#and the black bits were from having this paper also underneath the ones i used for the 3D trueform angel origami star

[whorekneecentral]

Only The Best For You

Kimi Raikkonen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: dad's best friend!kimi, reader is 20/21 - reader is old enough to make her own decisions, your dad isn't pleased with the gift, one mention of alcohol and one mention of death, sexual tension, kinda power imbalance, kimi gives into the intrusive thoughts, nipple play, fingering for like 0.2 seconds, one use of the word 'daddy' in a sexual way, penetrative sex (p in v), gagging, finger sucking, 'whore' used in a sexual/degrading term.

Word Count: 2,400

Author's Note: for all my dad best friend freaks and the kimi whores, this one's for you <3 -- also ignore that it's gucci in the pic but it's something different in the fic loool I couldn't find a different pic I liked.

merry smutmas series

--

Kimi spends the holidays with his old friends. He doesn’t forget you; bringing you exactly what you had been wishing for and you make sure to thank him.. properly.

An old L/N family tradition.

Since you were a child, your parents and grandparents allowed you to open one gift from them on Christmas eve, letting you enjoy the magic of Christmas a few hours early.

You were grown up now, in college and your grandparents had sadly passed on but your parents kept the tradition going. You had come home for Christmas break and it was Christmas Eve. Your parents have just finished dinner and you have moved to the living room.

It was yourself, your parents and your dad's best friend, Kimi. You had known Kimi your whole life practically but he was always away racing so you never saw much of him until lately, now that he's officially retired - for good this time.

"Shall we open gifts?" Your father asks, walking into the living room. He passed a glass of what looks like whiskey to Kimi, who was next to you, before sitting beside your mother.

She looks over at her husband. "Honey, isn't she too grown for that?"

Your father rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "It's a family tradition, now hush. Go pick a present."

Your mum picks first, picking one from your father that just so happened to be the new perfume she wanted. Your father was next and he picked out one from you. It's a story book he used to read to you as a kid, you had written all of your favourite memories of the two of you inside of it. You made him cry, both you and Kimi laughing about that.

"Go ahead, sweetheart." Your father nods towards the tree, you move from the couch to the floor, kneeling in front of the tree to pick out a gift.

A gift sticks out to you; red wrapping paper with little elves of it and your name written in cursive across the front of it. You pick it up, shaking it a bit to see what was in it.

It felt hard, as if it was a box. You looked towards your parents, "is it from you guys?"

Your dad looks towards your mom; she took care of all of the holiday shopping. The woman shakes her head, "it's not from us, sweetie."

The gift on your lap when you glance over your shoulder at Kimi. He gives you a small smile, so small you almost miss it.

He nods towards the gift, waiting for you to open it. You rip the wrapping paper very carefully, revealing the red box underneath; the gold lettering was cursive - Cartier.

Your jaw was already dropping, looking back at the man. "You didn't," you say and he nods again, waiting for you to open the box to see what was inside.

"Kimi, what did you do?" Your mother asks, looking over at your father. He was never one for brands or jewellery, he didn't realize that buying something there automatically was an expensive purchase.

Lifting the cover carefully, the velvet black fabric inside the box held a white gold chain, blue sapphires set along the entire thing.

If your jaw wasn't already on the floor, it would be now. "Kimi!" You turned to face the man, setting the box on the couch carefully. "You did not!"

"I did," he nods. He's always been a man of very few words; more of an action rather than words type of guy.

"What is it?" Your father asks and you hand the red box over to him for him to see.

He shows your mother as he holds the box, he doesn't realize that he's holding a little over €40,000 in his hands at the moment. "Oh Kimi, it's beautiful." Your mother gushes, handing it back over to you.

You were still on the floor, admiring the necklace in the box. "Well, turn around." Kimi says and you do, sitting just between his legs.

He reaches over to take the box from you and carefully takes the chain out of its box before you lift your hair. Kimi leans forwards and you can feel his fingers brush against your skin and his breath on your shoulders when he loops it around your neck and hooks the clasp.

"It looks gorgeous on you, darling." Your mom says, smiling at you.

Your phone's in one hand and your other hand gently touches the chain, straightening it as you admired how it looked on you. "Kimi, this is too much. It's so expensive." You whisper to him and he shrugs.

"How expensive are we talking?" Your father finally speaks, looking over at his friend.

Kimi answers nonchalantly; "Like.. €40,000."

Your father instantly sits up, his jaw hanging open. "What?! Kimi, are you out of your mind?"

"Please," he looks over at his friend in disapproval. His hand rests on your shoulder, his thumb passing over your soft skin. "She's a good girl, she deserves it."

You can't help but shift a bit when he calls you a good girl, the words hitting you right where you shouldn't. It was wrong, he was your father's friend and you were.. well, you were attracted to him. You couldn't deny it; Kimi was an attractive man and despite his lack of words, he was very charming.

"Y/n, say thank you. You can't not say it when he's spent so much." Your father tells you, and you turn around to face Kimi.

"Thank you, Kimi," you smiled at him, sitting on your knees when you reached up to give the man a hug. His arms wrapped around you, his warm hand pressed to your back. "You're welcome, angel."

