw tightens as he delivers a single, icy command. “Остановись.”

Your hands clench into tight fists, your eyes narrowing with defiance. As your vision blurs and your chest tightens with the sting of anger and hurt, you glance back at the rolling table, where your work remains incomplete.

Inhaling sharply, you turn, grabbing your shoulder bag, which holds several more of Fyodor’s chapters. As you prepare to push past him, he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you snap, “Since you clearly don’t want me here.”

Fyodor’s frustration is palpable as he follows you towards the door. The flames of the candles lining the hallway flicker wildly, some nearly extinguishing from the draft of your angry departure. “You are behaving like a child–”

“Oh, so now you see me as a child?” You retort sharply, not even glancing back. A harsh, humourless laugh escapes you as you wrench open the door. A frigid gust of air rushes in, extinguishing the remaining candles and plunging the hallway into darkness.

As the biting cold brushes against his skin, Fyodor’s body tenses involuntarily. You don’t look back as you leave, slamming the door behind you with a force that echoes in the empty hallway.

Fyodor stands alone in the darkness, his hands trembling slightly.

The impulse to chase after you gnaws at him, but his feet feel as though they are rooted to the spot by an invisible force. He stares ahead into the darkened corridor, his ears filled with the faint, almost nervous sound of his own breathing.

Even as Tolstoy approaches him, mewling and weaving his furry body against his ankles, Fyodor stays completely still, only the sound of his ragged breaths filling the dark corridor. 

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Brown, withered leaves, exposed once more due to the snow melting crunch under your boots as you storm away from Fyodor’s cottage, your shoulder bag swaying wildly.

Anger and adrenaline still flood your mind, your body feeling rigid and tense. Your bare arms are wrapped tight around your body in an attempt to protect your exposed skin from the cold elements.

Honestly, who does he think he was, telling me what I can and can’t handle? He doesn’t even know me. I could handle this and more. If I really wanted to, I could even cartwheel right now! Juggle a trio of bowling balls even!

Well...if you had the strength--

An angered huff escapes you as you slip under the floral archway, the aroma of flowers doing nothing to soothe your furious spirit as their petals seem to curl further away from you and inwards. As if they aren’t sure what to hide from; the growing coldness or your burning anger.

Your boots click against the damp, slick cobblestone path, your eyes catching glimpse of a ball of vibrant orange up ahead. You glance up noticing a familiar orange tabby cat doing circles around a cute, handcrafted bowl with cute, tiny blue paw prints painted along the trimming.

Olga kneels down as far as her old body will allow her as she scoops the intensely smelling wet food onto the bowl, murmuring something sweetly in Russian as the tabby begins devouring the served food as if it would be starving.

As the elderly grandmother stands up straight, she blinks a few times, her eyes falling on you before she gives an old, weary smile, “Oh dearie! Why hello! What are you doing out here?”

Stopping at the gate separating you both, you watch as Olga approaches you, her steps slower and more careful than before, “Did Fedyka send you on an errand?”

You hesitate for a moment, boot tapping against the cobblestone path. You could just say yes and continue on your way. Olga would be none the wiser. But as you stare down at her, fully taking in her kind, warm smile, you feel your resolve caving, despite the anger still clawing at your heart.

“Not…exactly,” you reply carefully, still unsure if you should tell the elderly lady the truth. You could just save all your ranting and venting for later when you could call Trixie. But the idea is dismissed the moment you see her face fall. She moves closer, unlatching the gate and opening it.

“Here dearie, come in,” Olga insists, the loud creak of the old gate startling both you and the tabby cat. Although the feline quickly goes back to eating like her life depends on it, “I’ll make you some tea and you can tell me all about it.”

You hesitate to enter the elderly couple’s garden, your eyes flickering from Olga’s plump form to the cobblestone pathway leading to the bus stop. You hum, looking back as the tabby cat mewls cheerily, following Olga back up the cobblestone steps.

She stops, looking back at you. Her ears twitch as she mewls, as if asking if you're going to join them.

“Mitya is out today selling some of our homemade jam, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can have some girl’s time.” A hearty laugh escapes her as she opens the door leading into her cozy cottage, the mushroom-shaped bell on the door ringing merrily as she opens it.

“It's been years since I last shared tea with my girlfriend's. Come, come.”

With a sigh, your mind is made up. You head after Olga, up the stairs and into her and Dmitry’s marital home. 

The moment you step over the threshold, warmth envelops you like a tight, welcoming embrace. A delectable aroma dances in the air, wrapping around you as if beckoning you deeper into the home with the promise of delicious, homemade food. 

The fragrant scent of fresh herbs fills your senses, mingling with the enticing aroma of deliciously seasoned meat and the sweet-tart notes of pastries cooling on a rack.

As your eyes begin to take in the small, cozy cottage, you notice the floral patterns on the walls, complemented by a beautifully embroidered tablecloth draped over an old, sturdy oak table.

Above the warmth of the crackling fireplace, an Orthodox cross catches your eye, hanging between photo frames that crowd the mantel. The more you gaze around the living space, the more religious imagery you see scattered about, alongside photos of faces you’ll never personally get to meet.

Your gaze drifts to the mantel, where Olga and Dmitry's wedding photos catch your eye, and your heart swells at the sight of her in an elegant wedding dress. One photo captures them at a sun-drenched beach, sharing ice cream and laughter, their joy palpable.

Another image shows them with someone else—Olga, Dmitry, and a heavily pregnant young woman—smiling warmly as they enjoy tea together at the same dining room table, a snapshot of blissful camaraderie.

The warmth radiating from these photos mirrors the inviting glow of the hearth.

An old rocking chair sits nearby, adorned with a warm knitted blanket made from light colored yarn. It seems the tabby cat has claimed this spot as her resting place for the time being. She yawns, stretching her soft body out before curling into a tight ball of fluff. 

Across from the rocking chair, a comfortable-looking recliner holds another similar knitted blanket, bunched on the seat as if someone shrugged it off before leaving. There’s a pair of reading glasses and an old, worn grey hardcover novel left behind as well, an old, fraying bookmark peeking between the pages.

To the right, the warm, welcoming kitchen beckons.

The cupboards are a pleasant, natural dark oak, accented with delicate floral designs in white and light mocha shades. One cupboard door features a painted bouquet of flowers that looks fairly new, judging from the light pinks and yellows used for the petals of the flowers.

One of the two stovetops burns intensely as a large pot of stew boils and bubbles away, the smell almost making your stomach growl.

On the windowsill, several small plants catch your eye—herbs, you realize, their names written in Russian on their pots. Beneath the sill, sweet-smelling pastries cool, their deep purple blackberry filling peeking out from beneath the small pastry stars on top.

And there’s Olga, murmuring to herself in Russian as she prepares the teapot. You hang back, quietly watching as she fills the delicate gold and blue metal teapot with water, the malty aroma of the black tea leaves wafting through the air.

Black tea...Fyodor had a habit of choosing those tea leaves too.

Once the pot is on the stovetop, she looks back at you, mirth in her eyes, “Come, come dearie. Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t be long.”

Murmuring your thanks, you sit somewhat awkwardly at the sturdy dining table. The timber groans beneath you, as if annoyed to be roused from its peaceful slumber. You grip your black skirt nervously, picking at your tights while keeping your head down.

What should you say to Olga about what happened?

Olga and her husband seemed to know Fyodor very well—so well, in fact, that you briefly wondered if they were related. Their bond was strong.

If you dared to say anything against him, would she defend him? Would she be angry with you for storming out, for yelling at the man she spoke of with such fondness and care?

Maybe she would even be heartbroken that you, the one supposedly doing so much good for Fyodor, would turn around and lash out at him.

You grip your skirt tighter, your knuckles turning white as a flurry of thoughts and consequences clutter your mind.

Suddenly, the loud whistle of the teapot jostles you from your internal struggle. You look up to see Olga humming peacefully to herself, organizing a wooden tray with the teapot, delicate teacups, and a few of those delicious-smelling pastries.

She carefully approaches the table, placing the tray in the center before she sits down.

As she begins pouring tea into the cups, she looks at you gently and asks, “Now, tell me, dearie. What happened?”

She gently glides the teacup and saucer towards you, the spoon left inside the cup. You gaze into the warm liquid, getting a small glimpse at your reflection.

The weight of your argument with Fyodor still weighs heavy on your mind as you let out a deep sigh. Picking up the spoon, you begin stirring the liquid as you finally speak up.

Whatever would happen after you explained yourself, good or bad…you would just have to accept it.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Honestly, who does she think she is?

Does she foolishly believe her own stubbornness will somehow be enough to stop the damage she is causing to herself? Perhaps I really should have a word to Vivian about her…unruly conduct…

Thoughts swirl like a snowstorm in Fyodor’s mind, his dark eyes scanning your translations but not fully taking them in. He huffs, flipping back to the first page before admitting defeat.

He tosses the pages back onto the rolling table, dropping his weary body onto the window seat in the living space, his hands raising to rub his face.

A mewl comes from his side as Tolstoy joins him, bumping his head against his ankle. He slumps onto his side, his paws gently batting at his shoe.

Fyodor gives an irritated huff, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the feline, “You’ve been pestering me all day.” He grumbles, standing and moving past the clingy feline.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen, the dark tabby on his heels, mewling and chirping almost urgently. He huffs, stopping at the table, “You have never been the clingy type, Tolstoy. I hope you do not intend to make this a permanent habit.”

The feline leaps up onto the dining table, mewling and nudging his broad head against Fyodor’s palm.

Tolstoy didn’t care about the complexities of human emotions and relationships. He was just a house cat, desiring nothing more than scratches and food. Fyodor couldn’t help but envy his simplicity right now.

With a sigh, he absentmindedly scratched behind Tolstoy’s ear, the cat purring contentedly as he settled against the table. Yet, his mind was far from the soothing rhythm of the moment; it wandered restlessly back to you.

What is it about the young that they believe themselves to be impervious? Where do they get this delusion that nothing awful will ever befall them, until they stumble headfirst into danger, as if the world were a playground rather than a battleground?

Fyodor knew this truth all too well; he, too, had once been young and naive, with dreams soaring above the mundane realities of life. A life free from troubles and strife. A true paradise. 

But you… with God as his witness, you seemed determined to earn the title of the most bullheaded human. Your fierce dedication was admirable, yet it danced dangerously close to folly. Did you not see the precarious edge upon which you teetered?

He recalled the way your eyes lit up when discussing your work, a flame that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was as if you were blind to the shadows lurking just beyond your fervor. How could he make you understand the balance between passion and prudence?

He huffs, a small smile playing on his lips. He wondered briefly if he had more grey hairs because of your impulsive, stubborn actions.

How many times had he found his mind wandering to you after you left for the evening, stressing and fretting like a mother hen?

Did she make it home alright? Did she eat? Is she taking the time to rest? How is her sleep schedule? She isn't staying up too late at night to work, is she?

His mind kept him awake a good extra hour each night as he stressed and worried about you.

It felt as if you were a tempest, sweeping through his carefully ordered life and leaving a trail of chaos in your wake.

