#wall cladding London

[jpnriikicore]

── so american

paring ollie bearman x american!reader, word count 372, genre fluff, ( masterlist )

him mumbling the little words he knows as he is still in the process of learning the language to an italian song. claiming he would be a singer if he is fluent in italian. your shoulders shook with laughter. your nose scrunched up as an american smile lit up my features similar to the smile you gave him right before he tried tennessee whiskey for the first time despite not being the legal age. the first time he called you so american.

your sock-cladded feet rested against the dashboard. the windshield wipers going back and forth, back and forth like clockwork as the rain pelted down from the gray sky.

"you look pretty."

he spoke, glancing over towards you briefly. you're wearing a light blue sweater that you borrowed from his side of the shared closet.

your favorite bruce springsteen track from the album born in the u.s.a admitted from the car’s speakers. he purposely saved that song to his playlist just for you. after visiting your hometown in america for the first time and seeing a bruce springsteen poster hanging your in bedroom in all its glory.

you proceeded to crack one of those stupid jokes that she finds funny followed by a genuine laugh from him. gosh, you loved that sound. most people found your humor dry, but he found your sense of humor charming.

when you first met him when he was visiting his hometown, chelmsford, for a few days. you were attending school for the school year as a foreign exchange student starting your junior year in london. you heard him laughing first then heard the accent. the following day, you walked around a retail market with him during the afternoon and by the night you’re in a pub with a few of his old friends.

you speak about him constantly which makes you come off as a bore to your friends now. coming back with many stories since you travel with him around to races. you used to find it difficult to sleep even in your bed, but with him, you’re comfortable enough to fall asleep easily even in a hotel bed with four unfamiliar walls around you. you know you’re gonna marry him one day.

© JPNRIIKICORE, 2024

[flemingology]

Loving the Leah blurbs! Would you do one where Leah and reader are very drunk, coming home from a night out, and Leah’s very very hungry

midnight munchies ─ leah williamson x reader

warnings: alcohol, quite suggestive at some point, but not too explicit, definitely not smut

wc: 594

a/n: thank you for the request! hope you enjoy it :)

You and Leah stumbled inside after she took way too long trying to find the right key – finally back home after a long night out, and admittedly way too many drinks. You'd gone out to celebrate Arsenal's UWCL qualification and what was supposed to be a couple drinks and some food, turned out into a wild night through the busy streets of London.

"I'm starving", Leah shouted as she plopped down on the couch. She slurred her words, clearly affected by the one too many gin and tonics she consumed tonight. "Turn it down, Le," you said nearly as loud as her.

You threw your bag on the counter and leaned your head down, the cold kitchen tile a welcome feeling against your already throbbing head. "We're gonna-," you got interrupted by a hiccup, much to your girlfriend's amusement. "We're gonna regret this tomorrow," you finally managed.

Leah mustered up nothing more than a hum, getting back up from the couch. She had to stabilize herself against the wall to make sure she didn't fall, before making her way over to the kitchen and circling her arms around your waist from behind.

You slowly turned in her grip – making sure not to move too quick to avoid the headache building quicker – and clasped your hands together behind her neck, pulling her in for a bruising kiss. Leah deepened the kiss right away, as you let out a soft moan when you tasted the alcohol that was still lingering on her tongue. Her hands roamed all over your back and she pulled you tight against her, steadying the both of you against the kitchen counter to make sure you couldn't cause any accidents – neither you nor her trusting your own legs to hold you up.

Leah broke the kiss with a tug at your bottom lip, dipping her head down before starting to kiss up and down your neck. She bit, licked and kissed – if you weren't dizzy yet from the alcohol, you sure would be now. You tangled your hands into her blonde locks, tugging harshly whenever she licked a particularly sensitive spot in your neck. You brought her head back up towards yours and pulled her into another kiss, moaning into her mouth when you felt her knee nudging itself between your legs, making contact with your core.

"Fuck, Leah. Let's go upstairs," you slurred, trying to push the two of you in the direction of the stairs.

The arousal that had been building up steadily suddenly washed away when Leah pulled away from you rather harshly, leaving you confused as to what you said wrong. Her eyes scanned your face and body, suddenly feeling very exposed under the gaze of your girlfriend.

"No. I'm starving," she said matter of factly. You sighed, slouching down against the kitchen wall as Leah opened the fridge, on the hunt for anything that would quell her midnight hunger. You pressed the palms of your hands against your eyes in an attempt to subdue the headache that was forming, already regretting the decisions you had been making that night.

Before long, Leah retreated from the fridge with a tub of ice cream in hand – accompanied with a spoon and a playful glint in her eye. Any suspense that had been building between the two of you now washed away, you grinned at your girlfriend and how silly she looked – clad in a very hot suit, hair sticking out everywhere, droopy eyes that completely gave away her drunken state, now with a goofy grin spread across her face.

"You're a dork." "Your dork, indeed."

[keepingupwithzaynmalik]

Zayn Malik’s eventim Apollo Show Is An Emotional Triumph

The second of his sold out London shows…

Zayn Malik isn’t particularly fond of touring. It’s the word on the lips of everyone in the scrum outside the eventim Apollo tonight, an expectant London crowd awaiting the return of a generational pop icon. Since the closure of One Direction, Zayn’s solo career has been stop-start, as he navigated personal issues in the process. He remains, however, Zayn Malik – and the tension, excitement, and longing in the air is palpable.

Squeezing past some disappointed punters left outside, CLASH retrieves its ticket from the booth, only to discover that we’ve been handed a second ticket, too. Spotting a mother and daughter looking confused at the ticket desk, we do a swap-around with the kind man behind the desk, and suddenly we’re in a different seat, and the parental duo are joyously climbing the steps into the Apollo.

With good karma under our wings, we trot down to our seat, slightly bemused by the looks we’re getting from the crowd. They’re young. Sometimes very young. We are… maybe not? Upon finding our seat we’re immediately cross-examined by the pair of Zayn stans placed next to us.

“Are you REALLY a Directioner? Really?” they ask.

“Oh, obviously,” CLASH responds, in a tone so flatly assuring that not even the FBI could crack it. Sensing an awkwardness, we offer: “Are you a big Zayn fan, then?”

It’s then that she fixes her eyes mid-distance with a burning intensity, and answers with the kind of explosive assurance that only youth can offer: “He is the most beautiful man in the world.”

It’s the screams that get you. When the curtain falls and Zayn emerges the voices are deafening, almost beyond belief. It’s a wall of noise, a shuddering screech of pent-up desperation – joy and lust, longing and relief, all fused into one titanic tidal wave of sound. For his part, Zayn is bashful – shy, even. The voice is pristine, the band are exceptional – it’s a tight sound that blends R&B, pop and (especially) Americana, reflective of the journey he’s been on.

For someone who seemingly doesn’t enjoy touring, and the pressure of live performance, Zayn doesn’t hold back. It’s an 18-strong set list, delivered succinctly, with the minimum of fuss – all music, no hype. He’s clad in a Nirvana t-shirt and a loose top, a porkpie hat annointed on his head. Every detail, every hand gesture counts – when Zayn opts to remove his top, the screams reach new, almighty levels.

At times, he’s semi-stunned, not sure how to respond. “Fuck yeah, you guys are loud!” he offers, laughing self-consciously in the process. It’s been a long road to get here – at one point, fans could be forgiven for feeling that Zayn was lost to music. The gospel touches in opening song ‘My Woman’ offer something soothing, while ‘Dreamin’ and ‘Lied To’ are early highlights. The pacing is patient, the band behind him immaculately well-rehearsed.

It’s never marbled, or overly professional. There’s a humanity to Zayn Malik that he can’t hide – the Yorkshire twang is still there, and for all his evident shy reserve there’s also a quiet joy at being onstage. Repeatedly thanking the crowd – “you guys are sooooo loud!” – there’s a sense of genuine relief onstage. ‘Ignorance Ain’t Bliss’ is a wonderful mid-set vignette, ‘Sweat’ is packed with the lust, while ‘iT’s YoU’ is a deft duet between vocalist and piano.

There’s a couple of surprises, too. ‘Last Request’ honours Paolo Nutini, and serves as a great vessel for the soulful aspects of Zayn’s own voice. There’s a revealing introduction to ‘PILLOWTALK’: “The reason – one reason – I didn’t tour for so long was that I was afraid to sing this song…”

Zayn needn’t have worried. The audience acts as a cushion underneath him, their love and support pushing him up when needed. ‘PILLOWTALK’ is gorgeous, rapturously received, while a home run of ‘Alienated’ and ‘Gates Of Hell’ ties up a punctual performance that offers everything fans could have wanted – and more.

There’s a sense of quiet exhaustion at the end, when a tribute to Liam Payne flashes up onscreen. ‘Stardust’ plays, and there’s a moment of pause as the crowd engages in mutual reflection. One Direction helped to frame the coming-of-age experiences of a generation, their music bringing incalculable joy to millions across the globe. It’s a true sin, then, that the intense experiences of fame brought so much pressure and pain to the young men who powered that phenomenon. Zayn Malik is a wonderful vocalist, someone with fantastic pop songs in his solo canon – he’s also, as the girl next to us so succinctly put it, one of the most beautiful men we’ve ever seen onstage. He may not tour that often, but we wish him nothing but happiness.

ROBIN MURRAY FOR CLASH

[twodogs-twocats]

The Maskmaker and the Masked (Sleep Token’s III x fem reader) 18+, NSFW

You are hired by Sleep Token to design new masks for the band. But you quickly realize your relationship with III is more than professional.

Warnings: SMUT - 18+, MINORS DNI. Oral, penetration

I did my best to maintain members being masked while making this somewhat realistic. This is the first fanfic I’ve ever written, so please be kind! I hope you enjoy!

Part II

London was cold and rainy. Your head was steadily throbbing after 10 hours on an airplane, your hair frizzing out from the two buns you had carefully arranged just that morning. You felt sticky and tired.

And yet, you couldn’t help the tingle of excitement that coursed through your body. From the back seat of the taxi, you watched the rain splatter the windows as you twirled your thumbs. Excited, yes, but also incredibly nervous.

You had been hired by one of your favorite bands, Sleep Token, to design new masks for the band members. Apparently, the members of the band had found your Instagram and had fallen in love with your work. After several emails and phone calls with their manager and a couple of signed NDAs, you were emailed plane tickets and and address. And now, in just a matter of hours, you would be meeting the members to take measurements.

It had all happened so quickly, and while you felt confident in your work and thrilled by the opportunity, you were stressed about making a good impression.

A few hours later, feeling a bit more well-rested and certainly much cleaner, you followed the band’s manager through the winding corridors of an old house. It wasn’t quite where you were expecting to meet the members, but you were pleased by the aesthetic as it matched the mysterious vibe of the band itself. You made polite chit-chat with the manager, following them down a dimly lit hallway with red walls and ornate chandeliers.

Soon you heard the low thrum of male voices coming from a room ahead. You fiddled with the large tote bag that held your art supplies. The butterflies in your belly that had been softly fluttering all day long now grew into a frantic swarm.

The band manager stopped just before the door and turned towards you.

“Just remember, the band members will be masked, and you have signed NDAs that prevent you from releasing any sort of information about your time spent here with the band. I just want to reiterate that it is extremely important to the members that their privacy is respected”

You nodded. “Of course, I understand. I’m just honored to be here. I would never want to be disrespectful.” You meant this with all your heart. You appreciated the band’s desire to put their music first. You would never want them to lose that.

The manager offered you a genuine smile, and beckoned you into the room. “Right this way then.”

Taking careful steps and a few swipes at your hair (still frizzy - damn the rain), your eyes were met by the most beautiful sight.

All four members lay sprawled around a small, but gorgeously decorated room. Vessel lay stretched along a red leather couch, his legs so long that his feet (no shoes, just black socks with cat faces on them) dangled off the edge of the armrest. II was seated cross legged on the floor, clad in a thick black hoodie, reading what appeared to be a drummer’s magazine. IV stood by a window, sipping at a beer with his hands shoved in the pockets of his baggy black jeans. It was like staring at a piece of art far more spectacular than anything that lined the walls of this old manor. You weren’t even sure if you were still breathing.

Yet it was III that really caught your eye. He lounged casually in an overstuffed chair at the back corner of the room, long legs pulled up into his chest. His hair hung loosely around his mask. He wore a dark blazer and his trademark checkered socks. In a split second, you felt your body tune into his intense energy. He was incredibly attractive.

You had only a few moments to take them in like this, glorious in their peacefulness, before they realized you were there. Then it was all hugs and handshakes, smiles and questions.

“How was your flight? Not too dreadful, I hope.” Vessel asked you, taking your hands in his, their warmth welcome after the chilly weather. You were caught off guard by his voice at first, as you realized you had never heard any of them speak.

“Lovely to meet you, Y/N. I’ve admired your work for so long,” II offered, gazing at you rather intensely from piercing blue eyes.

“Come, sit.” IV said, clearing pillows off of the couch. You could see his eyes crinkled in a smile behind the fabric of his black mask. “We ordered pizza!”

It was at this very moment that your stomach grumbled loudly. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

This was received with gregarious laughter, but it was a quiet chuckle just behind you that made the hairs stand up on your neck. While you were being fretted over by the other members, III had managed to come up behind you.

“My my, we can’t have our girl so tired and hungry,” he spoke gently into your ear, his voice causing a shiver down your spine. Placing his large hand on the small of your back, he guided you firmly toward the couch. As you made to sit, his hands gently pulled the tote you carried from your shoulders. Everywhere III touched he left a burning imprint on your body.

“What else can I get for you, love?” he asked, kneeling before you and resting a hand on your knee. “You have come such a long way for us. I want to make sure you are well taken care of.”

Hot. He was so stupidly hot.

“I’m alright III, thank you.” You replied, trying to stay professional, even as his hand was burning a hole through your jeans. “Some food sounds lovely.”

“Good,” chimed in Vessel. “No work now. Tonight, we would just like to relax and get to know you.”

Soon the pizza arrived, and you spent the rest of your night immersed in delightful conversation. You talked about everything, from favorite foods to childhood pets, even playing a round of Never Have I Ever that left you laughing until your belly ached. Little by little, you felt yourself ease into their presence, becoming more comfortable and more capable of being yourself.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way III continued to look at you, his eyes always focused on you, lingering, assessing. You felt a knot in the deep parts of your gut. Was he checking you out? You felt like it was possible, but you didn’t want to read into it. You had a job to do. So instead, you continued to relax into the joyful company until the late hours of the night.

The next day was measuring day. You had everything you needed ready to go in your tote, and your head was swimming with ideas. The fact that your work was going to be worn by such talented musicians still felt unreal. Even more unreal after the incredible night you had just had. You couldn’t believe how sweet they all were, and they seemed just as in love with your art as you were with their music. The entire opportunity was a dream come true.

You arrived at the same manor as the night before, but this time you were led to a small sitting room flooded with natural light. Starting with Vessel, you met with each member one-by-one, having them sit on a stool in front of you while you gathered the data you needed.

While you worked, you chatted with them. They asked you questions about your art, and you asked similar questions back about their music. You listened intently, knowing that understanding their music on a deeper level would help you create better masks. Each interaction left you joyful and smiling. You still could not believe you were here with them, and how readily they welcomed you into their world.

The final member to measure was III. You could not lie to yourself, you had been the most excited to meet with him. You had spent your nighttime hours thinking about him, wondering what it would feel like to have him hold you, touch you, kiss you…

“Good morning Y/N.” IIIs voice pulled you out of your thoughts. Could he hear how loud your heart was beating?

“Good morning III,” you greeted him, plastering what you hoped was a nonchalant smile on your face. He looked ethereal, wearing a long-sleeve black button-down, and black jeans that perfectly accentuated his long legs. Just be professional, you reminded yourself. “Take a seat please, and we can get started.”

“Yes ma’am,” he quipped. Even as he sat, he still towered over you.

You pulled out your measuring tape and a pen and paper. Starting with his forehead, you drew the tape along the various planes of his face. Your fingers tickled with electricity as they studied the contours of his features under the black fabric of his mask.

The whole time, III gazed up at you with blue-grey eyes.

“Does it make it more difficult that we are masked while you’re doing this?” he asked you.

“Actually, it’s a bit easier,” you replied. “I can use the dimensions of your existing mask, rather than having to create complete new ones.”

He hummed with understanding. “Tell me more about your art. Why do you make masks?”

God, just him talking to you was getting you worked up.

“I’ve always been interested in the idea of losing oneself to one’s appearance. Whether it is a costume, makeup, tattoos, I often wonder if we use these things to hide ourselves, or to express ourselves more truly.” Your hands now measured the strong bridge of his nose. “Masks seem like the penultimate of this question. When we hide our faces, are we really hiding, or does the anonymity allow us to more fully be who we are?”

“How beautifully put.” Now you guided the tape along his jawline, feeling its sharpness under the fabric mask. Your fingers lightly traced the exposed skin of his neck, and you felt him stiffen. “A beautiful mind, beautiful art, a beautiful woman,” he said softly.

Your breath caught at his words and you shifted slightly. As you moved, your foot caught on his and you lost your balance, starting to fall backwards. But before you hit the ground, III’s strong arms wrapped around your waist pulling you towards his chest. His warmth, the strong muscles of his body, the musky smell of his cologne — all of it came crashing into you.

“Woah there love. I’ve got you.” He murmured into your hair as he continued holding you close. “I don’t need you getting hurt now. I’m not sure I could live with myself if you got hurt on my watch.”

You chuckled softly, but made no motion to pull away. “Thank you III. You just caught me off guard I guess.”

“Come now, I’m sure you’re used to such compliments.”

You felt yourself becoming braver now that you knew what he was trying to tell you. Now that his hands were starting to explore your waist, thumbs running small circles just under your breasts. “Ah, but I’ve never received such compliments from someone so…”

“Devilishly handsome?” he pulled back slightly, smirking down at you.

“So incredibly fucking hot.”

Two seconds. You felt him pause for two seconds while he registered what you said. By the third second, he had pulled the fabric of his mask up to his nose, wrapped his hands in your hair, and brought his lips down to meet yours.

The intensity of his kiss was ferocious. His teeth clattered into yours before he spread your lips with his tongue, sliding it in to meet your own. You kissed him back fiercely, as your hands explored his chest, his back, and finally ventured down to his ass.

That touch seemed to light him up even more, as suddenly he was picking you up to carry you towards the couch. He laid you on your back, spread your legs apart with his knee, and then proceeded to kiss you again as he knelt over you. This time, his kiss was more measured, slow and sensual. Your attention drifted to his knee pressing up against your core. He bit your lip gently. “Y/N, my love, you tell me when to stop, alright?”