Another nickname that hits you in all the wrong places.

--

As the night goes on, your parents head up for bed as do you. Kimi was the last one to bed from your understanding and as the house grew quiet, you tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

You find yourself sat on your bed, pjs on - a tank top and a pair of shorts with a €40,000 chain around your neck.

It was nearing 3am, the witching hours as your mum says. You find yourself getting up and heading downstairs. The initial thought was to go to the kitchen and get a glass of water but you got side tracked when you see a light coming from Kimi's room.

You knock, peeking around the space left between the door frame and the actual door. "Come in," he waves to you and you step in, shutting the doors behind you. The TV was on, a rerun of some show you couldn't quite place was on.

"What are you doing up?" He asks, glancing at his phone to check the time. "Do you know how late it is?"

"I couldn't sleep," you tell him, looking over at the TV. "Can I join you?"

He shrugs, nodding towards the empty space next to him. You quietly make your way over, sitting next to him on the bed. Kimi don't miss the way your shorts hike up when you crawl over to the empty spot; it's so wrong for him to be looking at you like that but can you blame the man? You were gorgeous and you were in his bed after all.

The two of you sit quietly, watching as the show rolls on into another episode. You unconsciously play with the chain, shifting it back and forth slowly.

Kimi looks over at you, smiling to himself; you were the picture of beauty.

"You're staring," you mumble, glancing at him. He smiles, like actually smiles. "You're beautiful."

Your cheeks are red, you hope that the light coming from the tv isn't bright enough for him to realize that just yet.

"It looks good on you," he says, "like it was made for you."

"Blue has always been my favourite colour." You smiled, glancing down at the chain. "Did you pick it yourself?"

He nods, "I saw it and thought of you, I figured you'd like it."

"I do, very much." You look over at him, Kimi smiles at you and your hand shifts from your thigh to his, rubbing along it softly. Kimi's brows furrow ever so slightly. He doesn't say anything, hoping that you'd stop if he ignores it.

You were persistent.

Your hand travels higher, about to rub over the ever so evident bulge in his shorts but Kimi catches your hand, holding your wrist. "We can't, y/n."

"Why not?"

"It's wrong," he whispers, glancing at the door - you weren't sure if he wanted you to leave or if he was catching to see if it was locked. You wiggle your hand from his grasp, Kimi lets out a small breath of relief; see, the man was stupid enough to think you were stopping.

You didn't stop. Instead, you got on his lap, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders. Kimi's hand rests on your lower back as he looks at you.

"Let me thank you properly," you whisper, lips ghosting over his.

Kimi reaches up, his lips pressed to yours but he's yet to kiss you. "You don't have too."

"I want to.. I want you," you mumbled, finally kissing the man. Your hand cupping his jaw, Kimi's hand slips under the tank top you had on and slides up your back to undo your bra but finds you don't have one on.

Kimi pushes the straps of your tank top down off your shoulders. You sat comfortably on his lap, letting him have his way with you and the man wanted one thing. He leans forward, arms wrapped around you as his lips wrap around your nipple.

“Kimi, fuck- please.” You mumble, your hand tangled in his blonde hair, tugging on it. As such as you loved the attention, you needed him.

He glances up at you, watching as your eyes fluttered shut. He groans when you pull on his hair a little harder but what's a little pain when he's making you feel good?

It was heavy, heated.

His hands on your body, pulling you over and onto him. You were perched on his lap, Kimi's hands on your ass when he kissed you again.

Not a word is spoken between the two of you and what little clothes you had on was gathered in a pile on the floor when he rolls you two over. You were flat on your back with Kimi settled between your legs.

“Please,” your hand rested on his jaw, “daddy, please.”

The pet name makes his cock twitch; it's sinful, so sinful in so many ways but he couldn't care less. You drove him mad.

His hand slips between the two of you, his fingers rubbing slow circles on your clit. Your hips lift, wanting more from him.

Kimi’s hand wandered a little lower, a finger pushed in slowly. He can feel how wet you are, wrapped around his finger and he smiles.

He moves his finger slowly, curling it. He takes pleasure in watching you, seeing how your face twists and how your body reacts to his touch.

"Please," you whimpered, "don't make me wait."

Kimi can't bring himself to say no to you.

He sits, pushing his shorts down and you get the hint, getting on top of him. Your hands grip on his shoulders, balancing yourself. Your knees on either side of his lap, Kimi's hand reaches under you to help you, the tip of his cock brushing against your clit, making your hip shift forward a bit. His free hand on your hip as you sink down onto him, his name tumbling from your lips.

You take a moment to get used to the feeling, your eyes fluttering shut as he rubs along your lower back, leaning into you to kiss down your neck.

You rock your hips forward and Kimi's head drops back, his eyes now closed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” His hand pats your hip, “made just for me.” He tells you, your lips now on his neck - a trail of marks and sloppy kisses being left along his neck.

He pulls one of your legs up forward, pulling you down further. “Fuck,” you breathe, his thrusts faster and harder. How you wished you could scream his name right now. Kimi's hand drops between the two of you, rubbing your clit.