Yet, there was something within that chaos. A certain warmth—a flicker of life that stirred something long dormant within him. He could almost picture you, fervently writing away at your translations, lost in the world of words, oblivious to the risks that accompanied such fervour with your condition.

It was infuriating, yes, but also undeniably captivating.

With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on Tolstoy’s rumbling, soft body, using the cat as a distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts.

Perhaps he should apologise for being so hard on you. Sit down with a warm meal and discuss things properly. Maybe he could even help you write the translations.

He just didn’t want to douse the flame of your passion.

After all, wasn’t it this very fire that made you who you were? Still, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The world was far less forgiving than the safe cocoon you seemed to inhabit.

As he steps away from the dining table to brew a fresh pot of tea, he begins wondering if it was possible to find a proper way to guide you, without extinguishing that precious flame in your heart.

Above all, he wished to ensure you were ready for the challenging journey that awaited you.

The road ahead was fraught with uncertainty, and he feared it would be less about sunshine and rainbows and more about thorns and obstacles. His greatest hope was to prepare you for the trials that lay in your future.

He places the teapot onto the stovetop, reaching up into one of the cupboards. He retrieves the matching teacups, stepping towards the table to prepare everything for your return.

He huffs as he notices the once clingy, needy feline is now curled up, snoozing quietly at the end of the table. 

“I suppose you exhausted yourself chasing me around all day, hm?” He muses, resisting the urge to stroke Tolstoy’s soft fur, not wanting to risk the feline chasing him around for pats again.

As Fyodor leaves Tolstoy in peace, he hums softly and makes his way to the fridge, quietly sliding the door open.

His thoughts drift to what you might prefer for dinner upon your return. You had experimented with five different dishes this week, but most had earned only your disapproval so far. He surveys the remaining containers, a frown settling on his face. Given your past reactions, he doubted any of these meals would satisfy you.

He pauses, gripping the side of the fridge more tightly; whenever he was disinclined toward something heavy for dinner—or too preoccupied to prepare a proper meal—his mother would always offer him a warm bowl of манная каша.

A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he recalls how she would fill the bowl with nuts, fruits, and a drizzle of honey. Back then, he insisted that he didn’t need all the embellishments; plain porridge was sufficient. Yet, as he reflects now, he understands her desire to make it special and full of nutrients.

He reaches into the fruit box, only to find that with the season shifting toward Winter, the selection is limited to cranberries, apples, and pears. Disappointed, he crouches down and opens the freezer. There, next to the ice cube tray, sits a bag of frozen berries.

Perfect.

The sharp whistle of the teapot pulls him from his thoughts as he stands, the bag of frozen berries still in hand.

He places the berries on the countertop, removing the teapot from the stove, turning the hot plate off for the moment. Setting the steaming teapot at the center of the table, side by side with the teacups, he tries to recall where he last saw the bag of semolina when a sudden flurry of knocks at the door jolts him from his reverie.

You’re back already? But he hasn’t even had time to prepare the porridge. He calls out, his voice steady. “Come in, Огонёк.” After that, he heads toward the pantry, opening the doors to continue his search when another set of knocks echoes.

His lips press together in confusion as he closes the pantry. He was certain he hadn’t locked the door after you stormed out. Perhaps he had been too lost in thought to notice. But as he approaches the door, his frown deepens; it is indeed unlocked. He reaches for the handle, calling out, “Огонёк, the door is unlocked. Why are you—”

The door creaks open, a cold breeze sweeping in and playfully tousling Fyodor’s hair and coat. His eyes widen for a moment before returning to their usual calm.

Yes...that would explain why you weren’t opening the door.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“--And so, that’s...what happened.”

Your retelling of events comes to a close, your fingers drumming against the table in a rhythmic motion. Your bandaged wrist rests tenderly on your thigh as you quickly add, “I know Mr. Dostoyevsky is only looking out for me. I know he doesn’t want me to end up in hospital or to lose the function in my hand…”

You pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the orange tabby trotting towards Olga, tail held high. She leaps up onto the grandmother’s inviting lap as you continue, “But this job, my work…it’s so important to me. I…” Your gaze drifts towards your bandaged wrist. You flex your fingers open slowly, “I want to be useful to Mr. Dostoyevsky. I have to be useful to him.”

Your fingers curl up tightly, causing another thunderous wave of pain to rush through your hand, into your wrist. You bite your bottom lip, suppressing those sounds of pain that threaten to leave you. Straining your voice, you continue, “His success as an author in the international world rests on my shoulders. If he fails, it’ll be entirely because of me…”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat, a shaky exhale escaping you as you stare at your hand—your stupid, wounded hand. Each pulse of pain feels like a reminder of what you suffered when you were small and vulnerable.

It's a burden you never asked for, a memory of your tainted youth...it looms over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury.

Right now, that burden could cost you your job. Or worse; it could destroy Fyodor’s career as an author…and your own dream of becoming one. The weight of it all crushes your chest, tightening like a vice.

No…no, no…anything but that. Ruining your own dream was one thing, but dragging Fyodor down with you was unthinkable. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t—

The sudden clink of Olga's teacup settling back onto its saucer jolts you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind, snapping you back to the present. Yet, the anxiety clings to you, heavy and suffocating. You swallow sharply, your breathing unsteady as you meet her gaze.

You had braced yourself for a scolding for daring to raise your voice at someone so important to her. Instead, you find warmth in her eyes—a glimmer of compassion that eases the weight on your chest.

A small, weary chuckle escapes her lips as she strokes the back of the tabby purring contentedly in her lap. “Oh, that sounds like our little Fedyka. I remember him scolding that rambunctious friend of his just like that so many times when they were young.”

Another chuckle follows, accompanied by a calm sigh. Her lips curve into a gentle smile, her eyes sparkling with a wisdom you can only dream of possessing. A flicker of hope ignites amid your anxiety, her presence wrapping around you like a comforting hug.

Olga leans forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “My dear, I understand your need to push yourself. It sounds like you’re under immense pressure, feeling as if one misstep could make everything come crashing down.”

“But you must know his scolding came from a good place.” She leans back, her hand scratching the tabby behind the ears as she smiles warmly at you. “I know he worries for you, just as any good friend would.”

She pauses, allowing her words to settle before continuing. “I’ve watched over Fedyka since he was small. He has always been intent on ensuring the safety and well-being of those he cares for.”

Her gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist resting beneath the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, dear, but that fire in you—that passion and stubbornness—it’s a double-edged sword. While it drives you in your work, it’s also wounding you…causing you pain, isn’t it, dear?”

Her eyes return to yours, revealing a faint glimmer of nostalgia, of heartbreak beneath her warmth. “You are a determined young lady. But there’s a difference between determination and recklessness."

She reaches for the teapot, gently lifting it. “You should listen to him. I know you feel that everything rests on your shoulders, but it’s okay to take a step back. In fact, you should.”

As she refills her cup, her brows raise, and you feel the weight of her silent, parental scolding. “You were struggling to stir your tea just moments ago with that hand. I may understand your emotions and drive dearie, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with Fedyka.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you cough awkwardly, looking away. A fond chuckle escapes Olga as her tone softens further as she places the teapot back down. “I know that boy. Trust me when I say you can lean on him. In fact, I’d wager he’d prefer you rely on him than continue bearing this burden alone.”

You pause, the weight in your chest still heavy, a storm of thoughts brewing in your mind, looming and ready to engulf you. You glance up at Olga as she delicately sips her tea and blurt out, “But what if I’m the reason he—”

“Ah-ah,” Olga interjects gently, lowering her cup just enough to speak. “None of that, dearie.” She sets her cup down with care. “Your primary concern should be taking care of that wrist of yours.” Her gaze softens, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Mitya and I want to see you succeed just as much as we want Fedyka to. So please…take his advice."

Your gaze turns downwards, gazing into the cold cup of tea before you. You stare hard at your own reflection, taking the time to really absorb Olga’s words.

Deep down, beneath your drive for success and your fear of failure, you knew she was right. If you didn’t stop and rest like Fyodor had told you to, you would ultimately be the reason for your own failure. 

Your gaze drops to the cold cup of tea in front of you, studying your reflection as you absorb Olga’s words. Deep down, beneath your ambition and fear of failure, you know she’s right. If you don’t heed Fyodor’s advice to rest, you risk being the architect of your own downfall.

Fyodor could find another translator if needed, but if you continued to push yourself, you might lose the use of your hand entirely. You have to stop, even if that thought fills you with reluctance.

Yet perhaps there’s a compromise to be made. If only you could talk to Fyodor—

“Thank you, Olga,” you murmur, your mind racing with thoughts of how to make this work without needing to stop completely. You lift your teacup and down the cold, sweet liquid in one swift gulp before adding, “I need to go.”

With a warm, almost motherly smile, Olga watches you rise from your chair, her trembling hand still stroking the orange tabby’s fur. “Go on, dearie. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” As you move quickly toward the door, she calls out, “I’ll send Mitya around in the morning with some more tarts for you and Fedyka!”

With that, you step out of the cozy cottage, taking the cobblestone steps two at a time as you make your way back to Fyodor’s place. Your boots greet the cobblestone path as you hurry on, the gate groaning low as you shut it behind you.

Technically, you owe him an apology, don’t you? This isn’t the first time he’s scolded you for pushing yourself. Ultimately, Fyodor is just looking out for you, as any good boss and friend should.

A friend…

Warmth flutters in your chest as you step under the archway of flowers once more. The golden orb in the sky slips shyly over the treeline, casting elongated shadows that dance across the forest floor. Its rays shimmer and create a mosaic of bright highlights that ripple with the gentle movement of the water.

The sky is a canvas of pale blue, tinged with hints of orange and pink, hinting at the day’s slow descent while still holding on to the lingering warmth of afternoon.

The lake’s surface ripples faintly as if greeting you, even if you know otherwise.

A friend to Fyodor…those few little words had you smiling a goofy grin from ear to ear. You’d only been working for him for a few weeks, but you had grown more comfortable with him. Learnt more about him.

You’d learned his preferred tea leaves, his favorite meals, and his love for the cello and classical music.

You knew how he would endlessly gaze across the lake whenever you both sat outside. You even knew why he pursued this career path. You both cooked and ate together for every meal, chatting and joking with each other.

You spent five days a week, ten hours or more each day with him. Sure, those were your regular working hours, and it was part of your role to be there, but that had to count for something!

…Right?

You reach the cottage door just as your thoughts threaten to spiral into another overwhelming storm. Curling your non-dominant hand around the door handle, you twist it and push the door open, calling out, “Mr. Dostoyevsky! I’m–!”

Your voice catches in your throat as you take in the sight before you. Standing in the candlelit entryway of Fyodor’s cottage is someone else—someone you could swear you’ve seen before. His captivating eyes turn towards you.

You swallow your words, taking in his features: a strong jawline and an old scar that runs from the top of his left eyebrow, down across his left eye and halfway down his cheek. Yet, despite the prominent scar, his complexion remains fair.

"Handsome" is the first word that comes to mind.

One vibrant blue and one calm green eye scan you from head to toe, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against the doorway leading into the living area.