“Alright,” you replied, gazing up into those stunning eyes, lids now heavy with lust.

You continued to kiss passionately while his hands explored your body, and then traveled up under your shirt. He took your breast in his large hand, thumb circling your nipple. “You are just perfect, aren’t you?”

You bucked to his touch, as your own hands worked to remove the buttons of his shirt. As he poised above you, now shirtless, his hair beginning to shine with sweat, you felt as though you were looking at a god.

“III?” You said softly, tracing a finger down his chest.

“Yes, my love?”

“Let me worship you.”

He growled at your words. You gently guided him off of you, until he was standing before you. Getting down on your knees, you started to unbutton his pants while his hands circled through your hair.

When he was fully unclothed, his massive length sprung out towards you. You were going to spend every second treating him like the god he was, you thought to yourself, as you took him in your mouth.

“Y/N,” he groaned. “That feels so fucking good.” His fingers in your hair tightened, and you welcome the little bite of sensation. You continued to pleasure him, savoring his taste, enjoying the way his breath sped up at your touch.

After you had taken your time with him, you felt a soft touch at your chin. “My love,” he said, taking your face to look up at him. “It is my turn to worship you.”

III guided you up to stand before him, and began to undress you. He took his time, letting his fingers caress your skin, kissing you along your collarbones, your shoulders, and down your chest. Once you were fully naked, he took a step back to admire you. Your body burned beneath his gaze.

“You, my love, are a work of art.”

And then his hands were everywhere. They wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt his cock, still wet from your spit, pressing into your belly. His hands grabbed your ass, your waist, and then began drifting towards your center until his long fingers landed softly on your clit.

You let out a soft gasp, realizing how much you had needed him to touch you there. He traced lazy circles around your clit as he kissed your neck. You knees began to tremble at his touch.

Seeming to sense your inability to keep yourself upright, he guided you back to the couch and laid you down, fingers never leaving the wetness between your legs.

“I love how wet I’m making you,” he whispered, smirking. “My girl deserves nothing but absolute pleasure.”

You whimpered at his words as your hips arched towards him, wanting more.

“Tell me what you want, my love,” he breathed into your ear. “Tell me how to pleasure you.”

You looked into his eyes, meeting those cool blue depths. “I want all of you III. I want to feel you in me.”

It was like your words had released the final thread. III kissed you again, claiming your lips in his, as he pushed himself inside you.

It felt like heaven. His body in yours, your lips in his, the heat of your bodies like a fire between you. He rocked his hips in a steady rhythm, hitting you deep in your center every time, filling your eyes with stars.

Eden.

His fingers worked their way into your mouth, flooding you with your own taste. Your eyes met, locked together while III pounded into you, deeper with every stroke.

You came together, your body catapulting into a realm of intense pleasure as his fingers gripped the soft flesh of your hips, his head falling back as he reached his own climax. You relished in the warmth, the sense of fullness within you.

Slowly, your breathing softened. III pulled you close, and you both spent a few quiet moments settled in each other’s presence. The rain had started up again, spattering the windows and softening the daylight.

III’s fingers traced soft circles on your back as he held you. “Y/N, my love, I could do that forever.”

You knew in your heart you felt the same. So you pulled III closer and held on tight.

[hazyange1s]

Enshrouded

Summary: (abbreviated from the ao3 version because this baby is long enough 😂) MC is an Auror seeking refuge from the arduous nature of her everyday life, and finds it in a secret wizarding club hidden in London; where she has an unforgettable encounter with a strangely familiar, masked man.

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!MC / Reader

Warnings: EXPLICIT 18+ MINORS DNI. — p in v, oral (f and m receiving), drug/alcohol use, semi-public, anonymous, little bit rough but nothing too crazy, mentions of violence/blood (mc just really LOVES her job lmao), lots of adult language oop, aged up characters (everyone is in their early 20’s)

Word count: 7.3k

A/N: this idea came to me in a dream… nah jk it came to me while watching Bridgerton (go figure). Started writing it months ago and after much self-doubt I present baby’s first published filth 💀

read here on Ao3 🌹

It was the mystery. She had long suspected that was what kept her going back for more, time and time again.

The risk of it all was enticing too, of course, but more than anything, she loved a damn good mystery. One complex and intricate, one that took time and effort to unravel. As an Auror, well, her life was chock full of such simple delights.

Regrettably, there wasn’t much joy to be had in solving the cases slapped on her desk by the Chief Auror - any satisfaction in making an arrest was often muddied by the names of the victims left behind. So she often sought out milder (but just as potent) forms of that heady adrenaline rush in order to scratch the itch - and her absolute favorite was Reverie. Unassuming enough as names go, and the facade would lead you to think so, too: its uniform brick painted a dingy gray just like every other shopfront along the shadowed, misty cobblestone of Knockturn Alley.

If any of her coworkers found out she frequented such a spot …oh, she’d never hear the end of it. Worse than that, her Chief might even believe such behavior warranted suspension; as wanton impropriety from a well known Ministry employee would bring her morals into question. Likely, she’d get an earful about the utter shame it would bring upon the Ministry itself if she were spotted.

But that was the glorious thing about Reverie: the moment you stepped through its doors, you became somebody else.

Or, rather, no one at all.

Attendance was by invitation only; delivered anonymously while the recipient slept soundly in their bed (certainly disconcerting, but how could she complain?). No letter, just a silken black mask.

Donning the disguise allowed its wearer to see past the heavy glamor placed on the building and step inside - without being apprehended by one of the black-clad guards on watch. Yet the mask’s hidden talents didn’t end there. It was the club’s signature secret: while it was true they merely framed the eyes, each mask contained a glamor of their own that completely concealed one’s identity - whether or not someone would recognize them without it.

(You could be staring into the face of your best friend and would never know it.)

Which, incidentally, was expressly forbidden inside the club’s boundaries (one of very few rules, mind); as strict anonymity was what kept the underground facility running, despite the fact that the Ministry remained attuned to the whispers of a taboo venue boasting all manners of rampant debauchery right under their noses.

Still, the sorcery that offered Reverie protection had held true for well over five years, and its owners were more than dedicated to ensuring it was always so.

Most well-versed and connected members of English wizarding society had at least indulged in rumors of an alternative establishment hidden in the city. They traded whispers of what horrors may lurk behind those gray walls - dark magic and blatant impropriety and dangerous indulgences…

They couldn’t be more right.

The air was already thick with the tang of whiskey and rank with perspiration by the time she arrived an hour after its Friday opening. With each step she took through the meandering crowd, heels clicking on the marble floors, curling smoke in every shade imaginable wafted around the room and blissfully chased away the odor with frankincense and mallowsweet.

But she hadn’t come for the medicinals tonight, tempting as they were after a week that had left her emptier than the glasses long ago abandoned by drunken patrons. Not even a goblet of Merlot or a shot of coffee liqueur (with a splash of cream) could chase away what ailed her.

No, tonight she sought only one means of release, and needed nothing but the tension simmering in her blood as fuel for the fire driving her to desperation.

Nights at Reverie were not for the faint of heart (or stomach), nor the chaste and mild. While technically not allowed in open spaces, more than half of the attendees usually found themselves with a partner by dawn; in one of the many private back rooms or curtained-off alcoves - or dark corners, even.

After all, what did they have to lose when the strings of your identity weren’t a factor?

Usually she’d been content to let the men and women come to her, and admittedly there hadn’t been a shortage of such… entanglements in the three months since she’d received her own mask.

But the time for coy shyness and drawn out flirtation was long gone. Leaning against one of the wall-to-floor Grecian columns at the edge of the room, she simply tossed back her hair and began to scan it for potential prey.

There was a generous sample size, it was true. A tall, lithe gentleman whose hair shone like spun gold, a flawlessly curved woman with rich brown skin, a broad redhead sporting a wide grin…

No, no, and no… none of them are just right.

She huffed with restrained frustration, tapping her foot to the string music playing a haunting melody that seemed to fill every space in the curved underground.

You know there’s only one person you wanted to find here tonight.

Perhaps she’d have to lower her standards - beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.

“There you are.”

Gasping, she pressed a palm to her satin covered chest, which heaved beneath the boning of her - possibly too tight - corset at the unexpected greeting. But what truly robbed her of breath until she was penniless… oh, gods.

They’d answered her prayers after all: the man standing behind her with a luminous grin was precisely the one she’d been hoping to see.

A regular, as luck would have it. She’d spotted him in attendance more often than not, but had never had the courage to approach (mainly due to the slew of witches and wizards who got to him first).

With her attraction being largely from afar, she’d assumed that his lack of…well, anything - other than a single dance lasting no more than five minutes - had meant he was uninterested. Though the smile he wore was genuine, not like the mask framing his dark eyes, and it sparked in the dim lighting cast from candelabras around the wide room.

“Here I am…?” She quirked a brow questioningly, hand lowering to her hip. “But, er, you must be mistaken. I’m not sure I’m the person you’re looking for.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you are.” His chuckle was somehow more musical than the quartet filling the air and more rough than smooth, but exquisitely rich - as was the material of his dark vest and the deep gray collared shirt rolled above his elbows.

“On account of the fact that I’d know that particular dress anywhere. We’ve never been properly introduced, as I recall.”

“You recall correctly.” She smiled - maybe coy was still in the cards, if only to spend more time with this handsome stranger.

“I suppose that’s frowned upon here really, so…I believe there’s a better way we could become acquainted, if you’d be amenable.”

She had to be impressed with his wanton confidence, if nothing else…though she got the sense there were many rather impressive things about him. Even more arresting was the boldness of his touch; broad hands reaching for hers to bring to his supple lips, where they lingered for a moment before releasing her gently.

Alright. He knew what he was doing.

But she had to play just a touch hard to get - if only to give him a taste of what he’d been dishing out for months (intentionally or otherwise). He’d been playing coy after their first and only real interaction; shooting her little winks and whispered hellos on random nights - only to disappear again amongst the all-black crowd without giving her a chance to respond.

Likely, he’d been going off to find some other witch or wizard for entertainment.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, a knowing smile playing on her own red-painted lips. “I don’t recall meeting you at all. Your face has a similar quality to many men here, you see.”

“Ah, somehow I doubt that.” Darkness collected in his dimples (how had she not noticed them before?)

“Saturday, precisely two months ago to the day, you were dancing in my arms wearing a red dress like you have on right now.” His voice was like honey and velvet as he spoke. With each word, he seemed to get closer.

And yes, of course she remembered. She was just surprised he still did.

It’s why she’d been stuck with a ridiculous, schoolgirl infatuation for weeks now; why she’d worn red each and every night in the hopes of catching his attention once more.

The brief escapades she’d busied herself with in the meantime had done in a pinch, but there was something about him she was positively dying to unravel. Perhaps it was the spark in those deep brown eyes - like the dark liquor she favored- that spoke of depths hidden far below the playful, self-assured surface.

Or maybe it was how he smelled from mere inches away, as he was now: pine, sandalwood, and a spicy scent akin to the smoke furling around him like a haze of fog.

“You’ve got quite the memory.” She mused, unable to stop her smile from bursting into full bloom. “I suppose that does ring a bell— you trodded on my foot.”

He groaned. “I’d had a lot of whiskey that night. I’m usually much more coordinated when sober. In fact…”

His fingers slid up her wrist, moving with slow caresses up her arm and shoulder until they came to rest beneath her jaw, angling it up to align with his gaze.

“Is it too presumptuous of me to ask…if you’d let me make it up to you?”

For a moment - just a breath, she hesitated. And why? This was exactly what she’d come for tonight, and with the man she’d lusted over for ages now falling right into her lap… what sort of woman would refuse?

It was something unidentifiable, intangible. A tug on her gut. Something that flashed in the white of his smile as it caught the candlelight. Like a sense of deja vu; there one second and gone the next, leaving her with nothing but the old itch crawling beneath her flushed skin.

“Presumptuous, certainly. But not unwelcome. Everyone deserves a second chance.” She purred, squaring her shoulders and allowing him to guide her to the edge of the room with one palm flat on her lower back.

What she’d expected was to be whisked away to one of the rooms tucked away in the back; filled with four poster beds and velvet curtains and enough firelight to be a safety hazard. Instead, he brought her up to the bar, catching the attention of its immaculately suited (and masked) tender with a wave of his finger. The movement distracted her while he ordered Merlin-even-knew what. She found herself watching the way his fingers curled and wrist turned with each gesture made, his palms visibly calloused - perhaps he had seen his fair share of combat, too - and the backs of his knuckles covered in freckles.

She had to wonder what constellations might be found if she dared to uncover the rest of him.

A glint of gold caught the light, mercifully returning her attention on the smiling eyes of the man who had taken to slipping a glass of red wine between her fingers.

“Shall we toast?” He asked, tilting his chin up in the direction of the raised goblet.

“What are we toasting to?”

“To…” his lips pursed thoughtfully. (Another startlingly distracting body part.) How pink and supple they looked, and how good they would taste when stained with burgundy…

“Liberation.“

Fitting, indeed.

“Santé.” She touched her chalice to his without breaking the meeting of their eyes.

“Slainte.”

The cloying bitterness of Merlot coated her tongue, filling her stomach with warmth - a taste she hadn’t encountered for years. One she missed dearly.

“How’d you know I’d like Merlot?” She licked wine from her bottom lip.

He spoke at the same time; thick brows arched high. “You’re French?”

They laughed, the sounds winding together into a hypnotic sort of harmony.

“You first.” He inclined his head.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m simply fluent in the language.” She couldn’t give away any secrets, not even the place of her birth.

“That accent was flawless. Nobody but a native could articulate like that.”

She shook her head coyly, though not without amusement.

“Fine.” A sigh that seemed almost long-suffering stirred the smoke coiling around them. “I prefer my women with a bit of mystery, anyway. As for your question, darling…”

Oh, he was a rogue through and through. His eyes greedily swept over every inch of her gown to settle on the curves and shapes he seemed to appreciate most before he even deigned to finish.

“It’s… bold. Much like you, if you don’t think me too audacious for saying so.”

He paused to take another sip, savoring the act of licking his lips as she had moments ago, and almost smugly noting her obvious interest. “And I’ve obviously noticed you enjoy the color red, even if that part’s a bit on the nose.”

“You could say that.” Her heart fluttered traitorously into her throat. His undivided and enthusiastic attention was not only a welcome surprise, but a conflicting one. It wouldn’t do to fall for a masked man - in the end, they could never truly know each other beyond the four walls that brought them together.

Reverie. A dream - that’s all. You’ll wake up in the morning.

She straightened her shoulders, resolved and refortified. “And do you? Enjoy the color, that is?”

Her voice was low, only audible due to the minute distance between them, the man tilting his head down towards her as one finger grazed the dip of her neckline.

“What’s not to love?” He mused. “Red represents… vitality. Danger. Passion…”

Her skin prickled in the wake of the trail he drew from collar to shoulder and down her arm, and when it found her free hand, their fingers threaded together with such ease that they could have done it a thousand times before.

He could hear her heart, couldn’t he? With that amount of surety behind his stare, there was no doubt she was being read like an open book.

“That’s why we keep coming back here, isn’t it?” He was near enough now that every word was felt as a cloud of heat gracing her wine-flushed cheeks.

“Because we relish danger, and need passion like air. We all come to feel… alive.”

“Hmm. It’s almost as if you prepared that line beforehand.” She laughed.

His was such a beautiful sound, bubbling like champagne and leaving her with a warm feeling as if she’d tasted it herself.

“Let’s say I did… is it working?”

”Absolutely.”

Whatever spell had allowed them to maintain a sense of decorum shattered after that confirmation, which said so much more than was spoken aloud. The look exchanged between them was another conversation in itself; a volley of traded questions and answers that sent pure lightning skittering up her spine.

“Come with me.” He said abruptly (though not without a dutiful incline of his head; dark hair shining with veins of red in the candlelight) before tugging her away from the bar, where their drinks were hastily abandoned.

It seemed he was just as content to curse restraint, pulling her along with such haste that she tripped on her skirts (more than once) - evidently forgetting his longer legs and her tall heels as she bumped into a distracted patron that was left with a spilled drink, a scowl, and a breathless apology she didn’t quite mean.

They paused at the mouth of the corridor tucked in the back. It was lined with nothing but identical doors of deepest mahogany: some tightly shut, some cracked, and others yet wide open.

The meaning behind each was simple enough: shut meant “do not disturb”, cracked meant “listen or join, if you dare”, and wide open meant “vacant”. The wizard gave her a boyish grin as they all but stumbled to a stop in front of one that remained ajar and beckoned with soft golden light from the candles within.

“What are you waiting for?” She panted.

Without waiting on so much as a blink, her hand fisted in the crisp white of his button down, guiding him through the threshold before the slam of wood against the frame echoed in the empty chamber.

“A witch who knows what she wants, I see.” He chuckled, his hands needing no invitation to wind around her waist until their bodies molded at each curve.

“Well, you’ve been taunting me for a while, haven’t you?”

She took advantage of her hold on his clothes, forgoing the ease of simply waving her wand when she could take the opportunity to feel every inch of skin she revealed by releasing the buttons on his shirt.

Freckled - just as she’d suspected, and with a neat nest of dark hair over the swell of his pectorals that her palms begged to rest on.

“Wait, wait.” He huffed, hands coming to halt hers before they had time to slide the heavy coat from his shoulders.

“No - not wait as in stop -“ he’d seen the crease between her brows. “Wait, as in… slow down.”

”You seemed rather impatient a minute ago when you were dragging me through the place.” She said wryly.

“Impatient to get you alone, yes.” His knuckle grazed her cheek gently, reverently studying what little of her face he was able to see.

“But…” It was as transient as a ghost, at first. A phantom of touch over the swell of her lip, and then firmer as his thumb outlined the shape. “I’d very much like to kiss you first. May I?”

That he even asked such a question - let alone made his intentions to savor the night clear - was enough to poke another hole in her notions of a one-night affair. What if she couldn’t stand to never have this man again when it was over?

Well… there was always the luxury of dreams.

“Yes, of course.” She whispered.

She’d been right earlier - the taste of wine clung to the corners of his mouth, somehow even sweeter when combined with a hint of peppermint cooling the sharp breath he took the moment their lips fit together effortlessly. Her tongue sought to part them in search of the buzz that the alcohol couldn’t take credit for; finding his and groaning with delight as he melted into her.

A soft tug on her scalp announced the presence of his fingers as they threaded through strands of hair with the sole purpose of eliminating any and all space between them. Eagerly he rolled their tongues together, smearing the red painted on her lips across his chin.

They only paused to share a breath that left her dizzy. The sight of his skin stained with rouge was more beautiful than any art piece hanging on the tapestried walls - and there would be more colors adorning it by the end of the night, if she had anything to say about it.