Your head falls back, manicured nails digging into his pale skin when he hits the spot he was looking for. He watches as you bounce on his lap, the sapphires around your neck bouncing in rhythm with you. His fingers that were previous on your clit now shoved into your mouth to muffle the sounds tumbling from your lips.

Your brows furrowed, an excited look on your face despite it all. You can feel his cock twitch in you, his lips next to your ear when he leans in.

"You've got to be quiet, angel. Wouldn't want them to catch you being a whore for me, hm?

You mumble something along an okay, your hips bucking, telling him you want more. Your tongue laps around his fingers, Kimi watches as you suck on them. There's a wicked smile on his face, his hips lifting to meet you halfway.

He lets you take over, setting the pace and using him for your own pleasure. Kimi leans forward as his lips wrap around your nipple. His tongue lapped over your nipple, biting on it softy; just enough to get you to arch your back, pushing into him.

“Come on darling,” he mumbles against your skin, now kissing up to your collarbone. Kimi's hand behind your neck to pull you down for a kiss. “Want you to cum for me.”

His arms wrap around you when you drop against him, your face buried against his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sounds. “Good girl,” he hums, rubbing your back.

Your heart beats out of your chest as you catch your breath. Kimi smiles, kissing along your shoulder. "Feel good?" He asks and you mumble something, your head resting on his shoulder.

"I take it I should spoil you more often, hm?" He chuckles, making you smile when you sit up. Kimi straightens your necklace, kissing your chin.

You shake your head and smile. "Don't have to spoil me for me to do that."

Kimi smiles at you, giving you a kiss. "Merry Christmas, y/n."

"Merry Christmas, Kimi."

--

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#kimi raikkonen #kimi raikkonen smut #kimi raikkonen x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 smut #merry smutmas xoxo

[lazyjellyfish300]

In Between the Bookshelves📚

AU Librarian!Miguel O'Hara x Fem grad student reader

(image isn't mine, found it on Instagram under the account @/ brokenohara and asked for their permission to post it)

Synopsis: a normal trip to the library results in a little bit more than you were expecting when you meet the new librarian on duty. Word count 4.6k

A/N: reposting this new and hopefully improved version of one of my very first Miguel fics I deleted a while back. I tried to make him more awkward and cute🖤🤓. Still not totally confident in the smut but oh well. Writing smut is so hard sometimes? Or maybe my skills have gone down, idk 😫 Hope you enjoy...

TW: MINORS DNI, SMUT TOWARDS THE END: FINGERING, ORAL SEX F receiving, Gag(he uses his shirt to muffle your moans) Public sexual activity, talk of anxiety, mention of family troubles and anti-deity/religion language

It's 7:00 pm on a rainy Tuesday night in the middle of October. You just got out of your evening Database Systems class. You can't help but feel poetic as you stroll down the grey, soaked, Manhattan streets twirling your umbrella, hot coffee in a cardboard cup in hand. Your shoulders begin to ache from the thin faux leather straps of your backpack. You're wearing your favorite brown sweater over a short sleeved black dress that hits you mid-thigh, with some holey black tights and your favorite knock-off Doc Martens. Damn, I still need to write that 2 page paper that's due tomorrow..

You decide at the last minute to spend your night at the library. You know you won't get anything done if you go back to your apartment. You spin on your heel and pick up the pace as you head hastily towards the NYIT library in Manhattan.

The library is pretty dead except for a group of three people sitting together in the middle table talking in hushed voices, one woman sitting on the floor scrolling with a laptop, and one jock looking fellow sitting at the computers, cracking his knuckles and bouncing his knee anxiously as he scans his assignment he's typing.

You sit down at the empty table right next to the librarian's desk. Since you're a regular here you recognize Polly, the librarian on duty who is a plump woman who looks to be in her 30s with short curly brown hair, wearing a mustard yellow cardigan and brown corduroy pants tonight. She's stapling papers together and gives you a small nod in acknowledgement as you sit down at the table in front of her desk.

She whispers to you, "I'm actually heading out for the evening, but the new person on duty should be here any minute now if you need any assistance."

You nod, and, speak of the devil, here he comes. You suddenly feel your chest get hot when you lay your eyes on the new librarian.

Tall, dark, and handsome would be the simplest way to define this man's appearance, but that would be a very feeble attempt at doing him justice. Sculpted bicep muscles push against the sleeves of his flannel with the cuffs rolled up halfway on his thick forearms. The flannel is unbuttoned and flaps gently away from his body as he walks, a white t-shirt underneath. He has broad, wide, shoulders and a narrow waist. He's also wearing dark wash athletic jeans and a pair of canvas slip ons. His hair has one stubborn strand in front from his small widow's peak that falls endearingly in the middle of his forehead. His most disarming quality is his eyes. A shade of brown that's earthy and natural like the sediment that decorates stream beds. He wears a stoic expression under large framed glasses.

He nods and mutters a "thank you" to the woman librarian as she shimmies into her coat and leaves. His eyes notice you and latch onto you momentarily. You feel your cheeks grow warm and you turn back to your laptop, unable to resume where you left off, wanting to start a conversation with him but not sure how. After a few painful moments of silence, and a quiet rumble outside from the ongoing rainstorm, you decide to break the ice by telling him your name. He blinks as you tell it to him, and you continue trying to make small talk to try and prod more out of him.

