#whetstone sets

[thefirstvanishingmemories]

Blade Care 101: An In-Depth Look at Japanese Sharpening Stones

Japanese water stones, no matter if they’re natural or synthetic, are famous for their fast and efficient sharpening abilities. They’re not only suitable for Japanese blades but also Western ones. The loose binding of the small cutting particles in the stone ensures that during the sharpening process, the surface particles are swiftly rinsed away, making room for fresh and sharp particles to…

[henchmaxxing]

I must not browse the surplus store. Browsing is the wallet-killer. Browsing is the little death that brings useless camping crap. I will face these deals. I will permit them to pass over me and through me. And when they have gone past I will not have bought a knife. Where the deals have gone I will have bought nothing. Only what I came for.

[pleasantboatpress]

so, you wanted to start bookbinding?

so @princetofbone mentioned on my post for "factory settings" about wanting to know more about the binding style that i used for it. so i thought i might make a post about it.

i was as terrible as i always am for taking in progress shots, but i can link you to the resources i used in order to make my book. i would also like to point out that "factory settings" is my 120th bind, and i have been doing bookbinding as a hobby for just over 3 years now. unfortunately this means some of the methods that i used for that bind aren't particularly beginner friendly, just in terms of the tools and methods i have used, but i would love to point you in the right direction when it comes to resources. i dont say this to sound pretentious which i fear i might come across, just so that youre fully informed. getting into this hobby is fun and rewarding, but it can definitely be intimidating.

with that caveat, heres a list of links and resources that i have used for bookbinding in general, with additional links to methods i used specifically in regards to this bind.

ASH's how to make a book document. it gives you a great introduction into typesetting fics (where you format the text of fics to look like a traditionally published books) and then turning them into a case-bound book (the style i used for "factory settings"). it is comprehensive, and explains how to use microsoft word to do your bidding. it was invaluable to me when i was just starting out! currently i use affinity publisher to typeset/format my fics for printing, but i only bought and learned how to use that after i had been binding books for a year and a half. i made some beautiful typesets with word, and some of my close friends use it still and design stuff that i never would be able to in my wildest dreams (basically anything by @no-name-publishing)

DAS Bookbinding's Square Back Bradel Binding. a great style to do your first bind in! this method requires, when making the case, to attach the cover board and the spine board to a connecting piece of paper, which makes it so much easier to match the size of the case to the size of the text block (your printed out and sewn fic). using this method is what allowed me to get much more accurately fitting cases, and made me much more confident with the construction of the books i was making. a well-made book is something that is so wonderful to hold in your hands!

DAS Bookbinding's Rounded and Backed Cased Book. This is the specific method that i used to create my bind for "factory settings"! even before i could back my books, i found that watching DAS's videos in particular helped me see how books were traditionally made, and i was able to see different tips and tricks about how to make nicer books.

Book Edge Trimming Without... i trim the edges of my text block using my finishing press and a chisel i have sharpened using a whetstone and leather strop with buffing compound on it. i follow the method for trimming shown in this video!

Made Endpapers. i follow this method for my endpapers, as i used handmade lokta endpapers, and they can be quite thin, but they look beautiful! i used "tipped on" endpapers (where you have your endpaper and then put a thin strip of glue on the edge and attach it to your text block) i used for a very long time before this, but these feel like they are much more stable, as they are sewn with your text block.

Edge Sprinkling. this is the method that i used for decorating the edges of my text block. but the principle is basically clamping your text block tight and then sprinkling the edges. i do not believe you need to trim the edges in order to do sprinkles on the edges, and that's what makes it accessible! i personally just use really cheap acrylic paint that i water down and then flick it onto the edges with my thumb and a paint brush.

Double-Core Endbands. i sew my own endbands, which i followed this tutorial for. that being said, it's kind of confusing, and this video is a bit easier to follow, but it is a slightly different type of endband.

Case decoration. i used my silhouette cameo 4 to cut out my design for "factory settings" in htv (heat transfer vinyl). i also used my cameo 4 to cut out the oval of marbled paper on the front, as i honestly didn't want to try my hand at cutting an oval lol. i also glued some 300 gsm card with an oval cut out of the centre of it onto the cover before covering it with bookcloth, to get a kind of recess on the cover. i then glued the oval of marbled paper onto the top of the recessed area once it was covered with bookcloth, so that it was protected. the images i used were sourced from a mix of rawpixel, canva and pixabay. a more accessible way to get into cover decoration is by painting on a design for your cover as described in @a-gay-old-time's tutorial just here. or even doing paper labels, which look classy imo.

physical materials. sourcing these will depend on your country. i am located in australia, and have compiled a list with some other aussie bookbinders of places to buy from. here is a great post describing beginning materials for getting started binding.

@renegadepublishing. this tumblr is great! its what got me started bookbinding, and being in the discord has been inspiring, motivating, and honestly just one of the best online experiences i have ever had. it is full of resources, and most people in there are amateur bookbinders, with a couple of professionals thrown in. the discord is 18+, and anyone can join!

i'm sorry this post got so long, but i hope that this has a lot of information for you if you would like to get started bookbinding. its one of the best hobbies ive ever had, and i genuinely believe i will have it for the rest of my life.

[fuckingrecipes]

Hey friend I basically learned to cook from you (you took all the intimidation out of it, and gave me my first meal that other people liked) so I come back like a decade later asking if you have any advice about knives. I don't love cooking but I recognize that the right tools make any task much more satisfying and also I am just so tired of my cheap knives going dull immediately so: what exactly is a "good knife"? Any advice on how to recognize one, and take care of it once acquired? Many many thanks.

Thank you so much, that's really heartwarming to hear <3

Regarding knives: I'm going to go over some basic care & maintenance that will help knives stay sharper, longer... and then some knife recommendations.

Always cut on a cutting board. Wood or plastic. Don't cut food against stone, metal, or glass as they'll fuck up the edge.

Don't use the sharp side of the knife to scrape food off the cutting board. If you wanna use the knife as a scraper, flip it over and use the non-sharpened edge.

Once or twice a year, sit down and sharpen all your knives.

Don't use those shitty little "knife sharpeners", they don't actually give the knife a good or stable edge. Instead, take 30 minutes to learn how to use a whetstone. They're shockingly easy to learn to use, and super effective. You can make a shitty $11 walmart knife razor sharp. Here's another video about it.

Ideally, you should hand wash and towel dry your knives right after you're finished prepping food with them. Best practice is to avoid leaving it in water to soak, and to avoid putting it in the dishwasher. Cleaning it immediately keeps the edge nice, longer, and heads off any rust or corrosion that can happen from leaving acidic juice on the metal.

ALL KNIVES need to be sharpened 2-3x per year if you're a home chef who cooks almost every night. 4-6 months of excellent sharpness, then becoming kinda dull, is normal for a good knife.

Even a $700 knife will eventually get dull and need sharpening, if you're using it frequently. Because knives are tools, they get used, and in being used the metal gets a little damaged. The edge rolls, dents, or gets chipped. So, it needs to be sharpened.

--

This guy gives an EXCELLENT overview of knives.

You do not need to spend a ton of money for decent knives.

Victorinox and Mercer are solid workhorse brands that make good-quality knives, which you can get for between $20-$60 per knife. Really great for any home kitchen. Wusthof and Zwilling are a little more expensive, and even nicer quality. More expensive than that, and you're looking at high-carbon steels meant to be used by pros for hours and hours, every day. A home chef doesn't need that.

---

There's a lot of specialty knives out there, but I always come back to the 8" chef's knife. Two chef's knives lets me cut raw meat with one, and everything else with the other.