Most of his hair, white and soft looking, like fallen dove feathers, is tied back into a thick braid cascading down his back, while the rest of his fluffy hair delicately frames his face.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his grey woolen trench coat that covers his darker grey sweater and white scarf. He straightens up, tilting his head as he continues to appraise you.

Like Fyodor, this man speaks with a deep, gravelly voice, laced with a thick accent that’s subtly different from Fyodor’s. Ukrainian, perhaps? “Why hello there. You must be the brilliant assistant I’ve heard so much about.”

His heavy black boots click against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer, and you find yourself rooted in place, gripping the door handle slightly. He stops just a few steps away, towering over you— he's taller than Fyodor.

“I… I wouldn’t say brilliant—” you manage to reply, earning a deep chuckle from him.

“It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name. And what a pretty face it is.” He reaches out, capturing your non-dominant hand and lifting it to kiss the back of your fingers softly.

Your heart skips a beat, any word you mumble coming out as a stutter. You cough, trying to find a response as his unique eyes lock onto yours.

Then realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He’s one of the men from the photo in Fyodor’s room. Keeping your voice steady, you gently pull your hand back. “You… you’re a friend of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s. I saw you in that photo he has in his room.”

His eyes flicker with recognition, his hands sliding into the pockets of his black trousers. He tilts his head slightly, the mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Ah, that old thing? I’m surprised Fedya still has it.” He takes a step back. “But you are correct, Огонёк~ I am a very close friend of his.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his teasing tone.

“My name,” he says, his voice a charming timbre, “is Nikolai Gogol. But please, I insist. Call me Kolya, darling~”

𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡ © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

Next

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ (SorryifImissedanyone !)

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Candles divider- @/firefly-graphics

Orange heart divider- @/adornedwithlight

[twilightt-fantasy]

broken bones [volturi kings]

description: Hii! Can you write poly volturi kings with a mate who broke her arm because i broke mine recently and i feel like shit. Thank you and you dont have to do this if you dont want to <33

requested by: anon

warnings: none

A heavy sigh escaped your mouth when the door to your shared rooms was opened, signaling the arrival of your three mates yet again. Don't get me wrong - you loved your kings with every piece of you but sometimes they were very, very overbearing.

You had only broken your arm, it wasn't like you were on your death bed!

While you couldn't say you didn't appreciate them and their constant care, you were still capable of doing most things, since thankfully your non-dominant arm was the one injured.

And still, when they each came into view carrying various things, you couldn't help but smile. Marcus was carrying an ice pack, having been told from the doctor that icing it at least once a day was good for the healing. Caius had a book in his hand as he had been set on keeping you company since the incident had occurred and reading to you was a favorite pastime of both of you. And Aro was carrying a glass of what seemed to be your favorite drink, as well as the pain killers you had been prescribed.

"I love you all." You cooed at them, not being able to help the way your heart warmed when they beamed back at you. "I really, really do."

"We love you just as much, my dear." Marcus leaned over you to place a kiss on your head before very gently lifting your arm off the pillow it was resting on to set the ice down. You set your cast back on top of the ice, thanking your mate as you did.

"You know you really don't have to do this for me." You told them as you took the glass from Aro as well as the pills. "I appreciate all your help but I do have one working arm."

"Very true, but you need all the rest you can get in order to heal." He told you, nodding in approval after you swallowed your meds. You held your glass close to you, savoring the taste of your favorite drink.

"And it gives us an excuse to spend a little extra time with you." Caius pointed out as he cuddled up next to you on the sofa and pulled your blanket around you tighter before he opened the book. "So quit your complaining and enjoy our company."

You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of you and you motioned for Aro and Marcus to join you on the couch with Caius. You reached to each of them to plant kisses on their cheeks before settling back down. "I'd never dare."

[etherfabric]

Messages for Reassurance + Songs

Choose a pile by which picture you resonate with the most.

If your mind is too busy to clearly decide, take a few deep breaths, and use the finger of your non-dominant hand to hover over the images. One will give off the most subtle yet prominent signals, like tingles, a magnetic pull, or temperature. This is your pile. Multiples are also possible.

You are the ultimate authority over your life. I merely provide my perspective. Sometimes the Universe lines you up with something that doesn't resonate with your truth, so you have contrast to find out what does. Never give away your power.

Pile 1

Knight of Cups, High Priestess

The hope inside of you is not delusion. You are safe to go after the things that seem promising and enriching. The days where you couldn't hear your gut well enough to listen to it are gone. Serendipities of various sizes permeate your day to day life, and it feels almost to good to be true. Did you really make it? Yes, dear. You did. You embraced your shadows enough to bask in the sun again.

Of course this is no utopia, and the frights of the past have sharpened your foresight to real possibilities, but believe yourself when you can't feel any danger closeby. You are stronger, smarter, and in better company than ever before. Now all there is left to do is putting some weight in those timid steps towards your bliss. Don't worry about tripping - you'll land on your foundation and get up again, eyes forward, one foot in front of the other. You will get there as soon as you fully arrive internally, and you are so close to completion already. You will see it once you believe it.

Pile 2

6 of Wands, The Hanged Man

You are exactly where you are supposed to be, in the exact context and circumstances you see at this very moment, inside and out. The conditions are perfect for you thrive in. You might have to get a little unorthodox in your approaches, and the shape of other people's successes sometimes clouds your inspiration, but let good be good enough for now. Think of past you - they prayed to have what you have now.

Okay, yes, they were a little misguided in a few details of their wishes (thankfully rejection is divine protection), and in thinking once you would be here, everything would be perfect - life is still life, you are still human - but the lessons that led you here widened your understanding of how everything had to happen this way. Guess what, future you will look back at this very moment with the exact same wisdom and compassion.

You can work with what you have at your disposal and rightfully expect the glory of tangible progress. Just keep doing what you are doing already, keep it simple and managable, and there will be nothing significant standing in your way. Those bouts of stagnation? That's where the depth of your skills comes from in the first place. Just like muscles, the soul and mind need their periods of liminal passivity to come back with full force to charge you ahead. You are on the right track. You are doing great. You can be proud of yourself.

Pile 3

Page of Swords, 10 of Wands

Oh dear. It's okay to say you are tired. It's okay to break apart. It's okay to hurt and just want to quit it all. Why are you carrying all this by yourself, tasks and thoughts alike? Don't you know the relief once you put them both down? For the thoughts: Speak, write, scream. To somebody, or nobody. The most important part is admitting it. Then at least you are freed of the burden to act like everything is fine. I know you are scared, I know you wouldn't be in this situation in the first place if you knew for sure you could let go. But I trust in the magic of coincidences, and you reading this right now tells me you need to stop swimming against the current and let the flow carry you downstream.

Stop clinging to things that only stay if you wreck yourself. The tide will wash them out of your hands anyway, because soon you will reach your body's limits, and then the decision will be made for you. Let the dam break. Let nature take its course. You are so smart and truly believed the best, I can see that, and it's no lack of character that caused things to go this way. But this wasn't meant for you. I know it hurts. I hurt with you. But once you stop fighting gravity, you will be drawn to what is truly for you. Put the burden down. I know you had the best intentions, but it's over. You can rest now.

Pile 4

9 of Cups, Knight of Pentacles

You already know this, but slow and steady does indeed win the race. Instead of doing a million things exhausting yourself, you are focusing on a handful of daily tasks, knowing they will lead you exactly where you want to be. Time and consistency are on your side. You know you don't have to be perfect and can always pick up where you left off. Appreciation from outside sources resonates with your own satisfaction about how things are playing out for you.

Your longterm goals seem closer than ever. You have your routine down pat, and trust in your ability of finding even better tweaks and spins for it in the future. This calm air of confidence looks so good on you! You have earned it. You can read the signs relative to your success, know which road to take, and which pitfalls to avoid. You feel incredibly rich and know how to pass the time until certain things come to fruition. It used to make you anxious when you were faced with slowpaced processes, and you fell back on less sustainable approaches to selfsoothe. Now you appreciate the journey itself, even welcome the delays, so you have ample time to smell the flowers on the side of the road.

[lovewithasideoffries]

xavier drawing on you drabble

fluff, really short

Xavier had been extra fidgety today. He couldn't focus in class at all, eyes trained on his page as he drowned out Ms. Thornhill’s teaching. She caught on soon, noticing how he wasn't present in the conversation at all and decided the way to fix that was by taking away his sketchbook.

“Your grades in this class are already dropping dangerously low, Mr. Thorpe. I suggest you pay attention,” she told him sternly, taking his book and placing it on her desk. She then added, “And I better not find any ink on that table after class!” 

Which leads to where you are now. Hand on his thigh in hopes of stopping its anxious bouncing while he twirls a pen in his hands, desperately trying to calm himself. It’s useless though, drawing is what he’s always done when his mind gets restless like this, but he can't exactly do it now, with nothing to draw on.

It's then that the idea pops into your head. Gently, you take the pen from his twitching hands and he looks at you curiously. You uncap the pen and write the words ‘draw on me :)’ onto your arm, passing it back to Xavier and smiling at him. 

He nods gratefully and takes the pen in his long fingers. He bites his lip as he gets to work inking your arm. You enjoy the light scratchy feeling on your skin as he decorates it in little drawings. Mostly of flowers he finds in the room and you, his greatest inspiration. 

By the end of class, you’ve got a sleeve of sketches and designs black ink. Thankfully, Xavier chose to work on your non-dominant side, so you were still able to take notes. Ones that you make a mental note to share with your boyfriend later.

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: pavitr prabhakar x gn spider reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: pavitr was a touchy guy, you know this firsthand.

ʀᴇ𝐐: no ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 852 ~ established relationship

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: a lot of kissing and hugging

All Pavitr has wanted for months was to be with you. Maybe it was because you'd only just started dating, but it felt like could never have enough of you. He yearned for your kisses, sought out your hugs, and melted at your praise. There was nothing more he wanted.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

There should probably not be two spider-men in your universe, regularly that is. It was your universe, after all, but that didn't stop him from popping over for a visit.

The people of New York would ask who he was and why he only seemed to work part-time forever, but he didn't care for it. Also why you would work so much slower, even when there were two of you; and to that, there was only one answer.

"Pavitr..."

"What?" He groans.

"Police sirens." Ah, a rude awakening announced aloud by your angelic voice.

"Just a couple more minutes." Pavitr pleads, stuffing his head into the crook of your neck.

When you move your hands away from him, Pavitr yanks them back and holds on tight. He was being stubborn, even when New York was potentially in danger. "If I yanked us over the edge of this rooftop right now..."

"You wouldn't dare hurt your beloved."

"That may be true, but–" Pavitr's laugh interrupting you meant that argument was definitely over, so you began anew, "If I kissed you, would you let me go save New York?"

"Hmm.." Pavitr pulled away only to weigh his decisions, although he only knew there was really only one choice. At least he got a kiss out of it. "Okay."

It seemed your city was at the mercy of Pavitr's whim.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

PDA feared Pavitr. It was true. Nothing could stop him.

As the Spider-person before you exchanges stories with you, Pavitr waltzes over to wrap his entire being around you. Whilst you continue to speak casually–it was a normal, frequent occurrence–the other Spider-person halts in her conversation.

"Hey, I think you've got a spider on you."

You chuckle at her joke, "Don't worry about him. He's non-venomous."