“Now…” The brunet exhaled when they broke apart, lips brushing with each word. “Now, you can take off my clothes.”

No need to tell her twice.

His vest slumped to the floor, giving her leave to continue her work on that long trail of buttons ending at the waist of his trousers. Before long it, too, was little more than a rag at their feet. When she was privy to every square inch of his bare torso, her hands took liberties to caress the panes of his chest, marveling without shame.

“If you’ll allow me the honor, I’d like to even the score.” His voice was near a husk as he watched her intently.

No complaints arose (alright, perhaps one — when he spun her around; effectively depriving her of the ability to keep touching him) as the skilled wizard sought the eye hooks at the back of her bodice, dexterous fingers releasing each one with a snap that seemed to echo. All the while his mouth found her skin - tongue laving over her throat, teeth nipping where it met her shoulder to plant a bloom of deepest red.

“Mmm… keep doing that.” She hummed appreciatively, head lolling to the side.

“You don’t mind if I leave you a few reminders to find in the morning?” He chuckled. By then, he’d succeeded in freeing her of the constricting garment, tossing it to the carpet by the fire before he started to untie her skirt.

“Not at all.”

”Good,” another kiss, just below her ear this time. “Because I want to be able to see that it’s still there next time we meet.”

If he wasn’t careful, she’d start to think he already had plans to do this again.

She didn’t wait for him to move her this time; taking control back once she was only clad in her underthings by going for the buttons holding up his bottoms. Oddly enough, her fingers took on a tremulous quality - one she’d rarely (if ever) experienced in an intimate moment since her very first.

He seemed to adopt a similar growing impatience that made him forgo the back and forth to slip the sleeves of her chemise down, guiding the garment over her figure.

”Gods, you’re a vision.” He groaned and reached for the curve of her waist, feeling out the shape only to travel upwards until he could cup a breast in each hand, thumbs teasing the peaks hardened against the air.

Even as she shivered when he leaned down to bestow a kiss on either one, she managed to get him out of everything but the long undergarments concealing that which she craved most. But when she went for them, he stopped her yet again - catching her wrist only to sweep the startled witch into his awaiting arms with a self-satisfied grin.

The mattress depressed beneath her weight, bouncing back as she blew away a stray lock of hair to look up at him. Watching the way his arms — corded with thick veins — flexed and his eyes narrowed. With barely concealed impatience he climbed onto the bed and wrapped his hands around her thighs.

“Quite the man handler, you are.” She giggled once he’d yanked her towards him so her legs fell open on either side of his knees.

That drew the attention of his wandering eyes.

“Somehow I doubt that was a complaint.” His mouth quirked in earnest. ”Nor do I envision you’ll have any after I’m done with you.”

He began to toy with the idea of removing her drawers - the last thing preventing her from losing her mind, potentially - by sliding his fingers beneath their frilly hems, nails prickling the skin of her thighs as they scratched up and down in a taunting rhythm.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he whispered out of the clear blue. “Anything. The only things I know about you are that you’re French, love the color red and Merlot… oh, and you’re a much better dancer than me.”

Sharing random factoids wasn’t necessarily the foreplay she’d been expecting, nor the kind she was used to, but she couldn’t say she minded when his voice alone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Uhmm…” She had to think of something vague; a throwaway tidbit useless to anyone else.

While he watched, waited with wide and patient eyes, she sighed, “I can’t go a day without coffee. Never quite developed a taste for tea. And I drink it with three sugars.”

He blinked twice in quick succession. All the while he had yet to stop playing with the edges of her knickers, though he gradually let one hand inch up her covered thigh, as if testing the waters. But, she wondered… what was there to test? He had been so self-assured outside this room, yet now there was a hint of nerves beneath the cool exterior.

”So dark and sweet is the way you like it, huh?” He simply couldn’t help himself, it seemed.

The smirk she donned was enough of an answer. “Tell me something about you, then.”

”Me… well.” His mouth quirked before he shifted on the bed - lying on his stomach to greet the center of hers with a kiss. Then each of her hips with a gentle nip.“I love to read. Anything I can get my hands on, really. Fiction, nonfiction, magical and otherwise… I’ll devour it all.”

A slight pinch followed by the softness of his lips alerted her to another cluster of marks he began working onto her lower stomach, covering as much ground as he could on her thighs. His breath, heating her core as it came in little pants, was beginning to become a significant problem - one made her feel warm and heavy. Like sinking into a hot bath, if it were near-boiling.

“In fact, if I had to pick my favorite place in the world, it would be sitting in front of a fire with a good book.” His fingertip ever so slightly grazed the inner curve of her thigh.

“A man of charm and intelligence…how ever did I get so fortunate?”

He chuckled at her teasing lilt, the sound tickling her sensitive skin while he began to make way for the kisses left up the length of her thigh — bunching her drawers up until his fingers just brushed the soft nest of curls at the top.

“Although right now I have to say; I’m very much enjoying this spot, as well.” The wicked man smiled up at her.

“Well, if you’re waiting for an invitation, you’ve got it.” She tried to sound casual about it all, but truth be told, she was fighting every urge to rip his underwear off and throw him onto the bed herself like some sort of madwoman.

He might make her into one before the sun rose, anyway.

She was sure of it when he began pressing tortuously chaste kisses to her other thigh, and when his fingers slid lower to deliver a gentle stroke down the center of her slit had her shuddering with anticipation.

“And how long have you been this wet, love?” His deep rasp was muffled by the fabric of her underwear.

She chuckled. “Hmm…since the moment you took me to the bar, probably.”

He sat up with a distinctly prideful grin, slipping the soft cotton undergarments down her legs, his eyes alight as he settled back between them.

She could almost see the words hanging off his lips as he gazed up at her (that sight was enough to make her hips shift needily), but for whatever reason, they weren’t cut loose. No, he busied his mouth with far more important pursuits. After pausing briefly to indulge his eyes in an appreciative sweep of her naked body, he at last found the perfect spot to make her whine (and on the first try, too) with naught but a languorous sweep of his tongue.

It wasn’t nearly enough to quell any bit of the ache driving her into inevitable madness, but he showed her mercy by flattening the wet muscle against her folds and following a slow trail up until the tip of it lightly flicked her clit.

“Oh, please do that again.” She pleaded (had she been reduced to begging so quickly?), one hand inching towards her breast — seeking any more stimulation she could find — as the other slid through the silken waves atop his head.

He obliged. But with more pressure this time, and so, so slow, observing her reaction as if she were the most scintillating thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

It really was something about those eyes. With such unfairly long lashes that fanned over russet cheeks, and the way the candlelight flickering off the walls would touch them just so to light the near-black irises with a rich gold. His lips stretched against her skin, noticing her attention and giving her an approving hum that was met by the push of her hips towards his tongue.

“Mmmph —“ he grunted when her thighs pressed to his ears, entrapping him between them greedily. “Like that, do you?”

Her answering moan earned another grin followed by a gentle suck on her clit that only brought out another breathy, low sound.

“But gods, you taste so sweet…decadent, just as I’d said.”

Merlin, his voice…the way it rumbled with barely contained desire and pulled obscenities from her own throat was sinful.

Drowning in sin didn’t seem such a bad way to go, at present.

The possibility became reality once he re-added a finger to the mix; curling it beneath his tongue to trace the folds before sinking gradually into her awaiting heat.

“Oh, f—“

One of her own fingers rolled her nipple atop the breast she’d been playing with as she shivered. If he kept this up much longer, she would surely come undone right on his tongue; wrapped around that rough digit gliding in and out of her as it stroked her upper walls.

But that didn’t feel right. As wonderful as the softness of his lips enclosing around her clit was, she couldn’t imagine a proper substitute for the stretch his cock would provide instead.

“I need…” she had been about to voice her request when the tip of his tongue prodded her entrance. Both of her hands now gripped his auburn waves like they were keeping her tethered to earth, legs trembling with the effort to fight off the warmth swelling in her core.

“Need what?” He took an eager breath in, only to release it through pursed lips over the throbbing bud he seemed to adore. “I want to hear it loud and clear, lovely.”

An impatient groan parted her bitten lips. “I need more. I need you inside me when you make me come.”

“There you go. Gods, you sound so pretty when you ask to be fucked…” It took one last excruciating pump of his finger inside of her before he withdrew to push himself up onto his knees with a mess of her own making shining on his clean-shaven chin.

“First, though…” The finger coated with her fluids was sucked between his reddened lips. When it was pulled out with a slick, slow draw, he crooked it in her direction. “Come here. I want you to get a little taste, too.”

Don’t mind if I do.

On trembling hands she raised herself up on wobbly knees pressed into the soft mattress, sucking in a breath when she curled her fingers over the band of his underwear and waited for approval.

“Don’t be shy.” He coaxed gently.

It was difficult not to be at least a little intimidated by the proud shape outlined through his bottoms (and leaving a very telltale wet spot in the light fabric), but she pushed past it with a firm swallow.

Her breath whooshed out without prompting as she rolled them over his hips and the rather shapely swell of his backside. And, as it had before taking a sip of the wine he’d offered earlier, her mouth watered when she was rewarded with the view of his cock as it twitched at the first rush of air over the leaking tip.

Personally, she wasn’t much of an artist. She preferred a wand to a brush and blood over red paint, but there was something about him that begged to be immortalized on canvas. How satisfying it would be to perfectly capture the artful tapering from wide shoulders to a slimmer waist, or even to carve from marble the thickness of his thighs.

She doubted it would do him justice.

“Are you going to paint a portrait?” He teased, as if ripping those very thoughts from her mind.

“Just might. And could you blame me?” She answered with a bite of her lip. But there was too much bloody talk going on. In the spirit of action, she lowered her mouth to meet the curve of his hipbone and began marking a wet trail downwards.

The light scrape of his fingernail over her cheekbone made her lashes flutter as he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, his breathing growing more labored when her palm slipped over the softness of his length — only to fold her fingers around it with gentle pressure. By the time she brushed her lips over the head — then her tongue to collect the salty fluid now leaking down the shaft — he was keening under his breath.

“Mmhmm…keep going, please.” he murmured.

As if she would stop. On the contrary, she wrapped her mouth around him, making a circle around the ridge of his cockhead with the tip of her tongue only to trace the length of him by following a thick vein. He was thick — stretching her lips wide when she took him in inch by inch, allowing him to prod the back of her throat to moisten her mouth.

“Just like that. You’re doing brilliantly, love; just perfect.” He said breathlessly, scraping her hair back into a haphazard updo with a broad hand.

Spurred on by the praise, she hollowed her cheeks for a better seal, dragged her mouth along his shaft until he rewarded her with a broken, guttural moan. She kept it up until finding a rhythm that his hips desperately pushed forward to match.

“I won’t… fuck, you’re going to make me embarrass myself…” he chuckled weakly.

Well that wouldn’t do at all. As much as the idea of swallowing his seed enticed her, there was a far better option in her mind. Which is why, despite his immediate protest in the form of a low grunt and a harsh tug on her hair, she gave one last slow lick before pulling away.

The increasingly flustered wizard tracked her movements with lust-glazed eyes. “I was hoping to drag this out, but I think you’re proper ready for me, aren’t you?”

Her enthusiastic nod spurred a laugh as he unfolded her legs from beneath her, wasting no time in hooking one around his hips and propping the other up to rest on his shoulder. The view was… magnificent, and he seemed to agree as his tongue darted out to taste her essence on his lips.

She’d expected another round of teasing. How relieved she was when instead, the blunt head of his cock parted her readily, sweeping through the slickness there with a stuttered, needy groan.

And just when she was about to insist —

A gasp tore through her dry throat as he pushed himself inside of her with little resistance. She was suddenly so full; though it wasn’t until he was fully sheathed that she let out a long, breathy sigh.

“Good? You alright?” He murmured, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing circles on the inside of her thighs. When she nodded, his mouth curled into a smile that she felt amidst the kisses left along her calf.

Oh, it was more than good — by the time he dragged his length out just to drive himself forward again, she was positively keening for more; her hands blindly reaching for some part to grab and managing to splay them flat on his lower back to force him deeper. He could hardly fight her, and it seemed like he didn’t want to anyway. The wizard’s eyes had grown hooded with lust, those sumptuous lips parting to make way for a moan that sent a shock down her spine. Her own eyes fluttered shut as he began to glide in and out of her in languid, practiced thrusts.

“Mm mmm,” he hummed chastingly. “I’d like to see those pretty eyes.”

His boldness — so wildly sexy.

Looking at him was almost a taboo in itself. Nine times out of then, her trysts had involved a lot of pleasure-filled sounds and heavy breathing; but conversation? Not so much. Some people didn’t even like to be kissed — and others found a prolonged gaze entirely too intimate.

This man didn’t just fuck. It was a different experience altogether, and it was bloody incredible. So, like the hopelessly besotted witch she was, she met his gaze and responded with a wanton moan at the sight of his head thrown back in pleasure while his hips made wide circles against hers.

“Gods, you fit like a glove,” his body shuddered with a stuttered exhale. “Feel so good…”

She canted her hips up to meet his in protest of his lazy pace, earning a broken chuckle before being rewarded with the head of his cock roughly probing her to its absolute limit.

“Godric…” she whined pathetically. “Again — right there.”

“Is Godric Gryffindor the one providing your pleasure right now?” He mocked. “No, I don’t think so.”

”Well, then tell me your name, and I’ll scream it as much as you want.”

Locks of mussed hair fell over his forehead as the man shook his head, ignoring her small pout, but soothing the disappointment by giving her something else she’d wanted.

Again, he speared himself nice and deep. And again; and again, until her nails were carving crescents into the muscle of his back and he was whispering streams of filth into her ears between husky groans. Just when she was about to warn him of her rapidly approaching release, he had to go and stop — worst of all, he dragged his length out of her.

“You must be joking,” she panted.

A wicked grin told her she was in for it, and her thighs squeezed together in anticipation as he twirled his finger midair. “Oh, we’re not done. Sit up for me, love, and turn around. That’s it… now put your hands on the headboard.”

When her fingers curled around the solid chunk of wood, the bed dipped and creaked as he came up behind her, chest to spine and fingers curling over hers.

“Make sure you’re holding on tight.” Without warning, he ripped a sharp cry from her throat by driving back into her lonely heat until his hip bones dug into her ass and she swore she could see the night sky in that very room.

“Buggering hell —“ she blurted. This new angle was sure to be the end of her, and he was well aware of it from the delighted chuckle he huffed in her ear.

”You’ve got such a mouth on you for a lady… damned if I don’t love it.” The wizard panted with pride.

He wasn’t taking it easy on her any longer. The sheer force of his thrusts was enough to rock the bed frame against the wall; the thuds as the headboard struck exposed brick likely heard by everyone in the surrounding rooms (not that she had any room to care in her sex addled brain). It was enough to wring every last coherent thought from her, rendering her a shaking, mewling mess and unable to do anything but meet each snap of his hips with her own — while holding on for dear life.

“Oh, yes…” he was on his way to leaving bruises on her hip from the force of his steadying grip, but the sparks of pain only led her to greater pleasure.

Well-attuned to the signs of her mounting release as it threatened to overwhelm her for the third time, he released her hand to reach around and find her clit, abandoning the precision and prowess from before. Those dexterous fingers worked tirelessly, and coupled with the uneven little pants warming her neck between his kisses…

“I know you’re close, love,” he shuddered. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

He threw every last bit of his energy into shoving her over the edge; and as his cock prodded that spot inside of her once more, she gave in and fell apart under his hands. Every unbridled, broken sound that tumbled out as she rode through her orgasm was met with an encouraging whimper from the wizard. Just when the last bit of pleasure was wrung from her body, he pulled out with a groan, releasing ropes of warm seed over her backside and spine.

There he rested for a moment. While he caught his breath, the man’s hands traced the shape of her body, slipping in the essence coating her with a proud chuckle. “Evanesco.” he murmured, restoring her skin to its unmarred state.

“Are you…” he gulped in a lungful of sex-scented air. “Are you alright?”

“Brilliant.” She panted, letting go of the headboard to turn and rest her back against it instead. “You?”

It was an understatement, really: all that stress pounding between her temples and tension in her shoulders had disappeared. She felt spectacular.

“Never better.”

He sank back to his knees, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair as he admired her with a lazy grin. How she wished she could peel the satin from his cheeks to see that smile reach his dark eyes…

“Only wanted to make sure. You were getting quite loud.” The question seemed more taunt than anything.

Walking might prove difficult for the next couple of hours (at the least), and her hair was likely in a right state (along with her marked-up skin), but none of that mattered when the lingering rush instilled her with a rare lightness.

“Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all. I was very much enjoying the sounds you made. Means I did my job well.”

She gave him a playful eye roll, rolling onto her side with the intention of returning to the solace of his arms before she realized — pillow talk and cuddling were sort of an unspoken faux pas when it came to casual encounters. Usually, her or her partners would leave the bed before the sweat had dried on their skin, and for once the expectation felt…lonely.

It truly struck her when he cleared his throat a moment later, gingerly untangling their weakened limbs to climb out of the bed seeking the various items of clothing discarded across the room.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, eyes darting to her before he located his pants. “Water, food..? Anything.”

Though appreciative, she waved his offer away with a quiet laugh. “I’ll be just fine. Though I’m sure I’ll need a hot bath at home.”

Sitting idly in bed while he already had a foot out the door picked at her pride, and so the Auror dragged herself out of it on trembling fawn’s legs. She managed to locate her underthings and slip them on before plucking her gown up from the floor.

“Oh,” a flash of gold caught her eye, and she bent to retrieve his trousers — as well as the shiny pocket watch that had evidently fallen out while they were distracted earlier. “Here, you don’t want to lose this.”

He was dragging his shirt over his bed head when she walked over to return it. She couldn’t help but admire the piece’s subtle artistry; the metal so perfectly preserved with intricate curling ivy etched into the rim of the case. Such a unique design…

So unique that she could easily recall seeing one just like it before.

And it, too, had been monogrammed with the letter S.

If he hadn’t snatched the watch out of her hand before the shock hit, she might have dropped and broken one of the last artifacts of the Sallow family.

Merlin, the irony of her asking for his name to say it in bed when she wanted to scream it in outrage now. And of course he had the audacity to take a step towards her, to soften his wide brown eyes (how had she looked into them and not known) and adopt an innocent frown; the one he had always used before begging for forgiveness.

She took a step back in turn and fixed him with a look that could have frozen the fire in the hearth. It was enough to confirm for him exactly what conclusion she’d reached.

“Blast it all, it is you.” He breathed.

“Sebastian?”