I also have a cleaver and a bread knife for Melons/Bones and Bread respectively, and a small set of smooth-blade steak knives.

Tbh, most people think they have a shitty knife, but really they've just been using it for 3 years straight and never once sharpened it.

[comatosebunny09]

clumsy | astarion a.

genre(s): romance, erotica (kinda sorta) warnings: blood drinking, dry humping, steaminess, terms of endearment (petal, sweetling), language summary: you get hurt. astarion helps the best way he knows how. spoiler: it's with his mouth. now playing: shirt - sza notes: based off the results for this poll. hope you all enjoy! thank you so much for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

It’s an accident.

Happens when your attention is siphoned by Shadowheart bidding you a “goodnight” over the firelight as she moves to retire to her tent.

You look up from your sword, the whetstone warm and textured in your hand, grinding across your blade in your lap as you offer her a smile.

You’re usually so attentive. So careful. Yet, tonight, you grossly misjudged your ability to multitask.

Shclink!

The cut is inevitable. Tears a hiss from betwixt your lips, and the whetstone plops to the ground along with the weighted thump of your weapon. You’re on your feet, nursing the angry, red line marring your palm. It buds with crimson, a pretty contrast to your skin.

“Hells!” cries Shadowheart, scrambling to your aid. She gently peels your hand away from your chest. Winces at the blood lazily spurring from your cut. A clean slice. Her voice holds concern when she looks up at you. “You’ll live. Would you like me to take care of it?”

Your lips quirk despite the pained knit of your brows. You draw your hand back, cradling it in your other. “Nah. Wouldn’t want you to waste your magic on something so small.”

“You’re sure?”

The tearing of your shirt fills the stilled space between you. Shadowheart blinks as you haphazardly wrap the scrap around your wound, mustering a reassuring smile. “I got it. I’ve had worse. You get some rest.”

Shadowheart smiles something unconvinced. Squeezes your shoulder. “You’ll come find me if you can’t staunch the bleeding?”

You nod, wary of the exhaustion hanging below her eyes. She examines you a moment longer before stepping around you and away from the warmth of the fire.

You watch Shadowheart retreat behind the flap of her tent. Left with the idle crackle of the campfire. Your hand throbs, your blood coloring the fabric you dressed it with.

You suck your teeth. Bend to retrieve your sword, cautiously setting it on the log you once occupied. You feel the hot trickle of your blood coasting down your fingertips. Hear it drip against the soil, the sound amplified in the stillness swallowing you.

You’ll need more than a bit of cloth to manage this.

Your gaze flits to your pack. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, contemplating downing a potion to mend your hand. Then, you spot Gale’s tent. You could trouble him for some help. But, again, you see no need to waste your companion’s magic on something so contrite. You won't die, after all. It’s just blood.

Just…

Blood.

Your mind suddenly sparkles with an idea. A mischievous one, but an idea, nonetheless.

You wipe your hands on your breeches, starting towards a familiar setup. And somehow, devilry sets your face alight along with the coppery glow of the moon.

You find him silhouetted by the moonlight. Curls of white mulling over the deckled pages of a book, seated on a stool at the mouth of his tent.

You’re not trying to be discreet. Feet crunch soundly through the dry grass, alerting the vampire to your presence. Though, you’re sure he could hear you from eons away.

Astarion doesn’t look up as he acknowledges you, concentration nestled amongst his features whilst he turns a page. “Well, hello, sweetling. Fancy a cud—dle?”

The book, once cradled in his palm, clatters to the ground.

His expression is bemused as you slide onto his lap, your legs dangling on either side of his waist. Your arms sluggishly encircle his neck, and your chests brush together, coaxing an undignified sound from his throat.

Astarion intuitively wraps your hips in the circle of his arms to keep you both from toppling over. Angles his neck to stare up at you. His mouth hangs open with an unasked question.

Your voice is light. Twinged with something seductive. Manipulative. “Astarion,” you sing-song.

“Petal?”

“I need you,” you state plainly.

His brows quirk. Quads tense beneath you. “You—what?”

You bite back a laugh. It isn’t often you catch Astarion so off guard. Typically, he’s the one dismantling your resolve with his forwardness.

“As much as I enjoy beating around the bush with you,” Astarion’s nose twitches as he samples the air with it. Vermilion eyes land on you, shining with the slightest bit of apprehension. “You’re bleeding.”

“Keen observation.” You shift upon his lap, thrusting your bloody hand into his face until he goes cross-eyed. “Mind cleaning it up?” It’s more of a demand than it is a request. Damn your innocent face.

Astarion’s mouth twitches. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Hunger wades below the depths of his irises whilst he glances between you and the blood seeping so enticingly through your impromptu bandage.

“Not going to tell me what’s happened?”

You shake your head, that devilish smile still twisting up your lips. “No time. I’m dying, Astarion. Save me. Saaave meee.” You drape your hand over your forehead and lean back to turn up the drama.

He scoffs at your theatrics, feigning aloofness despite his muscles twitching beneath you. “Fine.” Mumbles about being the cleanup crew as he unravels the cloth from your palm. Attentive and meticulous.

You flinch at the sticky pull of the dressing. The sting is immediately replaced by curiosity surfing along the shoreline of desire as Astarion appraises your wound.

He holds your hand between his. Looks at you with parted lips, saliva puddling in his cheeks. He licks his canines. His gaze holds a question. Offers an out as it chases the viscous fluid dribbling down your wrist.

Is this truly alright?

You nod, your breath held in your sternum.

Astarion studies you a moment longer before he delicately shackles your wrist in his hand, and his mouth pans in. His lashes shutter, and he groans something hoarse and feral as he presses his lips to the veins of your wrist. You flinch as if scorched by burning coal. How something as simple as a kiss could feel so sinful is beyond you.

You haven’t much time to linger on it because his tongue is sweltering and moving. Languid and obscene as it laps at the trail of crimson marring your skin. Astarion exhales appreciatively, his gaze sifting through his hunger to capture yours. He peppers your wrist with kisses, lips glistening a pretty red amid the moonlight.

You throb. Through hooded eyes, you watch your lover, your mouth parting with shallow breaths. A shudder filters through your bones, his lustful stare purposeful and unyielding.  

He licks a torrid stripe up to your palm with a flattened tongue. Your fingers twitch with the need to touch. Thighs quiver. His wet mouth closes around your laceration with a raspy sound. Fangs graze the worn lines of your hand, and he sucks, drawing a bitten-off groan from your throat.

He feasts like he kisses. Stripping down your barriers, leaving you lightheaded and wanton. Swaying, and Astarion snakes an arm around your waist to keep you tethered to him. And a devious hand finds the globe of your ass and squeezes.

Your unoccupied hand curls around the base of his skull. Fingers comb through soft curls, and you press yourself impossibly closer to the rigid pane of his body. Your stomach spumes with heat. Somehow, your lover gorging himself on you turns your innards to mush.

Astarion moans. He fucking moans amid his sticky suckling, and you feel the sound stir something between your legs. He feels it, too, and he springs to life beneath the thick layers of his clothing, twitching against you.

Mindlessly, you bear your pelvis down on his. Sluggish like the drag of a tide, and Astarion hums his praise. He feels good. So wonderful, and you can’t help how your body instinctively writhes against his.   

A few more languid rolls of your hips, and Astarion breaks away from your hand all too soon, heaving a breath as if resurfacing from water, his lips crooked with a smirk.

His mouth shines with your blood. Your ichor. And he greedily licks it up, not leaving a single morsel behind. The notion siphons your breath, and you feel like the most exalted thing. Hardly notice your skin gradually mending itself thanks to your lover’s attentiveness.