Pavitr grumbles about how it feels offensive, something about feeling weak, but he's not helping it by staying curled around you. If the Spider-person before you weren't there, he'd have probably tried to climb into your arms.

Another time you're just eating in the cafeteria. A lot of spiders had different timezones, so at any given time, no one table was empty.

You were sharing one with spiders whose names you couldn't quite place when Pavitr plops himself down next to you and plants a kiss on your cheek.

His tray holds a single apple, but you didn't really think about it. Lunch was one or two hours ago in Mumbattan.

Throughout the meal, however, he keeps kissing you, and kissing you, and kissing you; on the cheek, of course, he wasn't evil.

"I think that's enough, Pavitr."

"You really think so? You say so? I wouldn't say so." His words come out fast, like a rollercoaster, just so he can kiss you again just as quick.

"I really do think so."

"I beg to differ."

You wrap an arm around him to feed his insatiable need to touch you all the time, even if it costs you your dominant hand, and spare the spider-people around you.

Thankfully, he seems pleased with just that.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Was he too annoying? Nah, he couldn't be. You loved him at least as much as he did you. Probably.

Pavitr was usually sure about everything. He was sure that he could protect his city, that he was good at being Spider-Man, that he had good friends. He was even sure about things of the future. He could do anything he set his mind to.

He just wasn't too sure about you. He wasn't being annoying to his friends, but he could be annoying to you.

The blissful ignorance was no longer a novelty.

He stopped being so clingy, although he got as much physical touch as he needed to get going. It was better to be safe than sorry, after all.

What he didn't account for, however, was that it was really easy to notice his withdrawal from physical touch.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Pavitr, right now, seemed to be glowing more than usual. He was so much happier being in your arms than he would've, say, a week ago. He was giving you much less physical affection, and it certainly wasn't a welcome change.

"Pavitr?"

"Hmm?"

"I miss your kisses," Pavitr perks up in your hold. "and your hugs. You've been kissing me less and less. Is everything okay?"

He turns around to look you in the eye, an unintended pout on his lips. "I thought I was annoying you."

"Aw no, Pavitr, you've been perfectly fine. The other spiders don't really seem to care and I–well," You chuckle, "I really like your touch."

Pavitr lights up. He snuggles closer to you, letting out laughs in relief. "I like yours too," He pauses, realizing, "obviously."

"Obviously..."

"Okay, when you say it–"

"Hahaha."

"What??"

Clingy wasn't so bad. Not when it made your ray of sunshine so happy.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future. 

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

 “Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

The F-Word (BR) - A Gwynriel One-Shot for Gwynrielweeks2024

@gwynrielweeksofficial My first of two contributions to this years Gwynriel weeks, yay!

Thread: After Azriel accidentially hurt Gwyn in training, his apparent lack of care makes her question the true depth of their friendship.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: faint swearing, miscommunication

“I will kill him.”

Healing salve was applied generously to Gwyn’s throbbing wrist. The overwhelming smell of peppermint and oak bark put her frayed nerves at ease, and she was finally able to relax into the soft cushions despite the flash of pain that racked up her arm and into her shoulder.

“I will rip out every hair on his head one by one.”

A bandage snaked its way around her wrist, the gentle but firm hand guiding it nearly shaking with anger.

“I will plunge his oh-so-dangerous knife in his oh-so-dangerous head and see if he’ll still have enough bravado to hurt you then.” Nesta continued to wrap the bandage around and around Gwyn’s wrist and secured it with a pin as she continued to mutter unintelligible curses with venom in her voice. Like an over-protective ghoul squatting in the attic.

The priestess snorted, testing the stability of the wrap by flicking her arm back and forth cautiously. “You know he didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t think he even noticed what happened.”

Nesta levelled a stare at her that would have sent lesser females running. “And why would that be? What could possibly have happened for Azriel to not notice he sprained your wrist during training?”

Gwyn averted her gaze, lest Nesta see the faint smile that stole itself on her lips. “Maybe because I pretended it didn’t happen?”

The female kneeling before her rolled her eyes dramatically and got up to discard the medical items.

“It was my fault anyways”, Gwyn stated quickly, trying to calm down her best friend, “I didn’t warm up properly. No wonder my wrist couldn’t handle his weight without preparation.”

What a white lie that was…

Nesta scoffed, clearly not in the least convinced of Azriel’s innocence. “He is your instructor. He should know better. Especially when its just the two of you. The bat doesn’t have any reason to not dedicate every ounce of his attention to you when you train in the evenings.”

It was true that Azriel technically just had one trainee during their nightly sessions. The extra attention he paid her was only one of the many perks. But also the reason for her downfall.

“Let it go, Nes. It’s no big deal. Give it five days and it’ll be as good as new.”, Gwyn murmured, absentmindedly testing the bandage. Thankfully, Az had only rendered her non-dominant hand useless. Maybe he didn’t even have to know and she could ask Cassian to focus on leg training tomorrow morning-

“Five days where you can’t lift a shield, let alone weights. Not to mention having to slow down your library work.”, Nesta retorted seriously while observing Gwyn with a hawk’s eye.

Gwyn sighed, letting her head fall back on the couch. There was no denying it, was there? It went against every fiber of her being, but she needed to tell Azriel and Cassian that she sustained an injury during training.

Her ego will have to take the hit.

It wasn’t that injuring herself was so difficult for her to handle, it was more so how it happened that brought a wave of heat to her cheeks.

Because she did in fact warm up properly. Mother, the incident happened during the last ten minutes of training, every muscle – wrist included – had been ready for combat.

So how was she supposed to tell everyone that she was too busy losing herself in Azriel’s eyes to pay attention?

“I’ll tell Cassian tonight and he’ll relay it to Az.”, Nesta decided, clearly taking Gwyn’s lack of argument for permission.

The priestess nodded, heaving herself out of the comfy cushion and bidding Nesta goodbye.

As she lay in her dorm room a few hours later, cradling her injured wrist close to her chest, she debated whether or not skipping tomorrow’s training would be worth the trouble.

Nesta didn’t wait for Cassian to come home.

No, as soon as she heard the door down the hall clicking shut gently, she was out of her chair and on her way to kick some Illyrian ass. Even if that ass had more than a few inches on her.

“Az, may I come in?”, she shouted through the door while simultaneously knocking. The Shadowsinger probably sensed her agitation and opened after a few heartbeats, still in his leathers and eying her with a wary gaze.

“Nesta.”, he greeted her, stepping aside to let her in when noticing her expression. The male was smart enough to sense when her anger was directed at him.

She stormed into his room, turning around to a confused looking Azriel.

“Care to take a guess why I’m here?”, Nesta asked, her voice dangerously low.

Azriel had the decency to look mildly concerned. After thinking it through, he concluded to not have done anything wrong and wordlessly shook his head in her direction.

“Something to do with Gwyn in training?”, she prompted, angling her head.

Azriel crossed his hands before his chest, leaning back against the door. “With Berdara? Do you mean tonight or another day?”

“Tonight.”, Nesta replied, “During hand-to-hand-combat.”

She could have sworn a little blush crept into his cheeks, but it might have been there from the start. She was too agitated to care. “Nes, I seriously have no idea what you are talking about. Did I do something wrong?”

Nesta let out a long-suffering sigh. Honestly, didn’t his job entail paying attention to details? “You managed sprained her wrist during training. She came to me just an hour ago to have it set and bandaged.”

Silence ensured.

She expected her words to have some effect on him. After all, the two of them seemed quite close. But the pure horror that slowly took over every feature of his was another thing.

“I did what?”, Azriel whispered, body taunt with shock.

“She says it’ll probably heal in a few days. But she obviously shouldn’t do any training – morning or night – in the meantime. I wanted you to know that, just in case she shows up tomorrow pretending it didn’t happen.”, Nesta added, trying to calm him down again. She’d wanted him to grovel a bit, but now he seemed dangerously close to suffering an aneurism. “She’d rather have kept it a secret and suffer through her exercises than telling you. So I did.”

If it was possible, Azriel looked even more crestfallen at that. A low curse escaped him, and Nesta took that as her cue to leave.

As she approached the door, she paused to put a hand on his arm. “I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad.” Well, maybe a little bit. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. She’ll live. And you are both fools for how you acted.”

Azriel nodded, but it was so absent-minded that Nesta turned to leave him to his thoughts, bidding him goodnight quietly.

His reaction left her wondering, though. Had she been too harsh? If it got Gwyn a heartfelt apology and maybe some sweets to make it up to her, it might not have been too much. But the Mother knew Azriel was an overthinker. She only hoped that, whatever was going on between them for Gwyn not to admit to an injury would soon be mended.

She did it. She skipped training.

Throughout the whole day, Gwyn felt rotten to the core. She had never abandoned her responsibilities, at the very least not without explaining herself properly. Nesta had probably informed the two Illyrians by now, and the other priestesses had noticed the glaringly white bandage, but still – it felt so wrong to sit on all these weird feelings towards Azriel, to not talk to him as regularly as she used to.

It felt like abandoning him.

And only the Gods and Gwyn new how that made the already confusing and borderline frightening emotions she harbored towards him more complicated.

She realized it was wholly her fault. She should have admitted to the injury right away, blaming a loose stone on the ground, or an errand shadow or anything for her mess-up. But no. As soon as his arms had wrapped around hers from behind, as soon as she twisted her head to meet his gaze, she was lost. Utterly and hopelessly caught up in whatever daydream it was that took over her mind at that moment. And she didn’t have the capacity to free herself as he sent her tumbling down, painfully bending her wrist in the process.

She’d laughed it off, turning her back to him to stabilize and feel out the injury, all while joking that ‘at least he bested her once this entire session’. When she faced him again, he’d looked away too quickly for his eyes to linger on her form and suggested a water break.

Gwyn couldn’t pinpoint exactly when her feelings for him had taken such a turn. When their nightly talks or training sessions became a little less accidental, but rather more and more anticipated. She only knew that one morning, when her alarm allowed her a few more minutes to slumber in bed, her mind had drifted to him.

And it continued to do so until now.

She sincerely hoped she would get a grip on herself, or she’d completely ruin their friendship.

If Azriel didn’t manage to do it first.

Days after the accident, Gwyn’s wrist still too sore for training, the Shadowsinger remained as silent as death. No note, no impromptu lunch visits. Gwyn even trekked up the stairs one night, hoping to catch him waiting for her on the roof of the house. But it was Gwyn who ended up waiting for hours in the cold, without any luck. Not even Nesta had a message to relay on his behalf when they met for their weekly reading night.

It left a sour feeling in her stomach. Friends were supposed to take equal interest in each other. And Nesta assured her she informed Az of her injury. What was keeping him back, then?

Another long day of work passed and Gwyn returned from evening service, walking into the dimly lit hall that contained some of the priestess’s dormitories.

And stopping dead in her tracks when she beheld the massive bouquet of flowers that adorned her doorstep.

Peonies and tulips, lilac and lavender in the most beautiful hues of white and purple made the whole hall smell like spring. With measured steps, Gwyn crouched down to retrieve the card attached to the crown of the bouquet. The handwriting itself made her heart flutter with excitement.