[kbagraces]

No Time to Die LN4

Lando Norris Mafia/Gang AU

As much as we try to suppress the stigma, strong women will continue to be perceived as intimidating until you learn to love us.

PART 4 Reflections

My vision and hearing was in and out the whole journey to Lando's hide out flat in London. My body was slumped across the back seats of his car, my head resting in Mandi's lap, her delicately moving hair out of the concerning gash on my head and then holding her jacket back on the wound. I felt like i was under water, i could hear talking from the front of the car but not words. Mandi didnt utter a sentence.

I felt the car stop and i was lifted out of the car. The cold midnight air stung, i could finally make out what they were saying, Mandi demanding, "Careful. Careful. Would you be careful!"

That means that Lando was carrying me, another thing he can hold over my head. Brilliant.

"I am being fucking careful." His voice rattled against my body. I wanted to snap, no one talks to my best friend like that. But once again it came out as a groan and a huff.

I was lowered down, i'm unsure whether its a bed or a sofa, but its soft as hell either way. My bpdy is drifting off again, im either passing out or falling asleep but this time i dont care to fight it.

I wake up alone, the sun peaking through the blind. A duvet drapped over the bottom half of my body. I'm in the most baggy joggers and an even baggier t shirt. I'm sure these aren't clothes myself or Mandi packed.

My head stinging, i raise my hand to touch my injury, jagged stitches across where the gaping wound once was. The amateur skills screamed that it was the work of Mandi, having stitched up a few of my wounds in her time, but at the end of the day shes not a professional 

I lift myself out of the bed, another vampire like room in front of me dark walls dark furniture is this man allergic to colour?

Walking, or more like waddling, out of the room i attempt to gain some balance. I walk down the hall to the kitchen gasping for water.

I turn around glass in hand to spot Lando's body stretched out over to sofa, legs hanging off the end. He's on his phone scrawling through whatever nonsense is on there.

"Morning." I announce, theres no way he didnt hear me come in.

"Morning, how's my favourite liability!" He attempts to joke, looking up from his phone. His eyes taking in my obvious dishevelled appearance and body clad in what i've deduced to be his clothes.

"I'm going to pray that it wasnt you that dressed me in your clothes?"

He grins, a huff coming from his nose as he sits up , eaning foreward, elbows on knees. "I should be so lucky."

"Excuse me?"

He ignores my question, "Mandi both bathed and dressed you, i just left the clothes on my bed. Your shit was in my car and i couldnt be bothered to get them."

I hummed in response, sitting down at the island. My fingers rotating over the top of the glass, feeling slightly awkward due to his eyes not once leaving me.

"Where is Mandi?"

"Her and Nat went to service the car, get her filled up, tires changed... cleaned."

Odd how it wasn't him and Nat, odd that Mandi also thought it was a good idea to leave me here, shes up to something.

"How long will they be? I want my clothes."

"They'll be back soon."

"You've got a real starring problem you know that." I feel uncomfortable being so judged? Admired? I cant tell which.

"So ive been told."

"Good to know you make all women uncomfortable and its not solely reserved for me."

He gets up from his seat, now leaning opposite me across the island in the kitchen. His irritating, signature smirk painted on his mouth.

"I make you uncomfortable?" His mouth now feigns a mocking pout, "Do i make you nervous too?"

I scoff, unfolding my arms, imitating his stance and leaning across the table, a few inches between our faces and hands nearly touching, "no one makes me nervous."

There was a thick tension in the air, neither of us willing to move. There was a twinge in his eyes, ones that usually are blank with zero emotion are now twinkling with what i assume is resentment mixed with a little bit of lust.

"Morning!!" Natalie beams in her usually sunny voice. Honestly, how someone so doom and gloom as Lando made such good friends with such a ray of sunshine ill never know.

Lando's body stands tall and rigid once hes aware of their presence. Neither of us sure how long they'd been there. His eyes blank once again, although certainly embarrassed that he was caught off guard.

I catch a glance between him and Natalie before he shakes his head.

"Nice outfit." Mandi cackles, mockery laced in her tone.

Lando, serious as ever claps his hands together, "now we have the car can we all get ready and get this shit show on the road. You have 10 minutes meet back here and we'll get a plan together."

Natalie and Mandi leave to what i assume are their individual rooms. I head over to the front door retrivbeing my bag which mandi brought in.

"I won" i said as i brushed past Lando.

I'll have no man try and intimidate me or even worse believe they have a hold over me!

--

We all enter the kitchen once more. Taking a seat around this cursed table.

"So we have ordered a plane from Dover straight to Barcelona, there one of my drivers will take us to a safe house to sort who's going where and doing what." His eyes scan us, ensuring that were listening. Lingering on me before continuing.

"Nat, you're driving to Dover. I am going to tap into Ferrari and Keegans data to see what their plans are they seem like they are biggest threats as of right now. Mandi, you can sit there and look pretty and y/n you can attempt to do that too." He laughs at his own joke, a little too hard. Asshole.

We all head to the front door, Mandi grabs my arm pulling me back to walk at her pace.

"You know you can cut the sexual tension with a knife between you two" Her eyebrows quivering up and down suggestively.

"Are you kidding?"

"Not at all, youve got the big bad Lando Norris wrapped around your little finger. Turn on the y/n charm, I beg of you! Make this trip interesting."

"As if running away from your brother who took over of you old gang isnt interesting." She can't be serious right now. Surely?

We hang back at the front door, out of earshot as they load upo the car.

"Come on he fancies you, you fancies him, why don-"

I raise my hand to her face in rejcetion, covering up her mouth.

"Firstly, shut the fuck up. Secondly i do not fancy him."

"You so do"

"Do fucking not."

She rolls her eyes "okay okay you don't."

We make our way to the car, Nat revving it in impatience. As Mandi opens her door, she whispers, but loud enough for me to hear,

"You so do."

[vivantesopvles]

They meet again between life and death, in a place called the Limbo. 

This time, Harry does not wake up in the pure-white King’s Cross he so often revisits in his memory. He’s back at the Dursleys’, locked inside his cupboard again. And someone’s banging hard on the door.

No, he thinks in despair. Not Uncle Vernon. 

‘Open up!’ But the voice is too high to be his uncle’s, Harry dimly notes; and the accent way too rough to be Dudley’s either. ‘We’re running out of time!’

‘Door’s locked from the outside,’ Harry says wearily. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Use your magic, you daft mug. And it’s Riddle you’re speaking to.’

The lever is met with resistance when Harry turns the handle. But Riddle’s right. Harry pushes his magic through the keyhole – Alohomora – and the lock clicks open.

Riddle is eleven, and so is Harry now, it seems. He takes a look at Harry – a dead spider caught on his shoulder, his too-large t-shirt full of holes – and curls his lips with derision.

‘So that’s how you’ve been using your magic?’ 

Harry ignores him. He leads the way out onto the empty street. As they walk past the trimmed hedges and boring gardens, Riddle tries to get him to talk again. ‘A wizard called Dumbledore says I should find you, says you know the way,’ he prompts. 

‘Did he?’ Harry is briefly taken aback. ‘Where to?’

‘To the new place, of course.’ Riddle shoots him a dubious glance. ‘You’d better not be giving me the runaround.’

‘I’m not,’ Harry says, wondering why Dumbledore still enjoys complicating matters this much, even in death. ‘In any case if we’re going anywhere, I think we ought to head over to King’s Cross Station first …’

‘King’s Cross? That’s in London, that’s where I come from,’ Riddle exclaims. 

As if fuelled by the information, he grabs Harry by the wrist and begins to sprint down the street; all the while, he talks and talks.

‘… and I grew up in Whitechapel. Wool’s Orphanage, if you must know. A soft touch like you wouldn’t have lasted a day there, Harry.’ 

Harry shakes his head, exasperated. It has just occurred to him that they needn’t run at all. It’s the Limbo; they could probably teleport themselves wherever they liked. But they’re going so fast now it’s all Harry can focus his mind on: the speed, the wind in his hair and Riddle, his small, cold hand holding Harry’s. 

It’s almost like flying. Harry can feel himself becoming lighter with each step forward, with each memory left behind. He forgets his own death – the second one … then the first – he forgets the horrors of the war and the people he lost.  

Around them, the tidy suburban streets of Surrey blur, blend, into the cobblestoned confusion that is the East End, which Riddle navigates with the elegance of an alley cat.

‘We’re almost there,’ he says, before immediately launching into another one of his dark anecdotes about the exorcist whom he’d named his archnemesis since he was six. 

Harry’s usually put off by gobby people, but somehow Riddle is growing on him. Maybe it's because Riddle's actually quite hilarious. Maybe it’s because of his endless energy; how vital and unapologetic he still is after being told that there’s something wrong with him his whole life. 

‘I’d like to come here again sometime,’ Harry says as they outrun the old warehouses and backstreets; the red brick lanes and ivy-clad walls. ‘With you. On the other side.’

At that Riddle’s face breaks into a wide smile, a genuine one. ‘On the other side,’ he agrees, a wicked glint in his eyes. ‘Why not? I’ll show you around.’

Later, at the white platform where a train stands waiting for them, Harry finds a one-way ticket in his front pocket. On it says: 01 - SEP - 1938.

21052024 | @microficmay | life & death

[deepperplexity]

Prompt 8: Never-ending Consequences [C2]

Pairing: Judge Turpin x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Continuation of: Prompt 4. Darkest Night [C1]

A/N: It's Sunday, Second Advent, and time for Turpin's story to continue! He is quite the elusive mystery in this fic and I'm having a blast writing Julianne Brimmer - gosh, I adore her and I feel so connected with her even if we're not the same at all. She's so cute though! 🤭👏

Also, Turpin is very harsh and unyielding in this fic - not in an evil manner but he shows very little and gives very few indications of feeling or thinking anything at all and, honestly, I've been super excited about writing him like that for a change- I¨m all for the swirling storms in his eyes and all that which I usually write him with when he finds his SO but there's just something about him showing basically nothing that has me hooked this year 👀🙈❤

Tags/TW’s: Talkative Character, Harsh Judge Turpin, He Offers Her Sanctuary For The Night, Instant Attraction, Secret Pining, Harsh View Of Oneself, Negative Self-image,

Word Count: 1.5k

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Never-ending Consequences

The carriage drew to a halt no more than half an hour later in the middle of central London. “Miss Brimmer,” the judge said in a low, incredibly clear murmur. “I shall provide shelter for the night, my lady.” “Oh, my lord, how good of you,” I said, a wide smile adoring my lips as the man with steel for eyes looked at me in a manner I could not fully determine to be neither good nor bad. Consuming, yes, but unknown to me.

The door opened and the judge stepped out gracefully before offering his hand for me to support my own exit. Such a gentleman, I thought as I grasped his glove-clad hand. It was sturdy and strong, holding me with stability. “Thank you, my lord.” He smiled in a stoic sort of fashion. “We shall send a search party for your carriage when morning comes, Miss Brimmer.” “Thank you, sir. You are most helpful, such a gentleman.” “I can be,” he drawled, releasing my hand and turning a second later with a look to his features I was not certain about.

I followed in his wake, entering the grand townhouse through a large black door only to be met by a gloom that seemed to cling to the very walls of the man’s home. Well, that’s a rather unpleasant feeling for a home. Where are his decorations? Christmas is nearly here, yet there are no garlands or adornments to tell of it.

“Good evening, my lord,” said a woman dressed in a black dress with a white apron and grey hair pinned up. “Miss Brimmer shall stay the night, order the room.” His voice was harsh and direct yet I found it rather thrilling as it filled the entrance hall. Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought? “Yes, my lord.” The maid stiffly bowed her head as the judge removed his out garments and I found myself lost in adoring thoughts of the manner he was dressed underneath that thick winter coat.

“Miss Brimmer,” the maid said. “May I take your cloak, my lady?” I jolted. “Why certainly, thank you,” I replied in a rush, feeling heat creep up my neck as my eyes finally left the man dressed fully in black with golden details to his frock and vest. There was something about him… I could not put my finger on it yet he drew my attention in a manner none other ever had while his entire being had this unapproachable hardness to it — a harsh power that appeared unyielding. Yes, yes I have absolutely hit my head. I must have, this man is…

I could not term it. Dangerous? Cold? Unreachable? Well, for me, most certainly. Oh, this is grand, to be attracted to a man far out of my reach — that infernal bad luck seems to remain. Pity, I would have liked for things to change but no matter. I am a woman with no consequence to the world, and so I shall remain even when the world seems to throw consequences my way from left and right simultaneously. Perhaps I shall find myself with a cow falling atop my head someday, would be no far stretch to assume bad luck would fall upon me from above, too, given it flanks me on either side.

“Come, I shall walk you,” Judge Turpin said in that dark rumble that seemed to go through me. I blinked, seeing his gaze travel up and down myself. “Thank you, my lord,” I managed to push out as the inferiority of my dress to his exquisite clothes had me nearly sighing. Rid yourself of the idea that there is even a chance, Julianne. Rid yourself of it. This man is not for you, nor will he house any interest in you. He is a man of the law, acting like a gentleman ought to by helping a damsel in distress, obviously.

I followed two steps behind, walking up the stairs toward the upper levels of the house. “You mentioned the Christmas Ball?” he said without looking back at me. What a good thing too or he would have found me admiring the broadness of his shoulders. “Oh, why yes, yes. I’m not one for such frivolous things usually but one must endure for the sake of one’s future, my lord.” “Is that so?” I smiled for myself, a contrite thing covering my lips. “Yes. As you already pointed out I ought to be a Mrs rather than a Miss, my lord. I am not one men find attractive, or interesting, for that matter. I do not mind, bad luck follows wherever I go and I pity the man who ends up wed to the equivalent of a black cat crossing a road under a ladder and knocking a mirror down with its tail simultaneously, my lord.” He did not react to my words, not that I could tell at least.

We stepped through a hallway while I spoke rather freely. There was no need to hide myself from the harsh man, he was not within my reach either way — I still continued to allow myself the handsome view of him, though, I was not to be in his company for long so I ought to make the most of it I figured.

“You speak harshly of yourself,” he said in a rather darkened tone after a moment. I chuckled. “No, my lord, I speak honestly about myself when possible.” “When possible?” he asked, stopping outside a door and once more turning toward me, those steely eyes hooking mine without a flicker of motion in them yet I was utterly trapped. A bunny in a snare. “Yes. Should you be within my reach I might not disclose my faults so freely but I am a woman of little consequence in the presence of a gentleman of the law. Truth must find its freedom in such situations, do you not agree, Judge Turpin?”

I kept eye contact, a tingling sensation filling me within as he viewed me most harshly. I rather liked that, truth be told. There was no insincere smile, no false pretence or acting.

He arched a brow at me, the action sharp and well-practised it appeared. “Truth, you say?” “Yes, my lord. I do endeavour to be honest but that almost always lands me in some form of predicament. I am simply not made for society and all its falsities. I try, my lord, yet I fear I shall never master the skill.” I smiled at him as my cheeks heated. Well, this is going jolly good. I am already making a fool of myself in his presence. Even though it does not matter I am truthfully saddened by my own words, I think.

“You declare me out of your reach,” he drawled. “That is quite the freedom you’ve claimed, Miss Brimmer.” My eyes widened as the warmth left my cheeks. “Goodness, no, sir. I meant to take no freedoms or liberties, I am merely aware of my standing, my lord. One ought to always remember one's standing in society, to know one's place is most important. Especially when in the company of someone far grander, my lord.” He arched his brow again. “Grander?” I spluttered, my body not knowing if it wished to pale or blush. “Y-yes, my lord. I am merely the daughter of a master smith, a woman who has known hard labour and little comforts. I would never assume myself grand enough to stand in your presence or be offered aid from such a grand man so I am remembering my place in your fine company, my lord.” “Talkative, are we?” “Oh, yes, my lord. One of my many faults. I apologize for occupying your time with my—” “None occupies my time.” “My lord?”

He stepped closer and my back stiffened as a waft of the musty scent he smelled of hit me. It was quite the delicious scent, truth be told, and I had to stop myself from inhaling deeply. “None occupy my time. My time is spent how I see fit,” he said in a manner that was both decisive and commanding. “Yes, of course, sir. I apologize.” Well, this is going utterly great. Gosh, if I have to endure another hardship on this wretched earth I shall surely implode. “I shall see you in the morning, Miss Brimmer. Eight o’clock sharp.” I bowed my head, feeling idiotic and like a nuisance to the man who so kindly helped me far beyond what necessity required. “Yes, sir. Thank you, my lord.”

He walked off toward the end of the hall without another word. His steps were long and the thudding of his footfalls loud. What a man… No, no, get your head out of the clouds! This is all bad luck one more time. Do not-, Julianne, do not fall for the gentleman you cannot have. Stop it, right this instance. And why am I still looking at him?! As my tirade ended he opened his bedroom door and closed it behind him. “Foolish, Julianne. Not only foolish but you made yourself into a fool in his presence. Well done, absolutely fantastic of you. Wasting the man's time with your blabbering. Idiot.”

To Be Continued...

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NEXT PART » Prompt 10: Lingering Touch [C3]

A/N: He does tell her she's not occupying his time - that has to mean something, right? 👀 Gosh they are such a mismatched pair and I can't wait to solve how they're going to end up together - I'm thinking some drama, some darkness, and perhaps a close call or two? 🤭❤

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[sweveniv]

MAYOR ━━ h. ran. | chapter four. | masterlist.

warning: finger-fucking, restraining, getting fingered inside the elevator, quickie, nipple play, overstimulation, squirting.

After carefully selecting a vivid crimson matte red lipstick, I gently adorned my plump lips with its vibrant hue. With the excitement of attending Rindou's birthday celebration in Roppongi building up within me, I diverted my attention towards the elegant attire I had meticulously chosen for this special occasion. As I indulged in a momentary satisfaction, a smirk formed on my face, upon laying my eyes on the mesmerizing Solace London Krista Maxi Dress in the stunning shade of Black. Refocusing on my reflection in the mirror, my long, sleek black locks elegantly framed my face, gracefully swaying with each movement I made.

I arched my eyebrow in surprise and nervously nibbled on my lower lip as Haitani Ran emerged from the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel that barely covered his lower half. My gaze instinctively traveled down his enticing physique, marveling at his tantalizingly slim waist and the impressive eight-pack abs that glistened with water, as droplets strategically made their way down to his V-shaped torso. It was then that I quickly averted my eyes upwards, realizing that my thoughts about Ran were far from normal. 