Once the lustful haze somewhat abates, Astarion’s chest rumbles with a chuckle as he draws you ever closer, sealing your body to his. “Tell me, petal. Surely, you didn’t come all this way just to provide me a midnight snack.“

His mouth drags along the slope of your neck, sending little warning shocks throughout your lower extremities. His throat crackles with a groan at the quickening of your pulse, teeth pinpricking your flesh.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” you husk, craning your head back to allow him more access. Still playing innocent as if you didn’t charm him into this wicked dance of bodies and tongues. “But whatever it is, I like where it’s going.”

Astarion chuckles, lips sealing around your throat and sucking.

Your responding gasp is wet and wanton.

And you find yourself thanking the Gods for your carelessness.

[astonmartingf]

FALLING FOR YOU ; MV1

max verstappen x reader

. . . in his own little way, max finds the solutions to his problems not without a little help from his friends and ends up giving you the confession of a lifetime

amgf yeah... there's this, just fluff. i won't be as active this week because of exams and research but this is prime time of my impulsive ideas so either i can milk this opportunity to write every single day, or avoid this app for the remainder of the week. enjoy 👍

Max strives for stability. 

He enjoys the same routine that consists of jogging at eight am, early morning workout by nine am, brunch, a few rounds of sim racing, stopping by for a few phone calls and online meetings. If he isn’t expected to fly anywhere else he’d have his usual afternoon snack, play with his cats, more sim racing from six to eight pm, dinner with his team, reviewing data and notes, an hour for his own leisure— mostly sim racing, before heading to bed at one am.

Whatever happens in between is usually one of Lando’s plans in an attempt to spice things up in his life. Whether it’s going to the movies, buying ice cream at the convenience store down the street, or playing padel. Max is very much thankful for his friends.

Max also strives for the best.

He takes pride in his skills in racing and acknowledges his talent, and flaws. Honing them like a sharp knife through whetstones, he polishes himself and cuts through the defenses of the grid. He is a World Champion for a reason, and with a great car and team behind him, he knows they’ll get far. Max is very much thankful for the trust his team set upon him.

Max hates uncertainty. 

Well- hate is too strong of a word and dislike would be too weak for his opinions. 

Max despises uncertainty.

Especially when there’s you- the current root of all his “problems”. Despite his tendency to be blunt and straightforward statements, uncertainty always left a distasteful feeling in his mouth. 

Realizing that his wavering feelings for you have now shattered the routine he built to perfection. Long gone are sleeping on time and hello to staying up with you crowding his thoughts. Head full of the lingering scent of your perfume and the same voice playing in his head.

Max hated it. He despised how you orbit around his mind, bouncing through the walls of the gray matter inside his skull. He often catches himself smiling at the thought of you- before a bitter scowl fills his face and an incredulous and slightly constipated look pasted on his face.

But that was the least of his worries, such feelings could be fixed (a term he used to convince himself these are temporary). It’s not that Max doesn’t believe in relationships or think it’s nothing but a distraction, deep inside he’s aware that he craves affection. It’s the vague emotions clouding his heart making him think twice.

Then again, Max is thankful for his friends. 

“What did you say?” Lando squinted his eyes in the hopes to hear his words clearly. With a blank look- almost as if he put on a mask void of emotions Max spoke once more.

“Do I like YN?” 

The rest tilted their head to the side, in confusion. “D-did you perhaps ask us. . . if- if you like someone?” George, asked once more to make sure of his words, sighing in disbelief.

“It’s not just someone, it’s YN.” Max pushed the question once more and glanced at everyone on the table.

The silence was deafening. Max’ statement was too loud and too quiet at the same time, no one spoke and they left each other contemplating on the next words he will say.

“I need help. How do I know I like YN?” Collective gasps were heard throughout and one by one they slowly left the group of friends on the table leaving Max with Lando and George.

“How about we sleep over your question and. . .think— think about it you know?” Lando, the first to talk regarding the revelation that their stoic friend has now developed feelings for someone.

“Sleep? I hardly get any sleep these nights. I want to confirm my feelings now so I can finally sleep peacefully.” 

That’s when the pair noticed the bags under his eyes, mostly due to the lack of sleep like he said. Lando took a glance at George and started to talk telepathically at each other.

George sighs before pushing Max from his seat, “You see Max these feelings can’t be confirmed in a night, these requ-”

“It’s been weeks, George, I can’t lose sleep over such a trivial matter.” Max retorted with a firm stance using his lack of sleep as a front to confirm his feelings.

“Okay, first of all feelings are not a trivial matter. They are valid, and whatever is going on in your head about YN shouldn’t be taken lightly. Not because we’re curious but because we care about your emotional well being.” Lando spoke in a serious voice which only added on to Max’ confusion.

Feelings are not a big deal, at least not for him.

“And we're curious as to why you like YN.” George chimed as he followed the pair outside the room.

“Yes we’re curious but now how about I give you some romance books that you can study and read. Only you can confirm your feelings Max, let’s stop by my room and I’ll give you books you can read and next week- next week we’ll talk about this matter again.”

Lando now sounds like a mom scolding his child for misbehaving, dragging the latter to his room and sending him off with a tower of romance books.

Max is smart, he can understand such concepts by himself.

Feeling accomplished, Lando glanced at George smirking at him before walking away with Max to his apartment.

Max on the other hand went inside his room and began to bury himself in the books he brought along. “If I’m not sleeping at least I get my feelings in line.”

One chapter. And another turns to five and in the blink of an eye a week has passed. Max returned to his routine but instead of sleeping at one he pushed it to an even later hour to make time for reading which helped him sleep.

The first nights were hard, after finishing a chapter of the book he finds himself falling asleep and now you appear to become more vivid in his mind. Invading his dreams as romantic scenarios play on repeat while Max mindlessly sleeps which results in him waking up flustered and warm.

Passing by you on the paddock became frequent; it's as if the universe has its way to bring you together. Now everywhere Max looked there was you, in the corner of his sight you occupied a chunk of his thoughts and as much as he hated to admit he found himself anticipating your presence.

By the end of the week you managed to invade his thoughts and heart which only strengthened his theory and confirmed his feelings for you. With no time to waste, Max went to look for you. The second practice was over, he’s telling you what you’re doing to him.

With new found information from the team about your whereabouts, Max made his way to the hospitality locating where you’re assigned he opens the door abruptly to see you preparing food. You stand straight feeling the intimidating aura around him, you watch him exhale a sigh of relief before talking a large step in your direction. On instinct you back away giving him space, every step Max takes is a step backward from you.

Unknowingly your feet hit the corner of the marble countertop and like a cliché scene Max remembers from the books he’s been reading you stumble backwards.

Max is a racer for a reason, and with swift reflexes he managed to catch your fall and brought you up to your feet. “You should watch where you’re going. I don’t want you falling just like how I fell for you.”

Silence. Complete, utter silence from the both of you paired with the low buzz of the booming air conditioner right near you. You blink your eyes incredulously, “What?”

“I mean. . . I do want you to fall for me, it would be sad to find out that my feelings are one-sided. But I mean my words YN.”

You adjust your posture and back away. “What are the words Max? About me falling to the ground or you. . . you f- falling for me?” Your voice thins out at the end unsure of what you just heard.

“Both. I don’t want you to fall, it’s dangerous just like how you did to me. You enamored me with those charms, I just want to know how you did it.” Max spoke with the most bored and plain looking face he could muster up. His palms were sweating inside his pockets in extreme nervousness.

“Is this- is this your confession perhaps?” You try to piece things together, like the subtle clues Lando and George have been leaving out of nowhere.