Dear Gwyn,

please accept this as the first of many apologies to come for by behavior in training and afterwards. I hope you are feeling better.

Your friend (?) Azriel

The priestess’s brows scrunched in confusion. She appreciated the gesture, but something in his message bothered her. She read it again, and again, gaze snagging on his signature. And just like that, with as small of a symbol as that question mark, Gwyn’s smile was whiped clean off her face, her heart plummeting into her stomach.

Her friend. The word in itself should have been enough to elicit a little happy dance. Because that was what Azriel was to her, and so much more. It was a first step, the first time she heard him reciprocating the feeling.

But the question mark put the virtual nail in the coffin of her affection.

He either thought so little of their friendship he thought it breaking at the slightest mishap, or, and Gwyn’s lungs fought for air at the thought, he didn’t really consider them friends.

And it made sense. She never heard him say it. They never let a few days pass without seeing each other, but it took him a whole week to ask for her? Mother, she didn’t even know if he came willingly to their nightly training, or if he was ordered to – keeping an eye on the unstable female he had to save and making sure she didn’t crumble under pressure.

On some nights, she had poured out her heart to him and he had listened, comforted her, just as she had on nights where his own façade revealed the hurt and shame he carried around.

It couldn’t have been a lie, could it?

Gwyn’s thoughts spiraled, feelings of being unworthy of his affection eagerly feeding on her uncertainty. Until she was sure: he only sent flowers because he accidentally hurt one of the frail and traumatized priestesses and felt bad about it. Clearly not because they were friends.

Gwyn picked up the flowers and, trying to steady her breathing, brought them into her room where they found a place on her nightstand. Unfocussed eyes remained on the flowers while she debated whether she should cry or fight that overgrown bat – it only took a second to decide.

The priestess stormed out of the library, Azriel’s handwritten card fighting for breath in her fist.

She mulled it over as she took the stairs to the house proper two at a time, how he could negate their relationship with one simple message. Had she been so mistaken in his kindness, his interest? Had he seen their time together as an obligation, rather than a blooming friendship?

It agitated and confused her to no end. And as she finally arrived in the training ring, eyes already pinpointing the swirl of shadows with Azriel in their midst, she was positively furious.

“Azriel!”, she shouted across the ring, eating up the space between them in no time. She pointed her finger at him in accusation, her other hand grinding his message for her to mush.

The Shadowsinger turned, his expression morphing from wary to concerned in a split second. “Gwyn? What’s wrong? Do you need a healer?”

He actually had the nerve to step towards her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders as he ran his eyes over her form. Trying to detect whatever it was that made her upset.

“Don’t you touch me!”, she snapped, and his arms dropped to his side immediately. “You forfeited your right to that.”

Azriel gaped at her, but nodded nonetheless. Massive wings behind him folded together tightly as he braced himself for her.

If anything, his actions made Gwyn even more angry. She came to pick a fight, not for him to roll over. So, the priestess stepped into his personal space again and pushed at his chest until he stumbled backwards.

It was petty, and unfair, and nothing like her usual self. But seeing the little slither of hurt flashing on his face made it worth it. She pushed again, ignoring the stab of pain emanating from her wrist as it collided with mountains of muscle.

“You are a coward!” Push. “You don’t deserve my friendship!” Push.

If Gwyn’s late high priestess could have seen her now, she’d have washed her mouth out with soap to negate the curse words leaving it.

But she didn’t care. The pain flooding her heart at his apparent betrayal was too much to deal with on her own. It needed an outlet.

After enduring another minute of her assault, Azriel saw his opening. He caught both of Gwyn’s wrists in his hands, stopping her dead in her tracks, and cradled them to his chest.

“Gwyn.”, his voice turned pleading and soft, “please stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”

And as the tenor of his beautiful, stupid voice reached her ear, all fight evaporated. With heavy breathing, she returned his stare. Somehow, even in the depts of hurt, the only thought her head could muster was how she had missed him the past week.

“I’m sorry.”, he whispered, his thumbs stroking up and down her hostage-held hands, “I’m so sorry I didn’t notice it. You truly deserve better than that.”

Gwyn didn’t find words for him, frozen in time as she stood before him, her chest nearly touching his armor. She didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But an apology sounded about right.

“I was so caught up in my own head that night.”, he continued softly, his voice trying to soothe her into tranquility, “But I realize it’s not an excuse. I should have checked on you after that fall. Gwyn, I’m so sorry I failed you. It will never happen again.”

Gwyn’s eyes hardened. She stepped away from him, forcing Azriel to release her.

“I don’t care you hurt me in training.”, her voice turned cold. “I don’t care if you didn’t check up on me. What I care about is this.”

She flung the crumpled piece of paper at his feet.

Azriel’s eyes widened for a split second before he picked the message off the dirty floor, trying to straighten out the paper. He stared at it for a long time. Enough for Gwyn’s anger to subside, until only resignation was left.

She knew he was about to apologize again. But he’d never understand where she was coming from. Mother, she’d confused herself with the onslaught of feelings the little piece of paper elicited. So she spared him the mental effort.

“You don’t think we’re friends, do you?”

The silence that ensured was deafening.

“I mean”, Gwyn started, her eyes focusing on a stone on the ground, “it’s completely fine if you don’t think so. After all, we’ve been seeing each other only for a few months, and I know you have a hard time making friends. But I thought-“

With all the courage she had left, Gwyn lifted her eyes to him again. If she wanted his honesty, she needed to give it in return. “I have seen you as my friend for the longest time now. You are the person I can rant to with all the stupid, miniscule facts I read about daily. I feel like I can tell you about my hopes and dreams and don’t be judged. You make me stronger, even challenge me to dream bigger.”

She breathed in deeply, trying her hardest to keep her emotions at bay. “And until tonight, I hoped the same would be true for you. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that you keep me company because you have to, not because you want to.”

There it was, all her thoughts and deepest fears spread out before him as cohesively as possible. Minus the crush of course, Gwyn could only take so much heartache in a day.

Azriel gaped at her, as unmoving as stone, his message stretched taunt between his fingers.

And even though his voice remained quiet, the hurt in it carried all the way to Gwyn to bury straight into her heart.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Now it was Gwyn’s turn to gape at him. With each second passing, Azriel looked more and more agitated, his eyes pinning her to the spot.

“What did I do for you to come to that conclusion?”, he began pacing before her, each and every one of his next words a punch in the gut, “Was it the time I poured my heart out to you with feelings not even my brothers are privy to? Or was it when we spent nearly a whole night in each other’s arms when I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone that wasn’t family? Maybe it was that particular day when I nearly threw a temper-tantrum because you couldn’t make it to a session and I needed to see you so badly?”

He stopped in his tracks, hazel eyes so open and vulnerable that Gwyn had to swallow. “Or was it the night when I literally sprained your wrist and didn’t notice because your eyes are so gods-damn blue that I got distracted?”

Not even trying to process that last admission, Gwyn remembered all the instances he talked about. She’d considered them accidental at the time. That he was so stressed from work he took it out on the next-best person. But it slowly dawned on her that Azriel wasn’t the type to just dump his emotions on the next-best.

“You put a question mark.”, she tried weekly, suddenly feeling very small before him, “On the message, I mean. And you waited to contact me for a whole week.”

Even in the dark, Gwyn could actually see the vein in his neck pulsing with anger. He held his emotions at bay as he answered tough, his voice taunt. “Nesta came to me the night you got injured. She informed me of what I did and voiced her concern that you’d likely show up in training, pretending nothing happened. And the only logical conclusion I drew from that was that you clearly don’t trust me. I must have done something for you to keep an injury that I caused a secret. So forgive me if I didn’t think you considered me a friend, that I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Well, that actually made a whole lot of sense.

Blood rushed into her cheeks. How did she let her emotions get away with her like that?

“Oh Mother”, she mumbled, her hands fumbling her hair out of her face as she tried to come up with a way to salvage this. “I misunderstood.”

“Clearly.”, the Shadowsinger deadpanned, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He observed her for a moment, his own emotions seemingly calming down. “So why on earth would you think I spend time with you out of-what? Obligation?”

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Gwyn let herself sink on the nearby rock. The adrenaline that had been running amok in her body had left her to fend for herself, apparently. Even if it got her into this situation.

“I honestly don’t know. I guess I didn’t think you’d actually like me as a person, or as someone you could consider close to you. The fact that you were the one to save me that night in Sangravah doesn’t help this feeling either.”, she chuckled humorlessly, wringing her hands together for support, “I tend to think people see nothing in me but my trauma. That I need to be catered for specially, handled with care. I never wanted that.”

Azriel slowly stepped before her, kneeling down right before her spot on the rock. “And when have I ever handled you with more care than necessary?”

He pointedly glanced at her bandaged wrist and Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh. The admission did something within her, lightening the heavy feeling in her chest. He has always been real with her, holding her accountable, giving her his honesty. “That’s true. I know you designed the obstacle courses last year especially to vex me.”

The sheepish grin Azriel showed her was enough to get her stomach to do a little flip. “Worked like a charm, too.”

The priestess had to bite her lip to keep from smiling too hard. She remembered how she’d taken personal affront to the difficulty of those obstacles, and how she spent every waking minute planning how to best them – and in turn wipe the smug look Azriel liked to sport at that time off his stupidly handsome face.

The lightheartedness of the situation vanished, though, as she remembered how she spoke to him a few minutes ago. She’d pushed him for Cauldron’s sake.

“Azriel, I’m so sorry for coming at you like that, for screaming at you. You didn’t deserve that.”, she admitted, searching his face for any sign of anger. But she only found sympathy.

“It’s okay. You overacted a little today, but I didn’t react at all when it mattered. I’d say we’re even.”, he reached out his hands for her to take, resting them palms up on her knees. She complied, loving the warmth of his skin and the attention he showered her with.

“I agree. Let’s never talk about this again?”

Azriel nodded once, before lowering his head to press a light kiss on both of her knuckles, one after the other. His gaze snagged on her still lightly bandaged wrist. Pulling her hand closer, he kissed it too, his lips lingering on the gauze until Gwyn could feel the heat of them right through her skin. Her heart fluttered so loudly at the gesture she was sure he must have heard it.

So she blurted out the next best thing she could think of. That she couldn’t stop thinking about since he’d said it, actually.

“My eyes are teal.”

Azriel just watched her, a slow smile spreading on his lips as he took her in. As if he had nothing but time, as if he didn’t feel this overwhelming urge to shoot up and run from this situation. The bastard surely enjoyed her squirming.

“I know. But you didn’t seem to pay enough attention to the way I acted around you – and I wanted to make sure you do, from now on.”, he pulled her up with him as he stood to his impressive height. She would be paying attention now, that much was clear.

“Friends?”, Gwyn asked, not releasing him just yet. Their fingers must have found a way to interlace autonomously in the past few seconds and she savored the feeling of them a little longer.

“Friends.”, the Shadowsinger replied. But his face betrayed his even voice. Gwyn couldn’t quite put a finger on what happened, what change between them.

She only had this nagging feeling that more than friendship shone from his face as he bid her goodnight.

And she that she was well and truly in love.