"Have I seen you here before? I come here a lot and I don't think I've met you yet."

"Miguel O'Hara," he answers shortly, but politely. "I'm a grad student. I started working for the university in exchange for assistance with my tuition."

You nod, feeling the heat leave your cheeks a little bit as you realize you could have a normal conversation with this man, and not just be an awkward mess around him the entire time. When he mentions he's a student, you realize you have something in common with him and try to go from there.

"These mid-terms are going to be the death of me. I have just one more paper to turn in then I can finally breathe, thank God..."

Miguel blows a short puff of air out of his nose seemingly in agreement, but doesn't say anything else.

He's quiet. Truth is you are too, and you're stepping way more out of your comfort zone than you normally would. Amazing what a pair of charming brown eyes could do to you.

"Honestly, if I had to work anywhere on campus I'd pick the library too. Seems peaceful with minimal people around, and everyone's required to be quiet by default. The ultimate dream workplace."

Miguel can't figure out why this stranger keeps talking to him, but you brought up a point he feels he needs to clarify.

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Most people that come in here are loud and inconsiderate as hell. And there's always that one person who hasn't heard of shocking headphones. Always."

The corner of your mouth raises. "God, that would drive me insane. Being a librarian isn't all it's cracked up to be, huh?"

Miguel shakes his head. "No. More like a glorified adult babysitter who knows where the historical fiction section and restrooms are located, and that's about it. That's literally the only two questions I get asked all day." He turns to look at you more fully, this conversation a slight breath of fresh air, the first chance he's gotten in a while to air out his grievances as the night librarian.

He continues, complaining about the horny couples he's had the misfortune of overhearing get busy on the beanbags in the far corner, and the people who leave random drinks and empty chips bags on the shelves and seem to have forgotten what alphabetical order means when they put books back.

You listen to all of it, nodding your head, and let out a cackle at his expressions he's making with those defined, bushy brows of his. He talks with his hands and it's a little endearing to watch him be so animated. This expressive side you've managed to crack through beneath his solemn exterior.

Miguel feels warmth rise in his body at the sound of your laugh for the first time. It's genuine and hearty, and honestly it's funnier than whatever bad quip he just made and he can't help but feel a little more attracted to you after hearing it. You were a good listener, and he appreciated that a lot about you.

You glance at the windows across the room, nodding in its direction with a remark about the weather, how rainstorms are your favorite. He tells you he loves them as well.

Soon, the others have shifted out of the library and he's now sitting in the chair across from you leaning his chin in his hand, listening to you speak as the rain gently pelts the windows outside.

He finds out you're originally from a smaller town, and you came to New York City for college and to escape your overbearing parents. You're 26 years old and trying to finish this Master's degree after taking one too many semesters off. You tell him about your mom who's a bit of a pushover, and your dad who's kind of an asshole.

He tells you he's 29 and has a younger brother who lives on the other side of the city, and his mom is similar to yours. She's kind but tends to set herself on fire to keep her kids warm. Like you, his dad is also a bit of an ass.

You're both introverted, but you can fake it when you need to, which he appreciates, otherwise he never would have been brave enough to say something to you this evening.

You two share a love of education and coffee. You discuss religion.

"I just don't get it, I'm supposed to love this guy and accept Him into my heart because He died for my sins even though I didn't ask Him to do that? But yet if I break any of His rules I get sent to the Inferno for all of eternity?"

"Sounds like a toxic relationship." Miguel quips as he spins your nearly empty coffee cup across the table absentmindedly.

"Exactly!"

You two talk about love as he shuffled some stray books back to their rightful place.

"C'mon, I know you've had to have dated at least once."

Miguel shakes his head. "Well, I did date a girl in high school. Knew her since the 7th grade. But she pretty much ripped my heart out when I saw her making out with one of my buddies on graduation night. I've had a couple dates here and there since then but that's it."

You click your pen. "Damn, so we both have exes from hell that we dated in high school?"

Miguel nods his head. "It would appear we do. I'm sorry you know the pain and annoyance of adolescent heartbreak too."

You shrug your shoulders. "It happens, y'know? It's like one of those things in life you're just meant to experience. It's like, unavoidable you know? And there's nothing you can do about it. What would you call that? Like not a trope per se, but almost like.... destiny?"

Miguel shrugs in return, "Like a canon event?"

You raise your eyebrows. "Yeah... exactly. How'd you come up with that?"

The ghost of a smirk appears on his face, "Just made sense to me, I guess."

You two sit at the table again and he asks about your childhood and you explain that you suffered from anxiety as long as you can remember and he looks at you with sympathetic eyes.

You do your best to try and ignore what feels like his knee pressing against your calf under the table. The thought of touching him sends heat waves through your body, but you remain frozen in place to send the message you're not opposed to more contact. Miguel feels it too, and deep down his leg is falling asleep with the way it's positioned but he's too nervous to move, either.

