#yellow woven fabric

[tonyzilla]

ok so I got invited to a halloween party

I rlly need to start working on my allen cosplay soon

I might ask my dad to bring me out shopping tomorrow for stuff.....

[toyastales]

A gorgeous woven and fringe yellow dress

[freebooter4ever]

I do not like PK or any of these talking heads but the 'grandmas couch cushion suit' is pretty hliarious lmao

[styckywycket]

Southwestern Family Room

[moodymisty]

Author's Note: I was originally going to pair this with a drawing I had been working on, but I don't think I'll have the gusto or confidence to finish it. I didn't hate the snippet though, So I figured I would just post it. If you want the rest of the idea, I guess say? I don't know who here enjoys Elden Ring besides myself and one or two others.

Relationships: Messmer (Pre shattering)/Fem!Reader (third person)

Warnings: Excessive verbosity, Elizabethan pronouns

The flowers lay against the red fabric of her dress, bright like freshly spilled blood against a sea of gentle greens, pinks, blues. The flower held plucked between her fingertips now bereft of the roots that gave it life is a gentle orange, flowing into yellow like the hottest part of a flame. She simply examines it, as if there's something within it's simple nature that she finds interesting.

Messmer stands in silence watching petals of the flower field flow in a gentle breeze, hair red like fire sticking to his lips.

He approaches, feeling the brush of soft velvety petals against exposed skin. He doesn't know how long he's stood here, but his curiosity about such a peculiar mortal doing quite honestly nothing at all; It has inspired him to take a more keen interest.

“Thou hast remained raptured by such a boring flower for quite a time.”

She turns, looking up towards him. Her shift in movement alters her body, showing the flowers and grass that has molded to the ground underneath her body. She has been here for a bit- the flowers make no effort to defy the position she has crushed them into.

“Lord Messmer, I am so sorry, should I not be here?”

He stares downward, singular eye slightly hooded. This field is nothing; If there are plans for it none have come to fruition, and still now it remains as another sunlight extravagance of Queen Marika. There is barely even a path, only a small winding remnant of one being overtaken by more flowers.

She looks up at him, awaiting the answer that will send her away. The way she looks up at him is unfamiliar; He is the hideous nest of the abyssal serpent, and yet her gaze isn't wavered.

“No. Thine with is thy own,” The bottom head of his eternal woven snakes drifts close in its monotonous swaying, though she pays no mind. Perhaps she doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care. “If thou wants to play with flowers, I needn’t care.”

She looks away, her fingers twirling the flower stem between them. Adrift in thought but for only a moment.

“Though... I should go; I am sure he wonders where I am by now.” She rises to her feet, the flower falling from her hand and getting forever lost among the sea of so many others. He wonders who she's referring to, but not for long.

Messmer leans over and holds her shoulder firm for a moment, stopping her walk. He leans down further, takes another flower of the same color, and plucks it from its life to wilt in her hands as he gently places it there.

How cruel he is, even to things so simple as flowers.

“Take one with thee. A reminder to return.”

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter One

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warning: Mentions of death and violence

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Layers of gosammer fabric rippled with movement as you smoothed the bodice of your dress. Warm sunlight flooded through the stained glass windows, getting trapped in the sheer material until you glowed shades of yellow and blue. You tugged the sleeves over your hands and took a deep breath. 

It was a great honor to be invited to the Sun Palace, and for the Summer Solstice no less. The other Librarians of the 12th sector athenaeum - lovingly nicknamed The Alcove - had been absolutely astounded when the letter came addressed to you, hand delivered by pegasus. It was an honor. It was a great honor. You knew this. But your heart buzzed uncomfortably within your ribs like a bird desperate to take to the skies.

“Do I really frighten you that much?”

You swiveled your head to the side, finally acknowledging your High Lord after minutes of silence. Helion shot you a smile full of light and warmth. Light and warmth. Everything about Helion screamed it - from the sunburst crown on his head to the glow of his brown skin. He may as well have been carved from burnt amber. Helion’s very presence was enough to melt the hearts and open the legs of any fae - male or female. Even now you saw some of the female courtiers shooting you envious looks full of heat and longing. It made you cringe uncomfortably.

You shook your head, feeling the weight of the pearls woven into your hair settle at the base of your neck.

“No.” You said quickly, “I apologize, High Lord. It’s not you. I just… haven’t been around this many people before.” 

“You take after your mother,” Helion said, that bright smile slipping into something fonder, more full of regret, “She was never one for parties either.”

You’d taken after your mother in just about everything - your eyes, your hair, the way you walked, even the way you took your coffee. Maybe if your mother had allowed you to be around Helion earlier on you would have learned his charm, absorbed his charisma like a sponge. As it was, the only thing you’d inherited from Helion was a stubborn power you couldn’t control. 

You clasped your hands together behind your back, as if that would be enough to hide your talent. With the ability to absorb knowledge and memories through touch, Clairvoyants were incredibly rare and highly sought after in the Day Court. Helion had worked hard to conceal your power and your identity, so when you’d been given first pick of athenaeums following your apprenticeship, it was to no one’s surprise you’d chosen the one furthest from the city. 

The Alcove. Your home. How you wished you were there now, nestled away in your attic apartment above the library. Comfortable. Alone.

Helion’s gaze softened as he regarded you. He shouldn’t have been as much of a stranger to you as he was. But he was no stranger to your work - always methodical, always precise, always handled with the same degree of love and attention that fae showed their children. You’d nearly died protecting The Alcove when Amarantha ransacked the Day Court libraries, smuggled books and knowledge across court lines during her reign. 

Perhaps you had inherited some bold streak from Helion after all. 

“How many times have I told you to call me Helion?”

“Six.” You said without hesitation.  

“Of course you would remember such a thing,” He said, clicking his tongue, “Would you take a turn around the room with me?” He asked, extending a poor man’s olive branch, “I have guests I would like to introduce you to.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You’d planned to remain glued to this pillar until nightfall, half hidden by the quartet that was beginning to rush the tune in time to the next song. The spirited piece was coming just in time for champagne drunk party goers to make their way to the dance floor. 

You sighed, “Must I?” The performance of it all - the dress, the hair, the party, the pearls  - was more than you were used to, something orchestrated by Helion to finally get you to leave The Alcove. He would have dragged you to more parties if you weren’t so stubborn about ignoring non-business related correspondences. Hence the pegasus. 

“Your High Lord commands it.” Helion said smugly and moved his arm out to the side, gesturing for you to leave your little bubble of safety. “And you may very well come to thank me.” 

You rolled your eyes, “Fine.” You waited a moment before saying, “Helion.” The casual name felt unfamiliar on my tongue.

He clapped his hands together, attracting the attention of one of the sons of Autumn. He shook his head of flames and scowled into his whiskey, handsome features twisting into something uglier.

“Finally!” Helion’s voice boomed, “Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

You chased after his long strides, hoping to stay within the radius of space fae gave to a High Lord. And it worked. For some time. You bounced between various pockets of fae, dodging servers with platters of cheeses, wine, pastries, and more balanced on shoulders. Helion’s deep voice reverberated off the walls as he laughed and clapped people on their shoulders, whispered in their ears, and threw casual, flirtatious winks. He shielded you from the vipers and introduced you to his friends as a talented researcher instead of his bastard daughter. But despite your best efforts, someone still touched you, and your power reared its ugly head.

It happened when one of the Summer Court delegates, drunk and giggling, crashed into a female in a flurry of teal silk, who - like a domino - fell onto you. You landed on your knees, palms stinging from broken glass as flashes of memory and knowledge raced through your mind.

A diagram of the Day Court cities taken in secret from the 29th sector cartography athenaeum. A page ripped from one of Helion’s private collection tomes. A sketch of a still, black lake, and the being of death and destruction that resided there. 

Koschei.

The name spilled onto your mind like ink in water, followed by horrible memories of slaughter and violence. Enough blood to turn the lake red.

The flood of information dulled and the female became nothing more than a willowy tower of tulle with ivory hair retreating into the crowds.

You gasped for breath, limbs shaking. 

The air. It was too thin here. Too suffocating.

Koschei

Koschei 

Koschei

“Are you alright?” A male asked. His deep, careful voice felt like the calm before a hurricane.

You jerked back from the scarred hands that reached for you, wrapping your arms around yourself as you scrambled to your feet. A horrible rip sounded through the now quiet ballroom as you tripped on your dress and tore the bottom layers. And if it couldn’t become more embarrassing, when you stood up you came face to face with none other than the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

Devastatingly beautiful - were the first thoughts that came to mind. So beautiful in fact that he shook you from your visions and the horrible power attached to the lake. The edges of him flickered in and out of existence, clouded by shadows that fluttered about like smoke above a flame. You flinched when they came closer to you before being wrenched back on some invisible leash. He was as gorgeous as the rumors claimed, every inch of him seemingly carved out of black obsidion. 

The flash of shame that crossed his hazel eyes quickly faded into nothing and he clasped his hands behind his back, cursing Cassian for convincing him to go without gloves tonight.

“Y/n, are you alright?” Helion neared closer to you, pointing to your bloody hands. But the pain was nothing. You thought your heart might burst in your chest from the nerves. The more you thought about your splattered remains on the crisp marble tiles, the worse you felt.

The other members of the Night Court looked on with concern. You recognized the other Illyrian warrior - The Lord of Bloodshed he was called. His wings were partially extended, shielding you from the worst of the crowd. And the High Lord and High Lady needed no introduction, decked out in their slim-cut robes and dress. The silvery embroidery reminded you of the stars in the night sky you gazed at when you couldn’t fall asleep and the rest of the Day Court denizens had long since snuffed out their lights. There was a dangerous beauty that wrapped around the group as tightly as the Spymaster’s shadows clung to his body. And you’d just embarrassed the High Lord of the Day Court - your father - in front of them.

Azriel stepped back, reigning in his shadows despite their many desperate protests, “I apologize, I didn’t mean to-”

But you ignored his words, gathered up your skirts, and ran towards the palace gardens, leaving nothing behind but a thin trail of blood and silk, the scent of vanilla, and a brooding, heart-broken Shadowsinger.

Heavy air mingled with copious amounts of perfume, gave way to crisp clarity. The sun was just beginning to dip towards the horizon, like two lovers whispering in each other’s ears as you sprinted down the stairs past two drunk Peregryn soldiers half-hidden behind a rosebush. Their tawny feathers dipped in and out from behind the leaves like ocean waves.

A child’s doll half-buried in ash. The ring of electricity in the air and the metallic, buzzing stench of blood and rot in your nose. Suffocating. Suffocating. 

It was terrible. Worse than any memory you’d slipped into before.

“Y/n!” 

Koschei.

Koschei.

Koschei.

Everyone had experienced horror under Amarantha’s rule and during the war against Hybern. You’d been subjected to it too many times to count. Every brush of skin, every well-meaning touch from someone else had been a cruelty. 

The lake. What’s buried beneath the lake? 

So why did this knowledge feel so different?

Andrian. ANDRIAN!!!

“Y/n! Stop!” Hellion’s robes billowed out behind him like sun rays, dazzling brighter than gold. 

What’s buried beneath the lake? 

What’s buried beneath the lake?

What’s buried beneath the lake?

You didn’t realize you were murmuring the words until Helion gripped you by the shoulders and spun you around. You were brought back by more comforting knowledge - Helion’s memories. Memories of you as a babe, chubby legs wobbling beneath you as you took your first steps into your mother’s waiting arms. A flood of pride entering his chest that felt more like sadness than anything else. 

“Y/n!” He shook you again.

He has a room made up for you in the Sun Palace. He hides all the birthday gifts there that he planned to give to you, but never did. You are one of his greatest regrets.

You blinked rapidly, clearing out your thoughts and shoving the High Lord back with all your might. You didn’t need this right now. You didn’t need two hundred years of fatherly guilt to catch up to you. To the both of you. Not tonight. Not ever.

Without another word you winnowed away. 

__________

“I’m sorry about that,” Helion said, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his hands together.

He was grateful the party had returned to its previous rhythms in his absence, but Rhysand took note of the discomfort ladeled upon his shoulders, the hints of regret in his eyes. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with. 

The sun continued to slip behind the peaks of the mountains, changing the temperature of the room as the ivory and gold-plated walls began to take on a warmer shade. 

“Y/n is not used to such spaces.” He explained, “I should have done more to prepare her for tonight.” 

Rhysand waved off the apology. “There’s no need for apologies, Helion.”

“I do hope she’s ok.” Feyre said. With a snap of Helion’s fingers the blood had been wiped from the floor along with the spilled wine and broken glass. “Her hands-” 

Azriel stiffened, his arms suddenly hidden from view by the shadows that wound up his arms. Feyre quickly changed the topic. “This Y/n, is she the Librarian you’ve told us so much about?”

Helion’s smile was a prideful one, “The one and only.” He lowered his voice, careful to shield his words from any curious ears with a faint blanket of magic, “I would love to claim the credit for helping with your last pregnancy, but in truth it was all Y/n.” 

Feyre blinked in surprise. Her second pregnancy - although much better than the first - had still been a struggle. Rhysand had reached out to Helion in desperation, hoping once again for a safer method of birthing their winged-daughter. After spending months on end combing through the deepest depths of the oldest Day Court libraries, she’d delivered to them a text on cesarean sections. The tradition was a human one, and had been considered too primitive for fae, but with Feyre’s success Madja was reevaluating its usefulness. The High Lord and High Lady had much to thank you for when it came to little Velaria. 

Cassian raised his brows and Azriel couldn’t help the small smile that teased his lips. For such a timid bookworm you’d saved them a great deal of trouble. All at once that sense of pride for a female he didn’t even know fell away. You’d looked at him with such… fear. Flinched away from his touch like you knew exactly the kind of monster he was when all he’d wanted to do was help you.

“We’ll have to thank her personally then.” Rhysand said.

He raised Feyre’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm and looking at her like the love-sick male that he was. He still had nightmares about Nyx’s birth - how pale Feyre had become, the stench of blood in the air, and Nyx’s tiny, motionless body. He was ready to offer you a mountain of gold for preventing such a thing from happening again. 

Azriel lowered his gaze, overwhelmed by the look that passed between the two mates. It felt like an intrusion to be standing in front of them. It was hard to see his brother and Feyre so openly affectionate with one another and not feel slivers of envy enter his heart. Cassian would have similarly been glued to Nesta’s side if she’d accepted the invitation, and although Mor was reluctant to venture out into the public world of courtiers with Emerie, she would have made it clear that she was taken. It meant that Azriel was often left to stand alone at events like this, gracefully rejecting the advances of males and females who hoped to lure the mysterious Shadowsinger into their beds. He’d been close to joining you in your solitude when Helion had charmed and whisked you away.

Azriel shifted his attention to the quartet, specifically to the little alcove to the left of the stage where he’d first noticed you. You’d stood there so quiet and observant, politely declining any male who offered you food or drinks or a dance. And there was no confusion as to why. You’d looked breathtaking in a pearly gown that clung to you like wisps of fog over the Illyrian mountaintops. 

“After the party I’ll take you to her apartment. Allow you all to properly introduce yourselves.” Helion said in a burst of brilliance.

Cassian prodded Azriel’s ribs, a knowing look in his eyes as he watched the now visibly uncomfortable Shadowsinger. 

But if Helion noticed, he didn’t care. If there was any collection of fae with the power to break you out of your shell, it was them.

“But until then! We dance! Come now Cassian, dance with me.” 

Cassian snorted as Helion clasped a muscular arm around his shoulders and heaved him over to the dance floor where fae were already congregated in a tangle of limbs and wine. Feyre and Rhysand joined soon after, the High Lady throwing back an apologetic smile as she joined the crowd with her mate and Azriel was left to stand alone once again.

Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

I have too many thoughts and ideas and got sucked into writing this one. Also, I wanted a nice Azriel fic to follow up Flame, Shadow, Beast so... enjoy!