[darkbluekies]

Hunted

Female!yandere!mafia OC x reader

Summary: you know that Jerry is insane ... so why did you ever try to escape her?

Warnings: unhealthy relationships, guns, killing animals and humans, bullet wounds

Word count: 3.1k

Jerry could realize her mistake of not locking the door to your room any minute and by then you want to be gone. With legs full of electricity, you hurry out of the room and sneak through the corridors, silently hoping that you won’t meet anyone on the way. Thankfully, the most trusted ones are still at dinner and the rest … wasted. You can tell someone lying blacked out on a couch with an empty liquor bottle in his hands. Quickly, you run past him. 

The front doors have an alarm system that will go off once you open the door. You hover your trembling hand over the handle, preparing yourself mentally. The second those sirens go off, you have to run and not look back. You breathe out heavily. It’ll be easier said than done. You know for sure that the second the loud beeping starts, you’ll be so mortified that you’ll forget every single movement you’ve learned.

Finally, you do it. You rip the door open and the signals go off as planned. Without looking back, you run as if you’ve never run before. 

The ground beneath you is unsteady, telling you that it’s most likely a forest Jerry’s been keeping you captive in. Your heart is pounding in your ears, legs burning. You can’t hear if someone is following you and frankly … you’re not stopping to find out. 

You run until the sun rises and by then your legs are non existent. You can’t feel anything. Tired, you slump down with your back against a tree. With heavy breaths, you try to collect yourself and think of what you’ve done. Just two hours ago, Jerry took you to the bedroom of the secluded base. You had been forced to spend the entire evening with the most trusted mafia members, dining with them and joining in on a dangerous game of poker. You have never seen Jerry as focused as you did then. In the end, you had asked Jerry to leave, because of a ‘headache’. She had followed you to the bedroom and then left you … without locking the door. 

“What do I do?” you pant for yourself while looking around. “Where do I go?”

No one will answer you, no one will help you. But hearing your own voice in this silent forest gives you some comfort. 

You know you shouldn’t stay in one place too long. It wouldn’t surprise you if Jerry has put a GPS tracker in your body. You’ve always known that Jerry is insane. Ever since that day she decided that you would be hers. But you could never have anticipated how crazy she really was. If you ever met the devil, it would be her. Jerry’s ignorant, selfish and overbearing. 

You sigh and pull the checkered cardigan closer to hide the scratch marks Jerry's acrylic nails have left on your body. They're a sign of dominance and ownership. Wherever you go, everyone around — including you — knows that you belong to Jerry. It wouldn't surprise you in the slightest if she put a GPS tracker in your body.

A loud bang echoes. Gun shots. You gasp and press yourself closer to the tree. Something falls in front of your feet. Quickly, you shut your eyes. When you dare to take a peak, you see a dead crow in front of you. It's bleeding from its chest and the black eyes stare right at you.

"Hah, got it!" you hear an eccentric voice shout.

You turn your head to see four men in their early sixties hurry in your direction. They hold hunting gear in their hands.

"Oh?" one of them says upon noticing you. "We're sorry miss/sir, we didn't see you. You're not hurt, are you?"

"No", you breathe out.

"What are you doing so far out in the woods at this time of day? The sun just exposed herself."

"What are you doing?" you return the question rather passively. "You could hurt someone …"

One of the men smiles and picks up the bird by its feet. You feel sorry for the little creature.

"We're hunters", he smiles. "Part time."

"We have to get away from our nagging wives one way or another", another chuckles.

The chuckle is warm and genuine, reminding you of your dad. You think that these men must have their own children and suddenly pity your father. Why did his child have to become the pet of a criminal? He doesn't know if you're alive or not. And you intend to keep it that way. The less your family knows about your whereabouts, the better for them and for you.

"You should consider yourself pretty lucky that we didn't notice you earlier", one of the men says and holds out his hand to you. "We would have thought that you were a deer."

You take his hand and he drags you up on your feet. You wobble and fall back against the tree, leaning onto the bark.

"What's wrong?" one of the men asks.

"Nothing, just … tired", you say. "I've been on my feet a long time."

"Get up on my back, I'll carry you."

You hesitate. "Are you sure?"

"I've carried two bear cubs over one shoulder, I can take you."

You climb up on his back and follow the four hunters back to their wooden cabin. 

"Do you live here?" you ask.

"No, hunters can borrow it when they're out here", the man who first noticed you says. "As long as you clean up after yourself."

They let you rest in one of the beds and give you some of the meat they've caught. While you're eating, they tell you how they became friends in school during the 70's and stayed together until now. They tell you about their families, their jobs and pets.

"We're going home tomorrow afternoon", Phil — the man who took the crow — says. "If you'd like, you can join us."

You hesitate. Frankly, you haven't decided on where you should go or what you should do. Going back out into civilization could get you recognized, but staying out in the forest could mean life or death. You're safer in the city.

"Thank you, I'd like that", you say.

The morning after, the hunters leave the cabin for one last hunt. You lay still in bed and breathe in the silence. Finally, you’re left alone without feeling like there’s someone breathing down your neck … although you can’t let yourself fully relax yet. Somewhere out there, Jerry is looking for you and you know that she won’t stop until she finds you. It’s a scary feeling. You’re just waiting for the moment she has you trapped, like a mouse in a trap. But here, Jerry isn’t the brown little mouse … she’s the big, gray cat. 

Your thinking is interrupted by four loud gun shots. 

Your thinking is interrupted by small sounds outside the cabin. Sounds of footsteps. 

“Is there anyone in there?” a man says. 

“It’s a hunters cabin, probably hunters”, another voice answers. 

“Shouldn’t we check? Y/N could hide in there anyway.”

You freeze upon hearing your name. Quickly, you get out of bed and sneak towards the window. Carefully, you look outside to get a glimpse of how many people have surrounded you. There’s five. From what you can see, Jerry isn’t with them. You decide to wait for a while before moving. Maybe they’ll leave. Maybe you’ll be okay.

“No, I think we should check it”, a new voice says. “I don’t trust that little shit one bit.”

Jerry!

You stumble backwards and look around for somewhere to hide. You crawl into a shelf under the counter and manage to close the little door just in time. You can hear Jerry’s shoes hitting the wooden floor as she walks around in the little house. Your heart is pounding in your chest, it’s almost as if you’re dizzy. And then … the footsteps stop. The front door shuts. You know that you can’t stay here. The hunters will expose you and you will put their lives at risk. 

Right then, the door swings open. You’re about to scream when you see the same hunter who carried you yesterday. He’s bloody and the look in his eyes scream of horror. 

“W-What happened?!” you gasp and hurry over. 

“There were people shooting at us!” he moans and waves at her to come closer. “I’ll take you on my back. I’m scared they’ll find you too if you stay here. There are only the two of us left.”

Too shocked to think, too scared to disobey, you climb up on the old mans back. He runs out the house and you hang onto for dear life. 

"Oh, you fucker!" you hear Jerry shout behind you. "I fucking knew it!"

They were still there? If you'd have known you wouldn't have left the cabin. Too late to turn back.

“Please hurry!” you plead the man. “Run faster, please! Oh, please!”

Jerry stops abruptly.

"What's the matter?" one of the men says in confusion. "Aren't you going to chase after? Are you going to let them go?"

"I'm not making a fool out of myself", Jerry replies shortly and picks up a gun from her pocket. "I'm not in the mood for a game of 'Cat & Mouse'."

"Are you going to kill Y/N?" another asks, horrified. "I thought you liked them!"

"I'm not going to kill Y/N", Jerry replies and directs the gun towards you, closing one eye to get a better view. "I'm going to kill that old man and take out my little shit my way."

She hits the man in the leg. He falls over and you drop before rolling over the roots in the ground. The air gets knocked out of your lungs. You hit your head and dark spots starts swirling around your vision. You lay on your back, trying to regain consciousness. Quickly, you grasp the situation. You have to get up, you have to run. If you run … you might actually have a chance of getting away. It’s better than to give up. 

You get up from the ground, out into the crossfire. Jerry scoffs with a wicked smile. You’re tougher than she thought. She keeps her eye locked on you, gun directed towards your feet. One bullet should be enough to get you to stop. She pulls the trigger and watches how you fall over with a painful scream. Satisfied, she puts her gun back in her pocket and starts to walk over to you. You're trying to crawl by dragging your arms forward. Jerry snickers at the sight. She walks over and grabs a fistful of your hair, lifting your chin up from the ground.

"Don't try to crawl now, little mouse", she smirks. "I've got you in my trap. Look at the man beside you. Look at him. Do you fell happy that you put his life on the line?"

One of her men shoots the man to death while she forces you to watch. Jerry pulls your head back even more. You glare at her with tears in your eyes.

“Leave me alone!” you scream at her and moan in pain. 

Jerry glances down at your feet and hums. Your left foot is leaking red. She lets go of your hair and signals for two of her men to pick you up. They grab your arms, lifting you swiftly. 

"You're not a very good partner, Y/N", she says jokingly and squeezes your cheeks with one hand. "Running around from me and hanging out with older men. Dear God. If you'd just have gone to bed like a good pet, neither of us would be here now."

You don't answer. If you do, you'll have to pay for it.

The men carry you to Jerry's black van and throw you in the back. Jerry jumps in and holds you in her arms as the van drives off. Your head rests in her lap. You can feel her nails digging into your body as she holds you still when the van bumps. Your head is spinning from the injury, you're not sure how much blood you've lost. 

Jerry watches how your eyes flutter shut.

"Y/N?" she asks and shakes you when you don't respond. "Y/N!"

She looks down at your foot and hisses. Quickly, she removes her black zip-up hoodie and ties it tightly around your ankle where the bullet wound is. She holds your face in her hands, caressing it softly.

"Don't be so dramatic", she whispers. "It's just … i-it's just a bullet wound. In the foot, not anywhere brutal. You've survived worse."

She leans down and places a peck on your forehead. In the corner of her eyes, she can tell that one of the drivers is glancing at her in the rear view mirror. 

"Keep your fucking eyes on the road before I pluck them put with tweezers", she spits. "You have no business looking at what I'm doing here."

She can feel her cheeks burning as she looks back at you. If those men ever talk about this she's going to decapitate them with a butter knife.

She takes out the bullet herself once you return to the base. Two men lie you down on a table and Jerry gets to work. You’re still unconscious, which she thinks is only for the best. You’ll not have to witness the bloody scene that unfolds … or feel it, for that matter. Jerry works fast to remove the bullet and cover your ankle and foot in clean, white bandage. 

"Carry them to the bedroom", she orders one of the men. 

A man picks you up in his arms and carries you through the corridors to the same room you escaped from just a day earlier. Jerry places you straight on your back with your foot on a pillow. She tucks you in, making sure that all limbs are covered by blankets. 

“Do you want to stay here?” the man asks. “I can tell the boss that you’re in need of solitude.”

“If you say that, you’ll make me sound like a fair maiden”, Jerry mutters. “Don’t tell him that. Tell him I need to punish my filthy, little runaway.”

“Whatever you want, Jerry.”

With that said, he leaves. Jerry sits down on the side of your bed and takes one of your hands in hers. She examines your knuckles, silently wanting them on her. Your touch is the only thing that can tame her. Without you, she’s wild. Carefully, she lifts your hand to her lips, kissing it. 