As I heard his voice reverberating through the room, he inquired from behind me, "Haven't you finished yet?" Simultaneously, I couldn't escape the sight of him undressing in front of the mirror, each movement clearly visible. Releasing a sigh, I completed my preparations, uttering, "Almost there. I simply need to slide into the dress and slip on my heels, and I'll be fully prepared." Gazing at his reflection, I delicately placed the radiant Christie diamond necklace around my neck, ensuring it sat perfectly before turning to meet his eyes.

I rose from my chair and approached the man who had standing himself against the wall, his eyes scrutinizing me from head to toe. As I walked towards him, I inquired, "Yes, do you need anything?"

"Give Kakucho a message that we're on our way," As he approached me with a confident stride, his lips gently brushed against my shoulders, conveying a tender sensation.

"Go and get dressed," I uttered to him, blandly pressing my brim against his gill before he embraced me and planted tender kisses on the back of my neck. The effet of his gentle lips on my delicate skin elicited a soft mewl from me, as my body instinctively responded to his actions, filling me with delight and contentment. 

"I really hope we don't arrive late to Rindou's party," I sighed, feeling a mix of sadness and frustration welling up inside me. Although Ran clearly preferred staying in the hotel room and spending a cozy night together, I knew it was important for us to attend the party and socialize with people I perceived as untrustworthy. I reached out and ran my hand over his outfit for the evening, an elegant Armani violet suit that he had personally chosen. As my fingertips glided gently across his face, I used my thumbs to caress his cheeks with a delicate touch, captivated by the profound sadness that could be seen in his stunning lavender eyes.  

"That's what you get for drinking too much last night," I said, handing him his attire for the evening and noticing his grimace change into one of irritation. It was a little boy's response, a groan so soft it was almost cute, and the sight of it made me frown in frustration, pulling his hair to the side. I looked at him with my angry eyes—a look that he had seen many times before. He knew he had made a mistake and it would take time for me to forgive him. No, I was just kidding.

Ran, without saying a single word, gracefully took the clothes I offered him. His serene and composed expression revealed his indifference towards the situation. While he proceeded to change into the outfit, I made the decision to also change into my own attire. I carefully slipped into my elegant pair of Yves Saint Laurent heels, ensuring every detail was perfect before turning to face him.  

Raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, I discreetly brushed some white powder off his violet suit, almost playfully asserting my presence. Despite the obvious tension looming between us, I opted to remain composed and refused to succumb to my instinctual urges, determined to preserve a non-hostile atmosphere. We were determined to attend Rindou's party as initially planned, regardless of the lingering irritation that unsettled us both.

As I stared intently into his eyes, my gaze unwavering, the atmosphere between us became increasingly strained, as if it was about to explode. Leaning in closely, I positioned myself next to his ear, letting my hushed words escape in a whispered breath. "Don't even think about showing your attitude in front of people we know, Mayor Haitani," I hissed, the venom clear in my voice. "I know you too well. I know that when things don't go your way, you'll take out all your anger on everyone, including me." As I reminisced about the numerous occasions when his emotions got the best of him, I couldn't help but feel a bitter undertone in my words. It seemed that whenever he became overwhelmed with frustration, he would unleash his anger upon me, treating me like a mere punching bag. 

Ran's generous and sympathetic words of compromise came as a complete surprise to me, leaving me utterly amazed. As our eyes met, he gently placed his hand on top of mine, emanating a kind and approachable demeanor. The sentiments he expressed were filled with a heartfelt desire for reconciliation and forgiveness.

The tenderness in his touch, combined with his soothing words, made it seem as though he possessed an innate understanding of how to reach me, regardless of how angry I had been towards him. It was almost as if with a simple utterance, he had the ability to erase all of my anger and frustrations, causing me to engage with him once again, as if nothing had ever gone wrong between us. The hold he had over me was peculiar and unexplainable, yet I couldn't deny the immense impact his words and touch had on me. 

As I settled into the opulent violet sofa beside Ran, my attention was drawn to the subtle melody of a notification emanating from his phone. Without a second thought, I reached for the phone and perused the message sent by Kakucho, who assured us that all arrangements for the extravagant celebration had been impeccably organized and were now awaiting our presence. 

"Kakucho says everything is done," I remarked nonchalantly as I held his phone up for him to read. "We need to hurry."

As Ran read the text, I noticed that his expression was one of determination mixed with a hint of casual expression. He gave me a quick nod of acknowledgement before putting away his phone and gathering his belongings. Within minutes, we were both dressed and ready, Ran in his sharp violet suit and me in my equally sleek attire.

Ran and I stepped inside the polished steel elevator, the sound of the door sliding shut behind us creating a feeling of privacy and solitude. I pressed the button for the ground floor, and the elevator began its slow ascent. As we ascended, I found myself lost in thought, my eyes staring at the digital display showing the floors. When the elevator reached the ninth floor, the doors opened to a grand hallway, the walls adorned with artful paintings and the floors carpeted in thick red rugs. The atmosphere was one of opulence and exclusivity, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of electric sensation down my spine when I felt Ran's arm snaked around my waist as then the elevator door closes.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I could feel his grip on my waist tightening, pulling me closer to his side. His thumb brushed against my skin, sending shivers down my spine, and he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on my neck, causing me to release a soft, involuntary sound of pleasure. Trying to create some distance, I pushed against his chest, but instead of releasing his hold, Ran's grip on my waist grew even tighter, making it difficult for me to move. 

To my surprise and excitement, I felt his hand slowly moving up from my waist towards my breast, eliciting a soft moan of pleasure from me. My head tilted upwards, gasping when his other hand started snaking up my thigh, sending waves of anticipation through me. In a daring move, he pressed the button for the tenth floor, even though we were supposed to be heading to the ground floor. As his hand squeezed my thigh, the pressure intensifying, his other hand found its way back to my breast, gently massaging it and igniting a sudden and electrifying sensation that rippled through my entire body and settled in my spine. 

"You're loving this aren't you?" He whispered seductively in my ear.

As he gently elevated my dress, a surge of intense sensations permeated my body, causing me to accept my impending defeat. Passively, I acknowledged his presence under my clothing, feeling the electrifying connection. His fingertips expertly danced along the edge of my thong, coaxing soft moans to escape my lips.

The gentle caress of his middle finger against my undergarment sent shockwaves of pleasure through me, confirming the undeniable moisture that had already accumulated. Suppressing a whimper with a bite of my lower lip, he attempted to penetrate me, unaware of the fabric barrier that made me flinch, before abruptly spinning me around and forcefully pressing me against the wall. My hands were now clasped behind my back as he grasped my wrists, asserting his control.  

Ran nonchalantly tapped the button for the fifteenth floor with his shoe, displaying a subtle act of dominance. In that moment, fueled by a twisted sense of pleasure, he forcefully lifted my dress, revealing my vulnerable state.

A sadistic smirk gradually formed on his lips as he observed the crimson imprint of his hand on my ass, evoking a tinge of pain that left me whimpering helplessly. His grip remained firm, restricting any attempt to escape his grasp. As he thrust his hips with relentless force against my backside, an intense surge of sensation coursed through us both. The audible groan that escaped his lips confirmed his satisfaction, while his hand brazenly slithered towards my breast, eagerly squeezing it with a forceful grip that elicited a scream of pleasure from my lips.

I was overwhelmed with pleasure as he vigorously massaged my nipple, unable to contain myself, resulting in a pleasurable moan escaping my lips. Adding to the excitement, he firmly grasped my breast, giving it one last squeeze before his hand skillfully made its way down to my posterior.

As his hand slithered beneath the fabric of my thong, I felt a slight quiver in my knees, which intensified when his fingers explored my back side and then ventured towards my drenched slit. Exhausted from maintaining this position, a long sigh escaped my lips, unintentionally causing my body to arch. This sudden movement caught Ran's attention, causing him to raise an eyebrow and then form a mischievous smirk on his face. Surrounded by elegance in my dress, I couldn't help but feel like a seductive plaything in Ran's eyes.

Taking a deep sigh, I find myself surprised and speechless as he forcefully inserts his fingers into me, causing me to tilt my head back and feel my knees weaken beneath me. In an instant, he swiftly presses the button for the eighth floor with the edge of his foot, filling me with a nervous anticipation.

The sensation of his fingers sliding in and out sends waves of arousal throughout my entire being, igniting a potent blend of desire and heat within me. Deep down, I hold a profound affection for the way he expertly stimulates me with his slender fingers, treating me like a wanton woman he had chanced upon in the depths of the city streets.

Every forceful pump and thrust he delivers intensifies my pleasure, leading to uncontrollable moans escaping from my lips. As I was pushed against there, my eyes shut tightly, I can't help but marvel at the fact that such a man even exists. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards a higher power for creating a man who skillfully uses his fingers to fulfill all of my deepest, wettest cravings. 

He relinquished all control in my presence, his hand moving towards my chest where he gripped firmly upon my breast. The pleasurable sensation overwhelmed me, causing an ecstatic scream to escape my lips. In this moment, I couldn't believe that it was the Mayor of Minato City, engaging in such explicit actions by firmly grasping and rubbing his fingers against my nipple. Despite the potential indiscretion of our actions, I can't help but feel that the divine creator must forgive us for the overwhelming pleasure I am experiencing as he expertly manipulates and teases my nipple.

The intensity of his touch left my body trembling, as I experienced the simultaneous sensations of being fingered by the renowned Haitani Ran and having my nipple manipulated as if he were sculpting a work of art - it was as though I was nothing more than a willing, submissive woman, relishing in his dirty desires. 

— And God, I deeply apologize, but I am completely infatuated with this man, even though I realize it's wrong. He treats me as a mere object to fulfill his own desires, and it's almost as if even the devil himself can't help but smirk at the spectacle, as my body yearns for more - more degradation and longing.

The sound of his fingers penetrating me fills me with an indescribable satisfaction, to the point where I find myself yearning for his entire length inside me. I am desperate for him, longing for his cock to fill me completely. "Please, Ran," I implore, tilting my head back towards him. Tears stream down my face, my eyes reflecting the intensity of my desire.

Despite my plea, he remains silent, yet his hand quickens its pace, driving me to the edge of pleasure. Standing on my Yves Saint Laurent heels, I am overwhelmed with ecstasy as I feel his fingers tighten within me. Unable to contain myself, I tremble, tremble, tremble, uncontrollably, succumbing to the intense pleasure his fingers bring me, as if I am deserving of this sinful pleasure.

"Fuck!" I let out a piercing cry, pushing the limits of my vocal cords, as I couldn't contain the pleasure that was building up inside me. Suddenly, in a swift motion, he spun me around and effortlessly caught me in his arms, drawing me closer towards him. Our bodies pressed tightly against each other, and he passionately pressed his lips against mine, capturing my entire attention. As our mouths melded together, his tongue found its way into my mouth, intertwining with mine in a passionate dance, perfectly synchronized with our heavy breaths.

The sheer intensity of the moment sent shivers down my spine. His hands firmly gripped my ass, exerting pressure that made me moan softly in delight. Simultaneously, his hardened manhood pressed against my aroused core, causing a surge of pleasure to course through my body. Overwhelmed by sensations, I couldn't help but whimper when he gently tugged on my bottom lip with his teeth, adding a hint of pain to our intoxicating exchange. Our mouths were a battlefield of mingling saliva, as the ecstasy of the moment heightened between us.

As the elevator door swiftly slid open, both of us instinctively moved aside, exchanging mischievous glances. While I quickly adjusted my stance and smoothed out my dress, Ran stole a fleeting look at me, unable to suppress a gentle chuckle. Meanwhile, I could feel the dampness of my undergarments caused by my intense arousal. I exhaled audibly, flashing a warm smile at the older lady who returned my gesture with a perplexed expression etched across her countenance.

Ran and I strolled out of the Imaushi's Hotel, our hands interlocked, making our way towards his sophisticated and enchanting 2018 Mercedes-AMG that boasted a sleek, obsidian exterior. As we stepped out into the open air, I couldn't help but inhale deeply, feeling a wave of tranquility wash over me, and then exhale audibly, a tangible sigh of immense relief escaping my lips. The situation we had just narrowly escaped had been incredibly precarious, and I dreaded the possibility of attracting further scrutiny and curiosity from the woman who had already been paying us more attention than desired.   

As we drew closer to the car, I couldn't resist being awestruck by its elegant contours and the potent motor that emitted a captivating hum from beneath the bonnet. As I handed over the keys to the driver, my anticipation bubbled over as I enthusiastically settled into the passenger's seat. The satisfying roar of the engine as it roared to life illuminated my face with joy, and I could feel a surge of exhilaration welling up within me.   

As the car gracefully exited the spacious parking lot and seamlessly merged into the bustling flow of traffic on the bustling main road, a profound feeling of solace and protection enveloped my being.

When Ran and I reached the International House of Japan, we were met with a vibrant ambiance filled with joyous laughter and bustling activity. The air seemed saturated with the mingling sounds of affluent people conversing, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of high society gatherings. The architectural splendor of the building itself was awe-inspiring, boasting grand proportions, adorned with captivating details, and characterized by its lofty ceilings and exquisite fixtures. It exuded a sense of opulence and extravagance that permeated the entire establishment, enhancing the overall luxurious experience.   

Upon entering the grandiose main hall, our attention was immediately captivated by the awe-inspiring spectacle that unfolded before us—a mammoth table that extended seemingly endlessly. This extraordinary table was embellished with an assortment of the most exquisite and desirable wines and spirits that one could imagine, ranging from the renowned macallan lalique scotch to the highly sought-after dalmore 62 and diamond jubilee. Overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of these exceptional libations, a surge of anticipation surged through me, causing an amplified salivation in my mouth as I entertained the thrilling notion of indulging in each of these masterpieces of viticulture.   

The affluent entrepreneurs and government officials were impeccably attired, their suits and dresses exuding elegance that matched the exquisite wines they grasped delicately. The ambiance resonated with cheerful laughter and animated conversation, while an air of exhilaration and eagerness permeated every corner of the room.   

As Ran and I navigated through the bustling crowd, we were met with approving nods and warm smiles, indicating that everyone around us acknowledged Ran's esteemed position within the Japanese business realm. Despite the early hours of the evening, a captivating sense of excitement and limitless potential filled the air.

The International House of Japan, with its opulent setting, served as an impeccable setting for an enchanting and lavish assembly, where only the finest wines and spirits flowed abundantly amidst the presence of influential and affluent individuals. This remarkable event would undoubtedly leave an indelible mark in our memories, and deep down, I embraced the certainty that I found myself in an extraordinary place, at the precise moment, with the most fitting person by my side. 

I was surprised by the abrupt surge of feelings when my nephew, Kio, approached me, enfolding his arms around my waist while gazing up at me with his large, radiant eyes. His embrace was heartfelt and sincere, causing me to experience a flood of happiness and affection.   

After releasing his grip on me, my sister, Emma, came closer and embraced me with a tender and soothing gesture. Nevertheless, I was taken aback when I noticed the pregnant belly on her, which instantly filled me with joy and anticipation for her. She appeared glowing and stunning, and I was confident in her ability to be an exceptional parent.   

I returned Emma's embrace, holding her tightly as I felt the roundness of her pregnancy beneath my hands. A surge of happiness and pride washed over me, aware that I would soon become an aunt once more. 

Izana and Mikey came towards me, and as soon as I noticed my brothers approaching, I swiftly planted a gentle kiss on their cheeks as a gesture of honor. Noticing the raised eyebrow directed at me, Izana inquired with an accusing tone, "Why are you with Ran?" This made both Emma and me exchange glances. 

I maintained my smile, unfazed by his doubts, and casually responded, "I needed a ride." I gazed into Mikey's eyes, silently requesting his assistance once again due to Izana's persistence. He responded by rolling his eyes and expressing his disappointment, questioning my choice of relying on Ran instead of reaching out to Kakucho, Mikey, Shinichiro, and the rest of the group. His tone carried a hint of disappointment that compelled me to lower my gaze towards the exquisite tiles beneath me. 

Izana once again looked at me questioning glance, "I just want to make sure you're safe, that's all." He said before rubbing my shoulder with reassurance.

Mikey's mouth tightened, his ink eyes boring into Izana's lilac ones. "Izana, you're being way too overprotective. Leave her alone." Mikey said, his tone firm and annoyed.

Izana became increasingly annoyed as he distanced himself from Mikey, his eyes squinting in displeasure. "Don't tell me what to do," Izana snapped back defiantly, his voice emanating an icy and abrasive tone, refusing to be instructed. 

"Nanggagagago ka ata eh." Mikey uttered with intense anger in his eyes as he fixed his gaze upon Izana, who appeared completely unruffled while leisurely sipping his elegant champagne. 

"Could you at least fix your accent before talking to me?" Izana said as he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Izana turned to leave. But before he could take a step, Mikey spoke up, his voice laced with anger and annoyance. "Ulol! Ikaw ang dapat mag-improve!"

Izana's eye's widened in outrage, and he spun around to face Mikey. "How dare you?" he spat, his voice low and annoyed.

For a brief period of time, an atmosphere filled with tension and silence enveloped the surroundings as the two sibling brothers confronted each other, with both eagerly anticipating the moment when one of them would yield by blinking their eyes first.   

However, it was Izana who took the initiative and initiated the action by swiftly extending his hand and firmly clutching onto the collar of Mikey's polo shirt. In response, I let out a startled gasp, my eyes widening in shock as Izana forcefully struck Mikey across his face, generating a resounding echo that reverberated throughout the entirety of the room.   

The unexpected act of violence left the other guests who were seated nearby completely astonished, their mouths agape and displaying utter shock on their faces. 

I witnessed the escalating dispute between Izana and Mikey with disbelief, as their voices grew increasingly louder and filled the room with tension. It resembled an agonizing, slow-motion disaster that unfolded before my eyes. Each word uttered by both parties seemed to inflict deeper wounds, causing my irritation to intensify.

What troubled me even more was the fact that their fierce argument was taking place during Rindou's birthday celebration. As numerous distinguished guests had gathered for this special occasion, my embarrassment reached a whole new level. The torment of watching this spectacle became unbearable, to the point where I simply could not endure it any longer. 

All of a sudden, we were startled by the sound of gunshots emanating from outside, instilling a sense of panic within us. However, amidst the chaos, there were a few individuals who remained composed and unaffected by the situation. In that moment, my eyes widened in fear, and I instinctively sought refuge by positioning myself between my brothers, ensuring my own safety.

The intensity of the situation was reflected in Mikey's expression, which grew even darker upon hearing yet another round of gunshots. Laced with concern and anxiety, Izana frantically called out for Kakucho, his voice echoing through the air, as the three of us cautiously made our way towards the bungalow house. 

"Aniki."   Rindou beckoned for Ran to come over he made his way towards his younger sibling.   