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @rosebunnysblog @icey--stars @laceandsuch @coralseacourt @cherryinsalemverse @flowerprincezz @valeridarkness @annaaaaa88 @deeshag @bluesiphonsbaby @allyjoe755

[some-bunniii]

Consoling Lucifer on Charlie’s first day of school

・❥ Charlie’s growing up, and Lucifer isn’t taking it well. Luckily, you’re there to keep the King of Hell standing on two feet.

x: just a short fic about a super soft lucifer who loves his daughter, i had some fun with this haha. reader is g/n and also has a parental role. no use of y/n.

~ 1.5k words

warning: tooth-rotting parental love

“Are you crying, Daddy?” The tiny apple-cheeked figure asked, her head tilted curiously up towards the almost identical-looking porcelain face standing a few feet away from her, his hand over his eyes as he rubbed at them feverishly. 

“No,” He lied, his lips curved into a tight-lipped smile as he bit back tears, “It’s just allergies, Apple Pie.”

Lucifer’s eyes trailed back onto the poofy red dress Charlie wore. The intricate, black lines and little hearts woven into its soft fabric made her even more adorable in the outfit. She also sported snow-white stockings, and a pair of sparkly red shoes that glinted in the light as Charlie smiled giddily, excited about the new adventure.

A small red bowtie was nestled into her hair, which was styled in a large braid that ended at the middle of her back. It swayed softly as the young girl bounced in place, becoming antsy by the second. 

You stood right beside him, smiling happily at Charlie as she looked up at the two of you. It was you who had gotten her ready, no doubt did you think she looked like a beautiful little princess. However, you were not expecting such an emotional reaction from your husband, Lucifer Morningstar, when you presented her outfit to him. 

It was Charlie’s first day of lessons, which means—in Lucifer’s opinion—she was finally leaving the nest. Except for the fact she was still considered just a youngling when it came to being Hellborn, and Charlie still needed her father to read her a story every night before bed. She still has trouble reaching items on the counter, and remembering all the letters of the alphabet. She was far from flying off on her own, she was still her father’s little duckling.

He was already nervous the days leading up to this morning, and you had watched him flip through baby book after baby book. Each contains hundreds of photos depicting from when Charlie was a newborn, and through last Sunday. 

Whenever Charlie so much and breathed cutely, Lucifer was pulling out that camera and saving it for the album. Especially when he got a hold of a yellow duck onesie? The man was a goner, and the bookshelf was beginning to fill with rows of binders filled with polaroids.

Yesterday, you had been in the process of cleaning out a closet of rarely used items, when you stumbled upon a pair of Charlie’s old baby boots. 

Lucifer had just walked into the room when his eyes landed on the tiny boots. They obviously wouldn’t fit the girl now, as she had grown out of them long ago. It definitely stirred something inside the fallen angel when his lip began to quiver from the doorway, and slowly walked over to you sitting on the edge of the bed.

He took the boots from your hands, his thumb brushing softly over the small velcro straps. Charlie was old enough to start wearing laces, and she needed his help getting tying her shoes less and less as the months went by. That thought made him collapse onto you, tears brimming his eyes. 

“She had such adorable little feet!” Lucifer wailed in your lap, as you soothingly petted his hair. There were multiple photos in his hands, all of baby Charlie, “Her toes just don’t look like little sausages anymore, it’s not as cute!”

“At least she’s not a hobbit,” you replied, brushing a stray tear from his face.

“I don’t even know what that means!” He had sobbed.

It wasn’t like she was going off to college or anything, yet the way Lucifer clutched her baby blanket in his free hand—which she only stopped sleeping with 2 days ago—made it seem like the girl was not coming back from a few hours of teachings. 

“I packed you some snacks. Apple slices, and some funnel cake. Eat the fruit first, it’s healthy for you. Want to grow up big and strong, don’t you?” 

“Uh-huh!” Charlie nodded with enthusiasm, smiling brightly.

“That’s my girl,” Lucifer choked back tears, nodding approvingly. 

“Honey, she’s going to be late, hurry up and say goodbye,” you prodded gently, smiling warmly with clasped hands. You had been silently on standby, this was a much more emotional moment for Lucifer than you, he needed the space and time with his munchkin.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he growled softly at himself, “look at me, all worked up over nothing. What a joke of a King.”

Lucifer lowered himself to one knee and reached out a hand, and Charlie walked forward returning the touch. Her tiny hands were engulfed in his palm as he curled his fingers tenderly around them. The fallen angel met his daughter's gaze, before taking a deep breath.

“I love you, Charlie.” 

“I love you too, Daddy,” Charlie laughed, before leaping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. Lucifer pulled her in, nuzzling into her hair as she squeezed him tightly. 

Even if Charlie grew apart from her father as she got older, you’d know she’d always be a daddy’s girl. It was Lucifer whom she invited for tea time among her stuffed animals, and it was he she asked to dance with when the radio’s soft melodies filled the lounge during the evenings as the three of you relaxed by the warm fireplace. 

It made your heart flutter with how similar the two were, and the way Lucifer fawned over Charlie like he’d never seen a more beautiful soul. 

“My best creation,” he had whispered with a smile one night, while the two of you were sitting on the balcony, the alcohol buzzing inside your mind as you held his hand from across the small table. Those words had made your love for him continue to grow, if that were even possible in the first place.

Lucifer and Charlie stayed locked in an embrace for a few moments on the floor before the girl released him, and Lucifer’s arms slowly lowered from her abdomen as she took a few steps back towards the door.

“Go on, now! Don’t let me keep you waiting, just remember to crush it.” Lucifer waved his daughter off, and she jumped with joy.

“Okay! Bye, Daddy!” Charlie giggled, her little red dress bouncing along with her toes as she quickly turned away towards the open door of her room. 

“Have fun, Charlie!” You called after her, as Lucifer slowly rose from his position near the floor.

“I will! Bye!” She replied, running down the hall, her little bag bouncing in her hands as she scampered away to…

…her private tutor’s small classroom at the end of the long hallway. The three of you had been wishing the girl farewell in her large bedroom inside the family manor, which meant Charlie’s teaching wasn't even outside of the home. 

That made Lucifer’s reaction even more humorous, but it was also incredibly sweet. The ruler of Hell, a nasty, bitter place, was a cinnamon roll behind the bad-boy act that he played so well in front of the rest of the realm.

When Lucifer stood straight again, you turned your head to face him. The sight before you caused you to clamp your lips shut tight, trying to suppress your laughter at Lucifer’s disheveled figure.

His hair looked messier than before he had said goodbye, and his face was soaked with tears. Lucifer’s lip quivered, and he quickly averted his gaze, slamming his hand over his face to contain his quiet sobs. The man was practically in shambles. 

“What’s wrong with me?” He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, “I can’t control my emotions when it comes to Charlie.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Your Highness, but you’re in love,” you cooed, shaking your head with a smile as Lucifer sniffled beside you. He pulled a hand-embroidered handkerchief from his waistcoat, dabbing underneath his eyes to clean the fresh tears. 

“Come on, Lou. How about I make you some pancakes for breakfast?” You said softly, lacing your fingers with his as you tugged him towards the opposite end of the hall. 

“Really?” He sniffled, looking at you with glistening eyes.

“Mhmm,” your hands lifted to cup his face, tenderly squishing those small red spots as you replied with a honeyed tone, “Heaven knows how the ‘Big Boss of Hell’ can be such a softy. Don’t worry, Charlie will be back by lunchtime, and maybe we’ll go on a picnic, hm?”

Your free hand went up toward the fallen angel’s head, and your nails softly grazed his scalp as you pulled his hair back into a more uniform appearance. After fussing with it for a moment, you leaned in and placed a tender kiss on his forehead.

“A picnic sounds nice, I have no idea how you always have a remedy to everything,” He said softly as you pulled away, an adoring smile on his lips as you turned to tug him down the hall.

“Years of practice,” you laughed, as the two of you walked towards the large kitchen, passing loving glances between the other. 

At least, with Charlie away for a few hours, you and your husband could get some alone time together. God knows the poor man needed it. 

lucifer is just so soft for his little princess whether it’s beating the shit out of adam or playing tea party it makes me just 🤭🥴 like damn

hope you enjoyed the lil snack, have a great day! 🤍

tags 🏷️

@ohnoivefallen @doodlebob2726 @coleisyn @undertale-is-sansational @nehy019 @mixplara @chewbrry @yellowsubiesdance @airwolf92 @lxkeee @jellybellyrulez @catnoirsleftnut @mbruben-stein @mint129106 @froggybich @moonlovers34 @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @lil-bexie @wings-of-sapphire @the-tortured-poet @enigmatic-blues @bethleeham @blue122 @cherry-4200 @azullynx @luzzbuzz @for-hearthand-home @helluvapoison @th3-st4r-gur1 @concentratedconcrete @cimadreamer @marsenbie @guacam011y @maxiskindahere @purplerose291 @fictional-character-whore @0willowwisp0

[luvrodite]

call me your fool (i only wanna be with you) [686]

love's physical manifestation comes on a late night. gn!reader, very little dialogue, physical (non sexual) intimacy, feeling so lovesick you cry, established relationship.

Jason smells like lemongrass when he joins you on the bed. His hair is wet, and you squirm when he crawls between your legs to press his face into your stomach, tepid water bleeding through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt and chilly against your skin. You can feel his mouth curl up into a smile when you whine his name but he refuses to move, instead settling comfortably in the cradle of your hips like it's home.

"You need to go dry your hair," you demand, looking down from your phone but he only mumbles something unintelligible, nosing at the softness of your stomach. You can't make out the words, but his tone teeters on petulance – he's staying where he is.

The rest of him is warm and baby soft, the skin of his bare torso yielding under your touch as you skim your free hand down the back of his neck to his back. Various scars litter his back, pale with age, some still healing, waxy pink and puckered from where he'd stitched himself up. You pass your fingers over them absentmindedly, and he sighs into the side of your ribs, heat diffusing through your shirt and fading as quickly as it had come. The smell of his new soap reaches your nose, a gentle cloud that spills out into the room from the open doorway of his bathroom.

He says little tonight, drowsy in the low light and late hour. Patrol had been mostly uneventful, you gather from the easy kiss he'd pressed to your brow when he'd returned. Only the bathroom light remains on, a soft yellow whose hum would be more fitting in that of a gas station bathroom. It pools against the carpet of his bedroom floor, sinking into the woven fabric and gathering atop the strands – it's a cheap imitation of sunlight, but you could easily imagine it carrying the warmth of a mid afternoon sunspot.

Quietly, you count Jason's breaths in time with the hum of the light, setting your phone down to smooth his hair back. The curls flatten momentarily, giving under your palm before springing back. You can smell the conditioner you'd left in his shower on his hair, the notes of your hair cream mingling with it. The notion of him poking about your things, silly as it is, has your throat closing up, affection so thick it stings your eyes making your nerves burn.

I love you, you think, looking down at him despairingly. Mouth curving down into a pout, lips trembling, you crane forward to press a kiss to his temple. Strands of white hair return your affection, brushing against your cheek like a lover's hand and you take a breath.

Somehow, as if knowingly, Jason turns to kiss your palm. Emerald eyes flutter open, electric even in the low light as he peers up at you. Water pools in your own eyes, collecting in your lash line and spilling forward down your cheeks.

Salt and longing blur your vision as he pushes up to hover over you, an arm tugging you further down into the mattress until you're splayed against the sheets. Water trails down the sides of your face, and he draws close, nose brushing against yours.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to, lowering his face to kiss your cheek. It's whisper soft, the press of his lips against your skin. Time slows to a crawl, stretching out to grant you this moment as they caress the tracks on your face. A kiss for each tear spent, love is returned to you in tender brushes.

You close your eyes, lashes tacky and a breathy hiccup crawling its way up your throat. Jason, yours in every sense and knowing to expect it, swallows it sweetly with a hum. His nose bumps against yours – I'm here. I'm here, and I love you.

When the tears subside and you crack open your eyes, he encompasses your entire field of vision. Your world begins and ends in teal and it smiles at you, brilliant and lovestruck.

"Let's go to bed, angel."

hi hello how are you? this is the first thing i've written in what feels like an age but i think it's fitting for the lovesickness i've been plagued with the last three weeks. everything makes me feel so incredibly soft lately and life feels so very tender. thinking of love makes me want to weep, but in a good way. i hope this makes you feel as lovesick lovestruck heartsick as i've been feeling, and i hope the world is being kind to you, wherever you are. the title is from only wanna be with you by hootie & the blowfish, which i've been listening to on repeat since sometime in january. anyway, i hope you enjoyed this.

[odoraful]

𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄

during a gathering for the maisons in the court of fontaine, the newlywedded couple retire early to spend time at home together

⟡ content: neuvilette x fem!reader; introvert x introvert; calling each other husband and wife and other cute nicknames; reader saving neuvilette from social burnout; lots of kissing; very fluffy; possibly ooc neuvilette (still figuring out how to write him!)—he's much more open with his affections around reader; 2.4k words

⟡ a/n: craving some married couple dynamics and i thought neuvi was a perfect candidate for this :') i haven't written in almost a month so pardon my rustiness </3

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“It’s not like you to zone out Monsieur Neuvilette.”

Neuvilette’s gaze snapped back to the person in front of him—bemusement on their face. Whilst many others would have let their sheepishness show at being caught, Neuvilette’s features never faltered, returning a sensible smile.

He was conversing with someone from the Maison Cardinalice named Aimon. In fact, there were people from all four Maisons here at the ball. It was a semi-regular gathering held to promote friendly relations between the factions of the Court. Neuvilette believed he had a good grasp of the intricacies of political small talk among these events. The talks were cordial and productive, and he made his due diligence to circle the foyer of the Opera Epiclese enough times to be introduced, and reintroduced, to interested parties. However, mid-way through these rounds, he found that the ornament woven in his hair felt heavier than usual, and his thick robes seemed to drag his body down with each conversation he entered and left. Despite this, he maintained his composure. He had a role to fulfil after all.

“My apologies, I was simply taken by the view here.”

He glanced out again past the open doors of the Opera Epiclese.

White light of the foyer’s interior flooded into the darkness of the night, causing the streams of water in the Fountain of Lucine to shimmer like crystals. Near the doors, some members of the ball had taken to conversing in the cool night air.

The representative from the Cardinalice shook their head in astonishment.

“Even after all your time here, you still find such novelty in the landmarks of the city,” they sighed.

Turning to follow where Neuvilette had been looking, they tried to discern what beauty he saw in this place that they passed almost every day. Realisation hit them almost immediately at what, or rather who, had distracted the Iudex.

One of the people who had taken respite in the open night air was you.

It was hard for one to take their eyes away at the figure draped in gold fabric, hugging their body just so. The ruffled hem of the dress was long enough to hit the floor, leaving a small train of what appeared to be molten gold in the trick of the light. Carefully embroidered vines and leaves in yellow thread trailed from the bodice to the skirt. Tulle-like material lined the sweetheart neck, showcasing the pearl necklace at your collarbones and extending to drape delicately past the curves of the shoulders.

You were in the company of some of the gestionnaires from the Palais Mermonia, listening attentively. Your covered your mouth with a hand, laughing at something being said. Neuvilette could imagine the lilt of your voice as you spoke with the others around you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Aimon began, “how fares the move for Fontaine’s newly wed couple?”

Neuvilette hummed, a low timbre brimming with affection.

He was not one to announce personal affairs, but no amount of privacy could prevent the news of the Chief Justice getting married from going public. Of course, the people of Fontaine were captivated by the romantic story of someone finally catching the eye of the “solitary workaholic” (as many of the news articles released described him to be). It sounded exactly like something out of a play. Quietly, he enjoyed when people brought it up in conversation, since it gave him a chance to talk about you, after all. He loved the way the title rolled off his tongue when he called you his wife.

“My wife and I have been settling into our new home well,” he replied, revitalised by the change of topic. “We have finished with all our furnishings-”

“Ah!” the exclamation from Aimon almost made him jump. “Monsieur, I must introduce you to the latest addition to our Maison. I think you would quite like him.”

They flapped their hand at someone from outside, gesturing them to come in.

More introductions. Inwardly, Neuvilette sighed, though there was only politeness shown on his face.

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Unbeknownst to Neuvilette, his weariness had begun to manifest in the sky above. What had been a clear night had now turned overcast. Dense clouds obscured the moon. The people around you looked curiously at the sky.