You both love the nighttime over mornings, and you show him one of your favorite playlists. He smiles at you tenderly as he holds one of the earphones to his ear.

Soon, it's 10:30 pm and he needs to do his closing duties. Luckily, there weren't any patrons who needed his assistance during his whole shift, proving his point earlier. Before he excuses himself, you two sit in silence for the longest time, both trying to gauge if now's the time to say goodbye to one another, but neither of you wanting to actually be the one who does.

Not sure if it was the absence of any light outside, the late hour, the good conversation you two shared, or a combination of all three, but the ripple of attraction you harbored for him has now washed over you completely and morphed into a formidable wave, threatening to take over your whole body, the darkness of this library and persistence of the ongoing storm outside pushing you closer to him.

He's staring at the corner of your laptop, similar feelings ebbing through him, not sure what's got into him. The art of flirting turned itself into uncharted territory for him a longggg time ago.

He finally decided to look at you but you're already looking at him and he snaps his gaze back down onto the bare table below him, silently cursing in his head as a shade of red fluster rises in his cheeks.

You realize you're going to have to be the one to be brave this time again. "Well, this has been fun...."

Miguel scoffs, starting to bounce his leg under the table. "You say that in the most sarcastic tone known to man."

You return with a scoff of your own, adding a smile, "Well I mean, technically you were working this whole time, isn't that boring?"

Miguel shrugs, the heat in his face returning. "You made it more fun..." The volume in his voice decreasing to a murmur.

You look down as well, your heart fluttering in your chest. You really wanted to kiss him. Or just be closer to him, you don't know why. Of course he was cute as hell but after talking to him for hours, there was no denying a spark had formed. You just didn't know whether one or both of you would make the first move to actually do something about it.

Miguel can't believe that he's actually going to try and attempt to ask you to stay longer with him, but he's going to. Just to hang out some more, maybe keep up that amazing conversation you two were sharing just before this. Completely innocent.

Well, if the way the glow from the desk lamp keeps on making your face look so warm and alluring, he's not sure he'll have the strength to shut down any escapades that ensue later, as long as you're completely up for it, of course.

He inhales "Um...so not sure if you have things to do later or..."

You look at him, pupils widening with anticipation at his pending question.

He goes to say, "I was wondering if you wanted to keep hanging out," but it gets combined with the phrase, "Do you want to stay here a little longer," and the word jumbo that exits his mouth is a little incoherent.

"Was wondering if you were wondering to stay and keep hanging longer out?"

You blink rapidly at his blunder, and he groans, placing his face in his hands.

You immediately feel bad for him, shaking your head and sliding a hesitant hand towards his arm. You stumble over your words too sometimes and it's always fucking humiliating when it happens, so you feel no judgement towards him whatsoever. If anything now he's even more attractive. Every little cute thing about him is just pushing you towards him closer than ever before.

Your fingertips skim across the top of the table and press gently into his forearm. He slowly rolls his head to look at you, his cheek resting in his arms as his eyes look at you from behind his glasses which are slightly askew from the way his face is positioned.

His face is still red, but his heart flutters at your sweet smile. "Sorry, my brain just...takes a dump on me when I try to be smooth sometimes..." Miguel mumbles with a weak chuckle, running his hands through his hair.

You shake your head. "I do the same thing...but to answer your question....yes please..." Your voice becomes quieter at the word "please", an trickle of lust you added on purpose, hoping he's picking up on the vibe you're putting down with the way you're gazing into his eyes, your fingers pressed against his arm, the subtle scoot closer you just made with your chair.

Miguel releases a shaky breath, oh, he's paying attention alright. Damn it all if he doesn't take the leap right now. He decides to ask one more time to be sure, slowing down so he gets it right this time.

"Will....you stay longer, with me?" his voice is low, almost a whisper even though it's only the two of you in his dark library, but it's dripping with seduction. A low rumble from the rain clouds interrupts the pause between his question and your answer.

"Yeah..." you say softly back with double affirmation, a sneaky smile forming on your lips. He flashes a dazzling smile back at you, a woozy feeling in his stomach for what's about to happen in the next few minutes.

He excuses himself and goes back to his desk, typing on his computer, the excitement of having you alone making him just type nonsense for the first few moments, wheeling away some carts to the back and stowing a stray book back where it belongs. 

It's now 11 pm. Closing time. Miguel turns off all the lights except for his small desk lamp. The clouds are still rolling and rumbling outside with the wind whistling against the windows. Raindrops are still decorating the street. It's a beautifully dark, sensual scene just for the two of you. 

He laces his fingers in between yours and leads you to a dark space in between two large bookshelves. His hand is clammy, and he's a little embarrassed about it on the inside but you squeeze it reassuringly. There was literally nothing he could do at this point to make your crush on him go away. The shelves tower over both of you, even Miguel, who's 6 foot 9. 

He leans a hand against the shelf just above and to the right of your head. He accidentally pins a piece of your hair under his hand, making you wince a tiny bit. 

"Augh.." 

Miguel's eyes dart in alarm to search for what he did that caused you pain and he realizes your hair is trapped under his hand. He pulls it away, shaking his hand and flicking his fingers in an effort to free any of your strands from it. "Goddamit...." 