“Jerry?” your voice says quietly. 

“Hm?” she asks and lowers your hand. 

“W-What … what did you do to me? Did … d-did you shoot me?! It hurts …”

Your eyes are full of tears. Jerry frowns, squeezing your hands tighter. 

“I had to”, she answers. “You disobeyed me. You ran away from me. I had to make sure you wouldn’t do it again. You belong to me. I fucking need you.”

“But did you have to shoot me?” you whimper. 

“Your little legs have a life of their own and they don’t care about your well being. If I’d let your legs keep running, you’d be dead. Now, you need to keep your leg straight, don’t sleep on your side or your stomach. You should stay in bed for a while with your foot on this pillow.” She smiles slightly, thinking. “As long as you’re bedridden I can keep an easy eye on you.”

You grimace. “I hate you and everything you do to me.”

Jerry chuckles. “You and your foul mouth, baby. I’m going to go get something for you to eat and when I come back, you better apologize. If you know what’s good for you.”

Jerry stands up and leaves, closing the door behind her. You sigh out annoyed. Jerry will be the death of you — figuratively and literally. You glance towards the (not locked) door. You can’t get in more trouble than you already am. Quickly, you get out of the bed and jump on one foot to the door. You only have time to open it and limp out into the corridor before Jerry’s back, holding a microwaved pan pizza on a plate in her hands. You expect her to frown, to make any type of angry face … but she smirks. 

“Oh, you are so fucked, Y/N”, she says. “Get back in bed. Now. Before I shoot your other foot too.”

You gulp and glare before you turn around and limp back to the bed. Jerry closes the door behind her.

“Now, what do you say?” she says tauntingly. “Are you going to apologize for saying that you hate me … and for trying to run away a second time?”

“Not a chance.”

The sweet smell of melted cheese and pepperoni and the stinging pain of a bullet wound clashes. You haven’t eaten all day. 

“Hating me won’t get you what you want”, Jerry reminds you. 

“Even if I apologize, I won’t get what I want … you hurt me, you killed the men helping me … they were innocent”, you say quietly.

“You should be happy that I didn’t do more for what you did, Y/N. I give you everything I have, I do my best to give you the love I have … and it’s a fucked up type of love, I know, but at least I don’t pretend to be better than I am. You always know where you have me.”

You don’t answer. Jerry sighs heavily and lifts the pizza in her hand. 

“Fine, don’t apologize then”, she says and holds the plate to you. “Take it. I’m not eating a cold pizza and it’s cooling down so … eat it.”

You take a bite and almost burn your tongue on the pizza slice and glance up at Jerry’s eyes. She doesn’t meet yours.

“Jerry … the pizza is burning hot”, you whisper, frowning. 

“Well … now you’ve started eating it … just eat the rest”, she mutters and shrugs. 

“O-Oh, I see … thank you, Jerry.”

“Mhm.” She stands up. “Sleep now. I’ll be back later to make sure you’re still here. If you’re not, I’ll raise Hell. Trust me.” She walks to the door and stops. “I’m only nice to you because you’re hurt. Don’t get used to it.”

With that said, she walks out and locks the door. And so, you’re back on square one, with less than you had before … and lives on your consciousness. You gulp. Oh, how you hate Jerry for what she’s done. And oh, how much you hate that she’s the only one that forgives and forgets the troubles you put yourself in — the only one who stays by your side no matter what. 

[dresshistorynerd]

Favorite Historical Architectural Styles

Since I've done my favorite historical fashions, I thought it would be fun to do historical architectural styles too. I want to write more about architecture too, but I've started thinking should I do a separate blog for architecture and architectural history or should I just do it all here? I think it would be better in a way that I wouldn't have to worry if anything I want to write is too far from the actual topic of the blog, but then again, there is a lot of overlap, especially when it comes to Arts and Crafts movement (which I'm currently writing my thesis about and which I definitely will talk a lot about), and also I would have to manage yet another blog.

Anyway, I'll again do this from oldest to newest. I will limit myself to western styles (except when we get to Modernism all styles are very international), even though there's a lot of non-western styles I enjoy, but it's what I know most about.

Perpendicular Gothic

I love Gothic architecture in general and the several first entries will be my favorite sub-styles of it. I love the the way Gothic Cathedrals try and so often succeed to feel like forests. I love how the structural elements are used to create the aesthetic. I love the organic visual elements. I love that it's such a unique style in Western architecture. And I love the amazing craftsmanship that went into it.

I'm particularly a fan of English Gothic because of it's insanely beautiful and complex ribbed vaults. From English Gothic my favorite though is the Perpendicular style, which was basically the English late Gothic. It's characteristics can be seen in the second pic. It has the stretched arch and the very flowing and organic traceries. I do include here the rest of English Gothic too, since even though the Perpendicular style is my favorite of them, all if it is still one of my Gothic favorites.

German Late Gothic

As it's becoming clear I love Late Gothic architecture in general the most, and in the geographical axis I also love German Gothic. Early and High Gothic were mainly divided into French and English styles and the French style dominated in the continent, just being altered a little to the local building traditions outside of France, but during late Gothic it diverged much more strongly into different styles.

German Gothic also has beautiful complex faulting (though less insane than English) and it also has that same pursuit of massive height French Gothic has. Those combined with that Late Gothic's more streamlined flowing and organic aesthetic, some of the German Late Gothic cathedrals really sell that feeling of standing in a forest.

Finnish "Gothic"

I have a soft spot for the Finnish Medieval stone churches, which are not nearly as sophisticated or detailed as the other European counterparts, but still made with beautiful craftsmanship and they have some cool own features. It's very far from the European Gothic traditions, as you can see, but that's still the influence, hence Gothic in scare quotes. I love the simple outward appearance with the exposed thick stone walls, the details of the gable that worked as the calling card for the building master and the very steep roof. Like everywhere at the time, the roof in these has wooden structure, which is frankly super cool. It was not a simple engineering problem to make a roof that steep and massive at the time, but the structure works so well there's 600 year old roofs with the original logs still working perfectly well. I also really love the original medieval murals in them, which were painted over during the Reformation (you can't have color in a Lutheran church damn it), but thankfully some of them have been restored from under the paint.

Finnish "Renaissance" Log Churches

Renaissance also didn't land in Finland similarly as it did rest of the Europe. When Renaissance was going on in Europe, they still were building those "Gothic" churches here. These log churches were based on Scandinavian version of the Renaissance church, but they didn't really look like Renaissance churches, and were kinda it's own thing continuing a lot of the aesthetics from those Gothic churches. This is a highly specific style, but I just think they are so cool and pretty? Like they really made a CUPOLA out of log.

Arts and Crafts Movement

Arts and Crafts Movement didn't have exactly a style, rather a design philosophy that was more important than specific style. There's of course a lot of stylistic similarities in the works of the different members of the Movement, because they had overlapping sources of inspiration and were influenced by each other, so we can think of it as a style. I could, have and will talk about them for hours, but briefly now: It was a moment in latter half of the 19th century and early 20th century and their goals were reviving craftsmanship skills and professions, socialism, opposing industrialism and abolishing the hierarchy between fine arts and applied arts. They were very much influenced by Medievalism and Gothic art and architecture, though unlike Gothic Revivalist, they took more from the guiding principles than the aesthetics. They basically started Modernism and lay ground to all the Modernist architecture's main principles, like form follows function.

Art Nouveau

Art Nouveau was directly influenced by the Arts and Crafts Movement and was the first mainstream Modernist style. I especially love the more toned down Finnish Art Nouveau, or Jugend as it's called here, but I do love the style more broadly too. I'm not that into those almost Baroque style versions of it though, with barely any straight lines. I love the round doors, the stylized floral patterns and the use of light.

Organic architecture

This has to be my favorite modernist/post-modernist (?) style. It's direct successor of Arts and Crafts movement and it's also more of a design principle than a unified style. There is some stylistic similarities, but it is stylistically very diverse philosophy. It was most prominent during the 20th century, but it always stayed in the sidelines, though there are still architects who might be considered practicing organic architecture. Organic architecture is all about living in harmony with nature, taking inspiration from it, designing the building to fit the building spot and the surroundings, extra care taken in to preserve the nature already there, and using local natural materials when possible. My favorite architects are Raili and Reima Pietilä, who were most prominent organic architects in Finland. (I almost moved into apartment designed by them, but it was in pretty bad condition, so it wouldn't have unfortunately been worth the price.)

Brutalism

I know it's not for everyone and it's not easy to make it work but when it works, it really does. It was born in 1950s during the reconstruction era. Brutalism is not just concrete though. The point is to show the raw materials and the structural elements. Technically a lot of Gothic and Arts and Crafts architecture is then brutalist. Timber frame architecture? Also brutalist. I'm only half joking, of course the style itself is also very bare and, well, brutal, but I love it for the same reasons. I really love bare textures of materials and exposing the materials of the structural elements. And I do actually really like the texture of concrete. Though I will say concrete is destroying our world and we should use it as little as possible. But we should also protect old buildings and keep using them rather than built new ones, so I feel fine admiring the old brutalist buildings. The best brutalist buildings combine materials very intentionally and make works of art with the light.

Bonus - Favorite contemporary architecture: Traditional methods

As we're living in the post-modern times, there's not really unified and specifiable styles or architectural ideologies anymore. They all kinda flow into each other and architects don't organize themselves into clear groups based on style and design philosophy. So it's hard to put into words the style I like in contemporary architecture. There's been growing interest in studying traditional structures and methods, learn from their sustainability and incorporate them into contemporary architecture. They are techniques that have been developed through trial and error on the span of centuries, so we really don't have to reinvent the wheel here. Traditional methods of a given area have also been developed for that area and it's climate, from the materials available there, so they also push us to use local materials. Typically these traditional structures are very simple, often made from solid material, which makes them easier to built without construction error (a huge problem in modern structures), and easier to fix and maintain, when inevitably there is issues. Also they are beautiful, definitely more so that steel and glass. I love solid brick structures, log structures, timber frames, natural stone, rammed earth and all of them, especially when these beautiful materials are left bare.

[greenhorn-art]

World Champions | Artwork for World Champions by TheDefenestrator by TheDefenestrator, art by Blurb_brain

Fandom: The King's Avatar | 全职高手

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Words: 71 944

At the end of season 4 of the Glory Pro Alliance, the government finally receives the information it has been waiting for: The other players have caught up. Or, In which Glory has been a government recruitment ploy for remote-piloted mecha operators all along.