“How fickle the weather can be,” someone tutted.

You knew that such a sudden change could only mean one thing.

Rather than look to the sky, your eyes instead sought your husband. At the entrance of the Opera, you could see Neuvilette speaking with two others, his silhouette back lit by light. Excusing yourself from the people you were with, you lifted the hem of your skirt and walked briskly over. The voice of Aimon grew louder as you drew nearer. You paid half an ear to their discussion, your attention directed at Neuvilette’s rigid posture and passive expression.

His senses tingled as you approached his side. The delicate sweetness of your perfume comforted him. After admiring you from a distance for much of the ball, his lips now parted seeing you up close. Even with how long you have spent with each other, he became more enamoured by you with every passing day.

“Apologies for my interruption.”

Your words cut through the conversation, immediately quietening Aimon. You lay a hand on Neuvilette, squeezing his shoulder lightly. You felt his body ease under your touch.

“But may I speak to my husband?”

“Mademoiselle.” Aimon tipped his head in greeting. “Why of course. We will take out leave.”

You curtsied in thanks, watching as the two Cardinalice members hurried away further into the foyer.

Neuvilette’s hand hovered over your waist. Momentarily, he thought about pulling you close, until he could trace every thread of the embroidered pattern on your bodice under his fingertips and memorise its shape. It pained him to resist an action like this, but he was a gentleman, and it would be improper to do something like that in a public space. Instead, he subtly gestured towards the edge of the room as a place to talk without, hopefully, being interrupted.

“My dear, is everything alright?”

The concern on his face melted your heart.

“Everything is quite alright with me, but I’m not sure I can say the same for you.”

You covered the side of your mouth that could be viewed by others. “It’s okay if you’re tired of this ball,” you whispered.

His face fell to relief that something bad had not happened to you.

“Thank you for your concern, dear, but as head of the Ordalie, it is my duty to be here and connect with the other Maisons.” The words came out of him almost robotically, betraying the tiredness that weighed his body and pleaded for him to rest.

“It may well be, but I don’t want to see you collapsing the next time someone wants to speak to you,” you insisted.

He rubbed his temple with his finger and thumb. Neuvilette couldn’t argue with that. It was true. How good of a Chief Justice could he be if he was too exhausted to properly fulfil his duties? At the thought of leaving early, his mind wandered to how the two of you would cuddle before bed, tucked beneath the quilts, enveloped by homeliness. Maybe it was best to listen to your advice.

“Are you alright to retire for the night as well, then?” he asked.

“Archons, yes,” you blurted out. “The gestionnaires are lovely company, but if I had the choice between hearing the amount of paperwork required to replace a keycap from them again, or to return to my abode with my husband, I think my answer would hardly surprise you.”

He laughed at your candour. “I will not let you say anything untoward about the Maison Gestion for I admire their tenacity. However, even I must admit that that may not the most riveting conversation to be apart of.”

Neuvilette extended a hand out towards you.

“Shall we depart then?”

You nodded fervently. Moving to his side, you both took a turn around the foyer, saying your necessary goodbyes to the heads of the Maisons. They gave saddened responses to his early departure, but respected the couple’s wishes. Though, you and Neuvilette considered being out at a quarter-past-nine at night to already be quite late.

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The two of you entered you home with a relieved sigh, slipping off your shoes and leaving them on the rack by the door. Though the slight clutter of your living room—pillows askew on the sofa, blankets draped on chairs, handmade ceramic trinkets dotted in spaces around the room—was far from the pristine foyer of the Opera, you much preferred it. Automatically, you and Neuvilette headed upstairs to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to unwind for the night.

Looking at your reflection, you took your necklace and earrings off, returning them back to their velvet boxes. Behind you in the mirror, your husband’s hair began to get tangled in the clip of his feathered ornament. He let out a frustrated huff. It was certainly cute to see someone as accomplished as the Iudex have such a sulky look on his face. Wordlessly, you walked over to his side and tapped his hands away. At your signal of aid, Neuvilette sat down on the bed, allowing you to reach his head. His eyes were glued to your focused expression, how careful you were trying to be to not hurt him. Your fingers delicately removed the hair piece, and you smoothed his hair to tidy it up.

As he stood up to take off his robes, he felt your hands tug at the sleeves, helping him to undress. Neuvilette opened his mouth to protest, to tell you that you needn’t worry about him, that you should go and wash up first. Knowing your husband for so long, you sensed these words and spoke before him.

”I know being Chief Justice is an intensive role, but please don’t push yourself too hard.”

Such a gentle request from his wife almost made him fall to his knees. It was act of care that seemed magnified now that you were married. Neuvilette managed to, incredibly, maintain his balance as you worked to unbutton his vest.

“You are not an unfeeling Gardemek who can stand for hours without tumbling over,” you pouted, fumbling at his buttons.

The Chief Justice took his position seriously, sparing no feelings in a trial. It was a job needed to be done faithfully to best help the people of Fontaine. That sense of responsibility he had was something you held great pride in, but not when it took a toll on his mind and body. Especially when the emotions he held like a still body of water began to ripple and swirl behind the curtains of the courtroom.

“I will heed your words,” he nodded. “In any case, you seem to be swooping in to my rescue a few times tonight.”

You grinned. “I would gladly rescue you whenever you need, party-related or otherwise.”

Neuvilette stared fondly at his wife, slipping off his vest and folding it neatly. Perhaps it was the after effects of the honeymoon period, but the domesticity of this moment flared something inside him.

Before you could move to the closet on the opposite side of the room, he circled a hand around your waist. His touch stopping you from walking away. You cocked your head to the side, curiously.

“Truly, you have my thanks.”

Swiftly, you were pulled close to him. Neuvilette ran a fingertip along the edges of the leaves stitched onto your bodice, finally feeling each thread. You squirmed slightly—each drag of his finger leaving a tickling sensation at your waist. The composed air he maintained for most hours of the day came undone before you. Left wearing only his loose white shirt and black pants, his tousled hair fell down his back and the glow from the bedroom’s lantern reflected desire in his indigo eyes.

Leaning closer still, his warm breath caressed your face as his lips met your forehead first. The movement excruciatingly slow. Each press of his lips lingered for a second longer that you could even feel the most minute shifts in his face. Continuing, he trailed feather-like kisses down your temples.

“Mm, what’s this for?” you asked, more breathless than you anticipated.

Neuvilette hummed for a moment.

“My intentions are two fold. One-” he accentuated the word with a kiss on your cheek, “-as appreciation for helping me tonight, and two-” he placed another on the opposite side, “-as recompense for not admiring you properly at the ball.”

There was always a flutter in your stomach when he kissed you, but the way your breath caught in your throat felt like this was the very first time. He was completely lost in his affection as he moved down to your jawline and neck—soft lips meeting your quickening pulse. A small gasp escaped you at the contact, and the smile that drew across his lips was unmistakable against your skin. The folded vest slipped from your hand and crumpled on the floor. He would deal with the creases in his uniform in the morning. For now, it would make a satisfactory sacrifice for this chance to cherish you.

Grasping at Neuvilette’s shirt sleeve instead, he switched positions, cornering you on the edge of the bed. He focused his attention on the dip in your collarbone—a sensitive spot that made you shiver at the contact. The sensation was too inviting not resist. Your legs could no longer hold yourself steady, as you tumbled down to sit. Hands opposite sides of your body, your husband had subtly caged you in as he pulled away to look at your face.

“You look divine, my dear.” His voice was low, reverberating in your ears.

“As do you. Though I believe that adjective is a given-” you poked at his cheek with a finger “-for a Sovereign such as yourself.”

Red tinged his ears, an obvious contrast against his pale skin. He breathed a laugh at your comment, always quick to return a compliment to him.

The clouds had long since dissipated, showcasing the moon in its clarity. The attendants at the Opera briefly paused their chatter to once again admire the twinkling sky. A few of them sighed, commenting disappointedly how the Chief Justice and his wife had missed the splendour of the night.

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[sare11aa11eras]

Daenerys Missandei Irri and Jhiqui!

[Image Description: A full-length drawing of four people, Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei of Naath, and Dany’s two Dothraki handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui. They are standing progressively farther back from the viewer. Daenerys stands in profile, walking forward, talking to someone. Missandei and Jhiqui have their bodies facing the viewer, Irri is angled slightly to the right side of the drawing. Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui look at Daenerys. They are standing on a red carpet against a blank background.

Daenerys wears a purple tokar with a gold fringe. She wears her dragon crown, a gold bangle, rings of various materials, a gold vambrace with purple stones, gold earrings with purple stones, and an elaborate necklace with purple stones. From the necklace and the crown dangle long strings of red and black beads. She wears an anklet and leather sandals. A few golden bells can be seen in her hair.

Missandei wears a knee-length light orchid-color dress. It hangs loosely around her. Her dress is trimmed at the hem with purple and blue beads of different lengths. She wears sandals similar to Dany’s. She wears a large V-shaped piece of jewelry similar to a collar around her neck and over her collarbones. It is gold, mostly decorated with purple stones, and a blue butterfly design. Missandei wears earrings with blue butterflies and purple, pink, and yellow stones. She wears a bracelet of alternating pink and yellow stones. Her hair is in braids to pull it away from her face, but is otherwise in an Afro-type style. She holds a tablet and writing utensil in front of her chest. She has an interested expression as she looks up from her writing towards Dany.

Irri wears Dothraki clothes. She wears long trousers, which are blue fabric with a fringed panel of leather along the inside of her leg and groin. She wears leather boots with green, white, and purple painted swirls on them. She wears a dark leather belt around her middle and a belt of gold discs over it. The central gold disc has a green stone. More blue fabric wraps around her chest, either pleated or wrappings. Over this is a painted vest, primarily decorated with blue, green, and white. On her upper arm is an armband with an illustration of a horse galloping in grass. She has leather wrappings on her wrist and opposite upper arm. She wears one visible ring. She wears a leather necklace with a triangular gold pendant and gold triangular earrings. Her hair is in at least three braids, tied off with gold beads. She has bangs. She wears a woven headband of green and blue, with jade stones. Her face is neutral.

Jhiqui also wears Dothraki clothes, although hers do not look practical for riding. Her clothes are primarily fabric of a deep raspberry color. Along the outer side of her trousers is a stripe of leather, fringed at the end, painted with pink and pale purple flowers. On her chest she wears a beaded brooch shaped like a flower, with pink petals and a green “stem”. She wears slippers, in the same material as the rest of her outfit, with a decoration of pink flowers on yellow around the heel. Her vest is laced closed over a green and gold under layer. Her vest is trimmed at the hem with gold discs. Around her middle is a dark leather belt, with a thin belt of gold discs over it. She wears a leather necklace similar to Irri’s, with a circular gold pendant with a garnet stone. Her earrings match this pendant. She wears two rings. Her arm band is gold and garnet. Her hair is worn similarly to Irri’s. She has a bracelet with chips of green jade set in silver on a leather cuff. She has a nose piercing with a gold chain that leads to her earring. She appears to be wearing rouge. She looks mildly interested in whatever is happening. End ID./]

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 4

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  Christmas on a Friday means you won't be meeting Frankie this week. This break away from each other might be just what the two of you need to consider if you should carry on with whatever this is…

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey you mean more to me than you will ever know 🧡

Word count: 14.3k

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Chapter 4: Frankie

Frankie scratches the stubble on his jaw. Behind the green screen of his aviators, under his creased brow, his eyes are riveted to the red light in front of him. His grip on the steering wheel too tight for safety. 

Something has to be wrong with this light because he’s been waiting at this intersection for ten minutes at least. 

He takes in an angry breath. Loud, but constricted. Yet it’s enough for your scent to fill his lungs. 

It might be a trick of the mind, because it’s been six days since you’ve been in here, and it’s still everywhere around him. It floats in the cab of the truck. It clings to the fabric of the seat. It’s woven into the suede leather of his jacket. 

It’s probably what it is, just a trick of his brain, but he’d like to know for sure. If your presence has pervaded the whole space, or if he’s losing his goddamn sanity. 

The light changes to green. His head rolls back on the headrest, eyes drifting close. 

It’s a light fragrance. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. Orange blossom, citrus, honeysuckle. It’s the very last days of spring, when the air is still chill, but the sunbeams are warm and blinding. Before summer sets everything ablaze, the southern wind, the asphalt, the concrete walls and the bodies. It’s the first sunny day on a pale winter skin. 

And there’s the sweet musk you exude, mixed with his own, when he’s fucked you hard and thorough. 

The car behind him honks and he jolts up in his seat, knees knocking against the wheel. He puts the pedal down to the floor in less than a millisecond, tires screeching, engine revving up. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What is happening to him? 

The route to Will’s place is a familiar one. He drives absentmindedly down streets and avenues lined with palm trees, his mind wandering. To Lua’s shot, that’s due next week; to his Thursday shift he has to swap with Felix. To the gutters that need cleaning, and the front door he should repaint. To the overnight diapers he has to restock soon. 

To the feel of your smaller hands cupping his face, and the coolness of your touch. To that tiny pink wound on your forehead and the weariness in your eyes. To that scar on your knee in the shape of a grid, and that other one on your inner thigh you try not to let him see. To those two dimples above your ass and your scent, fuck, your scent, it does something to him. Something he didn’t ask for. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with. 

When he turned around, back in that dive, and his eyes met yours, he didn’t feel anything. Or rather, he felt everything, all at once. The end and the beginning. The sweetness and the pain. Blood and honey. It was all there, contained in your luminous, telling eyes. He saw something in them. Something frightened, but brazen. A hunger. A madness. A longing. Something he recognized, and wanted himself. 

He took in your general appearance, the expensive clothes, the even more expensive bag, and he turned back around. Tried to convince himself you were just some corporate executive, bored with your life, looking for a cheap thrill and a quick fuck. 

He could sense your gaze, burning holes through his shirt into the muscles of his back, those damn eyes, wide, exhausted. And they kept boring into him. Strong, determined. They wouldn’t let go. You wouldn’t let go. 

So he left. He got up and stormed out. Went home to the guest room sofa, and his sleeping baby, and tried to forget about you.

Your eyes kept haunting his nights. And his waking hours too. And since he’s been clean, his days have gotten considerably longer. 

No more drugs meant sleepless nights, followed by never-ending stretches of daytime, with nothing to sustain his focus but stress and coffee. It means going to work, and flying on three hours of nonconsecutive sleep, while his thoughts swirl in his overwrought brain. Nothing to take the edge off.

He hadn’t realized the weight he was carrying until Lua was born. 

As long as he was in the military, he had kept his head straight. So many guys he served with were using; all kinds of shit. A genuine feel good hit of the summer. It was disconcerting, the ease with which they could score pretty much anything, in just about any country where they were deployed. As if it were made accessible to them purposefully. 

But not him. He had never needed it. His focus was sharp, his mood even and leveled, his mind clear. Every fiber of his being striven towards one goal: to watch over his brothers. To leave no one behind.  

Things started going south after he’d retired. They followed him. The ones he had left behind. Those times he’d been too quick on the trigger. All of them, soldiers and civilians. Faces without eyes. Deep, bleeding cavities, and dark gaping holes where their mouths should have been. Brothers and enemies merging into one big shapeless and viscous mass of casualties. 

They came to him at night, and soon, he stopped sleeping. Exhaustion exacerbated his temper. His control became tenuous. But somehow, he still kept going. 

When he met Lupe, he had told her everything. Five days a week, she was the voice in his headset, steady, constant, as she dispatched him and the crew of paramedics to wherever the emergency was located. She sent him to brutal, deadly pile-ups on the highway, burning high schools or heart attacks on remote hiking trails with an even tone that aroused his curiosity and inspired his trust. 

When they’d started dating, he confided in her. The nightmares, the difficulty focusing. She understood, but she also didn’t want anything to do with it. She’d answered with a blunt warning. I have my own shit to deal with, Morales, I’m not in this to save you. He didn’t want her to, anyway. He wasn’t her responsibility. 

He had stayed. And so did she. Things were good enough. They were in love. She was already well into her thirties, with a job that didn’t leave much time for dating, and even less for starting a family. She wanted a kid more than anything, and he thought normalcy would do it. That it would ground him enough to fix him. 