He rolls his head backwards in exasperation at his epic failure of having zero game tonight. You hold onto the flaps of his flannel, making him look at you. "Hey, hey come on...it's okay...." 

He finally looks down at you and his lips fall open at your beauty, his heart rate speeding up much more quickly now, and he brings a shaky hand to your face. In his mind, he can't help but realize he's being a huge hypocrite, committing the same sins as his horny patrons of getting busy in the library. But seriously though, at least he had the decency to make sure it was after closing when he was off the clock. 

You feel your knees go weak as he brings his other hand to your face, pulling down your bottom lip with his thumb. He wets his lips and he leans in pressing his tongue gently in the space he opened in your bottom lip, begging to be let in. You oblige immediately, diving forward into his soft lips, goosebumps appearing on your arms. 

Oh fuck....this kiss felt good. He forgot how nice it felt to share intimacy with someone, those feelings that laid dormant for so long rising and nearly bubbling past the surface. It's all coming back to him as he just wills himself to get lost in the warmth of your mouth, the sheer layer of your Chapstick leaving a tasty feeling on his tongue. 

You considered yourself decently experienced, but the way his lips move on their own show you he's a force to be reckoned with and you'd be more than happy to sit back and let him handle things...this handsome, geeky, sweet librarian...

The noises you two make as you desperately kiss each other are little shuffles as you bump into the shelf behind you, with an occasional "oh fuck...," from Miguel. Hearing how turned on he's getting causes you to let your first moan escape your lips.

Once he hears it, he needs more. His hands make their way to your ass and hoist you up onto an empty bookshelf ladder and he sets you down on one of the rungs. You grab his shirt in your fists, not tearing your lips away from his. 

"Do you care about these?" Miguel says softly, out of breath, his mind running a million miles a minute before his actions can catch up to him, gently pinching the thin material of your tights between his thumb and pointer finger as his palms grip the soft flesh of your outer thighs. You shake your head no, wanting to fuck already. 

Then, his hand is in your crotch, ripping a whole right in the middle, tearing away at the fabric concealing your ripe pussy away from him as though it's the cover of a brand new novel. His cold pointer finger hooks behind your panties and pulls it to the side. You gasp loudly as you feel his finger and the cold air hit your soaked heat. 

He chuckles, his breaths still coming out in rapid, succession, the baritone hum of his voice only adding to the wetness between your legs. 

"Sorry, my hands are cold..." Then you can't believe what's happening when he drops to his knees, spreading you open like a book. His elbows pin your knees against the sides of the ladder, the wood pressing painfully into your kneecaps, but the sensation he gives you next makes you forget about the whole thing. 

His tongue glosses over your wet pussy like a finger stroking the edge of a page. His nose tickles the tiny hairs sprouting from it as he takes a deep breath in, the smell of you going straight to his cock. He teases the lips of your pussy for a moment, an agonizing back and forth along the slit...

....back....and..... forth

"God....you're so wet..." 

Back.....

"Miguel..." you whimper..

and forth...

"Fuck...." your fingers shake as you ball them into a fist...

before his tongue dips into your wet hole. Your back arches on instinct, making your body lurch forward, accidentally pushing his tongue further into you which he welcomes eagerly by gripping low on your ass to hold you in place. 

You shudder and twitch violently, throwing your head back at the insanely divine attention he's injecting between your thighs. Miguel pauses for a moment, tenderly licking the inside of your thigh before sealing it with a kiss as his eyes flicker up to you. 

"You okay?...." he whispers. 

You release a shaky breath you didn't know you were holding, a slightly empty feeling as the mind numbing pleasure was abruptly switched off. 

"Yeah, yeah...I'm okay." 

Miguel reassumes his position, tongue fucking you. The soft pad of his tongue fondling the plush walls inside you. He lets out a low groan and he feels you turn to putty in his grasp, his head gently bobbing as his tongue completes lap after lap eating you, enjoying you, savoring you....every drop from that pretty pussy soon seeping out of his mouth and dribbling down his chin.

Your moans grow louder than they ever have, plucking him from his pussy-drunk state. He stands up in a panic and rips off his flannel, bunching it up as his eyes do a quick scan to make sure you're both still all alone. 

"Shhhh.....baby, we need to be quiet.....bite this for me." 

His angelic face comes up to look at you, his forehead pressing tenderly against yours and your eyes go half lidded at the sight of your arousal glistening down his chin, shiny on his thick neck from the thin flickers of moonlight that have managed to leak through the darkened windows of the library. 

You do as you're told, biting his flannel and he stuffed it hastily in your mouth, making a makeshift gag as your eyes water. His elbows assume their position pinning your thighs back and he's back between them again. 

You understand why he made you a gag as he goes directly for your clit this time. You yelp, your sound muffled by the fabric. Your nails dig into his shoulders, two perfect handles while you ride his face. The material of his shirt is thin and you feel every muscle ripple under your palms as he moves to keep fucking you with his mouth. 

Your clit throbs to near overstimulation but Miguel doesn't relent. He swirls his tongue with low sighs of appreciation, unable to tear himself away from the wet heaven in front of his face. 