About the Book

FONTS: Mundo Serif, Azonix [dafont], Segoe UI Symbol

IMAGES: Illustration by Blurb_brain [AO3]; cover image by NASA ID: 440611 [Rawpixel]; Planet Earth background ID: 6331593 [Rawpixel]; Circuit lines background ID: 3117935 [Rawpixel]; endpapers' image by Eric Eastman [Unsplash]; Swoksaar, Desert Dust, Lord Grim, Vaccaria, and Cloud Piercer [The King's Avatar Wikia]

MATERIALS: regular printer paper (8.5"x11", 96 bright, 20lb), 80pt bookboard, Iris Bookcloth (colour: Black Pearl), Neenah cardstock (8.5"x11", bright white, 65lb), waxed linen thread (white, 30/3 size), embroidery floss (shades 3750, 350, 3845, 370), leather cording (1.9mm diameter), Reeves’ acrylic paint (Mars Black, Phthalo Blue, Titanum White), Americana acrylic paint (glow in the dark), ph neutral pva glue (Books by Hand)

PROGRAMS USED: Typeset in Affinity Publisher, cover/title page/endpapers designed in Affinity Designer/Photo, QR codes generated with LibreOffice Writer, PDF arranged for printing with Bookbinder-JS

BINDING STYLE: quarto, case bound (slightly rounded, with oxford hollow, forgot to use tapes)

.

Fenes' "Glory's tech isn't handwaved" AU. This was great! Funny and creative, and I'm both amazed and full of admiration for Fenes' ability to juggle so many characters.

I was feeling excited and ambitious with this one. Tried some new fun things (double core endbands, painted edges) and used some new equipment (a lying press).

The Text

TITLE/HEADINGS FONT: Azonix says 'SciFi' to me, it's a bold, non-serif, sleek font.

BODY FONT: Mundo Serif, it's a decent serif body font I haven't used before. Felt like it worked with Azonix.

SCENE BREAKS: a special character in Segoe UI Symbol of a black & white icon of Earth, the globe showing Asia.

TYPESETTING: Finished typesetting the fic, left document open on my laptop, laptop's battery failed, file now crashes immediately upon reopening, issue persists with copied versions of file (；￣Д￣) . Thankfully I had a backup file for the typeset with the barebones of the text, so I didn't have to restart from scratch...

Title Page

My thinking: it takes place in space, the world's at stake, and it's the dawn of a new horizon for Earth. Glory and the titular champions are represented by Swoksaar, Desert Dust, Lord Grim, Vaccaria, and Cloud Piercer – the captains of what I'd call the 'big 5' teams. A circuitry board background element hints at the tech/mecha nature of the story's competition. It may not match Blurb's art, but I hope I was able to convey some of what the story is about.

The circuitry image is used as decoration throughout the book. I only used the avatars of the top five teams' captains because too many silhouettes would lessen their impact and readability. (Removing the backgrounds was tedious, but worth it.)

Here's what it should have looked like. The test prints for this and the BB art were fine, but I think my inkjet started running out of ink just when I printed the final copies and I didn't reprint them. (Too impatient, really wanted to finish up and read the book)

The Cover

World Champions is another Big Bang fic, and once again I based some of my design choices off of the accompanying artwork. The dominant colours of Blurb_brain's illustration are red and blue-green.

COVER PAPER: For the decorative cover material I used NASA's ASTER image of Poyang Lake. NASA has some really interesting photography some of which remind me of marbled paper, thought it could be interesting. I chose this image of Poyang Lake because 1) it's in China, 2) the colours were similar to Blurb's awesome illustration (fate strikes again, dropping matching images and artwork into my lap!), and 3) NASA is tangentially relevant to the fic, which takes place in space.

BOOKCLOTH: Verona bookcloth in the shade Black Pearl, a lovely dark navy blue colour. Thought it suited the cover paper and title page. (Bought it for this fic specifically, but the colour goes well with almost all of my decorative papers so it should see a lot of use in the future!)

Endpapers

The final decision that held this project at a standstill for two months. In the end I drew inspiration from the matchups against the final opponent in the story. The image I used is a little chaotic and a little too unrelated to identify why I picked it without an explanation, but this book is for me and I know why, so there. (Note that I played around with the colours and cropped the photo.)

Endpaper inspiration: the maps for the matches against the Infilhites

"a long bridge through an enormous tube-like hall, where light seem to come from every side through stained glass windows. It was visually confusing, limited lateral motion" "a warehouse, crates stacked on and beside metal racks that went all the way to the ceiling." "a house of mirrors, fully enclosed to be sure the Infhillte couldn’t fly out of it." "like a volcano, rivers of lava moving sluggishly down a slope, occasional vents of overheated air nearby." "a series of overlapping bridges between halls and stairways, level after level layered over an open abyss."

Trimming & Painting the Edges

Going all out, a 2-for1 deal: the opportunity to use my lying press for the first time and learn a new technique!

TRIMMING: Used a paring chisel and lying press.

CHISEL: The 1.25" wide paring chisel I used was form a modern manufacturer. (Vintage paring chisels are very thin, enough so that you can bend/flex the blade. But don't do that.) It's long and wide blade made it easier to register against the surface of the press for consistent cuts. Looks like this one below from Lee Valley.

LYING PRESS: My dad's project. Solid black walnut, hand carved screws and internal threads — he even made the tools to make the threads too! The jaws of the press are each 3 7/8" wide. It's big and heavy (though much smaller than full-sized professional ones omg), but there's enough of a flat surface to register the chisel against. A thicc boi, much like this one below from Bookbinding Supplies.

PAINTED EDGES: The idea was to have dark navy edges, speckled with white stars. I used acrylic from a tube to paint the edges — tutorials recommended it over liquid bottled acrylic, and I had an old set hanging around. Had to water it down because otherwise the paint just flaked off.

My test of trimming and painting went well. Then the trimmed book itself came out slightly crooked, the paint required significantly more watering-down than before, and the white paint did not want to be both opaque and speckle-able. Unfortunate, but still book-shaped! And now I have an idea of what to do differently next time.

Also, did not like the glow-in-the-dark paint. Looked too translucent in the light when compared to the white acrylic, and needed a thicker coat to be visible in the dark. (The thickness combined with the translucence and base colour kinda reminded me of boogers... Ended up scrapping most of it off, so there's not much left to glow.)

Endbands

Still in the mood to have fun and go all-out, I attempted double-core endbands for the first time.

TUTORIAL: YouTube @ BookbindersChronicle: Bookbinding 101 Sewing Headbands Session 2. Also watched @ DAS Bookbinding's Double-Core Endband // Adventures in Bookbinding, but I personally found Chronicle's closeup video easier to follow.

I used embroidery floss from a 100pk of assorted colours off Amazon, wrapped around a core of 1.9mm leather cording from Michaels. I drew from Blurb_brain's art for the general colours, choosing a dark base, with red, blue-green, and gold. The specific shades were picked to go with the cover.

[dandylovesturtles]

Leo, trick!

Leo, trick

CW: dismemberment

Remember I warned you guys there may be gore.

This idea has most definitely been done before but whatever.

---

Stop messing around with your portals, Leo!

That's what Raph had said to him, so many times. It's what Raph said to him today, and just to spite him, Leo had opened a portal to the rooftops and stepped through it.

He should have listened.

Instead, he stuck his hand back through and flipped his big brother off. Messing around.

He'd pulled his arm back as he closed the portal, except...

He'd been too slow with one motion and too fast with the other.

And now there's blood on Leo, blood on the rooftop. A white hot pain lancing through his nerve endings and a full body shake that won't let up.

Empty air below his elbow where his forearm used to be.

He's screwed up too big, this time.

A deafening static is trying to pull him under, and distantly Leo realizes that if he lets that happen, he'll die. He's all alone up here, and his family is too far away to help him even if they realize what's happened.

The image of his disembodied hand falling out of the air in front of Raph would make him laugh if it didn't make him want to vomit instead.

He has to stop the bleeding. He has to get off the damn roof. He cradles his injured limb against his plastron and fumbles as he reaches for his odachi. It's a two-handed sword and he only has his non-dominant hand now. Fantastic.

He's shaking as he pulls the sword up, and he nearly drops it again. Takes a deep breath and draws a shaky circle around himself.

He prays to anyone who might be listening that this works.

A flash of blue, and he tumbles through.

"Leo!" he hears multiple people shout at once. He's not sure where in the lair he landed, but thankfully it's somewhere he's been noticed. There's the sound of a scramble, and then Donnie is saying, "We have to stop the bleeding," and Splinter is saying, "Here, I have it," and something is wrapped over his stump that makes searing pain shoot through him and starbursts pop in his eyes.

And then Raph is leaning over him, and he breathes out, shaky, "Raaaphie..."

"Hey, Leo, I'm here." He sounds worried, but he's using his big brother tone, and it helps Leo feel safe. "You're gonna be alright."

"S-sorry Raphie," he chokes out, tears leaking out of his eyes. "Shoulda listened... 'M sorry..."

"Hey, hey, shh..." Raph puts his big hand on Leo's head, and even through the pain and the fear and the ringing stupid stupid stupid in his ears, it feels nice. "Later, okay? We gotta get you fixed up right now."

"Messing around... s-sorry..."

"I know, Leo, I know. Just breathe, alright?"

Leo tries. But the white hot pain won't abate, and the static in his head is louder now, and someone is saying, "I got him," and he takes that as his cue and slips into darkness.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for cooking non-kosher food on purpose so that my Jewish roommate can't eat any of it?

For reference we're all in our 20s, and all some level of neurodivergent.

So I live with a few other people, and for the most part it's been chill so far. The only real problem I've had is with one of my roommates, we'll call them C. C was very sheltered as a kid, and we helped him move in with us mostly so that we could help him get out of a bad situation. The trouble is that because of the aforementioned sheltering he has a very bad habit of stepping on people's toes. He's loud when other people are sleeping, he spent the better part of our first year living together trying to avoid paying for rent or utilities, and he tends to dominate a conversation whenever he joins by doing the typical "wait for you to finish so I can say what I care about" shtick.

Well, we've had a recurring problem with C being grabby about other people's food. When we first moved in together he was constantly taking other people's groceries and using them for himself without asking, and not just small stuff, but like using my noodles, my sauce, and my meat to make spaghetti or something of the like. We all buy groceries separately except for a few core things that we all use like milk, eggs, flour, etc, so he was basically taking this stuff for free.

None of us are wealthy, we're all working retail and food service jobs, so it's not like it was a small blow to be losing food like that.

Well we discussed that and he's stopped, thankfully, but now he tries to like...beg for scraps? If you cook ANYTHING or are even in the kitchen, he'll come around and ask if it's "just for you, or for everyone". Understandably, this gets very annoying. My thing is that if you want to eat food I've made, you should contribute. Either by helping pay for ingredients or doing the dishes, or something like that. Basically, if you want to eat, help out. C never wants to help out or contribute to ingredients. Plus, if you tell him no, he'll whine about it? Like if you say that he can't have some of whatever you're cooking he'll be like "That food smells so good, even though you won't let me have any."

On the other hand, I know that C doesn't have a lot of money, and I would never want anyone to go hungry. But he won't use the communal stuff to cook himself anything, he'll just complain about not having a lot of money. I've tried to yelp him get more hours at the job we share, but he's unwilling to work certain shifts so there's a limit on how much I can do.

Anyways, to get to the point, sometimes I make dishes specifically with pork or other non-kosher ingredients so that he won't be able to constantly ask for some. I would never intentionally let him eat anything non kosher, and label all the foods I make for everyone so that he can check the ingredients and see if it's something he can have. I just don't want to be a jerk I guess, because I know that the economy is god-awful and believe strongly in helping your fellow man.

So, AITA?

What are these acronyms?