After Lua was born, he resorted to drugs to numb out and function. At the time, he had considered it to be a momentary solution. He needed the energy to care for her, not to keep it together.

The drugs helped at first. It helped with the nightmares. It helped with the realization that flying had, for most of his life, been his sole purpose, main goal and greatest talent, and that he’d used it to destroy, ravage and kill. It helped with the guilt. Even as it generated more of it.

The benzos put him to sleep for dreamless hours, and then the coke kept him awake throughout the workday. He thought he’d find some sort of footing. 

It didn’t help long, though. He got caught fast. Almost as if he wanted to be. And then it was all burning shame, and disintegrating self-esteem, with no means left to escape any of his feelings. 

Lupe gave him hell, rightfully so. His sister said nothing, which nearly killed him. She wired him money so he could hire a good lawyer. She’d been the one to advise him in the first place to think twice about bringing a baby into his mess. He still hated himself for not listening to her.

What hit him the hardest was the suspension of his pilot license. Who was he, if not a pilot? 

After the bust, he invested everything into being a good father. Lupe found it in her to forgive him, and things were pretty good for a couple of months. 

Until Pope came back with his bullshit idea. Frankie watched his friends buckle and fold, one after the other. Ben, Ironhead and Redfly. Until he had no other choice but to follow suit. Watch over his brothers. Leave no one behind.  

Flashes after that: Redfly coming back in a plastic bag, to join the mass of eyeless, gaping holes that kept him awake at night. 

The cruel irony of his suspension being lifted within a mere two weeks after he’d crashed that fucking Mi-8. Pope going into hiding, perhaps dead himself. The rest of them left here to slowly fragment, standing amongst all the things they broke beyond repair, with nothing to show for it. 

And then that one day, you collided into him. 

When he came back to the bar two weeks after your first encounter, it was with the firm intention of giving you what he thought you wanted. Scratch your itch, and his. Fuck you once, use you as an outlet, same way you probably wanted to use him. 

The very moment he saw you step inside the bar, he understood how wrong he’d been. 

You were not out for a cheap thrill or a quick fuck; you were not a bored, cynical executive looking to mix with the very working-class you exploited. 

You were in pain. Numbed out. Withdrawn. Absent.

For some reason, that fucked him up hard. He tried running away from you, but you came after him, headstrong. You sought him out. Without hesitation, or fear. And something held him back, prevented him from running away too fast or too far. He let you catch up with him.

You wanted him. You want him still. 

The sounds you make when you come, that breathless moan, full chest, empty mind, he knew he was in trouble when he pulled it out of you that very first night in the parking lot, against his truck. You clung to him, cold hands with a feverish touch. He was greedy and you thrashed before you went slack in his hold and right away he had wanted more. He risked a taste, licked his fingers, and you were heaven. You were unreal. 

He wanted to know so much more: what did you feel like from the inside when you came? How much of him could you take? What your voice would sound like after he’d fuck your throat? 

How much of you really existed? How much of you had he made up? 

He soon found out. About the sensation of your soft skin under his rougher hands. About your patience. About your scent. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. Intoxicating. 

At the beginning, he thought you were coming to him for degradation, as much as for pleasure. There wasn’t a single debasing act he could come up with that you didn’t let him do to you.

You’d take anything he gave you.

Week after week, you let him fuck you numb, fuck you rough, fuck you raw. Tie you up, fold you down. Cover you in come, choke you on his cock, spit in your mouth. 

Friday after Friday, you kept looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was still here, pounding you blind into that shitty mattress. Not grateful. Surprised. Or relieved. He didn’t know what to make of it, of that dignity you forfeited when you crossed the threshold of that room that very first night. Of your surrendering. 

In retrospect, you understood your dynamic much faster than he did. Back then, he was still struggling with the idea that you were real. 

He grew wary, and in his head, a refrain started playing. Tonight’s the last night. There won’t be a next week. 

He couldn’t stop, though. One last night, that turned into two, then three, then four. He finally started getting decent nights of sleep, a restful slumber of which he felt undeserving. 

He had to put a stop to this. Just one last night, and there wouldn’t be a next week.  

He knew even more when his curiosity started to drift elsewhere. To your life outside the room with the brown rug and the yellow curtains. To that inner island of yours, the contour of which he was only starting to make out through the fog of his blunt desire. 

You kissed him like you knew he’d never be yours, so you’d be his instead. Like his breath was yours. Like your heart only beat under his hand. And yet, you kept eluding him, silent and slippery. The paradox drove him insane.

He grew restless in between Friday evenings, booking the room earlier each week. He forbade himself any other kinds of relief, and instead turned to books. Browsing, flipping pages impatiently, searching for words and concepts. Intellectual tools to rationalize the feeling of you, to understand your presence and describe your scent, because you wouldn’t let him name you, and probably never would. 

He thought that if he didn’t come inside you, perhaps you’d keep coming back to him.

It only made him want you more. The relinquishing drop in your shoulders, every time he asked you to stop him. He became obsessed with the thought of giving you what you knew better than to want. And in his head, the refrain kept playing.

One last night. One last fuck. One last fix. 

In comparison, it had been easier to quit coke. 

He can’t explain your pull. The way his body gravitates towards yours. He can’t explain the visceral craving. 

Aloof and soothing, with a will so hard and unbending it scares him, you take, everything that festers ugly inside him, and absorb it, making it disappear. You turn it into something beautiful, something that blooms and purrs and breathes. Orange blossom and honeysuckle. 

What do you do with all his rage? How do you cope with it? Where do you get this strength from? 

Your strength. He’s only beginning to fathom the magnitude and depth of it. 

It’s hidden beneath the surface of you, dormant, nestled in your quiet resilience, your accidental resistance. The remoteness of your gaze. It’s in your plea for him to take, until he knows he’ll stop breathing if he stops giving in. 

That place within yourself, where you retreat not to get hurt. That’s where he wants to find you. That’s where he wants to live. 

When you didn’t show up two weeks ago, he should have been relieved. He’d got out easy. You’d taken the decision for him. Inside his chest, however, anxiety chewed up his heart and set his nerves on fucking fire. The possibility that your absence was unwilling. That something might have prevented you from coming. Something, or someone. 

He had your plates written down in the little spiral notebook he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. He could’ve pull some strings, found out your address. Fuck, he could’ve found out your name. But it felt like a violation even thinking about it, no matter how sickly worried he was. Like a step too far into madness. Something he wouldn’t come back from. 

And then, you did show up. Exhausted, wounded. Twice as determined. He felt the overwhelming urge to get you into his truck and drive away with you, and never come back.

He felt the familiar grip of wrath, a blinding surge of hatred for this man who’s not quite your husband.

Pulling in front of Will’s building, Frankie puts the truck in park. He grazes a palm over his face, eyes falling on the ugly condo to his left. The teal-colored, budget paint peeling off the sunburned walls in large flecks. 

He sighs, remembering Will’s former house. The one he shared with his fiancée before she left him. Two stories, bow windows on the top floor, a white porch with a swing. Lilac trees in the front lawn. Conversations about having kids.

He readjusts his hat, fingers deftly combing through his hair, takes the six-pack next to him on the seat bench, and exits his truck, dark eyes quickly scanning the block for Ben’s car. The beat-up Camaro is nowhere in sight. He didn’t expect Ben to be on time anyway, but he’s hoping he won’t take too long to join them. 

In the narrow corridor leading to Will’s apartment, a neon lamp goes off and on in a spasmodic, irritating blink. The damp stench of molded wood cloaks his tense frame. He knows that if he tilts his head down to his shoulder and inhales deeply enough, he’ll find you there.

He doesn’t.  

Before he brings down his knuckles to the door, Frankie exhales long and slow. With closed eyes, pursed lips. It’s useless. His shoulders won’t relax. 

When Will opens the door, Frankie’s taken aback by how good he looks. How normal. Thick blond hair kept short, with a carefully trimmed beard. Brawny shoulders, creaseless shirt, alert gaze. Seemingly unchanged, incomprehensibly constant. 

Frankie leans a little longer than necessary into his friend’s full-body hug. When he lets go, the tall man briefly narrows his eyes at him, a steel-blue, surgical stare from behind long blond lashes.

“How are you doing, man?” Will asks in his lazy drawl.

The dim hallway feels too small for the two of them. Frankie’s skin is pulled taut under Will’s unblinking scrutiny. He lowers his head, tucking his face into the protective shadow of his hat. 

“Good. Same,” he mumbles. 

Benny’s buoyant entrance saves him, and it’s more hugs, bulky shoulders colliding, hands clasping and eruptive greetings as they slowly make their way inside the apartment.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Benny asks. 

Frankie smiles at the question. A genuine smile, crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. The warmth of the younger man’s baritone spreads in his chest. It’s the care in his words.

“She’s good. Growing up fast. I think it’s just a matter of days before she walks, now.”

“The minute she walks, I’m gonna teach her how to throw a punch,” Benny grins. 

Every time he visits, it takes Frankie a minute to adjust to the contrast between the exterior of Will’s building and the interior of his apartment, and tonight is no exception. The small, one-bedroom’s white walls look like they’ve been freshly painted. The sofa’s cushions are puffed as if no one has ever sat on it. Every surface is spotless, not a dust particle flying. The coffee table is bare, no glass of water, not even the remote control lying on it. 

Matching frames lined methodically on the living-room walls display family pictures, chronologically arranged, as well as a couple of shots from their time together in the Army. Frankie catches a glimpse of his younger self, cropped curls, sharper jaw, smoother grin. His arm is wrapped around Pope’s shoulders. He averts his gaze. 

In the kitchen, the stainless-steel sink is shiny and empty, clean dishes neatly stored away in the overhead glass cabinets. The stove looks like it was just delivered. 

Frankie knows himself to be tidier than most. When they started dating, Lupe would often tell him it was one of her favorite traits of his. 

But Will’s ability to inhabit a seemingly unlived place is unsettling.   

They take their usual seats around the small, round kitchen table. The two brothers fill up the room. Benny’s presence is bright, cheerful, in complementary contrast with his brother’s density and observing silence. Frankie lands somewhere in the middle. Like a bridge. Like a common ground.

The conversation flows between them, effortless. It would be easy to believe nothing has changed. Up until nine months ago, they used to meet at least once a week. Fight nights, bar nights, gym nights... Pope was rarely in town, Tom busy trying to make ends meet, so it was often just the three of them. 

Now, Frankie seldom sees the Millers more than once a month. But after thirteen years, ten of which they’ve spent serving side by side, he knows them well enough to notice the invisible changes. 

There’s a new sort of gravity to Benny’s demeanor. His laughter isn’t as loud, not as immediate. A loss in spontaneity. There’s Will's unusual patience and leniency toward the young man. The nervous glances at his watch whenever his brother’s late. 

Lately, Frankie has caught himself envying the two men’s bond. The many quiet ways in which they look out for one another. A tightly packed unit. Blood tied. 

He could call his sister. Hell, he could even hop on a plane with Lua and fly across the country to visit her, Lupe could probably use the break. His sister would listen. She already has. And she never judged. 

Will places three more cans of beer on the table. Frankie hesitates. He doesn’t need a DIU in his Christmas stocking.

“What are you guys doing for Christmas? Going back to Colorado?” he asks, stalling.

“Yeah, we’re flying tomorrow,” Benny answers with a slow nod. “Can’t leave mom alone.”

Frankie finds himself trapped under Will’s gaze again. It’s charged, with what, he cannot tell yet, but he’s ready to bet he’ll find out before the evening ends. That fourth beer is really tempting. Instead, his thumb finds the target tattooed on his left hand, blunt nail worrying at it. 

“Say, Fish,” Will starts. 

Here it comes.

“I met Lupe the other day at the grocery store.”

Frankie nods, steeling himself. Chin up, to meet his friend’s eyes. There’s the metallic crunch of a tall boy cracked open, followed by the bubbly, high-pitched hiss of the beer.

“Wanna tell me why she’s under the impression that we see each other every Friday evening?”

A second pair of storm-blue eyes dart to his face. If he wasn’t caught in the middle of it, Frankie could find the scene almost comical.

“Wait,” Benny cuts in, “you guys are back together?”

Frankie shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not.”

“But you still live together,” Will states, impassive, carrying on with his interrogation.

“For Lua,” Frankie says flatly. 

Those two words have come out of his mouth for what feels like a thousand times in the past nine months, to family, close friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. Today, for the first time, he realizes how incomprehensible, how irrational it might have sounded to all of them. 

“Why are you lying to her, then?” Will leans in closer, his face contrasted in harsh shadows under the overhead suspension. 

“Look Will,” Frankie starts, his tone a notch too defensive, “I appreciate your concern, I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not on anything, ok? So you can– you can drop it.”

The request is rhetorical. Desperate, really. Ironhead is not known for letting go, once he has latched onto something. Across from Frankie, Benny drinks up in silence, eyes flickering between the two men and the growing tension that hangs like smoke between them. 

An ugly apprehension creeps up along Frankie’s nape. 

“I know you’re not using. I can tell. You look better than I’ve seen you looking in a while, aside from the fact that you’re wound up pretty tight. But we’re in this fucking aftermath together, Fish, so I gotta ask: what the fuck is it that you do every Friday evening?”

Frankie sits up straight, folding his arms over his chest, blood simmering. 

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Will cocks his chin toward Benny as he adds, “I trust you with mine and my brother’s life.”

“But not with mine,” Frankie whispers, comprehension finally dawning on him, and somehow, his friend’s concern hits him harder than an unlikely lack of trust. Something snaps and goes slack between his shoulders. 

Benny moves suddenly, his massive frame leaning forward. Propping his forearms on the table, he lets out a long, low whistle. 

“Holy shit, man,” he says, “Fish got himself a new girl.”

Will frowns. His eyes do a quick back and forth between his brother and Frankie, who hangs his head, hiding under the brim of his hat, hissing an angered fuck.

Benny erupts in thundering laughter. Around them, the tension bursts open, the entire atmosphere dripping with it, the air moving again. 

“No. No, I don’t,” Frankie mutters, shaking his head.

His denial is drowned under Benny’s booming voice.

“Come on! Look at yourself, old man, you’re fucking blushing! You got yourself some pussy!”

“Do you? Did you meet someone?” Will presses, trying to lock eyes with him. 

Frankie gives it to him. Raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes, shaking his head still, a vein ready to pop in his corded neck. 

“I didn’t meet anyone. She’s not a girl. I’m not talking about her here,” he grits.

Will leans back in his chair. It creaks loud and tired under his weight. He lets out a heavy sigh, of relief perhaps, or deepened worry.

“Come on, Fish! Give us something. At least tell us what she looks like,” Benny teases. 

He opens another beer and slides it over to Frankie across the table. 

Will’s eyes have yet to leave his face.

“Why don’t you tell Lupe about it? She’s the one who broke up with you,” he remarks. 

“Less than nine months ago. After I fucked up, yet again. She’s the mother of my kid, Will, she’s been through enough on my account.”

Will nods in silence, apparently satisfied with this explanation. 

“Anyway, it’s nothing. There’s nothing to tell,” Frankie adds, swallowing the bitter taste that sits at the back of his tongue.

Silence settles over the three of them. Frankie grabs the can and brings it to his lips, downing half of its content in long gulps. 

Your scent is there, right there, meshed into the fabric of his jacket. It takes all of his willpower not to turn his head and breathe you in.

“She’s married, is she?” Benny asks with a shit-eating grin. 

Will’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in sheer horror. 

“Is she?” he asks, plunging forward to look at him. 

Frankie grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, eyes clenching shut. 

“Fish, is she married?” Will repeats, a shrill undertone in his usual low drawl.

“Well, I, for one, am not judging you,” Benny declares, giving his brother a pointed look and raising his can as if to toast Frankie.

Frankie sighs. 

He’s never going back to that motel.

—

You don’t like champagne, but that’s all Adrian’s parents ever serve you. It’s fine. For once, you don’t mind. You’ll be driving later today, so you need your mind clear and your reflexes sharp.