His saliva and your slick mix together until it's all the same. The love you're dripping onto him and the love he's licking into you becoming a lewd stream of passion. He groans into your pussy as his bulging cock begs to relieve itself of all the cum built up with tormenting ache. 

He decides he wants to watch you cum. He gets up, replacing his tongue with his thumb and his first two fingers, pumping into you with a circular rhythm and easing your clit at a torturous pace. 

"On me, baby...." he whispers. 

Your eyes struggle to stay open as you look at him, a little unsure of what he said. "Mmmm?...." You ask with a high pitched sigh. 

"Keep those pretty eyes on me..." he repeats, his own eyes going half-lidded from the lure of your mouth hanging open. "Fuck...." 

He abandons his plan momentarily as he rips his flannel from your mouth to kiss you again. You invade his mouth with your tongue and he mumbles your name again in response. You start to taste yourself and then whimper when you realize the pleasure is beginning to become too much. 

"Miguel," you pant. "Baby, it's so much...." your breaths begin to hyperventilate. 

Miguel gives a low sigh when you say his name, his cock straining once more when he realized he drew you to say it. He tilts his head at you, his jaw open and curls into a smile when he sees how crazy he's driving you. 

"Cum f'me, baby. Wanna watch you while you do..." 

You try to look at a spot on the ceiling but Miguel interrupts your concentration when he moves his head to keep himself in your vision. The spiciness of this sexy encounter banishing all fears he had before. No, he won't let you look at anything else when you cum.

He gives a loud grunt and clasps a hand over your mouth, fingers turning white, muffling your cry of sweet release as you squirt all over his flannel, your passion causing a few books to collapse from the shelf. 

You shake and start to shiver all over as the sweat you produced during all the action starts to cool. Your hands are tingly and numb. Miguel gives a soft chuckle and presses a soft kiss into your temple with his wet lips and another one on your mouth before he returns his tongue to your thighs, collecting any remaining arousal left behind. 

You rest your head back on the ladder rung behind your head, reeling in your come down. He smiles and plants a kiss into your thigh before bidding it farewell, then comes up and hugs you, nestling you in his tantalizing embrace, as he rests his cheek in your hair. 

"Thank you..." you murmur, only barely sobering up from your high, his musk and cologne delivering you to a whole new state of intoxication. 

He smiles down at you in response and holds your face in both hands, running his thumbs along your cheeks. 

"See me tomorrow?" 

You practically melt at those big brown eyes of his, glasses still slightly askew and the neck of his wrinkled shirt dampened with his sweat, silently hoping you will. 

You beam up at him and nod enthusiastically and he chuckles and plants a line of kisses on your neck as you giggle underneath him. After a few soft hugs and another round of delicate kisses, he walks you to the door. Making you promise you'll call him as soon as you get home as a reluctant compromise at his uneasiness of you walking alone in the dark.

He watches you walk away into the night and doesn't stop until he sees you safely board the bus. He turns around and goes back inside the library, shutting off his desk light with a small click. 

#miguel o'hara #miguel atsv #spotify #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara smut #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #Spotify

[ccasey0]

Okay, i have the first five stars. this took way longer than expected lol.

@allyheart707 is the one on Casey's tail. she is the star of sleep, and her bow carries dream arrows that grant those she shoots with it the dreams they will love the most.

@onlyhereforturtles is the fox looking at the black that Casey always leaves behind when he walks. They are a kitsune with markings that were surprisingly hard to get right. i was unable to add in all the stuff they mentioned, but i hope this is still acceptable.

@kitmay05 is the one waving at Casey. She is a small farmer who harvests shinedust and gifts it in little pouches to people in need. different kinds of shinedust has different qualities. she has a hoe that can be used for farming or whacking.

@cosmocafe is the goat floating at the top left. the only thing they mentioned was for the goat to have a scarf, so i made up a few little things while i was drawing. they can float and wherever they step they leave swirls of various different temperatures depending on the season. they help make the winter cold and the summer hot.

@icequeenabby is the little owl on Casey's head. she flies around the night sky while the other farmer stars are working to harvest the shinedust. she likes to fly underneath them and catch some of the stray dust on her wings. she will then happily fly around the newer shines that are just blooming and shower then with the dust to make them glow even brighter. she also has a stick. there isn't anything special about this stick. but she will kill you if you try to take it from her.