“Yes. This is my confession.” Max blurts out as sweat drips from the side of his forehead. And just as he was losing hope from this failed confession your bubbly laugh bursts the silence in the air.

“You know, you need to work on your confession more. That was unlike any other, but I understand what you mean. Do you want me to fall for you, Maxie?” 

Max stares at you and you don't miss the soft gaze he set upon you. You note the light blush spread around the apples of his cheeks as his eyes light up the moment you called his name. The once awkward silent air was now filled with a warm feeling that spread all over your body, leaving goosebumps all over your skin.

“I do. I fell for you, I like you, and I want to mean something to you.”

His way with words caught you off guard, Max Verstappen, who would’ve thought. You smile at him, this time it’s you walking towards his direction.

Max stiffened at the proximity between the two of you, his feet stuck to the floor preventing him from backing away. Your face gets closer to his and all the thoughts clouding his mind have been wiped away.

You face him and whisper something in his ear before walking away towards the kitchen at the back, legs shaking and breaths heavy. 

Taking a moment to himself Max meditates in an attempt to calm his bouncing heart, legs shaking as if they ran a hundred miles, and his mind whirring into different ideas and possibilities.

Max never falls- literally and figuratively.

Yet you managed to be the root of all his problems. The person who made him fall, there was no doubt that Max fell and will still be falling for you.

[angelesca]

w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard. 

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again. 

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?” 

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

[blueiscoool]

Viking Silver Bracelet Hoard Found in Norway

Archaeologists have unearthed a set of uniquely decorated bracelets on the site of a "large and powerful" Viking Age farm.

Archaeologists in Norway have discovered a Viking Age treasure that had remained "untouched" for more than 1,000 years.

The four silver bracelets had been buried nearly 8 inches (20 centimeters) in the ground on a mountainside in Årdal, a village in southwestern Norway, according to a translated statement from the University of Stavanger.

"This is definitely the biggest thing I have experienced in my career," Volker Demuth, an archaeologist and project manager at the Archaeological Museum at the University of Stavanger, said in the statement.

Archaeologists found the bracelets ahead of construction of a new tractor road.

Further exploration revealed that the location once housed a "large and powerful" Viking Age (A.D. 793 to 1066) farm comprising multiple houses for people and animals, according to the statement. The researchers found the buried bracelets within one of the smaller structures, which likely housed enslaved individuals.

In addition to the jewelry, researchers discovered an array of artifacts, including soapstone pots, rivets, knife blades and whetstones for sharpening tools. There's also evidence that the farm had been burned down, which "coincides with a period of great unrest in the Viking Age," according to the statement.

"If people who lived on this farm had to flee from an attack, it would be natural to hide away the valuables you had before escaping to the mountains," Demuth said. "And perhaps in a place where you would not have thought that a treasure was hidden."

By Jennifer Nalewicki.

[imagine-darksiders]

Girl, I have a serious question I need to expertise on. What Christmas gift does one give the four Horsemen?

War: This one's tricky to buy for. But, if you get him an electric bench grinder, his eyes will light up when he realises how sharp he can get Chaoseater in less than half the time it takes for him to sharpen the sword with a whetstone. Also some chrome dumbbells, as heavy as you can get them, for training purposes. In War's opinion, presents have to have a purpose that will work towards his benefit. But the bamboo socks you got him with little skulls on them are a nice luxury, he supposes.

Death: A Fortnum and Mason's tea selection, 120 tea bags of all different flavours for him to try. Guaranteed there'll be flavours he's never tasted before, and for a being as ancient as Death, putting in the effort to give him something he's never experienced before will always leave an impression. He'd also respond well to a new chess set. Don't forget to give something to Dust too. Death will accuse you of trying to spoil the bird, but he'll be privately touched at your thoughtfulness.

Fury: Stroke her ego. Get her a mug that says 'World's Best Horseman' on it with a picture of her on the back. Or get her portrait painted. She'll insist you hang it in your living room where you can always bask in it when she isn't there. If you really want to get into her good books, buy a present for Rampage as well, something like a new pot of leather oil for his tack, or a bunch of the juiciest apples you can find.

Strife: The best Christmas present you could get this man is renovating one of the rooms in your house and showing it to him like, "So, I thought it'd be nice for you to have somewhere familiar to stay between your missions, and well... I wasn't really doing anything with this room, so I fitted it out to be a sort of... bedroom for you, y'know, if you ever needed a place to crash.... Here's a spare key to our home too. Oh, also, there are two Nerf guns hidden in here. Get to finding them so we can shoot each other without either of us getting hurt."

Strife doesn't trust himself to speak for a good five minutes because he's convinced he'll accidentally confess his love for you if he opens his mouth.

[emeraldzzombie]

Through the Ashes Ellie williamsXfem reader

The wind howled through the cracked windows of the abandoned cabin, the only sound besides the occasional groan of the building settling into the earth. The air smelled faintly of mildew and burnt wood, remnants of some long-forgotten fire, but the cabin still provided a sense of shelter amidst the chaos outside. Ellie sat by the fire, sharpening her knife with a practiced, methodical motion. Her brow furrowed, the tension in her body almost palpable. She could hear Y/N moving around the cabin, rummaging through old cabinets and drawers, searching for supplies.

Ellie couldn’t help but glance up every so often, watching Y/N's graceful movements. Her girlfriend was always so determined, always so grounded — a sharp contrast to Ellie’s wild energy. Y/N had a way of making the harsh world feel like something they could face together, like there was still something worth holding onto in the midst of all the destruction.

"How long do you think we can stay here?" Y/N asked from across the room, her voice calm but carrying an underlying edge of concern. She walked toward Ellie, her hand lightly tracing the jagged edges of an old bookshelf. "This place feels... temporary. I don’t know if we can trust it."

Ellie didn’t respond immediately. She continued to run the blade across the whetstone, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone filling the silence. The fire crackled beside her, casting dancing shadows against the walls. After a few moments, she set the knife down and looked up at Y/N.

"As long as we need to," Ellie said quietly, her voice almost too soft for the harsh world they inhabited. "But we shouldn’t stay too long. The clickers won’t stay away forever, and there’s a town a few miles east. It’s risky, but we’ll make it."

Y/N nodded, her face lined with worry. It wasn’t fear; it was a quiet understanding that their lives were forever in a state of uncertainty. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to protect the only thing she had left — Ellie.

There was something about the way Ellie looked at her, though. Something that made Y/N feel like the rest of the world could disappear, and she would still have her. The weight of it was like an anchor, dragging her deep into a world where it was just the two of them, trying to survive together.

Y/N took a deep breath, moving closer to Ellie. As she approached, she caught Ellie’s eyes, catching the subtle shift — the softening of her expression, the gentle way her lips curled up at the corners. It made Y/N’s heart beat a little faster.

"What?" Ellie asked, raising an eyebrow. She knew exactly what was going on in Y/N’s head.

"You look... different," Y/N teased, smiling despite the seriousness of their situation. "Like you’re not the same person you were when I first met you."

Ellie chuckled and leaned back against the wall. "Yeah? What’s different?"

Y/N stepped closer, her heart thumping louder with each step, and softly ran her hand down the side of Ellie’s arm. "You’re... more."

Ellie’s expression faltered for a moment, the teasing smirk fading into something more serious. Her eyes softened, and she leaned in slightly, just enough to close the gap between them. "More of what?" she asked, her voice low, but not unkind.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the warmth of Ellie’s body so close to hers. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, a quiet tension that neither of them had ever quite addressed fully. They’d been through so much together — the horrors of this world, the loss of friends, of family, of innocence — and yet here they were, still fighting, still breathing, still holding onto each other.