You cradle the tall glass in your hand. The taste has long gone stale, the liquid lukewarm in the warmth of your palm. The bubbles are flat. On your lap, your phone buzzes quietly with a new message. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes dart in your direction, annoyance darkening them. 

You swipe your thumb across the screen, and a smile plays on your lips at the sight of Ava and Polly grinning for the camera. They’re sitting in the middle of a large group of women, you quickly count twelve of them, wearing a rainbow of paper crowns. 

They’re gathered in front of a festive table. A small living-room, brightly lit, cluttered with art, lamps, and plants. A Christmas tree stands in the left corner. In front of them, the plates are loaded with what looks like turkey and roasted vegetables. Napkins, cutlery, candles, and decorative pine tree branches scattered on the table. There’s a large cake dish at the center, on top of which sits the highest lemon meringue cake you’ve ever seen, the topping at least three inches high, clearly homemade. 

Some of the women are holding wine glasses, white or red, half full, lipstick smeared on the rim. The photograph has captured them mid-cheers, their lips pursed around a word that’s not yet a smile. The picture is all crinkling eyes, ringing laughter, colorful clothes and flushed cheeks. 

You tap your thumb on the screen in fast motions. 

Gorgeous! All of you!

Wait, is that turkey vegan?

You add a winking emoji to clarify your tone before pressing send.

The three dots blink briefly and the dark-haired, shrugging emoji pops up on the screen. 

You chuckle. 

It’s Xmas!!!!! Lexi’s filling is fkg delicious!!!!! 

What abt u? U holding up????

The little round yellow face, with its mouth turned downward, stirs guilt in your gut. 

Ava was tearing up again, when you dropped her at the airport two days ago, despite your many reassurances that you would be perfectly alright. It’s not your first Christmas apart, but it’s the first one with over a thousand miles between you. You want to put her mind at ease. For her to remain carefree as long as life allows her to be. 

I’m good, pup ♥ But I’d be even better if I was about to eat that meringue cake, OMG!

It’s not a lie, not exactly. Of course, it’s the first time in decades you’re completely sober to face the ordeal that is Christmas diner at Adrian’s parents. It’s almost an outer body experience. But strangely, not the nerve-racking one you feared. You anticipated worse. For every sensation to be impossibly loud, blinding, sharp. For your mind to spiral downward at the first uncomfortable interaction. 

It hasn’t. You’re nervous, but also focused. And that grip provides you with just enough balance. This year, you’ve got a clear course of action. At least for the upcoming couple of days. One step at a time.

Pinching the screen, you zoom in on Ava’s face, before your eyes flicker up to the dining table you’re sitting at and the people around it. 

Everything’s beige. From the tablecloth linen to the leftovers growing cold on the plates. From the Christmas tree and the guests’ clothing to Adrian’s mother’s hair.

Beige, bland, boring. Ashen.

The only touch of color is on Adrian’s face. Those ruby-colored specks spreading to his cheeks from the neck, standing out in his pale carnation. A reaction you only seem to arouse when he’s furious with you. 

His mother announces dessert will be served in the jardin d’hiver, which is how Beatrice insists on calling the back porch. 

Your phone vibrates, signaling another text from Ava. You slide it in the pocket of your jumpsuit without opening it. Adrian glowers at you a second longer before walking over to the end of the table to assist his grandmother. 

His brother nearly races him to it. You watch the grown-up man in his bespoke Armani suit get up so fast he nearly trips over the legs of his chair. 

Their motivation is not honorable. Affection doesn’t play into their eagerness. There isn’t a member of the Mountcastle family who harbors love or respect for the 92 year old, acrimonious matriarch. In their defense, she’s a dried-up, nasty piece of bigotry, built on pure, solid hatred, even by their conservative standards and values. 

But she owns the estate and she holds the money. And so the two Mountcastle spawns scramble to their feet to make a show of their devotion.

The whole clan gets up to form a procession behind the old woman’s frail, hunched silhouette. Parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws and cousins, children in ruffled dresses and short dress pants flittering around them. Your so-called family. You can barely tell them apart. 

Detached, you stride slowly behind, toward the back of the house. You haven't worn heels in two weeks. It’s quite surprising how fast you got unused to them. Your slick, black pumps press uncomfortably on your little toes, rubbing your skin raw. But you won’t be wearing them much longer. So you suck in the pain. You let it ground you. 

Your choice of outfit elicited a stern glance from Adrian when you slipped it on this morning. He hovered behind you, disapproving and silent, still riled up from your earlier confrontation when you had announced you’d be driving your car to his parents’ house, so you could leave early. 

You stood in front of the mirror, rigid and hesitant, sliding up the side zipper. A sleeveless black jumpsuit with a V-cut cleavage in the front, and a deeper one exposing your back, bought in a thrift store ages ago, when you were still in college. You exhumed it from the depth of your closet, in hopes it would convoke the boldness you had briefly experienced during this short period of your life. You’re done dressing to please anyone but yourself. 

The help walks briskly past you through the double, ornate-glass doors leading to the porch. She lays a porcelain tray on the console near the railing. 

“La bûche de Noël!” Beatrice declares triumphantly, opening her arms to gesture theatrically at the brown mass on the tray. 

A wave of blond heads undulates toward the console, blue eyes in every nuance darting at the dish where a log-shaped lump of a cake sits.  

“What is this monstrosity?” her mother-in-law croaks. 

The entire family falls silent. Your eyes grow wide and you bite down on your grin.

Beatrice instantly loses her carefully crafted composure. It’s never been obvious to you until now, how vacant her gaze turns whenever something upsets her. You briefly wonder what’s her drug of choice to escape. You sure hope she has one.

“Oh but it’s French, Abigail,” she murmurs. “It’s a delicacy. I bought it from Sucré Table, on Kennedy Boulevard.”

“What’s wrong with an American pecan pie?” the matriarch spits out without so much as a  look for her daughter-in-law.

Beatrice smiles her empty smile, sharp yellowed teeth, hardened gray eyes. You can’t bear to look at her any longer. You turn your head, and your gaze meets Agatha’s. 

The young girl instantly lightens up, straightening her back in her baby-blue seersucker dress, smiling at you with something you can only describe as relief. She raises a little hand and wriggles her thin fingers. The ten year old is your favorite. You love her dearly. Her bubbly personality and burgeoning sense of humor have seen you through many family gatherings. 

Today, it hurts you to admit, you’ve kept her at arm’s length, selfishly preserving yourself from Beatrice’s favorite question: when will you have a child of your own?

With a slight wince, you blink away the vision of Frankie holding his little girl in the photo booth picture. Their full heads of curls. Their dimpled grins. 

Charles, Adrian’s father, is the first to break the uneasy silence, with a playful albeit daring remark on his mother’s failing sense of adventure. The assembly lets out a collective breath. Beatrice takes a seat on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, curtly signaling the help to cut the bûche and serve it.

You exhale slowly through parted lips. If you wait any longer, courage will fail you. 

Smoothing your palms over your belly, you make your way to Adrian, where he’s leaning against the railing at the rear end of the porch. 

“I’ll be going, now,” you whisper, eyes not quite meeting his. 

He sighs, something constrained and hostile, facing away toward the sprawling, lush garden, hydrangeas, willow trees. Tension rolls off his lanky frame. Your stomach turns, your mind swivels, grasping for words of reassurance. 

Incomprehensibly, you want him to talk to you, even though you’re terrified of what he might say. The poisoned words he’s capable of, somehow preferable to his irate silence. 

“I’ll excuse myself to your mother before leaving. I’ll be discreet. I promise. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your–”

He turns to face you so fast it startles you. 

“You could at least tell me where you’re going.”

You look up at him, taken aback by his pained expression. Under his pinched brow, his features are twisted in an unfamiliar expression. He slithers a hand around your waist, drawing you close, and it strikes you: he’s pleading. 

A breath hitches inside your chest. From this close, you can see the flecks of green in his pale blue irises. You had forgotten their complexity. Their refined beauty. He tightens his grip on you, fingers curling into your tender flesh. The lie tumbles out of you before you can hold it. 

“I’m just going to check in on Ava. It’s her first Christmas on her own.” 

You catch a glimpse of his mother in your peripheral, handing out Bone China dessert plates. The heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes is going to your head. The day is swirling inside your brain, around you, jardin d’hiver, French dessert, delicacy. Agatha’s desperate little wave, her loneliness, your cowardice. Adrian’s eyes of green and their angry plea. 

Your lungs constrict, not letting you breathe.

Adrian tilts down his face, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath skates your skin when he speaks. 

“What happened to us, babe?” 

His lips brush against the edge of your jaw. Static scrambles your brain; your hand motions upward of its own volition to rest on his back. The pain, the remorse in his voice sits like a razor blade inside your throat. You have to talk around the taste of your blood, voice unrecognizable. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

It’s not a lie. You will be back tomorrow. Facing a blank page, the rest of your life to figure out, to navigate with what you’ve learned about yourself. 

His hand moves, sliding down to rest in the small of your back, the muscles of his back flexing under your light touch, and your palm, your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth. 

“I miss you,” he whispers against your lips. 

—

The car stereo plays a classical rendition of Let it snow. Ten minutes into driving, you gave up trying to find a station that would broadcast something other than Christmas tunes. 

The traffic is fluid, the roads eerily deserted. The windows on both sides are cracked open, and the warm, late afternoon air that wafts in soothes your sore rib cage. 

Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. 

You stop it.

The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one. 

You’re disappointed to find a lanky young man sitting in Raul’s place behind the counter of the motel’s office. His blond hair is tied in a bun on top of his head, and his phone blasts pop tunes in audio slices of fifteen seconds through revolving TikTok videos. You want to cover your ears. Or smash up his phone. 

He hands you the key, and you all but rush out of the office, only slowing once you’ve reached the front door of your room. 

Before stepping inside, you halt under the porch. 

Beyond the parking lot, beyond the road, over the horizon, dusk descends in dark tangerine over the canopy of trees. Slowly, the sky turns saffron in seamless gradations. The air feels textured, grainy like an old photograph, like long-gone, sunny vacations, like faded memories. The evening breeze is pleasant. The night envelops you, violet-blue, regrets and losses. 

Inside room number 2, you draw the yellow curtains. You stand still for a few moments, confused, your routine disrupted, since you’re not expecting him.  

It’s too early to sleep, but the tension that has run through you throughout the week, culminating with Adrian’s kiss, is now flowing out of your body, leaving you limp. 

Adrian hadn’t held you like that in years. With passion and intent. Perhaps even sincerity. He’d never done that, attempted to use your nostalgic heart to his benefit. Intimidation had usually sufficed.  

Toeing off your shoes, you slowly undress. You fold your clothes in a neat little pile, similar to the one you found on the desk last Saturday. Military-like. 

The questions you never asked Frankie flood your brain. All the things about him you will never have the time to learn. They form a lump in the dip of your collarbone. They prickle under your eyelids. 

You clench your eyes shut, and invoke the image of his daughter’s face, trying to picture their Christmas celebration to strengthen your resolve. Pecan pies and half-nibbled, minute portions of roasted turkey. Red boxes wrapped in white ribbons under the blinking tree. A teddy bear. Jigsaw puzzles with large pieces. Plastic toys with pushing buttons and synthetic lullabies. A rocking horse, maybe. 

The image of him with that little girl has plagued you, continuously, throughout the week. Pain cloaking you like mist, seeping inside you, breaching the molecular structure of your flesh. Redefining it. Until you woke up one night, drenched in cold sweat, with a certitude ringing out inside your head: you had to give him up. Give him back, back to his wife and daughter. 

You’d go to the motel one last time, one last indulgence, to say goodbye to the idea of him, and you’d give him back to his family.

When your heart rate has slowed down, you walk over to the bathroom to wash your face clean. You’ll miss your reflection in that black-edged mirror. You don’t smile and say, “Stop me.”

The bedspread is gross. The polyester fabric, once a peach shade of orange, is darkened in multiple places by stains of various shapes and consistencies. You’re probably responsible for most of it. 

Grabbing a corner of the heavy quilt, you slide it off the bed entirely. The white linen underneath seems clean enough. 

You climb into bed, and repress a shiver. You switch off the lights and pull up the sheet to your chin. The fabric is threadbare, starchy. 

How can you be so cold, in the mild evening?

Lying curled up on your side, eyes strained on the curtains, you don’t feel yourself falling asleep. 

Soon, you’re miles away from the motel, your naked body drifting into the Pacific Ocean. You’re half-immersed, but afloat. The undercurrent is strong underneath the white crests of the violent waves, but you’re not scared. As long as you lie in the water, as long as you don’t try to resist, you’ll be fine. Ears beneath the surface, you’re isolated by the silence of the dark abyss, eyes staring up into the immensity above you. 

It’s a different kind of sunset. Flamboyant, carmine, and the whole sky is ablaze with it. The horizon is on fire, but you’re safe in the water. 

A vague intuition roils your peace. You’re supposed to look for something. How, you don’t know, because you cannot shift from your position, or you’ll sink. 

Suddenly, something tailspins across the sky in a fast downward fall. Too small to be a bird, too slow for a shooting star. Thick streaks of ominous gray fumes trail behind it in its descent.

Should you be scared? Should you try to get away from it? It’s so far in the distance, it can’t be much of a threat. It’s too late, now, anyway, you tilt your head to the side in time to watch it collide with the surface of the ocean. 

You feel the impact in the undertow. Something too big stirs between your lungs, and you gasp as the muted sound of the collision reaches you in a vibrating shockwave. 

The ripples of the impact are crawling fast over the surface, in your direction. A sense of dread, of impending doom, scrambles your brain. You jolt upward to a vertical position, legs and hands beating against the current, pushing against the water. 

The balance is fractured. You’re pulled under.  

You’re sinking fast, as fast as that thing fell into the ocean, and above the surface, the crimson sky is turning dim. 

Instinctually, you rebel against it, screaming for help but it’s water, not air, that fills your lungs. Salty, cold, abrading your throat when you choke on it. 

You’re dying, or you’re dead already, because something firm and soft radiates heat against your back. 

“Shhh, it’s ok.”

A strong arm bands firmly around your chest, warm palm, splayed fingers, pulling you flush against warm skin. 

“I got you, baby.”

Your eyes shoot open. The dark bedroom materializes in your blurred vision, the silhouette of the bedside table and the lamp, the pale square of the window. Its shape detached from the wall, dancing in the darkness. 

“Frankie?”

Frankie presses you into him, a short, strong squeeze of an answer. 

But your dream is clinging to the edges of your consciousness, salty water sloshing at the bottom of your lungs. 

“‘S that really you?” you ask again, words slurred through sleep, panic in the inflection of your question. 

His hand wraps around your breast. He slots his face into the curve of your neck, the scruff of his jaw a tickle against your bare skin. 

“Why, you were expecting someone else?” 

You close your eyes, tears rising, sudden, like the tide of the Pacific Ocean. 

“I’m not still dreaming?” you breathe out. 

His response is immediate. His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder. The bite is shallow, but firm, and you let out a little sound, between a surprised gasp and a relieved exhale. 

“See? Not dreaming. Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of you in the morning,” he mouths against your skin before kissing it better. A pointed kiss, plush, parted lips. A promise. 

The impact of that thing on the surface of the ocean is still pulsating through you. Ricocheting around your rib cage. You wiggle into his hold to turn around and face him, your palms finding the plane of his broad chest. 

Your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

In the semidarkness, you can only make out the outline of his sharp features. You scoot closer, tucking your face into his neck, taming the vibration with his scent. 

“Will you still be here in the morning?” 

You feel the thick swallow in his throat against your temple. It’s a beat before he moves, tilting his head to rest his chin on the crown of your head, both arms circling your waist. Engulfing you in his hold. 

“I will.”

—

Frankie knew you’d be at the motel. Instinctually so. A gut feeling, unnerving in its clarity. 

He hadn’t planned on going when he headed out. He had decided never to set a foot there ever again, and he was going to stand by his decision. After he’d put his daughter to bed, he just needed to get out of the house. Escape the charged atmosphere. 

It was Lua’s second Christmas, and he hadn't even managed to keep his family together that long. 