"I am aware," Ran responded nonchalantly, exhibiting a measured sense of knowledge and understanding as if he knows an information regarding the person responsible for sabotaging his brother's birthday celebration.

Ran's face displayed a strong mixture of curiosity and concern as he scanned the bustling crowd, his eyes eagerly searching for me amid the chaos. Meanwhile, I found myself being pulled along by my brothers, feeling a sense of helplessness in their grip. As we approached the entrance of the bungalow house, a heavy sigh escaped my lips, reflecting the weariness and resignation that had settled within me. 

Handing the water bottle to me, "They are planning to kill Ran." Izana spoke before sitting down on the velvety sofa.

thank you for reading! a heart and reblog will gladly be appreciated.

don't repost my work to any platform. thank you!

© sweveniv-niikosia.

[septembriseur]

Truly there is nothing like rolling along through a perfectly entertaining mystery series and running headfirst into the sturdy brick wall of an installment in which:

- the author states that all Pashtun women have light eyes (later she backtracks to say that light green eyes are “common”). The plot ends up revolving around Pashtuns being essentially white.

- the author refers to “the traditional Muslim shalwar kameez”

- the author thinks that there are areas of London in which there are so many women running around in burkas that you could lose a burka-clad woman in a crowd— I would think that she’s confusing burka and niqab, since that is true of niqab, except she describes the mesh of the burka, so she must know the difference? Except she also describes the burka as “black”! So maybe she doesn’t?

- A Pashtun woman from rural Takhar Province is named “Maya.” (Most of the names are dodgy; I will give the author “Pari” because it could be short for “Parisa.”)

- Illegal immigrants are coming up the Thames in small boats… I’m very tired.

- The murderer is a sworn virgin (called “narkhazak” here, not “bache posh,” a term that the author got from the single book she read, and which I have never seen associated with the bache posh tradition elsewhere), which psychologically damaged her so badly (because, you see, GENDER) that she ends up murdering beautiful young fertile Afghan women. The other suspect is an Afghan trans woman who became trans because she was born with physical disabilities, which psychologically damaged HER, I guess. I GUESS!!!! Because, guys, the thing is that these orientals, with their defective ideas about gender. If they could just UNDERSTAND gender like WE do. That’s basically the thing.

- I’m sure it will astonish you to learn that no Afghan people are mentioned in the acknowledgements.

In conclusion, I am once again begging Western people who write about Afghanistan to talk to just one (1) Afghan person.

[elizabethswitch]

I know it's meant to be creepy. I know. But the whole 26 September escapade cracks me up every time. I'm fine until they get to the theme restaurant, but as soon as Jack gets lost in the suburbs I start to snicker.

Yakety sax starts up in my head, Jack keeps turning down wrong alleyways, bobbing behind newsstands to hide from the horse patrol, clambers over a 12 ft brick wall like nothing, gets lost again in a cemetery, pouts behind a tree, gets lost again again chasing a scantily clad vampire lady, clambers back over a big brick wall with a floppy toddler, jumpscares a cop with a baby, runs away from that, and somehow hails a cab at four in the morning in outer London. Van Helsing is there.

These aren't badass vampire hunters, this is some Keystone Kops bs. This is Dracula meets the Monkees. I can't. Y'all.

[psych3-delic]

Forks And Smothered (1/4)

Written for this AU I have been thinking about where Sebastian is contracted to Vincent instead of o!Ciel. 

Forks And Smothered Mates are chess terminologies. 

In Fork, the Knight is the best-suited piece for attack because it can attack multiple pieces that are more valuable than itself in a single move. A Smothered Mate is the name for a checkmate that occurs when a king is surrounded by their own pieces.

I’m thinking of dividing it into 4 parts: Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter as Ciel grows up and Sebastian becomes more and more attached to the point of breaking his contract/betraying Vincent for Ciel. The following part is Spring.

Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter

The boy could feel he was being watched. A moment ago, something had strained the air, like a heaved breath held in too full lungs, then abruptly released, leaving a bone-chilling impression. The room suddenly eerily still. Even the incessant ticking of the father clock had gone mute. He could feel eyes on him – dozens, perhaps hundreds of them, just outside the periphery of his vision, perceiving him at once from every angle. Strange. He remembered entering the room alone, and the door hadn’t once creaked open once since Tanaka delivered his afternoon dose of medicine.

Despite his intuition, the ten-year-old turned his head; toward where the nothingness made his skin crawl and tearing himself from the book he had been emerged in on the carpeted floor. 

As if summoned, a gale howled and rushed through an open window, snuffing out candles along the wall. The room plunged into relative darkness. Far darker than it should be this time of afternoon in March. The young boy rubbed his eyes (for the wind had delivered a speck of dust), barely missing the two glowing red dots in the corner.

“Young master,” the abrupt tangibility of a human voice startled the boy. A soundless chuckle was felt more than heard. “You shouldn’t leave your window open like that. You shall have another coughing fit.”

“Ah,” the ten-year-old let out a surprised gasp, followed by a sigh of relief, “Oh, it’s just you, Sebastian.”

Mr. Sebastian was the newest hire of the Phantomhive manor since last December. A Butler, whose arrival had relieved Tanaka of his duty after more than half a century of serving the earldom. It was a good thing, the child thought, for Gramps had obtained a grave injury around that same winter. Tanaka remained on the estate still, but acting as a steward prevented him from having to over-exert himself and worsening his health condition. 

In three short months, Mr. Sebastian had taken over the vacant position with ease. He followed the Earl like a shadow and performed his senior staffer duty with such swift efficiency one would be hard-pressed to dismiss. The manservants admired his extensive knowledge of all subjects imaginable. They respected him. The maids fawned. Yet, not much is known about this newcomer. 

No one knew from whence the man had come. His hometown, his education, and his previous employment… were one question mark after another. All they knew was that last winter, the Earl had sent his wife and their children away to London to celebrate the twin’s birthday with her relative (who, suffering great loss of her unborn child and husband due to a tragic accident, had remained bed-ridden); uncharacteristically failed to show up for the feast; then, upon the mistress and the children’s return from the townhouse, was found accompanied by this ebony-clad butler.

Funny, they used to have a Borzoi named Sebastian. The day Sebastian the Dog disappeared was also the day Sebastian the Butler showed up. 

Gracefully, the butler navigated the litany of toys and plushies littering about and his young master sprawled on the ground to relit the room’s candles. Their warm flickers animated the wallpaper. That done, the man stopped before the window, reaching for its brass handles with pristine gloved hands, intending to close them shut. 

"No wait," the boy called out and got onto his feet to halt the action, but he was seized by a violent coughing episode. 

The butler looked on confused. To him, his young master’s opposition made no logical sense. Then his keen ears caught sounds of childish laughter beyond the window. At once, realization dawned on him. The corner of his mouth couldn’t help but stretch upward. Humans are indeed such pathetic creatures. Still, he shook his head:

"Looking through the glass panels will have to suffice, young master."

His young master recovered from the hacking fit and passed Sebastian to press his nose and palms onto the clear glass. While the sickly child was still busy gazing forlornly at the garden, at his brother and cousins playing outside no doubt, Sebastian made himself at home and plopped down onto the empty chaise in the center, long legs propping on an armrest while his head pillowing on the other, right next to where his young master had been. Now, slouching would not at all befit his aesthetic of an aristocratic servant, however, that bastard of a Master of his had been one hell of a slave driver to serve. For a Marquis of Hell such as himself to stoop to that level was nothing short of egregious. He began to contemplate that he might have misnegotiated the terms of their contract.

Sebastian leisurely reached out; long arm inhumanly elongated even further to fetch the book abandoned on the carpet. Mother Goose it was, the page opening to "Old King Cole". The noise he let out was a cross between a scoff and a snake’s hissing – awfully disgraceful, but no human would be able to hear him at that frequency. Fate was messing with him. The prose was about serving a demanding monarch.

“Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three…”

“Sebastian!”

The Butler turned his burning red orbs onto the voice towering above him. He realized his mistake when the boy jumped half a step back, face ashen. So engrossed in his brooding, and letting his guard down around the sick, frail creature, Sebastian had been taken by surprise when the child approached from such a close distance and turned hellfire eyes on him. With a blink, he returned them back to a demure tea color. 

“Young master, my apologies,” He stood and bowed, turning to make his leave. How annoying. Master Vincent had made it clear that none was to know about the nature of their covenant. The frightened child would no doubt run crying to his father, and the sadistic bastard would find new and creative ways to torment Sebastian. If only…

Sebastian was taken aback by the tug on his tailcoat.

“Wait!” The young master cried; small hands clutched small round fists on the black fabric. He had his eyes squeezed close fearing repercussions, but his grip was surprisingly strong, “Please stay. I’m sorry I startled you.”

“Young master?” This was the second time Sebastian was made to feel confused that afternoon. Long legs frozen in place. His young master continued:

“I promise I hadn’t meant to play a prank on you. Mom said it’s impolite to play pranks. I merely thought you looked upset and… and… I meant to ask after you…”

The latter half of the sentence was stuttered in apprehension, but explained himself he did. The boy peeked at Sebastian finally, still holding fast onto the end of his coat. Dumbfounded by the turn of events, Sebastian just stared. 

“Young master, I had thought I…” scared you, frightened you, terrified you – Sebastian shook his head. Perhaps this sickly child has more boldness and dauntlessness in his bony frame than everyone took him for. Or perhaps, his tiny brain cannot process what he saw. Either way: “I assure you; I do not take offense.”

The frown between his brows relented. Still, the tiny fists refused to let up.

“Really?” The boy tilted his head, his eyes sparkled like fine needles sapphire and round with naivete. Not unlike those earthly felines, Sebastian found. All that was missing was a pair of fluffy ears.

“I tell no lies, young master.” His human mouth curved into an appeasing smile.

“Then…” The boy rocked back onto the ball of his feet, suddenly bashful, like he anticipated rejection, “you will stay?”

Sebastian deliberated. On one hand, he couldn’t care less for the offspring of his master – the weaker of the twins at that; his contract detailed no provision pertaining to the safety nor fulfillment of anyone but his contractor. On the other hand, with the Easter banquet scheduled for the evening, every other room in the estate had been filled either by guests or staff working on preparation. The bustling of the festive party did no favour to his sensitive ears.

“If you insist, my lord,” The butler decided at last. He spun around and got down on one knee, bowing with a palm over where the heart should be in a gesture of mock devotion. Only then was his coattail released. His tiny master appeared mighty pleased, “I shall keep you company. But whatever shall we do, young sir?”

The boy immediately brightened. Unlike his brother, the child was much more socially reserved. It seems his weak constitution contributed to both his not being able to keep up with his peers in physical activities and entertaining guests for any extended amount of time. Such a pathetic, lonely creature. Sebastian could almost taste his soul: too sweet with a tang of bitterness. Perhaps if he could cultivate it, it would make a rather fine snack one day… But alas, he had a bigger fish to fry.

“Are you familiar with chess, Sebastian?” The boy asked.

“Somewhat, sir,” replied the servant humbly, thinking of the various variations of the game he had familiarized across lands and centuries. 

“Then, we shall play chess!”

Pattering on tiny legs, his young master made for the board and pieces already set up on the high coffee table. Sebastian followed. He pulled out a chair for his charge, then promptly took the other seat across the boy.

“Very well, young master. But what is a game without consequence? I propose a bet.”

“Uhm… What’s a bet?”

“T’is but a stake to make our game more fascinating. Hmm, let's see… say if you win, I’ll let you have a whole chocolate gateau to yourself tonight?”

As expected, the boy’s eyes lit up at the mention of sweets. Like a hungry cat indeed at a mere hint of food.

“What do you get if you win?”

Sebastian put a slender finger to his chin feigning deep contemplation:

“Oh dear, I must ask you to keep whatever happens in this room today a secret. It wouldn’t do to give His Right Honorable the impression that his new employ is slacking off now, wouldn’t it? I shall be out of a job in no time!”

The boy in front of him giggled:

“Very well, Sebastian! However…” When he once more glanced at his butler, there was a shard of sharpness concealed underneath childish curiosity as he sized Sebastian up: “There is something I want more than cake today. If I win, I want you to show me your eyes again.”

Ah, so the little kitten did see after all. But instead of running into the loving arms of his parents, here he was daring the Devil himself, whether he knew it or not. There was a streak of pride and competitiveness in the tiny creature, too. How fascinating. Sebastian was thoroughly entertained.

“Oh my, does the tiny lord believe he can best me?”

The child snickered again. The sound clear as Musica universalis in his all-hearing ears.

“I’ll have you know only Father and Ciel had managed to beat me before.”

The White rook moved. The game began.

[victoriansecret]

Evander Berry Wall was a famous sociality and fashionista in the late 19th and early 20th century, dubbed The King of the Dudes. Via wikipedia:

"Wall was a clotheshorse. He generally wore a "very extraordinary costume" such as the one pictured on the right: "a dust coat of a reddish havana brown, a suit made of a large grey shepherd plaid check; extremely wide trousers tapered at the ankle, and turned up several inches to display white spats and highly varnished shoes; a 'startling' striped shirt in red and sky blue, with very high false collar of a pattern different from the shirts, a striped vest and a widely spread stock-cravat." He was popularly credited with the possession of over 500 trousers and 5,000 neckties." ...

Wall was first proclaimed "King of the Dudes" at the resort town of Long Branch, New Jersey in the summer of 1883.

Wall was again proclaimed "King of the Dudes" in 1888 by the New York American newspaper. A journalist named Blakely Hall judged that Wall had won the "Battle of the Dudes" against Robert "Bob" Hilliard, another sartorial dude when, during the March Blizzard of 1888, he strode into a bar clad in gleaming boots of patent leather that went to his hips. Nevertheless, some historians still consider it was Hilliard who won that dude battle.

Wall won another fashion contest in August 1888, in Saratoga Springs, New York. To win a bet against John "Bet a Million" Gates, Wall changed clothes 40 times between breakfast and dinner. He appeared on the race track "in one flashy ensemble after the other until, exhausted but victorious he at last entered the ballroom of the United States Hotel in faultless evening attire."

Ever the fashion-leader, Wall is credited for having been the first person in the United States to wear a dinner jacket (tuxedo) to a ball. The white ensemble had been sent to him by the London Savile Row tailor Henry Poole & Co "to be worn for a quiet dinner at home or at an evening's entertainment at a summer resort." This was a time when tailcoat was still the rule, and Wall was immediately ordered off the floor.

Wall's financial life was not as successful as his fashion life. An ill-conceived stock-broking career and additional failures as a stable owner ended in an 1899 bankruptcy. Wall finally declared that "New York had become fit only for businessmen" and left for Paris in 1912. ... They lived in a suite in the Hotel Meurice, with a consecutive string of chow dogs named Chi-Chi or Toi-Toi. This was located conveniently near the bespoke shirtmaker Charvet, where Wall had his signature "spread eagle" collar shirts and cravats custom-made for himself and his dog. Wall always dined at the Ritz with his dog, whose collars and ties were made by Charvet in the same style and fabric as his master's.

[jovialtorchlight]

The Cursed Halls of Carcosa

By Jonny Bolduc

If you are reading this letter, you want to know about Carcosa? You want to know about the gate? You want to know about the fate of doomed travelers ambling in the dim halls? I can oblige the regaling of the tale. 

There were three of us. George Irish, a strong, competent man of about fifty with grayed hair and a long red beard. Emily Wellspring, a spry, energetic woman who caused a stir in gentle society after she worked for a few nights as the only female ditch digger in London. That did not last long. Now, she roamed around the city, taking whatever work she could find.

What fools we were. Of course, our instructions were clear, with little room for mistakes. Traverse the first few halls of the catacombs, marking the walls with charcoal etchings as we turned.  

Later, as I followed George close enough to breath upon his neck, desperately latching to the dim light of the lantern like a moth to a flame, I cursed the day I signed the contract obligating me to undertake this wretched endeavor.  But in the beginning, it was sold well to me. Let me take you to the start of this descent.  

A week ago, Reginald Garrish, a rotund man dressed in a fine black coat, who claimed to be employed by Howard Black, Esquire treated me to a lavish night of wine and merriment,  and in the stupor of overindulgence, obliged me to scrawl a drunken signature and accept a small pouch of 40 shillings, binding me to the task of diving into the uncharted subterranean catacombs beneath Black’s sprawling estate in search of his missing boy, Barnaby. 

"The only trace we've got," Reginald said halfway through the raucous evening, his voice slipping from the faux haughty accent he so clearly rehearsed and falling into a workyard rasp, "is this little trumpet he used to toot about. Discovered it in the mausoleum, near the stairs that take you down to them crypts."

And so, when we first took the crumbling stone depths down, away from the light of the midmorning, we saw plenty of signs that the boy had been wandering; a half eaten bonbon, wrappers; a half consumed cigar and some spent matches the boy had stolen from some adult. The hall continued straight, long, descending down further and further into the earth, growing colder and dimmer. 

“Just stay close to me,” George uttered earlier in the morning as we donned cloaks and filled our canteens from the well. “We won’t be long in the labyrinth. We are merely scouting.”

George, of course, took the lead of the procession. 

“We must have walked one thousand steps,” George said about an hour into our journey. “How far down do these depths reach?”

A step later, and the dimming light revealed the end to the steps. A carved hallway in the stone, branching off in two directions. On the descent, the sides of the crypt had been bare and smooth; now, at the landing, our lanterns illuminated carved nooks in the walls, on which rested  the desiccated remains of ancient corpses, a body on either side, dusty skeletons resting with arms folded. One skeleton in once ornate, now moth-eaten silks of red, the other clad in yellow. A peaceful rest, it seemed then. 

George stopped to ponder at the split of the catacomb. There was no reason or clear danger at this intersection; we of course knew that this crypt would be full of the dead. But something inside of me screamed at the thought of pausing too long, some internal voice protested, urging me to move, to keep moving, and never to stop. 

I glanced behind. In the few hours I knew her, Emily never really stopped moving; she was animated by some internal engine, constantly bouncing or fidgeting. Now, though, she seemed still, ridgid even. A slight movement caught my peripheral vision; I swung my head around to the corpse in yellow rags. Of course, it hadn’t moved. 

Of course. 

After a moment, George decided to take the corridor on the left. The light was dim, and staring off into the hall, George thought he could see some article of clothing strewn on the ground about twenty feet out. George limped, dragging his foot as if injured, though I knew better. I had known George in passing; a former night-guard upended from his duty by a lingering knee injury who often took unscrupulous jobs or favors. I had also heard pubside murmerings that George faked his  injured knee to avoid his contracted duties. And for the first thousand steps, he had no limp or wavering steps. Now, though, he trembled as he walked, as if his imagined injuries were realized.