"More... real," Y/N whispered, brushing her thumb over Ellie’s wrist. "You’ve always been this... fire, this force of nature. But now, you’re more than that. You’re someone I can actually picture a future with. Someone I want to survive for."

Ellie’s gaze softened, and for a brief moment, she didn’t say anything. Her throat tightened, emotions swirling behind her usually confident exterior. They had never really talked about this — about how they felt, about what they meant to each other. They didn’t have time for conversations like this. The world was too dangerous, too broken. But now, in this cabin, with the fire crackling and the world outside as dark and cold as it was, it felt like they were finally allowed to say what had been left unsaid for so long.

Ellie stepped closer, her lips brushing softly against Y/N’s ear. "You make me feel like I could survive anything," she whispered, her breath warm against Y/N's skin. "Like maybe there’s something worth fighting for."

Y/N shivered, a spark of desire lighting up inside her at the intensity of Ellie’s words. She hadn’t expected it — hadn’t expected to hear such vulnerability from her, not in this world. But here they were, standing in the ashes of everything they had known, and Ellie was laying it all out, in the simplest, most beautiful way.

Without another word, Ellie’s lips found Y/N’s in a kiss. It was soft, tentative at first, as though they were both testing the waters. But then Ellie deepened the kiss, pulling Y/N closer, her hands running along Y/N’s sides, memorizing the feel of her in a way that sent shivers down Y/N's spine. She could feel the heat radiating from Ellie, the hunger for something more than survival, something more than the fight to stay alive.

Y/N’s hands moved to Ellie’s shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of her jacket, pulling her even closer, as though afraid the moment would slip away if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

When they pulled away, their breath ragged and hearts racing, the silence that followed felt... different. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t full of the unspoken fears that lingered in the back of their minds. It was a quiet, shared understanding that they had something worth holding onto in this cruel world.

"I think I’m starting to understand," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why we keep going. Why we keep fighting."

Ellie smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of Y/N’s face, her touch tender and careful. "Yeah? And why’s that?"

"Because we have each other," Y/N replied softly. "And that’s enough. At least, for now."

Ellie nodded, her gaze fixed on Y/N’s lips for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "You’re right," she agreed. "It’s enough. For now, it is."

For a long while, they simply stood there, their foreheads resting together, breathing in sync, letting the quiet of the cabin surround them. The world outside — the clickers, the dangers of the unknown — all felt distant for the first time in a long while. All that mattered was that, together, they could face whatever came next.

Ellie eventually pulled away, looking at Y/N with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "You know, I think we deserve a bit more than just a kiss after everything we’ve been through."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile on her lips. "Oh? And what exactly do you have in mind?"

Ellie leaned in again, her lips brushing against Y/N’s cheek, before she pulled back with a wicked grin. "I think it’s time we make this night last a little longer."

And with that, the two of them moved toward the bed in the corner of the cabin, Ellie laying Y/N softly on the bed slowly taking her pants off only to then crawl on top of her the flames of the fire casting a warm glow on their skin, as they let themselves forget, if only for a moment, the weight of the world outside.

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x afab!reader. you want to get your work done so you can go home. blitzø wants to fuck you on his desk. you come to a compromise that turns him on way more than he thought it would. anon request for tail play. 1.6k.

featuring: imp!reader, tail play (including jerking him off with your tail), blitzø being reduced to a mess by a power dynamic shift, oral sex (f!receiving).

“Hey, tits! Get in here!”

You look up at the sound of Blitzø’s voice, huffing a sigh as you drop your whetstone and set the blade you were sharpening on the table. Millie gives you a glance torn between sympathy and annoyingly knowing humor, and you flip her off on the way out the door. You hear her giggle as you make your way to your boss’ office.

“Would it kill you to call me by my name?” you ask as you enter, closing the door behind yourself out of sheer habit.

“Dunno. Maybe.” Blitzø shrugs, lazing back in his chair, feet kicked up on the desk. “Better to play it safe.”

“Uh-huh.”

He grins toothily, crooking a finger at you to beckon you towards his desk. “Got somethin’ for you.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m working, Blitz.”

“I fuckin’ hope so,” he smirks. “It’s what I pay you for.”

You register the lascivious edge to his expression, and despite the way it automatically makes your insides flutter, you fold your arms over your chest.

“Be careful how you phrase whatever you’re about to suggest, B.” you warn. “’Cause if you even suggest that I put out for pay, I will slap you in the face so hard your teeth will bleed.”

“Ooh, kinky,” he teases, and you shake your head, determined to hide your amusement. He tucks his hands behind his head, shifting in his seat in a way that lifts his hips briefly in a manner that you know is suggestive. “Wanna take a break?”

“I want to finish up so we can go home,” you shoot back, jerking your thumb back over your shoulder. “Can I go now?”

Blitzø shakes his head. “Nope. I got shit for you to sign. So, get your sweet ass over here and… do your job.”

You scoff at the weak innuendo but do as he tells you. However, when you come to a stop on the other side of his desk he raises a brow pointedly. His tail is waving lazily back and forth behind him, the way it does when he’s thinking about just how quickly he can get you naked. You sigh, rounding his desk obediently and coming to a stop beside his chair. You eye the stack of papers in front of you skeptically.

“And these are?”

He shrugs. “You took out the main target on all of these. You gotta sign off on ‘em for billin’.”

“Right… and I have to do it in here, huh?”

He smirks, dropping his feet from the desk. He pats his lap invitingly, brushing his palm over the bulge in his pants and squeezing suggestively. “You wanna get comfy, you can park it right here.”

“I’m good.” you tell him, bending down to sign the first form. He reaches forward to smooth a hand up your inner thigh, dipping it between your legs before grabbing a handful of your ass. You inhale sharply, caught off-guard by the sudden thrum of arousal his touch elicits from you. You swallow, cursing yourself because you know he’s heard it, and turn your focus determinedly back to the papers in front of you. “Dude.”

Blitzø slumps back in his chair with a heavy, overly dramatic sigh, one elbow propped on the arm of it. His cheek squishes against his fist petulantly. “Come on, tits. I thought the whole point of you comin’ in today was so we could get freaky on my desk.”

You roll your eyes, flipping the form over and skimming the other side. In truth… this is turning you on. The way he’s touching you, the way his tone is growing almost needy. You’re so used to him calling the shots, to taking charge both in and out of the bedroom, and so is he. Denying him like this is sending a new kind of warmth tingling through the middle of you. Still, you ignore that feeling pointedly.

“You are so lucky we don’t have a H.R. department.”

He snickers. “Bitch, I am the H.R. department.”

“Well, that’s terrifying,” you shoot back snidely, and his smirk widens. You turn around when you feel the spade of his tail smooth over your ass, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly. He raises his hands innocently, the gesture ruined by the evil little grin still on his face. You sigh dramatically before a smirk of your own blooms. You take hold of his tail, just below the spade, just before he can smack you with it again. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Unlikely.”

“Asshole.”

“Ooh, now there’s an… shiiit…” he breaks off as you squeeze his tail and drag your fist down the length of it slowly. His eyes roll back for a moment, his jaw ticking.

“You’re gonna keep bugging me about this,” you continue, wrapping his tail around your hand and squeezing. You straddle his lap, thrilling in the way his eyes spark with interest as you do. He leans back in the chair, pressing his hips up into yours temptingly. You reward him by palming him through his pants, feeling him twitch beneath your hand. “You’re not gonna stop until you get to cum…”

He shakes his head quickly, eagerly.

You unzip his pants, and Blitzø exhales a soft groan as you slip your hand into them and take hold of his cock. He’s hard under your touch, and he surprises you slightly by leaning up to kiss you. You tilt your head and let his lips catch the underside of your chin, and you lean back, letting spit drip from your mouth and down onto the head of his cock.