Lupe was watching a movie in the living-room. He’d leaned against the door frame, already in his hat and jacket. She hated his hat. She had forbidden him to wear it inside the house when they started dating, and he still abided by that rule. A belated mark of respect. 

“I’m heading out,” he announced, as neutral as possible. “Not sure when I’ll be back, don’t worry, ok?”

She was done being worried about him. He knew this much. He understood. He accepted. 

They still shared a roof, however. Bills, deadlines, and most importantly, responsibilities regarding the child they had brought into this world. He owed her basic information on his whereabouts. He may have lied about where he went, but he had always been back home before Lua woke up, as agreed between them.

“Yeah, ok,” she answered, without lifting her eyes from the TV screen. 

As he pushed away from the lintel, she turned to face him, as if remembering something. 

“Wait, Francisco?”

She hadn’t called him Frankie since she’d broken up with him. 

“Yea?” he said, backtracking to stand on the threshold. 

Her dark eyes glimmered, lit up by the TV screen’s flickering light. She was beautiful. A superior kind of beauty. Like gilded age Hollywood nobility. Dolores Del Rio, Linda Darnell. Even when tired, even with a bare face, and sitting in her pajamas with a bowl of chips between her crossed legs. Frankie hoped Lua would grow up to look like her. To be like her. And not take from him and his rough features. And his fucked up brain. 

“Could you stay in to take care of Lua next weekend? I know Friday’s your night, but I— I’ve got an opportunity to get away for the weekend. I might not be back until the 2nd.”

He recognized it in her demeanor. In the way she tried facing him without being able to look straight at him. The discreet, unconscious fiddling of the hem of her t-shirt. The concealment. Handing out a part, but not all the truth. Only what’s convenient. 

He briefly wondered if he’d been this obvious when he was running around on drugs. Probably even more so. How she didn’t kick him in the jaw was still a mystery to him. He owed her so much for her patience alone. 

“No problem, I’ll be here. Happy to do it for you,” he said in earnest, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping she’d get the meaning behind it: she deserved someone else. Someone better. 

“Ok. Cool.” She paused before she added, “Appreciate it.”

He nodded in silence and turned around, walking toward the front door. 

Originally, the plan had been to drive without a goal. Pop an old Jefferson Airplane album into the truck’s stereo and listen to the music, drifting into the night. Slowly ease down from the day’s tensions. 

Your scent had eventually dissipated from the cab. It’d been eight days. He was never going back to that motel, and with her request, Lupe had just made his resolution easier to translate into action. 

The words formed inside his mind. He pronounced them out loud. 

I’m never going back to that motel. 

And he knew. You were there, at this very moment. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew. You’d said you couldn’t come, but it was Christmas evening, not Christmas Eve. Most families were done with the celebrations, heading home, cleaning up, storing away the china until next Thanksgiving. 

He pictured you sitting on the edge of the bed, a lonely silhouette peering out into the twilight beyond the yellow curtains, and a violent pain shot through his chest. He thought he was having a heart attack, the way his heart squeezed and sank. 

It hadn’t been more than a split second between his vision and his decision. He hit the brakes, ignoring the white SUV honking and swerving behind him, and U-turned on Ocean to head toward the 589 northbound. 

When he pulled into the parking lot, the night was pitch dark. Your gray sedan appeared in his headlights. He let out a sigh of relief as he parked behind it. The pain inside his chest was only starting to ebb. 

He got out fast and climbed onto the porch in front of room number 2. You hadn’t even locked the door. 

—

Dawn wakes you. The light gently tugging at your consciousness, little by little. Pale but insistent, nudging your eyes open. 

The room looks so different in the daylight. A miracle you have yet to tire of. Dust particles dancing in the grazing sunbeams of an early winter morning. Quiet and peace.

It’s been a long while since you last slept this well. You sigh at the cliché. A good-hearted, full-chested sigh.

Frankie’s heat behind you is nearly too much. His chest pressed against your back, his left arm, limp and heavy, resting across your waist. 

His breathing is deep. Slow, and steady. With each rise and fall of his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glides between your two bodies. His breath ruffles the thin hair on your nape in a gentle tickle.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, you try peeling his arm off you. You’ve almost made it when he suddenly brings it back down. 

“Nope,” he mumbles with closed eyes. The word is sleep-heavy, but the corner of his lips are twitching.

You stifle a delighted giggle.

“I have to use the bathroom.” 

“Mmh.” 

There’s a pause as he considers it, as you vainly try to bite down on your childlike grin.

“Ok,” he finally says, with exaggerated reluctance. 

He doesn’t move his arm, though. You have to wiggle yourself out of his hold. 

When you exit the bathroom, he’s still in the same position. The room is flooded with light. The sun darts its rays into his sleep-mussed hair. From golden strands to darker depth, his curls are pointing in every direction. 

You tiptoe in silence, doing your very best to climb back on the bed without disturbing his slumber. You want this. More than anything you’ve ever wanted. This tranquil moment to yourself, alone with his sleeping body. 

Kneeled behind him on the mattress, you take in his breadth, impressive even in this position as he lies on his side. You breathe in his scent, leather, cedar wood, and the musk of his skin, warm from sleep, from the morning sun, from your own body. 

There’s a larger freckle on the left side of his neck. Your fingers hover over it, curious, tempted. Drifting higher, your gaze uncovers a faded tattoo behind his ear. You can’t make out what it represents. The green ink is blurred, as if smeared underneath his skin. You doubt it was professionally done. It tugs at your heart with a sharp little pang of a pain to imagine him as a teenager. Tall and lean, smooth cheeks, smooth skin, a friend hunched over him with a needle and an ink pen.  

There’s another one on his left hand. This one, you know well. You’ve kissed it. Licked it. Held on to it. It’s nestled on the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Two circles and a dot in their center. A target, you assume, but you can’t be certain. The pile of clothes folded in military fashion springs to mind. 

Your eyes continue their exploration, flicking to his other wrist, with its inked arabesque, but it’s over in a second. 

You let out a sharp gasp, and he moves so fast you can’t deflect. His arm seizes you by the  waist, strong and unyielding. He drags you over his body, and you stumble onto the mattress in front of him. 

“What are you doing, back there?” he husks, a smile in his tone, and you giggle, again. 

He pulls you in close to him. 

“I’m looking at my Christmas present,” you answer.

He lets out a low chuckle. You made him laugh. Pride flares up in your chest. He smiles a dimpled smile, and you suck in a shaky breath, more pain blooming inside your rib cage. 

“You’re so pretty in this light,” you whisper in wonderment.

“You’re pretty in every light.”

“How would you know, you haven’t opened your eyes yet,” you tease.

You tease. Your levity makes you dizzy. 

His eyebrows disappear in his soft curls. He lifts one eyelid, pursing his lips. The morning sun catches at the mahogany of his iris. 

“You questioning my judgment here?” 

Smiling, you move your hips closer to his, to where you want to feel him. The low rasp of his voice is dripping down inside you, slowly, surely. Swirling like honey. Thick, rich trickles of amber, sticky and sweet. Like the light playing on his freckled skin. Like his warmth under your hands. Too much and not enough, pooling down between your legs. 

Reaching up, you scratch your nails in his beard, tracing the heart-shaped, bare patch on his jaw with your fingertips.  

“Is it ok that you’re still here? At this hour?” you ask, focusing on the tip of your finger.

“I don’t know. I hope my truck is not gonna turn into a pumpkin,” he answers, giving your waist a little pinch.

“I hope not. I like your truck.” 

Your fingers travel down along his strong neck. 

“How’s your head?” he asks. 

The bobbing of his throat is mesmerizing. It’s a minute before you’re able to answer.

“You still don’t believe I fell, do you?”

“I believe you. It’s him I don’t trust.”

You’re brought back, violently so, under Beatrice’s porch, into Adrian’s arms and his lips pressed to yours, prying them open. To his taste on your tongue, bitter like stale champagne. Yesterday afternoon. Forever ago. 

Perhaps he sees the memory clouding your gaze, because his leg wedges between yours, his body curling around your body. Protective, possessive. He nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, taking in a deep, full breath. His lips trail open-mouth kisses, tickling and wet, along the line of your throat. You burrow into his chest, into his hold, into his world.

The words bubble up from the depth of your chest, from where they formed between your lungs, where the creature is purring, lapping honey, warm and content. 

“My name is Lee.”

Frankie pulls back immediately with a wide-eyed stare. You see, more than you hear, the name rolling around the tip of his tongue, as he tastes it on his palate. 

“Lee. Lee. Lee.”

On the third occurrence, his hand circles your hip and slides down to the round of your ass, grasping your flesh as if to hold you down. Make sure you won’t vanish. There’s that perpetual crease between his brow. His heart is thrumming hard and fast against yours. You grow restless between his arms.  

“I hate it,” you say.

“What?”

You swallow thickly, mouth cardboard dry. 

“My name.”

He props himself up on his elbow to better face your scowling expression, eyes piercing you under his deep frown. 

“Why?”

“They gave me my grandfather’s name. Lee Abbott. Lee Abbott & Son, import export,” you recite. “It’s not even mine.”

Your eyes flicker, scanning his face, trying to read the ticking of his jaw, the widening of his pupils. 

“I think it’s perfect. Lee’s perfect.”

His voice is breathy, like he just took a punch to the gut, and it sends your mind reeling. Is this what he sounds like when he’s lying?

“How?” You wrestle the question out of your throat, and it’s still barely audible.

“It’s fearless. It’s fucking badass,” he answers without missing a beat, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it. 

“What?” you scoff incredulously. You shake your head on the starched pillowcase. “I’m not badass. I’m not fearless, Frankie, I can guarantee you that.”

The pink tip of his tongue darts between his lips as he narrows his gaze on you. His hand leaves your hip. He brings it up to your face, and he pauses. An inch from your skin, like he’s taming an animal, scared, wild or wounded, or all three, before brushing his knuckles to your cheek. 

It’s overwhelming, his body hunched over yours. Crowding your senses. Filling your vision. His rhythmic strokes, rough hand, gentle touch. It’s something you had foreseen but weren’t quite ready to experience: his ability for tenderness. 

You’re cornered. Entirely. You should probably be scared. To some extent, you are. But you know you’re safe, the feeling instinctive. You must trust the waves, trust the tide of this deep dark ocean. It’ll keep you afloat. Embrace the impact. Embrace its concentric ripples. 

“Ok,” he starts. “Here’s how I see it. Marion… Marion, she’s hiding. She’s running away with something that’s not hers, right? Something she stole. Whereas Lee… Lee got out there and she took chances. She got what she wanted. She made it hers.”

Your heart beats inside your throat, blood flushing your face and rushing through your ears with a deafening roar. 

“Did she?”

He nods. 

“Yea. Yea, she did.” 

He leans down, slowly lowering his lips to yours. His kiss is patient, reverent, slow-building. Plush lips wrapped around yours, tongue gently prodding, softly coaxing you open. Between your arms, his shoulders tremble under the force of his restraint. 

When you ease into it with a quiet whimper, he draws you in closer. You arch up in his embrace, fingers threading through his curls, right leg brushing up along his. 

His mouth crushes yours with a groan. He licks inside you, tongues entwined, swirling. Honey dripping down your spine, fire licking up your core, electricity tingling along your limbs. 

Kisses that are more teeth than lips, when he trails the line of your jaw, the coarse hair of his beard scrapping your cheeks. Calloused hands spamming the expanse of your smooth skin, cupping your breasts, rough and needy, and you feel the hot press of his hard length against your belly as he rocks against you. 

Your heart is impossibly light. Like it’s going to rip through your rib cage and fly away. Like you’ll be left without one, and the wild creature, always demanding more, will take its place. Because that’s what it’s been waiting for, since the very beginning. 

Forgotten, your good will and resolutions, weak promises you made to yourself. Pushed back, pushed down, guilt and photo booth pictures of his dimpled baby girl. Drowned, intrusive memories, blue eyes, white porch, French delicacy. 

He’s yours, he said so himself, didn’t he? For the first time ever, something’s yours, wholly. You got him, because of everything you surrendered. 

And it matters not that you’re lying to yourself. That, really, he belongs to somebody else. It matters not when his mouth is all over you, greedy, taking. Devouring you. When his fingers are gliding through your soaked folds, breaching your entrance. When they’re buried inside you, thick and curled and pumping. 

When you’re blooming sticky and wet, pretty and dazed, bursting open under his touch, moaning his name. 

He’s yours now. In this room. In the gift of your name. In your heart that’s flying away from you as you clench and shatter on his hand. 

He pulls up, blown out pupils, damp wild curls falling on his forehead. He drags his fingers out of you and the emptiness prickles at the corner of your eyelids. His eyes are trained on you as he licks them. As he smiles, a cocky grin stretches his gorgeous lips and dimples his pretty face, and perhaps this is as close as you’ll ever get to see him looking like his teenage self. That smug smile. All pride and confidence. 

You’re sinking into that shitty mattress, weighed down by melancholy and pleasure and regrets. And something else. Something more stubborn than you, that you still cannot name. 

Frankie fastens his mouth to yours, sharing your taste with you, wedging his body between your legs, spreading your hips with his waist. 

Your emptiness is throbbing at the center of you. 

“Frankie please, please.”

“Yes, baby. Told you I was gonna take care of you.”

Flexing his hips, he rubs his length against your scorching heat, coating himself in your slick. Anticipation tingles through the blunt edges of your previous release. You squirm under the weight of him, knees touching the mattress, cracked open, vibrating. 

He lines up at your entrance, dark eyes focused on your face, and oh god, the fucking size of him. The fucking stretch. The burn as he inches in, excruciatingly slow. It has you blinking away tears of pain and gratitude, it has you whining his name. 

He’s all blown-out pupils, taut muscles, and slack jaw, as he sheathes his cock inside your heat, all the way in. Round head nudging at your cervix. The sight of him, nearly wrecked, control waning, as he makes room for himself inside you rips through you. 

“You feel so damn good, Lee,” he says, impossibly soft, and you feel it inside your chest, with the way he’s lying on you. 

It’s a stretching glide, when he starts moving. A spreading grind. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him. He hooks an arm under your knee and folds you around him. He’s not fully pulling out, he can’t, he needs you wrapped around him, this much you understand, clearly, through the annihilation of his deep strokes. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, you can’t breathe and your body’s a thinning envelope between your heart and Frankie’s. It’s too much, his weight inside and over you, his breath in your mouth, his smell everywhere. 

You’re overwhelmed, forced to surrender to the fire coiling inside you. With the coarse hair at his base scraping against the sensitive bud of your clit, with his cock, hot and heavy, dragging against your walls. 

Your body jerks underneath him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder to draw him closer, your other hand pushing him away and he moves fast, strong fingers circling your wrist and sliding your hand above your head, twining your fingers. You’re pinned down. Helpless. Willing. Unmoored by the intensity of the building impact. 

He feels it, feels your frantic flutter around his cock and the frenzied racing of your pulse and he drives in deeper, faster, harder. The room fills up with the sound of his sweat-damp skin slapping against yours. Louder than the creaking bed, louder than the headboard’s thud on the wall. 

“Oh god!” you cry.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he grunts into your mouth.  

—

Frankie sees the plea in your eyes, shiny with tears, too wide, too glassy. Come with me, you’re begging him, come inside. He’s never fucked you like that, not you, not anyone, he’s never bared himself so fully. He’s gonna lose himself for good, this time. 

You’re breaking up under his rolling hips, bucking hard against the press of his body. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, clenching cunt, clenched eyelids. 

Something blares up in the back of his head. A signal. An alarm. 

He can’t even fuck you through it. You let out a broken cry when he pulls out, spurting dense ropes of come on your mound with a tense “fuck.”

A dry little sob rattles through your chest. Muffled, apologetic. 

He untangles his fingers from yours, unhooks your leg from his arm. Pushes away from you on the rumpled sheets, and it’s etched on your face, in your pinched brow, in your quivering lip. The disillusion. The void he’s failed to fill. 

That fucking heart attack of a pain squeezes at his chest again. 

He rolls onto his back, freeing you, and you gulp in a large breath. 

In the room, the air is stifling. Charged with the coppery smell of sex. The daylight is unforgiving with the chipped furniture and the moth-eaten curtains. With that ugly painting of the Appalachian. 