And so we walked, and the clump of clothing was revealed to be a shadow cast upon the sides of the catacombs. Rather than preserved bodies, resting upon the carved tables were piles of bones, as if remains had been indiscriminately dumped on the shelves of the catacombs. After a few minutes, George stopped suddenly, and plunged his arms into a bone pile, emerging with a skull. 

I had no real time to protest this, though I would have made it clear that I did not think it wise. Some dread, some superstition was building in my stomach. George emerged with a skull. Taking charcoal from his bag, he marked large “X” on the cranium of the dusty skull, and set it gently down on the cool floor of the catacombs. 

“There,” he grunted, “We’ll be able to find our way back.”

Neither Emily nor I spoke. We kept walking. The light grew dimmer, and dimmer still. 

Over the next hour, George pulled three more skulls, marking them with charcoal. 

Emily, silent, trailed the two of us. I heard a clatter; turning on my heels I saw Emily, sprawled out on the floor. 

“Damn,” she muttered, hoisting herself up. As she regained her standing, we saw the cause of her stumbling; a humerus, knocked from the shelves, strewn across the narrow hall. I noticed that she was not holding her lantern. 

“Oh,” she said, quietly, staring at the catacomb beside her. Somehow, as she fell, the lantern sailed from her hand onto the shelves, and was now covered by loose bone. 

She and myself stared at the lantern. Some voice inside of me begged, pleaded in the whimper of a child not to reach into and graze my hands upon the bone. Emily likewise stood motionless, blue eyes wide. With hands trembling, she reached into the pit of bone and pulled up her lantern. 

“George,” she whispered, “swing the light this way.”

As George did so, the fire cast light upon Emily’s hand, holding the lantern. She let out a high and cutting scream, and I let out a grunt of terror as the light revealed the disgusting truth. 

I was as if Emily had stuck her hand into a fire; her flesh bubbling with pus, red, skin peeled. George came close, and hurriedly wet a rag from his small leather pack, holding it to Emily’s skin as her lantern clanged upon the stone floor.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Emily whispered, frantically, as if enemies were listening in on her words. “Tell me, why doesn’t it hurt?”

“Shock, perhaps,” George muttered as he wrapped her hand. “It’s a bad burn. Something must have happened with the lantern’s fuel.”

“We need to turn around,” I declared. “We need to get her to a doctor.”

As if in reply, a scream, muffled by distance, rang out. The scream of a child. Emily jerked her hand from George, and cradled it, wincing, as if the scream somehow cut her, or at least opened her mind to the pain of her burns. 

“God, it hurts!” she whispered into the darkness. George had already turned around and started to hurriedly amble towards the sound. 

“George!” I said. “She needs a doctor!”

“Was that not the boy?” George said, not turning around. ”Her burn, though grotesque, will be fine. The boy could be in danger.”

We hurried after him, and I realized later, when the terror latched onto us like an engorged tick, that Emily had left her lantern behind.

We walked, in a tight procession, George with his lantern held high to illuminate us all. The dark tunnel had not again diverged into an intersection, but still, three or four times, George pulled a skull from the pile to mark it with charcoal. It seemed as if another hour passed, walking through the long, dark halls.

Eventually, I grew concerned. I heard Emily’s footsteps behind me, and I could sense that she was following close behind, but the young woman who had talked vigorously before the descent,  teeming with adventure and life had uttered only a few fleeting words since descending into this abominable crypt.  

“Emily,” I whispered, half turned to remain close to George, and to also read her face–which was, as I saw,  empty, dreamlike, as if she were sleepwalking. “Do you still feel no pain?”

She nodded, her mouth agape. She cracked a smile. 

“I feel wonderful,” she said, her words slow and slurred. “We plod along the dark path towards the city on stilts.” 

“George,” I whispered, low, teeming with intensity. George had to know that the pain of the burn, in tandem with the oppressive darkness of the crypt, was settling into Emily’s mind. “We've had no sign of the boy for over an hour. We need to turn around.”

George swung around, the lantern light illuminating his pale, narrow face and unkempt beard, lips pressed together, grinding his teeth, eyes sunk back deep into the socket. 

“That which I have seen on this dreaded path set deep into my consciousness,” he started, slowly, as if a furnace kicking on after a season of sleep. “I heard the slicing whispers the dark ahead, speaking in ancient and vulgar tongue about the dread path. I have seen purple shadows with proportions impossible cast upon the dark stone of the crypt wall. I have seen those bones cast upon the stone of the earth and ground to dust.  We cannot turn back. Carcosa calls.” 

My stomach dipped. Handling one person driven to madness would be an impossible task; guiding two panicked souls from darkness to light seemed ruinous. We walked in silence, until George finally stopped. 

“Companions,” George uttered, his dry voice crackling like a fire in the dark. “Do not falter from the light of my lantern, for these corridors seem..” His voice trailed, swallowed by the heavy dark. 

I looked past him. He was right. Previously, the catacombs had been wide enough for two to walk side by side. The hall narrowed, and instead of remains strewn indiscriminately in piles, ancient corpses stood straight up, mounted into chiseled indents in the walls, posed with ceremonial swords and carvings. 

“George,” I whispered, “How much oil is left in the lantern?”

George turned to me, lips stretched, yellowed teeth exposed, locked into a grimace of pain. With one hand, George gripped my shoulders; in surprise, I tried to throw him off. His other hand dropped the lantern, clattering it on the floor; still it remained lit, casting a dim light upon the low stone ceiling of the tomb. The darkness was so oppressive, so consuming, so encompassing that it was if we were mosquitos encased in amber resin. As George pulled me in close, towards the cast light, I felt his impossibly tight grip on my shoulder. He pulled me so that we were practically nose to nose. 

“It is too late for me, Jonathan,” he said. His breath reeked, as if his organs and guts were rotting; a tooth fell from his mouth and clattered on the floor next to the lantern. “For I have seen the rotting well of midnight and I have been drowned. I have seen the last hour of the world played out in the shadows upon these walls; I have seen the yellow robes tattered, rising up from the detritus of our ashen, burned cities. The river will flood the bank, and my bloated body will drift down a river of filth towards dread Carcosa.”

The side of George’s face was illuminated. It was sopping wet, streams of dark, oily liquid running down from the top of his head to his mouth . He cried out, blubbering, spitting up water, like someone was holding his face in a bucket. His clothes dripped onto the floor.    A chunk of his red hair, dripping wet, coated with slime, plopped onto the floor. His skin bloated, inflated with drowning.  A chunk of black, necrotic skin slopped off the arm that gripped me, landing on the floor with a slap. His shirt rapidly decayed, black mold lining the fabric, coated in discharge, clutch still firm on my arm. 

“The river will flood the bank,” George cried, skin falling off in chunks, slapping against the cavern floor like a rainstorm of meat on a tin roof.

I was finally able to break free of his grip. As his skin fell from his legs, he fell face down into a pile of his own skin, and his movement ceased. I grabbed the lantern, and turned to Emily. She stood, swaying.

“Emily!” I shouted. “If you are present, if you can hear me, we must leave this cursed place!”

She did not respond. Gingerly stepping over the remains of George, I decided to see if I could move her arms like a puppet master. I wrapped them around my waist, and started walking, hoping that somewhere in her deepest consciousness she could decide to save herself. And she did. She walked along with me, her hands wrapped tightly around my waist, keeping my step.  

Part of my panicked mind posited that it did not matter what way we chose to leave. Every turn, every step spelled doom. But it seemed as if we may stand a chance if we turned around the way we came. So in that way I walked, only for a few moments, before the lantern flickered and went out. 

Curiously, it was that darkness that saved me. In the darkness, I could see no shadows cast upon the wall. I could not see the rusted gate swinging wide, leading to Carcosa.  I walked, with Emily close behind, through the darkness, staying straight and true. We walked that way for a time, before I stepped on something that crunched beneath my boot like a plate. 

“A charcoal skull,” I muttered. “We are on the right path.”

And so we continued. I hugged the walls, and every so often, I stepped on a skull in the darkness. With each skull, improbable hope rose up from a deep internal well. I thought that Emily and I would perhaps see the end of this cursed maze; and that hope became ecstasy when I realized that the hall had turned to steps. 

“Not longer now, Emily,” I muttered. And climbing the steps in the black was difficult, and slow moving. But we rose, slowly. Eventually, light cast from the opening of the tomb illuminated us, however dim. And as if a cosmic puppet on a string, as soon as I saw that light, I tripped, and fell backwards, onto Emily. 

But I did not feel the flesh of a human body when I fell. No, indeed, madness swells in me as I recall. I felt the crunch of bone. I rolled over, and a scream of fear escaped me. I glimpsed a skeletal face, mummified, clad in a crown of iron, twisted and bent in impossible angles; scrambling backwards, I saw the scalloped yellow robes that I now know belong to the King. Propelling myself backwards, the monster raised a feeble hand up at me.

 Like a spider, I threw myself backwards, kicking away from it, eventually righting myself. I bounded up the steps, not looking behind, and as I threw myself out of the tomb, rolling upon the grass, seeing the sun peak through the gray clouds, I was not relieved. Instead, I thought only about dread Carcosa.

You may see me wandering these dark and dim streets, begging for alms. In my mind, I am still stuck in the tomb, clutched by the King in Yellow, dragged towards dread Carcosa. I never again heard mention of Reginald or Howard Black.

But if you look in my eyes and see ghostly shadows cast upon the iris, friend, know that George and Emily live in me, screaming, thrashing to escape the clutch of the King in Yellow and trying to leave the dread Carcosa, the city on stilts. They were claimed by the tomb. They were dragged through the gate and now are captives in the dreaded city of Carcosa.

And if you are reading this letter, know that I am meandering towards the crypt I emerged from seven years ago. Know that I am going to jump into the black oil and listlessly drift towards Carcosa. Know that I will descend back down into madness. I will become the voice of the King in Yellow. I will unleash his will upon this cursed and hanging earth.

[ohillnevertell]

A Christmas Confession

Here you go, @palomahasenteredthechat- I give you my 12 Days of Joemas 2023 ficathon submission.

Warnings: None really, fluff with some angst, after all, nothing is ever perfect, some talk about casual sex, but nothing graphic.

Used a couple of the prompts, I'm sure you will spot them!

Enjoy!

She slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, careful not to wake him. As soon as she was out and on her feet, she turned back to see if she had succeeded, and she had - he was still sound asleep. It never ceased to amaze her how different he looked when sleeping; his handsome face was devoid of any stress and completely relaxed, making him appear far younger than his twenty-nine years.

She tip-toed to the bathroom, softly closing the door behind her. She pulled her long dark hair into a messy bun, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. She began collecting the various toiletries spread about the counter and placing them into their respective bag for travel, all the while thinking about how quickly time had flown by on this trip. It went by so fast, far too fast.

She gathered the remaining items and opened the door to find him standing there, clad only in his boxers. His presence startled her, making her jump and causing the items she held in her arms to fall to the floor.

"Holy shit," she exclaimed as she bent down to pick up the bags and bottles that were now scattered about the floor. "You scared the crap out of me; how are you so quiet? Are you a ninja in your off time?"

He chuckled and knelt to help her pick up her things. "Good morning to you too, love."

"I'm sorry, good morning. I didn't expect you to be there when I opened the door; you were out like a light when I went into the bathroom." She leaned forward and quickly kissed him before crossing the room and dropping the toiletries into an open suitcase sitting on the loveseat.

He crawled back onto the bed and lay on his side, his head propped up with a few pillows. He studied her as she folded items of clothing and placed them in the bag.

"I can't believe you're leaving me and returning to the States already; it feels like you just got here."

"Yeah, tell me about it," she replied, her voice tinged with sadness. "In retrospect, I should have planned things differently and taken more time off, but how could I have known what would happen?"

She felt heat rise in her cheeks as she glanced at him, lying there and staring at her, a big grin on his face, showing off the dimple in his left cheek that never failed to make her swoon.

He got up from the bed and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She felt so happy in his arms; he made her feel safe and comfortable. Just one of a million things about him she would miss when she left.

"And what happened, exactly?" He smiled broadly, with teeth, and gave her a wink.

"Don't be a smart ass," she said, playfully slapping his butt. "You. You happened. Of all the pubs in this city, you just had to walk into that one. You have a lot of nerve doing that, by the way."

"Oh, I have nerve?" He feigned shock, raising his eyebrows, and placed his hand on his chest. "I'm a regular there, so I think you're the one who had the nerve to be there in my pub. How dare you?"

She couldn't help but laugh. He was right; she later learned it was one of his favorites, and she could see why. It was cozy and very low-key, with no one staring and whispering or asking for photos; it was clear that he felt comfortable and just like everyone else within those walls.

Their fated meeting had happened over a week ago, shortly after she arrived in London, and they'd been inseparable ever since. They just gelled immediately, and there was no awkwardness; they just fell into whatever it was they were doing quite naturally. It felt like they'd always been part of one another's lives.

She'd refused to sleep with him right away and made him wait until after they'd been on a couple of dates; she was a lot of things, but a casual star fucker was not one of them. She'd been around the business most of her life and ran in celebrity circles, so his status meant nothing to her. She also found the actors she knew that had blown up overnight at a young age to be utterly obnoxious, and she was worried he would be the same. Thankfully, he was nothing like them, which came as a surprise to her. He was intelligent, cultured, kind, well-mannered, and cared about his work. He loved the craft, not the fame; it was rare and refreshing to encounter.

He'd made her time in London so enjoyable and very memorable. Christmas was just around the corner, and everything in the city was decorated beautifully, giving it a magical feel; it was lovely. Being there during the holidays and spending time with him felt unreal. It had been far too perfect, and she felt like pinching herself daily to ensure it wasn't a dream.

Last night, he'd asked her to extend her trip, to stay on through New Year's, but she couldn't, even though she desperately wanted to. She had to come down from the high and return to real life. It would be tough, so she felt it better to rip the bandaid off now rather than later and run the risk of becoming more invested.

"Are you sure you can't stay?" His voice broke her out of her thoughts, and she looked at him, his stare burning straight into her soul.

She shook her head and reached up to touch his face, feeling the prickliness of his short beard beneath her fingers." I wish more than anything that I could. I would love to spend Christmas with you, but I just can't."

"Call your work and tell them you can't leave the country because you're trapped under something heavy, the something heavy being me." He held her even more tightly and grinned, cheeky and adorable and clearly amused by his silly joke.

She laughed and pushed him away. "Please don't quit your day job and attempt stand-up comedy; it's not your thing. You're talented as hell and capable of many things, but not that. Never that. And just a side note: you're not that heavy."

He let out his loud and funny laugh she loved and pulled her back to him, kissing her. She loved kissing him. She felt like a teenager, wanting to make out with him every chance she got; his kisses were perfection.

She wanted to stay in the moment forever, but she couldn't. She broke away and took his face into her hands. "Fuck it, I'm just going to say it; I'm really going to miss you. This trip was a dream, and so are you. I want you to know that you are extraordinary in every way, and don't you dare ever think otherwise."

She ran her hands down his neck to his chest and looked down, briefly leaning her head into him before placing a feather-light kiss on his lips. She willed herself not to cry; she had always known this beautiful experience would end, but she never imagined how much it would hurt when it did.

He touched her face, studying it while softly running his thumb over her lips. "You know this isn't the end of our story, right?"

"Sure, I know. Like you said, we will figure it out," she said softly, attempting to sound as confident as possible. As much as she wanted to believe him, she still worried that this really was the end and mentally prepared herself to carry on as if it were.

She gave him the best smile she could muster, hoping he wouldn't catch on to her true feelings, and shifted her focus back to packing. "Now, I better pick up the pace. I have a plane to catch."

______________________________________________________________

"He lives!" His oldest and closest friend exclaimed as he approached the bar. He had been dreading this get-together, and that greeting confirmed his fears. He'd prepared himself for the shit his friend would undoubtedly be giving him about the time he'd spent with her.

He removed his coat, hanging it on a hook by the bar, then sat on a barstool next to his friend. He turned to him, looking him dead in the eye, unamused. "Fuck off."

"Oh, come on, lighten up! You're the one who went MIA after you met her," his friend replied, waving over the bartender to order another pint. "You didn't answer texts or calls; for all we knew, you were dead. It's not like you to go completely silent."

The bartender set down a pint before him, and he quickly grabbed it, taking a nice long gulp before answering. "I was busy."

"Yeah, I bet you were," his friend snorted, hitting him in the arm. "That's it? You're not going to elaborate on what you've been doing, aside from the obvious, for the past week and a half?"

He sighed, exasperated; there was no getting out of the interrogation. He vowed not to share every detail and only give him minimal information about how he'd been spending his time.

"Fine," he began slowly, mentally parsing out what he felt comfortable sharing, which wasn't much. It was an odd feeling; he usually didn't mind talking to his friends about his conquests, but he felt differently about his time with her for some reason. He felt the need to protect what they had, whatever it was.

"Well, you met her that night, so you know how lovely she is," he said, and he couldn't help but smile. "I'd offered to show her around the city the next day, which she accepted, and then we had a proper date that evening."

His friend was hanging on every word, grinning. "Then you shagged her and spent the rest of the time holed up in her hotel."

"Nope, you couldn't be more wrong," he replied, staring at his half-empty glass. He was downing it faster than he thought. "She told me the night we met she wasn't going to have sex with me; casual hookups were not her thing. She said she didn't care who I was; it wouldn't happen, and I was free to walk away."

The expression on his friend's face was a combination of shock and amusement. "Oh, that's fantastic! Romeo was shot down in under 24 hours. I like this woman already."

He rolled his eyes and continued. "I respected her feelings but didn't want to walk away. The next few days were very much the same, more showing her around London and whatnot. Everything was so nice and normal, and we had a wonderful time. After dinner, that's when things changed. She asked me to stay with her, not go home, so I did and never left. Well, not until she did, anyway."

"Well, shit, she certainly had a change of heart," his friend said, winking at him. "I should have known she would; the women can never resist you and your charm. They all end up caving, the only variable being how long it takes for them to fold."

His tone was moderately sarcastic, maybe tinged with a hint of jealousy. His friends loved giving him shit, and usually, he took it in stride, but in this moment, he was mildly annoyed by the behavior.

"But she kept you in a holding pattern," his friend continued, holding his index finger in the air as if to punctuate his statement. "Which no one in the past year and a half has ever done that I'm aware of. Impressive. Even more impressive is that you waited it out. I couldn't have predicted that, either."

He felt somewhat ashamed when those words hit him. Was this how everyone saw him, as some fuckboy whose charms were so irresistible that women simply fell into bed with him with something as simple as a glance? And if they didn't, he just moved on to his next conquest?