“Satan’s taint, that’s hot…” he mutters, confused when you climb back off his lap. “What the fuck are you—”

“Shut up,” you tell him, and Blitzø’s next complaint is drowned out in a moan as you wrap your own tail around his cock. You drop a quick kiss on the mark on his forehead. “And be a good boy for me.”

“Holy titty-fucking… fuuuuck…” he groans as your tail begins to stroke him, spreading saliva and precum down over the length of him. You tighten your hold around him each time you reach the base, and he grasps at the back of the chair and the arm of it as you turn back to the desk. “Slutty little… Christ!”

You smile to yourself as you bend over again, picking up your pen and returning to the paperwork. The way he’s breathing is getting to you, the heavy, labored exhales sending sparks dancing along your spine. You can feel his own tail wind around your calf, the spade of it twitching back and forth in time with you jerking him.

There’s almost a purr sounding through the imp behind you, his hips humping up into the grip your tail has on him. Your signature becomes skewed and shaky as you feel him shift forward, his hands running up over your thighs. Your breath catches as he takes hold of the waistband of your pants and jerks them and your underwear down over your ass.

“Bli—” your reprimand breaks off with a gasp as he buries his face in your cunt, his tongue immediately finding your clit. “Oh, fuck!”

He snickers into your pussy, teasing your clit before pushing his forked tongue into your cunt. You moan aloud, accidentally knocking the pile of paperwork onto the floor as you bend further over the desk. Your tail quickens over his cock as he circles your clit with two fingers, his other hand digging claws into the flesh of your ass. He urges you to grind against his mouth, fucking you ruthlessly with his tongue.

“Jesus, fuck, Blitz—” you crush a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, but Blitzø has no such hang ups, snarling your name as he cums, forehead pressed against your ass. You can feel his cum drip over your tail and you loosen it, your body quivering as he returns his tongue to your clit. “God…”

He moans into your cunt as you cum against his mouth, lapping at your clit until you take hold of his horn and force his head away again. Boneless against the desk, you bump your head against the wood with a sigh.

“Goddamn it.” you mutter, pulling up your pants. You feel Blitzø give it a parting, appreciative squeeze as you straighten. “You always get your way, don’t you?”

He hums a self-satisfied laugh. “Seems that way.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the tissue box out of the drawer and tossing it into his lap. “Clean yourself up, B.”

“Ooh, I love it when you’re all bossy.” he teases.

“Yeah?” you raise an eyebrow, stepping up between his parted knees. You brace both hands on the back of his seat, leaning down over him. His smirk falters, his eyes flicking down over you before meeting your gaze again. He leans up, but you press a finger to his lips before he can kiss you. “Well, if you wanna see me get all ‘bossy’ like this again, you better finish the fuck up in here. Because the next time I make you cum, it’s not going to be where we’re risking staining the fucking paperwork. Got it?”

He nods, his face flushed.

“Good.” you kiss him, briefly. “Because I’m gonna need to ride that cock of yours as soon as fucking possible.”

Blitzø grins. “Oh, you filthy whore.”

You straighten, smiling back at him as you head for the door, blowing him a kiss as you go.

[keynil]

i wld pay so much money for zoro and sanji to talk about blades w each other like !! sanji seeing zoro clean his blades w so much care turning into comparing where the weight shld sit on a good kitchen knife vs a sword. nerding out abt different oils/whetstones until they realise they've been talking excitedly to each other for almost an hour and start fighting to restore the equilibrium

zoro seeing one of sanjis knives left damp on the cutting board after some random ambush. cleaning and drying it before putting it back in the rack bc he knows sanji wld never leave his knife like that if he had a choice

sanji seeing that zoro chipped an edge during their latest fight and silently leaving his whetstones in the crows nest bc he knows the larger grit wld be more helpful

(40 y/o zoro leaving a set of knives in the kitchen for sanji to find as an anniversary gift and sanji realising that he not only still remembered the first real conversation they ever had, but also the exact brand sanji had been so excited abt)

[delicious-in-imagines]

Hii! Hope you’re doing well :3! Could I request like basic relationship headcanons with Kabru, Chilchuck, and Laios? If not that’s totally fine! Hope you have a good day! :D

You got it, boss!

Kabru of Utaya

I've covered this before in other posts, but his eye for details when it comes to people is going to be used on you. He has a internal list of things you love and things that you hate, and often references it over the course of the relationship.

The only way that he cleans his room is if you're coming over. He'll ask you to return with him on a whim, and then realizes that 'oh shit, I can't have them see this,' and once you get back, he tries to make a distraction, or just asks you to hang out in the hallway as he struggles to stuff all of the shit on the floor under every piece of furniture he can. His landlord finds this endlessly amusing, and knows when you're coming over because Kabru is frantically trying to clean - he helps to give Kabru some pointers.

Loves to surprise you with things you mention in passing, a necklace or bracelet that you saw in a nearby stall, taking you out to a fancy place that you mentioned wanting to go to dinner, or even just something that you need that he noticed. Stuff like a new whetstone, a repair for your armor, anything like that.

He's not the biggest on embraces, but this is a man who loves to cuddle when the two of you are in bed. He absolutely enjoys wrapping his hands around you, either having you curling into his neck, or with your back slotted neatly against him. He always plays with your hands, linking your fingers together. He actually gets to the point that he can't sleep easily unless he at least has some part of his body touching yours.

Cup his face before kissing him, stare into his eyes and tell him something along the lines of 'I love the color of your eyes' and just watch him melt. He used to be self-conscious and hate his eyes, though it's something he's outgrown over the years, but he still loves to hear it come from your lips.

Chilchuck Tims

His love language is admonishing you - sorry not sorry. He's very much the kind of person that if he is barking at you while patching you up, or while trying to help you, that he cares deeply about you. He yells because he cares, if he didn't, he wouldn't say a word.

Before you get into a relationship, he's absolutely going to bring up his past, at least in some capacity. Even if it's part of his sordid past, you deserve to know. He promises that he's changed, but he also knows that the only way to prove that is through his actions.

Speaking of, he does want you to meet his daughters. He's not ashamed of them - quite the opposite, he loves them dearly, and he doesn't want to feel like he's hiding them from you, or you from them. Though, there's not enough words in the common language to express how relieved he is when his daughters like you.

Even though he hates interpersonal relationships in groups, he also starts to outgrow that in bits and pieces. While on the job, he's going to be a bit more aloof, though he absolutely will indulge a handhold, and will only marginally shoo you away when you press a little peck to his cheek or temple.

Though, whenever you take breaks, he's definitely more receptive to any open displays of affection, and will even come to you to initiate. Especially if you're sitting, he'll come up to you and cup your face, making you look up at him - which is something that he loves way too much to be healthy. He's used to people looking down towards him, so being able to tip your head up? It's like a drug for him.

He knows that he's a walking space heater, and anticipates you setting your bedroll beside his own. He'll open up his blanket and grouse until you settle down, sighing out and finally snuggling up to you. Whether you like to be the big spoon or the little spoon, he enjoys the casual closeness. Though, his favorite is if you're bigger than him - being the big spoon, or more aptly, your jetpack.

Laios Touden

Being able to share meals made up of meal parts is a dream come true for him. He might pout occasionally if you are unsure about whatever y'all are eating. But, whenever he can, if there's something that you genuinely liked - then he's more than willing to share with you! I like to think that sharing food or cooking it with him is a love language of his.