“Let’s go clean you up,” he says, sitting up with a cinch. Unable to bear your silence. 

“No,” you whisper. “I need a minute.”

You shut your eyes close. You retreat. He watches you disappear beyond the shore of your inner island. Where he cannot follow you. 

There’s noise coming through the paper thin walls from next door. Several voices, a television, maybe. Further away, the low humming of a vacuum cleaner. 

How long until room-service robs you from him?

He lies back down. Stares at your profile, still and absent, cut out in amber against the light from the window. 

Lee. 

The most beautiful name he’s ever heard. He briefly noted the similarities: three letters, starting with an L. Lee. Lua. A perfect balance. 

It tastes like honey. You said, “My name is Lee” but what you meant was, “I trust you.” 

What has he done with your trust? 

How could he ever imagine himself capable of living without this? Without you? Without this room, even? 

His mind drifts to his early morning routine, Lua curled up on his lap, drinking her bottle with those hungry, little grunting noises. Chubby little fingers wrapped around his thumb. 

He was always an early riser. Which was practical during his time in the Army. The nightmares, the drugs, they disrupted that. He could be up, without being awake. Without being there. 

But lately, he’s the first to rise again, no matter how late sleep finds him. 

He loves that Lua seems to know he’s awake. She never cried in the morning. When she was just a newborn baby, she would make those quiet babbling noises. Now she calls his name. Papa. 

He comes into her room with her bottle ready. Most mornings, she’s up, already, holding herself upright with the bars of her crib. That smile she gives him, when she sees him. That’s his morning sun. 

He picks her up with one hand, she weighs so little, and yet so much. He covers her face in tickling smooches until she stops giggling and starts pushing him away, making grabby hand gestures at her bottle. 

These moments of a peace he doesn’t deserve, in the early, blue hours, he owes them to you. You’ve smothered the nightmares. You’ve quietened his mind. Patiently chipped away at the walls he had erected between himself and happiness, with your quiet, determined strength. 

Fuck. 

You’re getting up. He watches you climb off the bed and saunter off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stay alone on this bed, in this room. Without you. 

So he follows you, standing on the threshold, leaning on the door frame of the windowless bathroom, looking at you as you clean yourself with a towel. 

The paint is coming off on the lintel. The small neon above the sink lights up shit. The shower head is crusty with limestone. Humidity speckles the ceiling in black, hairy dots above the bathtub. 

He hates himself for taking you here. 

Back in September, he had chosen the place because it seemed sufficiently remote. Because he hoped it would deter you. Scare you away. 

He hates that you didn’t even flinch. 

He hates that he’s grown fond of this shithole. 

You turn and hand him a glass of water. He steps inside with you. You watch him drink up, head tilted and your big, searching eyes on him. The resolve that sharpens them, that he witnessed emerging, Friday night after Friday night, as resignation receded. That’s what guides him now. 

There’s something intrinsically soft, a new kind of intimacy, about standing together in that bathroom. Soon, you’ll have to part. The imminent separation hangs heavy and silent between you. Tangible. He wants you again, already.

You’ve sensed the storm raging inside his head. He can tell, because it’s as though you’re trying to absorb it with your calm demeanor. He resents that. Doesn’t want you to. His moods are not your burden to carry. 

You take the glass from him and run the water over it to clean it. As if the cleaning service won’t do it once you vacate the place. 

His eyes flicker up to that mirror, to your dim reflection. Mussed hair, relaxed shoulders. Your face, solemn, illegible. And his, darker looking. A trick of the weak lighting. Pitch-black eyes, flexing jaw. Towering over you. Threatening. 

The reflection is like an old photograph, a decayed daguerreotype that reveals a ghost. A girl and her demon.

He moves forward to crowd you, until your hips knock against the sink, his own pressing against your cheeks, his cock half-hard already. The glass falls into the sink with a clatter when he grasps the hinge of your jaw, twisting your head upward and to the side. 

“You like it when I spit in your mouth, Lee?”

You nod. “I do.” 

He gathers it inside his mouth, and you open yours, diligent, hungry, pulling your tongue out with a soft whimper, and his cock twitches in the small of your back. His spit rolls down his tongue to yours. You raise to your tiptoes with a needy little moan. He watches your reflection as you swallow. 

His mouth crashes over your lips, sloppy kiss, scraping teeth. Hands kneading rough at your tits, rubbing their hardening peaks between his fingers. 

“I want to fuck you in that shower,” he growls, teeth finding the edge of your jaw. 

You arch back into him with a broken moan, but to his surprise, you say, “We can’t.”

His hand skates down your front, down the slope of your belly, fingers roughly parting your folds and fuck. You’re soaked. You’re dripping for him.  

“Why?” he brushes against the shell of your ear. “There’s time. I want you again, Lee.”

“I want you too, Frankie, I—” you try to move away from the sink, your strength a poor match for his. “We can’t because we literally can’t, that shower is impossible.”

Your laughter startles him. Stepping back, he gives you room, and you move immediately, sitting on the edge of the tub to demonstrate. Smeared with your arousal, his fingers circle his cock, absentmindedly, brain fogged in a lustful haze as you run the tap. 

“There’s no hot water. Well, there is, a little, but look, there’s only pressure with cold water. And…” you look up at him with a cheeky grin, “that’s kind of where I draw the line.” 

There’s a glimmer of pride in your eyes as you deliver your joke.  

His heart fucking sinks. He’ll get that heart-attack, eventually. 

“You’ve showered in there, with that broken tap, all this time?”

You nod with a bemused smile before you shrug, comfortable, easy. 

“Well, at the beginning. I haven’t in a while.” You pause before you add quietly, “I like to keep you on me.”

Frankie lets out a long sigh. His cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh. You make him so fucking hard. You make him stupidly soft. You drive him out of his goddamn mind. 

The words come out of him before he gets the chance to think them over. 

“I’ll bring my tools next time. I can probably fix it, if I can access the boiler.”

Getting up, you close the distance between you. 

“You could fix it?” you ask, wide eyes gazing at him in amazement. 

He chuckles, a velvety rumble from his chest, something assertive and low, the sound of which he had forgotten. He considers telling you about his engineering degree. Enumerating all the aircraft he can fly. Fucking boast about it. Because he wants you to know. 

The memory of the crashed Mi-8 in the middle of the coca field invades his mind. Twisted rotor, broken hull. Smoking motor, shattered glass. He can smell the gasoline. Feel the sting of his own sweat and blood in his left eye. 

You skim your hands up along his arms. Bring him back to you, to room number 2. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits through a clenched jaw. 

“Like what?” you ask, voice honey sweet. 

You curl your fingers around his biceps.

“Like I can ask you anything.”

“Why not? You can.”

He has to tell you. Tell you he cannot come next week, but that he’ll be back the week after. And the following. As long as you’ll have him. 

Only he catches it before he has a chance to speak. That shadow that plays across your face. The beginning of your retreat, behind the clouding of your eyes. 

“What is it?” he asks, and he has to swallow down the taste of dirt in his mouth. 

You let your hands drop to your sides. You can’t even look at him. 

“Hey, what is it?” he presses, cupping your face. 

“Can’t come next week.” 

You’re so quiet, leaning into his palm, no more than a whisper, and it fucking breaks him. 

“I’m going to that— stupid ski resort. Every year, I– I don’t even ski. I hate it. I just hate it. All I do is wait around all day.”

Eventually, you raise your eyes to his face as he flexes his jaw. He sees you police your expression for him.

“It’s not that bad. I get time to read,” you backtrack. 

Like you triggered the fury his eyes are burning with, and not that piece of shit of a man who takes you to places where you don’t want to be, just to keep you around fucking waiting. 

But his anger subsides abruptly. Everything falls into place. Your presence here last night, your sudden sadness. Like him, you had decided not to come here again.

“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, trying to suppress the resigned sorrow from his tone.

He doesn’t need you to answer. He knows the refrain. He’s never going back to this motel. 

“I saw the picture in your wallet, Frankie. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. But I did.”

Three letters. Starting with an L. A perfect balance. 

“And what does it change?”

His grip tightens, hands sliding through your hair to the back of your skull, thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks. You’re cold to the touch. You grasp his wrists, hold on to him, like you did last week in the parking lot. Eyes glimmering, a first tear dangling from your lashes. 

“Listen,” he starts, “if you want to stop… this, obviously, I won’t hold you back. But—”

He has to pause. Rake his brain for words, words that fail him, words to express the sadness and the loss and the fear. 

He breathes deep, and your scent fills his lungs. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. 

“But I will miss you, Lee. I will miss you so fucking much.”

That tear breaks free. Rolls down your cheek, and he catches it on his thumb.  

“I’ll miss you too,” you whisper.

“Then come back to me. Keep coming back to me, baby.”

There’s that pull. The violence of it like a blow. And you must feel it too, because you leap up to him as he leans into you, and your mouths collide. He’s crushing your lips, licking into you, cocking your head to deepen the kiss. Fingers digging into your waist, into your hips, down your thighs as they roam. A harsh, restless furrow. Looking to bruise, to leave a mark, an imprint of him. 

Your arms fold around his shoulders, pulling him in, nails denting little red crescents into his skin, and he groans into it. A primal sound that rumbles around you and bounces off the dirty tiles. 

His mouth drags wet and hard along your throat. Biting down, sucking in, teeth sinking into your pulse point. He follows it down to your heart. The beating thud, the flowing bloodstream. Hunched over you, lips trailing to your sternum, face burying between your breasts. He bites into the swell of it, pushing the flesh of it into his mouth, latching onto your nipple. A hard suck. Sharp. Painful. 

You keen. Folding over him when he falls to his knees. Threading your fingers through his curls with a choked off moan when his teeth scrape the soft flesh of your belly, where you still taste of him. He can smell your sex, rubbed pink and raw from when he fucked you earlier, less than twenty minutes ago. 

He bites into the tender skin of your inner thigh, around the long, thin scar you hide there, and you spread your legs wider. 

“Good girl,” he grunts.

There’s a knock on the front door. Someone calling “room-service” from outside, and you gasp, hand flying to clasp over your mouth. He couldn’t care less. 

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls into your skin. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, voice high and breezy, and it shoots straight to his cock.

He lifts your leg, slides it over his shoulder, and you grip the sink for balance with a little shriek as he dives between your folds, fingers curled around the swell of your ass. It’s not soft, it’s not tender, there’s no Stop me. It’s urgent and commanding. It’s messy, desperate, demanding. 

His mouth is hard, wide open, cupping your cunt, his neck pulled taut. Tongue curling around your clit, flickering, plunging into your wet, hot center. Licking your slick straight from your walls, drinking you up. You buck into it, riding his tongue, your pleasure, his face, and he groans into your heat. 

His face presses up into you until you nearly topple over. You’re all ragged breaths and wanton whimpers. He wants more, wants to feel you from the inside, and it’s a need, really. Your skin melding with his. Your sex scorching him raw. 

It’s your louder cry, loud enough to cover the repeating knocking, when he pulls away.

“Gotta fuck you, baby,” he rasps, getting up, grabbing you by the waist to turn you around. 

His voice sounds wrecked, as wrecked as he feels. Cock throbbing angrily between his legs. 

“Fuck,” you pant, “I want— I want you to— want you to fuck me.”

He watches you, transfixed, as you face away from him, bracing your hands on the slippery porcelain of the sink. Back bowed, ass perked up. Offered. Waiting. Wanting.

“Oh shit,” he pants. “Fuck.”

He catches his reflection in the dark mirror. Black eyes, hungry. Lips shining with your arousal. A carnivorous expression. It scares him. Like he’s about to eat you whole, eat you raw. A girl and her demon. No one to stop him. 

Circling his cock, he spits down on it, smearing the saliva down his length with a couple of strokes, and he’s at your entrance, hot like a fever, leaking wet and sticky for him. 

Hand brushing up your arched back to curl around your nape, holding you still for him, he drives into you to the hilt with all his strength. 

A broken cry rips through your chest. He pauses inside you, sweat breaking on his forehead, eyes trained on where he disappears inside you, forcing you open for him. Less to let you adjust than to revel into it, the feel of you from the inside, clenching around him. Gripping him, breathing heavily with the stretch of him. 

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he husks with an obscene smirk, something akin to pride at how well you take him. 

Your head dips between your shoulders and he hears your breathless laughter. 

He pulls out of you, cock catching thick and stiff at your entrance, glistening with your slick, and thrusts right back in. He keeps moving. Long, thorough strokes, fast and steady, dragging along your walls, bumping against your cervix. His other hand a bruising hold on your hip, and those little grunts tearing through your throat with every slap of his hips against your ass. 

You’re standing on your tiptoes, legs trembling, but pushing back into him. Meeting him thrust for thrust, with your small hands braced around the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip, and he can’t take his eyes off it. Off that line pulled taut between your shoulders, your grip, your grit. 

Your greed for him. Your fucking determination. 

There’s that pull again, that hunger for more of you, all of you. He bands an arm between your breasts and draws your back flush to his chest. You’re always so pliant. His hand a careful wrap around your throat to hold you upright and fuck. You’re a sight to behold. In that black-edged mirror. You’re a fucking vision. The mess he’s made of you. Fucked out, flushed skin, cock drunk. Sweat-damp hair glued to your beautiful face. 

You’re gripping his arms with both hands, holding on to him, and your eyes find his in the reflection, burning a hole through his soul like they did all those months ago, back in the bar. His heart trips. It swells furious and pounding inside him, how good you look together, how right this feels, your two bodies entwined, surrendering to each other. 

“I feel so good, Frankie, so good when you’re moving inside me,” you tell him, eyes fluttering. Your voice trickling like honey inside him, your sweet slick dribbling around him, soaking the hair at his base. He can hear it with every one of his thrusts. Can taste it where it lingers on his tongue. Lick it from his lips. 

It’s gonna fuck him up. How much he wants to be yours. Fuck up his sanity and everything he’s got that he hasn’t yet destroyed, just how fucking much he wants you to belong to him. Only him. 

He will carve you into his shape if he can’t carve you out of him. 

He skates his hand down to your mound, kneading your soft flesh along the way, the bone of your hip, the small slope of your belly. He finds the hardened peak of your clit, fingers gliding around it. 

Driving into you in deep harsh strokes, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.

“Gonna fucking ruin you for him, baby. Won’t let you go until you’re fucked full of me.” 

“Oh god yes!”

You clench around him, cunt impossibly tight when he shoves you down on it. He sees the tears streaking your cheeks. Feels the shallow bite of your nails into the tense muscles of his forearms when he grinds against your soft cheeks.

“Watch me, Lee. Watch me fuck you full of my come. Gonna fuck it so deep inside you, you’ll be leaking me for days.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Mouth gone slack, eyes locked on him in the mirror, wild and craving. Everything else disappears, the world fades around your two bodies. There’s nothing but your weight between his arms, the feel of you around him. 

Hand wrapped around your neck, he angles up his hips, reaching deeper than he’s ever been, into that spot that makes you cry. His fingers rubbing at your clit, more slick gushing out of you. 

There’s a fast coiling heat in his loins. A fire, licking up his spine, balls drawing tight, cock swelling. 

“I’m coming,” you whine, “Frankie please—”

The words stretch out of you as you trash into his arms, crashing hard around him. He follows with a grunt, loud, primal, possessive. Pumping his come, thick and searing, deep inside your gripping cunt. His vision darkens. 

There’s blinding pleasure. Your skin. Your scent. 

The knowledge that you're his.  

****

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(The Bad Batch) Imagine: A Pabu Wedding

Author's Note: I couldn't get this sweet image out of my head, so I wrote some little blurbs on what a Pabu wedding would be like. And yes... Tech gets a happy ending too.

After the danger of the Empire is finally kept at bay… It’s time to begin a new chapter.

It’s safe to say that Omega is going to be your maid of honor.

Hunter:

You coordinate with Shep to hold the ceremony in a gazebo.  Light, airy fabric is draped on the sides, swaying beautifully in the breeze like something out of a dream.  There are lovely tropical flowers woven around the beams of the gazebo, and placed in vases on either side of the entrance.