His stomach began to churn when he thought about how he'd spent his time since his newfound fame changed his life tremendously. Just an endless stream of faceless women and one-night stands, no attachments, just having fun. He'd never been the one in his friend group who garnered all the female attention. He was funny and goofy; nerdy cute was how they would refer to him, and the last one standing after everyone had paired off. Last pick of the group every time.

Now, the attention was constant. He'd taken advantage of it, as any man his age would, but he was now wondering if he wanted to continue. It had become somewhat dull, and he realized they were all the same; they wanted to be able to say they'd fucked someone famous. Sure, he got sex out of the deal, but at what cost?

"Hey," his friend said, snapping his fingers before his face. "What's wrong? You're not actually hung up on this woman, are you?"

He turned to face his friend, whose amusement had turned into disbelief at the mere thought of this being the case. "I liked being with her; she just got me, you know? I asked her to stay on through the New Year, and she said no."

"I like her even more," his friend said, his voice low, fingers tapping on the bar. "Not because she turned you down not once but twice, but because your fame does not affect her. It sounds like she sees you as we all see you, just a regular bloke, the same guy you've always been, and not the updated and made-over Hollywood version."

He shrugged and took a deep breath. "She doesn't care about the fame because she comes from the business. She knows how the industry is and how everything works. Hell, she probably knows more about it than I do."

"There it is," his friend said, slapping him on the shoulder. "She might be exactly what you need. Someone who understands what that world is like and how crazy your life has become. She can ground you, help keep you sane."

There was a deafening silence between them despite the chatter and noise that filled the pub. The day before, after she'd left, he'd spent the day wandering the city, trying to clear his head and not think about her, but he couldn't. He was reminded of her at nearly every turn. The restaurant they'd dined at on their first date, the hidden alcove by the bridge where he'd kissed her for the first time, and the Christmas market in Trafalgar Square, where he'd helped her pick out ornaments to take home were just a few of many. She was everywhere.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know."

"Well, you need to either do something about it or forget her and get back in the game, mate," his friend replied, finishing his pint and setting the empty glass on the bar. "What's your plan for the holiday?"

"I think I'm going to take a solo trip, but I don't know where. I need to get out of here for a few days, of that I'm certain," he said flatly, finishing his drink before standing up and grabbing his coat from the nearby hook.

"Thanks for the pint; I'll get you next time around. I'll catch up with you later - Happy Christmas, mate."

Without saying another word and leaving his friend speechless, he quickly exited the pub and walked out into the brisk evening air. He made his way towards the tube station to catch the train that would take him home, his head down, hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets. He weaved through the crowds that packed the sidewalks, everyone talking and laughing, carrying packages and gifts, all so joyful and in the season's merriment. He saw happy couples walking hand in hand, smiles lighting up their faces, with not a care in the world. That should be us, he thought to himself.

He quickly pushed the thought away; he'd had enough. He needed to do something to get him out of his fucked up headspace. A distraction. He quickly ducked into a pub, found an open seat at the bar, and ordered a double shot of tequila. He took out his phone, opened the dating app, and began swiping through his matches.

______________________________________________________________

She knew she had no right to be upset; he owed her nothing, but she couldn't help how she was feeling.

She'd spoken to him once she'd arrived home, and everything seemed fine. He'd told her again that they would find a way to see one another; he needed to confirm his schedule first, and then he could make a plan. He was sweet and lovely, and she had no reason not to believe what he was telling her. She did her best to have zero expectations, but it was challenging.

It was Christmas Eve. She'd texted him to wish him a Merry Christmas, but no response. Fucking crickets. Damn him, she should have known better. She was more angry with herself than him, kicking herself for letting her walls down and trusting him.

She curled up on the sofa and snuggled under a soft blanket, reaching for her cup of hot chocolate on the end table. She took a small sip and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. She felt her eyes well up with tears; even though she'd tried not to let her emotions get the best of her, they did anyway. She told herself to be grateful for their time together; after all, she'd lived out the fantasy of so many women, she was the "lucky one." She should be content knowing that for a brief moment in time, she had been his, and he had been hers.

She wiped away the tears dripping onto her cheeks, chastising herself for crying. "Such a baby," she murmured to herself. She couldn't help but wonder how things would have played out if she'd stayed with him for the holidays; she was pretty sure she would have been a lot happier than she was right now.

She heard the Ring doorbell chime, alerting her that someone was at the door, and then the bell itself rang. She wasn't expecting anyone but figured it was probably an Amazon delivery; those people never took a day off.

She tossed the blanket off and went to the door, curious to see what had been delivered, especially since she couldn't recall placing any recent orders. She hoped that if it was a delivery, the person had dropped it and left because she was in her flannel pajamas, her hair in a ponytail, and no makeup; after all, she had no one to impress. She didn't bother to look through the peephole; she just flung the door open.

She gasped when she saw that it was not an Amazon delivery. He was right in front of her, standing on her doorstep. He looked a little disheveled, his curls messy and wild, and a bit tired, with a crooked smile on his face. That fucking dimple.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed in disbelief. "What in the world are you doing here? How are you even here? How did you get my address?"

"I have my ways," he replied, rubbing one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. "May I come inside and then answer your questions?"

She suddenly felt like a jerk, realizing that rather than sounding excited, her reaction bordered on annoyance. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I was not expecting to see you here, and I'm quite stunned."

She opened the door wide and ushered him inside. He gave her a peck on the cheek as he passed her, and she inhaled deeply. Cologne, mint, and cigarettes - it was his scent, and she loved it. And, at present, she hated that she loved it.

She followed him as he walked into the living room, setting down his bag, removing his coat, and tossing it onto the sofa. He behaved as if he'd walked into her home many times, even though this was the first.

"It's so festive in here," he said, admiring the tree. "It feels very cozy."

He looked cute, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a cashmere sweater layered over it. She preferred this dressed-down look over any of the fancy red carpet looks. Relaxed and casual was just more him.

"Make yourself at home," she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious and nervous by his presence in her home. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He turned to face her, taking her hands and pulling her to him. "In a minute. I must get some things off my chest before I lose my nerve."

Despite his words sounding worrisome, being so close to him again made her heart beat faster. Her mind was suddenly flooded by the memories of their time together in London, and the anger she'd felt earlier began to melt away. At that moment, she just wanted to hold him, kiss him, and transport them back in time.

"I owe you an apology," he began, his voice low but soft. "I'm sorry I disappeared on you; I never should have done that, and it was wrong. So fucking wrong."

She looked up at him; the look in his dark eyes was sincere but simultaneously broken and sad. It hurt her heart to see him that way; he had always been so happy and confident when they were together.

She draped her arms over his shoulders, then ran her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. "Thank you for that; I'd be lying if I didn't say I was hurt and disappointed."

"You have every right to be. I'm surprised you didn't slap me when you saw me at the door; I would have deserved it." He brought his hands to her waist and pulled her closer, their bodies pressed tightly against one another.

"Not my style," she said, giving him a small smile. "But you're right; you would have deserved it. Still do if I'm being honest."

He gently caressed her cheek and held her gaze, his expression growing dark. "When you left, I had some sort of existential crisis. You got under my skin, but I didn't want to admit it. I assumed I could go on with us just getting together when we could, but no strings. I don't know why I ever thought I could do that to you; you deserve better. Not even better, the best, of everything."

Her stomach flipped, unsure of what was happening, fearing that this was the big goodbye, despite him telling her in London that it wasn't the end of their story. She dropped her arms from his shoulders, stepping back and away from him. A sad expression washed over his face.

"I thought I could have my cake and eat it, too. I could keep on as I had been, just hooking up with whoever caught my fancy in the moment and have you there for me when the timing was good for both of us but on my terms. I could have the best of both worlds: freedom and you. I was arrogant, and I'm not proud of it."

He remembered how he'd matched with a woman on the app that night after she left. He'd agreed to meet her at another pub nearby. She'd come on strong and made it clear she was down for some casual sex; she'd been just what he was looking for that night. They'd gone back to her place, but he couldn't go through with it when the time came to get down to business. He'd apologized profusely, but she'd been furious that he'd wasted her time. He got out of there fast, and on the way home, he canceled his account and deleted the app. He was done with it.

She was silent. His words had hit her like a punch in the gut. She had to give him credit for his honesty, but damn what he was saying cut deep. Sure, he wanted to have her in his life, but he'd planned to keep her on hold and in the dark while he still fucked around, only connecting with her when it was convenient for him, with no commitment. She felt sick.

"Please tell me that this story, or rather this confession, of yours is going to take a turn for the better because right now, it's only upsetting me," she said, anger evident in her tone. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the floor; she didn't even want to look him in the eye.

He stepped towards her, placing his finger under her chin, tipping it upward so she would look at him. "I finally had to admit that you had gotten to me. It happened so fast that I couldn't even process it. You don't care about status. You don't fawn over me or treat me like I'm some untouchable Hollywood golden boy. When I'm with you, I can forget about all the celebrity bullshit and be like everyone else, like I used to be. I feel safe and free when I'm with you."

He looked and sounded sincere, but she still wasn't sure if she could trust what he was saying. Her heart and mind were whirlwinds of mixed emotions, and she had zero control over them.

She walked away from him and returned to the sofa, sitting down and pulling the blanket back over her as if it would shield her from everything being thrown at her. She still didn't know where she stood and felt very uneasy. It made her question everything that had happened with him in London.

"Okay, you came to all these realizations, but now what? Why are you even here? You could have easily called and told me all this; you didn't have to take a 10-plus hour flight on Christmas Eve to do it."

He sat beside her on the sofa, taking one of her hands and holding it. Her first instinct was to pull away, but for some reason, she didn't; she felt frozen in place.

"I came here because I needed to see you and tell you in person," he said, holding her hand tightly, his thumb running back and forth over it as if it would soothe her. "And I wanted to spend Christmas with you. Not my friends, not my family, just you."

"Why me, though? I'm just another in a long line of forgettable women. I'm not special," she replied, on the verge of tears, finally pulling her hand away. "I feel foolish now for thinking, even for a moment, that you had any actual feelings for me. I didn't think you were head over heels for me, but God, I thought you cared about me even just a little bit. I'm such a fucking idiot."

He dropped his head down and was silent for a few moments. He took a deep breath and looked at her with a pained expression. She could see she'd hurt him with what she'd said; it was written all over his face.

"Because you make me feel like a regular human, with no preconceived notions or expectations of me. You saw me for who I am and not some object to be worshipped or used; I never questioned your motives. I knew you didn't have an agenda; you were interested in the goofy guy from South London, not that other version of me the rest of the world sees. And for what it's worth, I care about you more than you even know."

"Well, you have a hell of a way of showing how much you care. You just told me in not so many words that you considered me nothing more than your beck-and-call girl. That's shitty."

He was visibly upset. She wasn't purposefully trying to be hurtful; she was only speaking from a place of pain and anger. This was going down as the worst Christmas in memory.

"I'm beyond sorry that I hurt you! That was never my intention, and I know what I did was wrong. I know I've broken your trust, but please believe me when I say I wanted to be here with you." His voice cracked; he was becoming more upset, his tone almost desperate.

"I want you in my life and for us to give this thing a shot. Please."

His pleading, teary eyes broke her. She hated seeing him this way, and even though everything he'd said had hurt her terribly and made her trust issues go on high alert, she couldn't help but feel he was telling her the truth. She couldn't be cold to him; it wasn't who she was.

"Come here," she whispered, reaching her arms towards him. He scooted closer, and she pulled him to her into a hug. She held him tightly, stroking his hair as he broke down, telling her how sorry he was over and over. "It's okay. I know you're sorry; really, I do. Just relax and breathe; everything is fine."

She'd never seen a grown man in such a state but remembered that he wasn't like most men. He really was a riddle, a puzzle, and a mystery all rolled into one. She couldn't figure him out, no matter how much she tried. She wondered if anxiety had something to do with it, that once the stresses built up to a certain point, the only way to release them was to fall apart.

After a few minutes, he broke away from their embrace and looked at her, defeated. His eyes were red, his cheeks splotchy, but seemingly over the minor meltdown. She could see in his eyes that he was being honest with her and meant everything he'd said. Truthfully, he never had an obligation to tell her anything. After all, they were not in an actual relationship, or at least not one they'd defined in any way, and they were both free to do as they pleased. If anything, they were both in the wrong, him for thinking he could make his plan work and her for having expectations based on a brief amount of time together.

"You know, I shouldn't have had any expectations about how things would play out after I left London," she said quietly. "I'm sorry if you ever felt pressure from me in some way to keep things going after I left."

He reached out to her, touching her cheek, and shook his head. "No, this isn't on you. You did nothing wrong. I got scared and fucked up, and I own all of it."

She reached over and brushed a curl away from his eyes. "We all make mistakes. We wouldn't be human if we didn't."

"You have no idea how intimidated I was by you in the beginning, especially the night we met," he confessed, looking down at his hands, fiddling with one of his rings, seemingly afraid to look right at her.

"I'd watched you for a while that night in the pub. I saw how you interacted with your friends and engaged with those around you, people you didn't even know. Your energy was amazing, so bright, bubbly, and friendly. You were so sure of yourself but not with an air of self-importance, just confidence."

She sat up straight, surprised by what he was saying; he'd never said a word about this when they'd been together. She had no idea he'd felt this way.

"That's why I sent you and your friends a round of drinks," he continued, still not looking at her. "I didn't have the nerve to approach you directly, so I thought the drinks would be a good icebreaker and give me an opening."

She couldn't believe her ears. This man, who always seemed so outgoing and confident, had been intimidated by her? He couldn't be serious, no way.

"Why didn't you tell me this before? I had no idea you'd felt this way."

He shrugged his shoulders and finally looked at her. "I didn't want you to think less of me or think I was weak and not worth your time."

"Baby," she said tenderly. "I never would have thought that about you. I hate that you think I would have felt that way."

He managed a weak smile and went on. "I was so nervous those first few days we were together; I didn't want to fuck up. Here you were, this intelligent, beautiful, successful, and self-sufficient woman who didn't need to rely on anyone for anything, spending time with me? I'm just an actor who never knows where his next job will come from; nothing is guaranteed, even now. I certainly couldn't give you anything you don't already have or could get yourself."

"That's not true at all," she said quietly, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. "What about your time? Your affection? Your heart?" She paused for a moment before she continued. "Your…love? Those things are priceless, and only you have the power to give them away."

He dropped his head again, and she couldn't see his face, so she couldn't read how he was feeling. "I often feel I'm not quite good enough. Not in my work, not for you, nothing. I always feel like I'm just getting by on luck, and eventually, it will run out."

It was inconceivable to her that these were the thoughts he lived with daily. How could he not see how amazing he was, not just his talent but as a person? Sure, he wasn't perfect, but who was?

"My beautiful boy, you are so wrong. You are more than good enough for everything you mentioned and so much more! I told you before I left that you are extraordinary, and I meant it in many ways. I wish you could see yourself as I see you, as I've always seen you." She grabbed his chin, turned his head to face her, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his, letting them linger momentarily.

She saw a tear run down his cheek. She would never know or understand why he was so hard on himself; all she could do was support him and assure him that she was there for him. She wiped the tear away with her thumb and kissed each cheek, and he cracked a smile. His smile could light up the world; how he couldn't see that was baffling.

"I need you to be completely honest, though - are you sure you want to try this? Is that what you really want?" She bit her lip nervously as she waited for his answer.

He moved so close to her that he was practically in her lap. He took her face into his hands and stared into her eyes, causing her stomach to flip. She was such a sucker for those Bambi eyes and hated herself for it, especially at this moment.

"It's what I really want. You are what I want. I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said in a low voice. He punctuated his answer by leaning in and softly kissing her.

Despite the emotional rollercoaster they'd just been on, and how hurt she'd been, she couldn't help but kiss him back. She had feelings for him and couldn't just turn them off like a light switch. If he was serious about giving a relationship a shot, she wanted to try, too. She couldn't walk away from him; she cared about him too much. He'd broken through her walls of self-preservation, something she thought would never happen with anyone.

He pushed her into the pillows of the sofa and crawled on top of her as he kissed her. Their kissing became more frantic and passionate, clearly displaying their feelings for one another. The dim light from the fire and the lights on the tree made it feel so romantic, but she couldn't let things go further just yet.

While she still had willpower, she pushed him away and sat up. He looked both surprised and confused by her sudden change in behavior.

"Wait," she said, getting her wits about her. "I need to know we are on the same page before this goes further. I want to go into this with all the cards on the table; no surprises."

He flashed her a cheeky smile, and she swore she saw a devilish gleam in his eyes. He stood up and went over to his bag, opening it and rummaging through it for a moment, finally pulling something from it and returning to his spot on the sofa.

"I hate to tell you this, but I have a surprise. I got a little something for you; I hope you'll like it," he said, clutching something tightly in his fist.

He opened up his palm to reveal a silver ring, identical to the one he always wore, only smaller and delicate. He took her left hand and slid it onto her middle finger, the same finger he wore his, then kissed her palm.

"If this doesn't prove I'm serious about you, I don't know what will. I bought it two days after you left. When we'd gone shopping together, and you'd looked at that other ring you wanted to buy, they'd given you the sizing. I took note. You never know when you might need that information." He just smiled and gave her a wink, the pain and sadness having disappeared from his face.

She didn't know what to say. She could never have anticipated such a thing; it was a bold move on his part and a leap of faith as well. She couldn't understand why he would do such a thing. Before another thought could enter her mind, he spoke.

"I want you to have this because you hold a special place in my heart. When you look at it, I want you to think of me and how much I care for you. You've enchanted me in ways I could never explain, and I know I'm lucky to have you." He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it again, then holding it against his chest. "I promise I will never take you for granted again. Happy Christmas, love."

The tears welled up again, damn this man. Over the last hour and a half, he'd surprised her, infuriated and hurt her, begged for forgiveness, confessed his insecurities, and then professed his desire to be with her and only her. Her head was swimming; they'd been through more shit in one evening than most couples go through in the duration of an entire relationship, but it didn't lessen her desire to be with him. It would be a lesson learned if it turned out to be a mistake, but she had to give him a chance. No risk, no reward.

"I love it," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "But I feel bad. I don't have a gift for you."

He leaned in towards her, pressing his forehead against hers, smiling. "Don't be silly, love; you didn't have to get me anything. I already have all I wanted for Christmas. You."

#12 days of joemas #holiday ficathon

[leibal]

The Makers Barn is a minimalist residence located outside of London, United Kingdom, designed by Hutch with styling by Sarah Birks. Key elements of the design include an oversized central chimney crafted from board-formed concrete, robust plastered walls, timber columns, and a roof adorned with larch timber cladding.