If you're willing to listen to him constantly rambling about his hyperfixation on monsters, he'll continue on excitedly before he'll cut himself off, stumbling over his words and apologizing. Please - please, please, please, reassure him, even if you just tell him, 'I might not fully understand, but I just like listening to you.' You'll have his heart immediately, looking at you so softly and wrapping you up in a hug and thanking you. He knows sometimes he can get carried away, but knowing that you value his joy even if you don't fully agree, it warms his heart.

I like to think that rather than defaulting to kisses for showing affection, that he head bonks. You know how cats do the bunting? Yeah, that. He'll come up to you while you're doing something mundane and just bonk his head against yours. Sometimes it's a little too harsh, but that's just how much he loves you.

Above anything else, he wants you to meet his sister. While he may not be able to, nor want, to take you home to his parents - he does want you to meet the family that he cares about most. He'll share stories about Falin, things they did when they were younger, or when they were gold strippers, though sometimes he cuts himself off when he feels overwhelmed with what has happened to his sister.

He's a sprawler when he sleeps, usually on his back - pulls the full starfish. So, if you want to cuddle, you'll have to sleep in the crook of his arm, where he'll close his arm to bring you closer to him. Sleeping on the rise and fall of his chest, hearing his thumping heart skip a beat every time that you rest your head there. When he wakes up first, he can't find it in himself to wake you, craning his head awkwardly to watch your sleeping form with the softest smile on his face.

[cressidagrey]

Welcome to the World - Chapter 3

Summary:

The quickest turnaround time between finding your mate and having a kid anybody in the history of Prythian has ever managed

Warnings:

Rhys bashing, Mention of Domestic Violence, Mention of Miscarriage, Mention of Child Murder, Mention of Adult Murder, Mention of Stabbing, Childbirth, Labour, a disgruntled Donkey named Thistle

(super pretty dividers thanks to @saradika)

To say that he had tried to stay busy was an understatement. 

For cauldron’s sake, Azriel had pulled out his mother’s bedraggled Recipe book from its place in the kitchen and was making chicken soup. 

And it was definitely not like he normally cooked. He left that to Cassian, the only one of the three of them who had any talent in the kitchen. 

Though putting a chicken in a pot, covering it with water and cutting up an assortment of vegetables to go along with it…he could do that. 

So he had. 

He had split up enough wood in the shed outside that his mother had enough wood for the rest of the winter. 

He had brought the same wood inside and tidily stacked it next to the fireplace. 

He had started sharpening Truthteller with the whetstone he always had with him, sharpening his weapon to keep his hands busy. 

Azriel had tried to concentrate on the feel of the blade on the stone. There was something soothing about a task that required just a single set of movements. He could do this. 

But where it normally soothed him…tonight it did not. 

He had done all of this, trying desperately not to listen to the voices coming from upstairs and failing. 

His ears strained without his want, listening to every noise Ciara made. 

The sounds of her steps, her moans that steadily escalated throughout the night…the quiet assurances of his mother that she was doing so well, that it would be over soon…

and on and on it dragged. 

Azriel had absolutely no clue how long a birth should take, what was normal. Was it normal that she had been at it since late afternoon, and now it was pitch black outside, stars gleaming? 

Was it normal that the moans seemed to get louder with every minute, sometimes turning into choked-off groans or a gasp for air? 

She was in pain. In so much pain, and there was nothing he could do as he sat there at his mother’s kitchen table, a hand harshly gripping Truthteller's hilt, the whetstone forgotten in his other. 

It was…

He could feel her anxiety, her pure fear through the inkling of a bond they had. She seemingly screamed it down the bond at him, the terror that gripped her. 

And then there was another groan, louder choked off…

“Your water broke. She will be here soon, sweetheart,” his mother cooed. 

Oh. 

Soon. It would be over soon. 

He tried hanging on to these words. It would be over soon. The pain would end for her…she would have her daughter in her arms. And she would be fine…she needed to be fine. 

“Could you fill the bathtub, Esmeray?” the midwife asked, her voice low but Azriel could still hear her…the bathtub? Why…would she take a bath now? Was the baby already going to be born in the next few minutes and needed a bath afterwards? But why would she do that now? 

“What’s wrong?” Ciara gasped, and the sound of her voice, pain-filled, had him on his feet, pacing. 

“Nothing is wrong, Ciara,” the midwife soothed. 

“You didn’t think I would need the water because the baby isn’t that big,” Ciara whimpered. 

She was going to give birth in the water? Was there a problem? Was the baby not coming?

“She’s not. It will help you,” the midwife assured Ciara. “You’ll have less pain and could heal quicker.”

Oh. 

He could hear steps again, 

“In the tub with you," the midwife said calmly… more steps…more pain-filled moans from Ciara. 

And then…“I can’t get in there.”

“You can and you will.”

Splashing of water…Her moans quieted right down. He could still listen to them, could still hear every movement from her because he was so attuned to what was happening in the cottage right now. 

Still…shouldn’t she be louder? Shouldn’t she be screaming? 

 She was being so quiet, he feared that it was going to be another day or two before the baby would arrive… Ciara spent and exhausted by then.

Even more than she already was…

He forced himself to sit back down, return to his blade and his whetstone…and nearly dropped it when he heard Ciara vomit. 

Fuck, that wasn’t normal, right? Was that normal? How should he know?!

“That’s alright, Ciara. Your body knows what to do. It's getting rid of the food so it can work harder.”

Harder? 

Hadn’t the last few hours been enough? Hadn’t…

And then he heard her sobbing, the sound cutting him to the marrow of his bones. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” pure desperation bled from every word that left her mouth. 

This wasn’t…this didn’t sound well.

He was back to pacing. 

“Yes, you can. You’re doing so well,” the midwife assured her. 

“If I die, can you get her out?” 

And he was done. He was fucking done. 

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t listen to that. 

He was up the stairs before he could reason with himself, bursting into her room without a second thought. 

He ignored the shocked look from his mother as he ended up on his knees in front of that cauldron-forsaken bathtub…Ciara draped over the side of that, sobbing, her skin pale, hands biting into the white porcelain. 

He reached out to touch her, to push the hair away from her face, cupping her cheek, wet with tears and sweat. 

“You are not going to die,” he snarled. That was not going to happen. That was fucking unacceptable. He just got her. He was not going to lose her. “Listen to me. You are not going to die,” he gentled his voice, but still held her face…her eyes, still filled with tears…and the utter exhaustion he saw in them. “ You are going to do this.” 

“I can’t…” she whimpered. 

“Yes, you can,” he disagreed. “You can do this, Ciara,” he promised. “You are going to do this and I’ll be there every step of the way.” 

“You are nearly there. You just need to push,” Nora said quietly. “Just a few good pushes and she will be here.” 

“Come on, Ciara.” He helped her move so that she was kneeling, holding one of his hands with her… somehow worming the other one behind her shoulders, so that he could be the one holding her up and she could use all her strength for bringing her child into the world…her head ended up lolling against his shoulder, face pressed against his neck, panting against him. 

Her wings weakly twitched behind her, and he closed his eyes, for one moment just breathing in nutmeg and clementines. 

She was still there, she was alive, she was breathing. 

And they were going to do this. Together.

“When the next pain comes, listen to your body. Push down,” Nora said calmly. He had no idea what the midwife was doing and didn’t think he wanted to know, but he felt the muscles in Ciara’s body tighten, pain clearly mounting. “There we go.”

And for the first time, a shout broke free out of her throat. 

***

The unwavering strength of him, the smell of cedar and mist was the only thing that kept her calm. The only thing that kept her hanging on…against the fiery hot pain…

She screamed like she had never screamed before, clawing herself into his hand and into Esmeray’s, every bit of strength as she had concentrated on pushing . 