Your closest friends and family have gathered.  Rex and a few others even managed to take a small break from the beginnings of the rebellion to visit for the event.  Wooden chairs are placed on either side to create an aisle leading up to the gazebo, where you and Hunter stand, the two of you dressed in white clothes.  Hunter’s signature bandana is replaced with a plain one to match his loose white shirt and pants. You wear a simple and lovely dress out of the same material he wears, with a crown of flowers perched on your head.

Wrecker:

The ceremony takes place on the beach with gorgeous blue waves behind you. The sun is high in the open sky with not a single cloud in sight.  A wooden arch is set up with flowers adorning every inch of it.  Whenever a gust of salty air breezes by, it carries petals with it that fall around you.

Friends and family are all around, standing with bare feet in the sand, holding flowers close to their hearts.  You see so many familiar faces, smiling... There are glistening tears on some.

Wrecker and you are both wearing white, with colorful flower chains around your necks.  The hem of your dress blows in the wind, and you feel the prickle of sand on your legs.

Tech:

You make the arrangements to have the ceremony under the large courtyard tree, with tropical flower arrangements bursting with color placed beautifully in vases on the brick structure surrounding it.  Wooden chairs line either side of the makeshift aisle, each one with white fabric wrapped around a lovely bouquet on the back.  

People you know and love are there, including those you haven’t seen for a little while. You and Tech are dressed in light fabric that is both lovely and also practical considering the tropical climate of Pabu. You hold a bouquet of lilies in your hands, and he has one pinned to his shirt.

Echo: 

You both decide to have a small ceremony on a boat.  The sun has begun to descend, painting the sky in picturesque pastels. Flower garlands are draped across the outside of the boat cabin and wrapped around the railing.

It’s a quiet, intimate affair, but not lacking in the ones you wish most to be there.  Rex, Gregor, and a few other close brothers of Echo are in attendance in addition to the Batch and some new good friends made on Pabu.

You are in white lace dress with a hair ornament of the same material, and Echo wears a white tunic with a dark jacket over it.  You pin a flower to his jacket, and he tucks one behind your ear.

Crosshair:

The small ceremony takes place by beautiful stone formations near the caves.  The setting sun reflects red, orange, and a deep yellow over the rippling ocean water.  There is a small arch set up with a few bunches of tropical flowers, with vases on either side displaying more blossoms.

It is a small crowd to witness the ceremony, and everyone is rather happy to be part of it.  There are so many smiles, jokes, and warm greetings as everyone assembles.  The mood of the event is rather light and cheery against the bold, moving colors of the setting behind you.

You wear a billowing white dress with a hem that catches in the breeze, and Crosshair wears a dark jacket over his light clothes.

[jewellery-box]

Dress, circa 1883-1885, Scotland

Silk, cotton, linen, metal

Description: Woman’s dress in cream corded silk chine printed with abstract floral design in red, blue, brown and yellow, with small, rectangular neckline with facing in pleated red silk satin, fitted bodice constructed in six panels, fastening centre front with red cord lacing through fourteen pairs of eyelets over a stomacher-style panel of horizontal cream machine lace frills. Elbow-length sleeves with pleated red silk satin cuffs. Skirt, full-length, fastening on left with five metal hooks and eyes, chine overskirt pleated into waistline at front and over hips at side, side panels trimmed with vertical border of cream machine lace and frill of cream machine lace extending into lower side edges of train, centre back cut-in-one with bodice with additional width in skirt to go over bustle, extending into a long train, red silk satin frill under hem. Petticoat-style underskirt revealed in front in cream silk satin underskirt decorated with six slightly asymmetrical horizontal rows of cream machine lace. Bodice lined in printed cotton, fitted with eight metal bones and waistband. Skirt front lined with linen and printed cotton, sides and back lined with printed cotton, integral thirteen-inch wire mesh bustle with two sets of twill weave tapes to pull fullness to back to create train, balayeuse around hem of skirt and train. Waistband printed in light green ‘R. Simpson and Sons Costumiers Jamaica St. Corner Glasgow’.

Worn by Ann Smith, the wife of Robert Kirk Simpson of R Simpson and Sons.

This romantic dress is printed with roses and has machine-lace frills on the skirt. In the 1870s and 1880s fashion looked back to the late 1700s, with its flamboyant fabrics, for inspiration. The blurred effect on this evening dress is created by printing the warp prints before the fabric is woven. This ikat technique originated in Asia and was introduced to France in the mid-1700s, where it was known as chiné. Here, it’s use, together with the laced bodice and open over-skirt draped back over the hips and into the bustle, reflect the historical revival style with its imitation of an eighteenth-century open gown.

Glasgow Museums Collection Online

[kohanakonohana]

noteからの翻訳です。日本語の方はぜひ末尾のリンクから向こうへ。

The silkworm makes a cocoon to protect itself when it becomes a pupa. The length of the thread that is ejected while swinging its head in a figure eight motion is said to be as long as 1,300 meters or more. 1,300m or even longer in some varieties.

The raw silk I usually use to weave kimonos is a thin, fine thread, and those threads I usually use to weave kimonos is made by twisting 10 strands of 7-grain yarn. In other words, it is the thickness of 70 cocoons.

When drawing raw silk, cocoons are boiled and the protein (sericin), which is like glue that holds the yarn together, is broken down and drawn out. The figure of eight(8) is the secret to prevent tangling in the middle.

So. we could find a silkworm or moss after we pull and take a long thread from inside. (They will not become adult silkworms, though, because they are boiled.

Raw silkworms can be boiled, or the amount of work required to take the thread from them is limited. Recently, we have been drying, freezing, salting (salting method), and steaming (steaming method), etc., to produce raw silk. In short, it is necessary to prevent the silkworms from leaving their cocoons as adult worms.

Because …silkworms first hatch in cocoons, but they have to make a hole in the cocoon they made themselves to get out.

For the time being, they finish their transformation into the form of a moth inside and tear the skin of their chrysalis, the silkworm then breaks through the chrysalis skin and expels an enzyme called cochonase, which is produced in the organ called the bird's crop sac.

The moth then breaks through the chrysalis skin, and exhales an enzyme called cochonase, produced in the organ called the bird's craw sac, to soften the sericin at the exit, then emerges from the chrysalis by pushing its way through the threads.

Furthermore, when it comes out, it also produces urine, or water, which is called "moth urine". and coloured and stains the inside of the cocoon. The rest is the skin of the shed pupa, which also sticks to the inside of the cocoon.

The silkworms hatch and the quality of the cocoons changes,

The quality of the cocoon changes and raw silk cannot be obtained. The enzyme does not break the thread itself, but the cocoonase is alkaline, so it does not do much damage to weakly acidic fibres.

However, cocoonase is alkaline, so there is no small amount of damage to weakly acidic fibres. Nevertheless, at least some of the silkworms have to be made into adult worms, because the silkworm eggs for the next cycle cannot be obtained.

The cocoons from which raw silk was not obtained, and the rest from disease, or the cocoons that did not produce raw silk, cocoons that were too small because of disease or poor growth, and so on.

It is Japanese culture not to waste such things. The cocoons are boiled, the sericin in the paste is broken down, and the pupal skin is removed as much as possible, and the result is cotton-like material known as "mawata".

Mawata sheets

The "tsumugi" thread is made by stretching and twisting the cotton, either by pulling it out or twisting it, or neither, or both. Then, fabrics woven using the tsumugi thread is called tsumugi weaving.

The left is raw silk and the right is tsumugi yarn spun by myself.The texture is different. Such is the case even with purchased products.

To be precise, the silkworm's thread is called "kibiso"

The silkworm's thread is made up of three parts: the beginning part, called kibiso ; the long, long raw silk part; and the end part, called "bisu".

Both kibiso and bisu have different textures from raw silk, and sometimes only these parts are collected and sold as separate yarns.

The beginning of the spit is still unstable and the end is the residue of the body, so in essence, I have heard that they are made slightly differently...In the case of the easily recognisable coloured silkworm cocoons, the hard yellow-green outer part is the kibiso,

The bis has a light yellow-green raw silk part inside, and the bis is slightly yellowish white.)

The bisu ends up looking leathery and unravelling…

Those different textures remain in the mawata, so, even if you try to stretch them out homogeneously, it is sometimes impossible to do so. That is the true nature of the knots that remain in the silk threads.

Kibiso (left) and bisu (right) of wild silkworms.(Silkworms ones do not peel so much)

In the end, what I wanted to say was that thread is a gift of life,I think it is lovely that the thread is born out of such a sense of waste.

[blueepink07]

Short analysis of Muu's honeybee appearance in her MV

First of all, forgive me if some of the ideas presented were already discussed in the past. I, for one, haven't seen much discussion around this topic so I decided to bring this up!

The dresses that the girls wear in the bee form, seem to be made from flower petals. After some research, I have come to the conclusion that Muu's dress might be made from one of the petals of a yellow Iris (Iris pseudacorus).

Tracing back through history, the Yellow Iris has been a royal favorite. It's been woven into the very fabric of empires, from the fleurs-de-lis in French monarchy to the ornate decorations in Ancient Egyptian palaces. This flower isn't just a pretty face; it's a historical heavyweight with a knack for elegance and power.

Before going further, about the fleurs-de-lis:

It’s even debated whether the symbol is actually a lily, the flower the emblem is named after, or an iris, which more closely resembles the design and typical yellow color. One 18th-century historian even speculated that the name instead comes from the river Leie, where yellow irises are common and the Franks once lived. Another theory connecting the fleur-de-lis with an iris comes from the German word for a yellow iris in the Middle Ages—either “liesch” or “lies.”

With each use, the fleur-de-lis holds unique symbolism. In a religious context, it may denote purity. French monarchs used the symbol to denote the divine right to rule.

It's no wonder that Fleur De Lis has a connection with Muu's character, considering that she is half french, and is portrayed in the MV as the Queen Bee, such the association with royalty.

Moreover, Fleur de lis' sturdy stem represents the ever-present God who is our strength and our source of sustenance.

"God gave me everything, everything is as I wish"

Also, yellow irises are known for denoting strong bonds and warmth, ideal for demonstrating devoted friendship and happiness. Basically, it is a constant reminder of one of Muu's most beloved wishes to have a deep connection with her friends.

The other girls seem to wear, if we follow the same pattern, white irises' petals.

Something that was already noted is that the longer the dresses are, the closer the girls that wear them are to Muu. This idea is also reinforced by the hair color.

In this picture it can be clearly seen that the three girls who were shown bullying Muu in the first MV, and were the closest to her, have brighter hair.

Honey bees are most attracted to blue, purple, violet, white and yellow. Considering that they themselves are honey bees, this may symbolize the "likeness" or the "popularity" these classmates have in school.

The hair color that they have in their bee form is more exaggerated than the one in real life. It's a more saturated and brighter version, but it still resembles the original one.

The other classmates who are not as close to Muu, have their natural hair color, which looks dull compared to Muu and her friends. Like their presence is deemed unimportant, they fade/ disappear next to Muu's friend group.

However, Muu is an exception. Why bother drawing her hair purple? It has no ties with her strawberry blonde hair in real life.

I kept asking myself this question, until I found this information:

"But it seems that bees, especially honeybees, are born attracted to the colour purple. Which is really clever of them, as flowers in the violet-blue range produce the highest volumes of nectar."

Muu is the Queen Bee, having purple hair she attracts all of her subjects to be around her. It's like she is the embodiment of beauty even in her bee form, having traits which can be easily envied.

Like Es tells her:

That's all! Feel free to add your own ideas! Thank you for reading!

[stluciabuns]

The Historical Accuracy of Kirsten's Dirndl

Despite its adorableness, I have seen many people complain about Kirsten's Swedish Dirndl outfit.

I would kill a man to have bought this for $22.

She wears this outfit for most of Meet Kirsten, being that she is an impoverished immigrant child who does not own any other clothes, and also for continuity reasons.

Frequently, I have seen it claimed that this outfit is not historically accurate and should not have been included as part of her collection. Conversely, I have also seen many German folk costumes marketed as being made for Kirsten. Both of these pain me a great deal (actually they just annoy me).

Nonetheless, I have decided to further procrastinate doing actual, meaningful work and instead set out on a new mission: figure out what the fuck is up with Kirsten's Dirndl.

In this post, I will lay out the research I have done, the evidence supporting the historical accuracy of this outfit, the challenges to its existence, and ultimately aim to answer the question of whether this outfit is one Kirsten plausibly could have worn on her journey from Sweden to America in 1854.

Let's begin.

First, the name. Pleasant Company/American Girl referred to this outfit as "Kirsten's Swedish Dirndl and Kerchief."

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as a Swedish dirndl. "Dirndl" is a German term, and refers to folk costumes worn by people in German-speaking areas of Europe (the Alps, Bavaria, Austria, and so on).

Kirsten is Swedish, and before Meet Kirsten has never left Sweden before. It is very unlikely she would have acquired, and regularly worn, a German dirndl. See this gorgeous example of a dirndl c. 1840:

Outfit, c. 1840. Munich, Bavaria, Germany. Münchner Stadtmuseum.

This ensemble is beautiful, but tragically, it is not what Kirsten is wearing.

What, then, is Kirsten wearing? What kind of traditional dress does Swedish culture have?

As it turns out, the proper term for what she is wearing is a folkdräkt. This is a Swedish term meaning "folk costume." Here is an illustration depicting multiple examples of Swedish folk costumes. In proper terms, these would be called "Svenska folkdräkter."

Nordisk familjebok (1908), vol. 8, Folkdräkt. Retrieved from runeberg.org.

These outfits are not quite identical to anything we see in Kirsten's collection, but you can observe various elements that have carried over -- the vertical stripes, black woolen skirts with ornate trim, and white dresses and red sashes (hello St. Lucia)!

Let us dive deeper. What do extant Svenska folkdräkter, specially those made c. 1850, look like? Is there anything like Kirsten's outfit among surviving examples?

Johan Sodermark, "Kvinna i dräkt."

In my few hours of research, this example image is the closest thing I have found to Kirsten's dirndl.

This lovely portrait is a watercolor from 1850 painted by Johan Sodermark. It is very creatively titled "Kvinna i dräkt" -- literally, "Woman in costume." The pattern of this woman's apron is incredibly similar to that of the skirt of the Kirsten doll's outfit -- a dark red base with blue and yellow stripes woven throughout.

Here is a closeup from the American Swedish Institute.

Although it is not shown in the doll-sized version of the outfit, the illustrations in Meet Kirsten by Renée Graef show us she also wears a light-colored, striped apron, which is almost surely the one that comes with her meet outfit.

Illustrations from Meet Kirsten, drawn by Renée Graef.

Notice the fabric of the bodice in the third illustration, though: Kirsten's top is made of red plaid fabric, while Sodermark's girl has an outfit full of stripes. Kirsten, bless her heart, spends an entire book outfit-repeating a potential pattern-mixing fail: plaid and two kinds of stripes and a floral scarf. Did Pleasant Rowland just hate her? Is Kirsten on another, elevated fashion plane far beyond my comprehension? Is there a historical basis for this combination of patterns?

I have no answer to the first two questions, but thankfully can speak on the third.

Komplett Vilskedräkt, Västergötlands museum. Some pieces c. 1865.

The top is plaid and laces up, which is not necessarily the most common way of fastening (in most examples, the bodice pins up), but it is a sensible choice considering both Kirsten's age (9) and the fact that Pleasant Company was making toys for little hands.

The model for the outer shell (the lace up top) belonged to Karl Edberg from Hällestad; it is not dated, but at least one piece of this set (the bag, which is not shown) is c. 1865. Additionally, the blouse here is very similar to the one that comes with Kirsten's winter outfit -- look at that keyhole neckline!

So, Kirsten's Dirndl outfit is actually very accurate as far as the clothing itself goes...the name remains the trouble.

I have no idea why they called it a dirndl. Folkdräkt is definitely challenging to pronounce, but why wouldn't PC just translate it as "folk dress" or "Swedish outfit" and call it a day? Why the insistence on referencing a culture that isn't relevant to the doll or her dress at all?

Perhaps this is a mystery to tackle for another day...