“Good! You are doing so good, Ciara!” Nora assured her. “Another one just like that.”

Another scream ripped out of her throat, another pain lancing her, another…and then she could feel the baby’s head break free, “Now the wings and it’s over.” 

Wha…

“Ciara. Ciara, reach down,” Azriel whispered and she listened, Nora guiding her hand…and with one more push, one slick slide…she had her baby right in her waiting hands. 

A quiet panting sob escaped her throat, as she blinked open her eyes, both hands reaching out to grab her baby under the arms,  using her fingers to support the neck and head as she brought her baby immediately up out of the water. 

“Oh,” she whispered. A gasp and then a quiet cough…and then a loud cry of surprise and Ciara brought her baby to her chest as her own sobs of relief overtook the baby’s.

Her warm little body pressed against her chest sent an instant flush of heat and relief through her entire being, body and soul.

She could feel her heartbeat right against her chest, could feel the fluttering of her wings…little black, perfect wings…

And Ciara cried her eyes out because she was finally there. 

Finally there in her arms and she was crying and she was alright and it was over and…

“You did so well,” Azriel whispered against her temple and she leaned against the arm that was still holding her up, feeling him shift…ready to leave her alone, ready to give her distance…but she didn’t want distance.  

“No, don’t,” she whispered hoarsely. “Stay. Please.”

He pressed a kiss against her temple, and she looked to watch him look down at her daughter, an expression on his face…that she could only describe as wonder. 

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed, one single scarred finger reaching out to touch the dark curls covering her head. The touch was whisper soft, nearly reverently. Like her daughter was the most precious thing he had ever had the privilege to even look at…

She fell like a ton of bricks for him right at that moment. 

At the care, he showed to both her and her daughter...that steadfast presence...that gentleness that she would have never expected from a male like him, but still was there, so very obvious... 

“Is it a girl?” Nora asked quietly.

Oh. She hadn’t even checked.  Ciara reached around her daughter and felt between her legs, pushing the still pulsing cord out of the way.

“Yes,” she said softly. “it’s a girl.” 

A girl. Just like she had thought. 

“You were right. Mother’s intuition,” Esmeray said softly. “Congratulations. She’s perfect.”

She was. She was perfect. 

Ciara gasped as another pain ran through her. 

“What’s wrong?” Azriel demanded and she clenched her teeth, pushing once again. 

“She’s fine, it’s just the afterbirth,” Nora assured him, calmly. It was the work of moments until Nora severed the cord. “Can you let her go?” she asked Ciara calmly and she hesitated for a moment before she turned to Azriel. 

“Will you…” she asked and he stared at her wide-eyed, even as Esmeray handed him a towel to wrap around her daughter. 

“You want me to hold her?” he asked her, swallowing, looking so hesitant. 

“Yes,” she agreed. Safe. Her daughter would be safe. 

So she handed her to him, pressing a kiss against her forehead...and watched as he lifted her into massive, muscular arms, softly murmuring to her as he left the bathing chamber.

Somehow, letting her go, meant that her body started shaking in the earnest as Nora and Esmeray helped clean her up. 

Her arms physically ached for her baby as much as the rest of her body throbbed with pain, exhausted and weak…shivering with something…

The water in the tub was suddenly too hot, even when she was shaking. “Oh, Ciara,” Esmeray crooned softly as she helped her stand, holding her in a warm, comforting grip. "You're alright.” 

“Don’t be scared, a lot of new mothers have this,” Nora promised her as they fished her out of the tub, wrapped her into a towel…and then into a clean nightgown, and helped her to the soft comfort of the bed…

“I need her,” she whispered, her arms aching…the pain so very present. 

“One moment, then you can have her,” Nora promised her, leaning over her, still in Azriel's arms. “I just want to check her over, then you can have all the cuddle time you two need.”

Every second seemed too long, even when Azriel finally handed her over to her again, and suddenly her little girl was in her arms again, her warm weight instantly chasing away the ache building within her…

She was wrapped into a blanket Ciara had made for her and she carefully pulled it back to look her over, memorising every detail from her little fingernails to the way her hair curled…her olive skin glowed in the first rays of the sun that just came over the horizon… admiring her until tears blurred her vision and she brought her baby back to nestle against the warmth of her chest, skin to skin. 

“She has a name yet?” Esmeray asked her softly, as she pulled up a blanket to cover both of them.   “You had a few options the last time we spoke about it,” she said with a smile to the little baby, sitting down on the edge of the bed, tucking the blanket tighter around them. 

Ciara wondered if she still knew who her mother was…if she would have done the same thing. 

She had had a few options for names…but she really only could imagine one. “Aurora,” Ciara said softly. “It means Dawn.”

“A new day breaking,” Esmeray said, smiling. “It’s beautiful. A very fitting choice, Sweetheart. Well done. Do you want a middle name?” She asked curiously. 

“Oh, I had one in mind,” Ciara agreed, a smile stealing over her face. “Though that she deciding to come today of all days worked out just perfectly…Aurora Esmeray,” she said softly. There hadn’t really been a choice in that matter. Not when Esmeray had been the one to save her life and to give her a home, to keep her safe and cared for and had never expected anything in return. “Happy Birthday.”

[brunettemarionette]

The quiet hum of the holiday season filled the room, the soft twinkle of the Christmas tree casting tiny specks of light onto the walls. You paused in the doorway, arms crossed, as you watched Happy sitting in his usual chair, now placed next to the tree.

Happy with his intimidating exterior and the rarest of smiles, sat sharpening a knife with meticulous care. The whetstone moved steadily against the blade, the faint rasping sound oddly soothing.

You notice the TV playing some radio station and hear him mumbling along to the Christmas anthem playing, his low timber effortless as he works.

A subtle smirk tugged at your lips as you stepped closer, your feet sinking into the plush rug. "Didn't peg you as the festive type," you teased lightly, tilting your head toward the tree, its lights reflecting in his deep, focused eyes.

Happy paused, his hand stilling mid-stroke. He didn't look at you immediately, but you caught the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. That almost smile of his was a rare sight, but you'd learned to recognize it—like spotting the first snowflake of winter.

"I'm not," he replied in that gravelly voice that somehow always made you feel warm. "You changed that."

Your steps faltered, his words catching you off guard. Moments like these reminded you there was so much more to the man in front of you—depths he didn't show just anyone.

Without a word, Happy set the knife and whetstone down on the table beside him, his movements slow and deliberate. His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out something small, moderately neat, wrapped in dark paper. He held it out to you, his gaze steady and unflinching. "Merry Christmas, baby."

For a moment, all you could do was stare. Happy, the stoic, the ever-unpredictable, was full of surprises.

Reaching out to take the gift, the paper crinkled softly as you unwrapped it carefully.

Inside was a delicate silver necklace; its simplicity speaks volumes. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry—it was a promise, an unspoken vow he didn't need to put into words.

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes met his again, the faintest trace of that smile lingered. "Happy…"

"Don't get all mushy on me," he muttered, though his tone was soft, almost teasing. He reached out, his rough hand brushing against yours as he took the necklace and motioned for you to turn.

You did, lifting your hair as he fastened it around your neck. His touch lingered for a moment, a silent reassurance that he felt the same as you, even if he didn't say it.

When you turned back to face him, his hand found yours, his grip firm and resolute. The tree lights reflected in his dark eyes, and the world outside seemed to fade for a moment.

It was just the two of you, the quiet hum of the seasonal music playing, and a silent promise that meant everything to you.

'I'm yours and you're mine.'

"Merry Christmas, Hap," you whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. His subtle smile grew just a fraction wider, and as he pulled you closer, you knew this was a memory you'd cherish forever.