Whew, okay. that took forever. i still have two more stars to add to this, and then i wanna make individual drawings for each star. also, im calling the characters "stars" and the actual glowing dots in the sky "shines" so as not to get them confused with each other. I also want to add that i'm sorry if the stars don't look exactly how you guys described them. i did my best, and for some of the harder ones i just gave up and simplified them. at this point i'm too tired to change anything about it. oh. the explanation for why the stars are following Casey. sometimes, Casey will be walking through the Night sky to do something. sme of the stars see him and decide "oh! it's the Night Spirit! i bet i could help him with some stuff!" and they just start following him. they usually follow him around for as long as possible until he tells them to leave or to go do something. they will even follow him outside of the nighttime. Casey acts like he despises these little guys and their persistence. but he actually adores each one of them and will take a bullet to protect his tiny star bebes. the edgelord will never admit it though.

also, fun fact: the night sky is a little world of its own! it may just look like the sky from the earth, but it is more of a vast expanse of white where all the night spirits live. and yes, i know what you are thinking. "white? shouldn't it be black?" well, It is a mix of both. Wherever the upper spirits walk, the leave black footprints that spread like markers bleeding into paper. the blackness will eventually all drip away and land on the border between the celestial realm and the mortal one. then it just stays there, making the sky look black to everyone below. the Shines are bright enough to be able to shine through the backness though, giving the look of a night sky. also, only spirits can go through the borders alone. any mortal has to have celestial help to get to the celestial realm.

it might be a bit until i work on this again since i have a ton of work to do, family staying at our house for the eclipse, a bunch of other drawings i wanna get done, and way too little sleep to function properly. so yeah, imma sleep for a bit. catch up on some stuff. and then i will likely start up on this again. ALSO!! feel free to make this digital and add your own stars to this! i'd love to see what other people can come up with for this!

info on the au can be found Here! oke, bye now. hope you like it!

#Wow. #fuck #this week has DRAINED me #physically and mentally #i really really hope you guys like this #and that's two “reallys!” #i spent n excessive amount of time trying to get everyone to look right #haha #typing is hard when you are tired #Also i promise i will draw the two that are left #i just need a nap and some more coffee #maybe a fried egg or two #Spirit AU #Oc #Moot Stars!! #that is their official name now #even though not all of them are even Moots of mine #lol #Goodnight #:)

[ohblackdiamond]

paulventures in florida

first off, this would not have been remotely possible without my dear friend @elrohare who generously, and incredibly, asked if i'd be her +1 to this event. I'm eternally grateful for a wonderful time.

friends, romans, countrymen, lend me your ears--

wait, that's not right.

HEY, PEE-PUL--

On 2/23/24, Cynthia and I met Paul Stanley and had dinner with him. 

Our full weekend adventure eventually ended up taking us all around the sovereign state of Florida, a state I have not (been) driven around since 1998, when my family went on a trip to Disney World.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many palm trees or so much Spanish moss.

But you don’t wanna hear about the insane roads of Florida, you wanna hear about Paul.  We’ll get there.

I was running on approximately four hours of sleep due to having taken a 7 a.m. flight in order to ensure I would be able to see Paul in the first place.  Was Paul actually due to show up around 7 p.m.?  Yes.  Did I care?  No.  It was not exactly a short drive from the Orlando airport where Cynthia picked me up  to the Hard Rock hotel/casino in Hollywood (Florida) where the gallery was.  We had to guarantee our presence (and I had to guarantee that there would be room for error should my flight be delayed!).  Once we were at the Wentworth gallery, Cynthia’s art broker, Laura, showed her one of her pieces. Laura also mentioned offhand that “he (Paul Stanley) was just here earlier” and I believe she may have showed us a picture of him at the gallery– I know she said he was nice.  Inside of the gallery was a small section with a table full of different sharpies (gold, silver, black) and he had scribbled on a piece of paper or something on the table to test one out. 

Cynthia determined she could only fit one of the paintings in her trunk and would have to have the other shipped.  She took care of those details and afterwards asked when we should be there for Paul– we were told that, of course, around seven was it but if we wanted to poke over at 6 or 6:30, we could.  She encouraged us to hang around and shop/etc. if we wanted, but honestly, the mall aspect of the casino was fairly paper-thin and if you weren’t gambling and weren’t super-enamoured with the (admittedly cool) water/fountain light show, you weren’t going to be entertained for hours on end.  Fortunately, obsessing over our upcoming meeting/dinner was entertaining enough when it wasn’t nerving us both out! 

We had some discussion on whether we should show up at the gallery again right at 6 or not, and ended up kind of poking over and realizing that the gallery hadn’t exactly filled up at that point.  We ended up poking back in at 6:30, which was ideal.  Directly outside the gallery (you could only really stick around in there if you’d purchased or were very interested in purchasing a painting, due to the meet and greet aspect that was going to happen there in the back) was starting to get a bit crowded and that only continued– fans with things they were hoping to get signed/hoping he would look at (there was a gorgeous drawing of eighties Paul that a girl was holding up that she’d done!)-- but I think a lot of them just wanted to get a glimpse of Paul. 

Cynthia and I made some small talk with the other gallery-goers, including a nice couple, Heather and her partner, Eric. Heather was wearing a really pretty purple gradient dress while Eric had a blazer with a custom-made purple shirt underneath that had the Starchild makeup on it.  They were pretty invested, especially Eric, though they’d done these events before.  It was cute how Heather would come back over and say “I think he’s bought another one….” (Heather also was trying to ensure there would be a non-meat option at the dinner for Eric due to Lent.)  

I noticed that every so often someone from the gallery would open a door at the back (near the Sharpie table), say something, and then shut it, so I was pretty sure that Paul was right behind there, which terrified me.  But then he just suddenly appeared only a couple feet from us, which was more terrifying (to me) and I sort of immediately tried not to look his way for fear of– aw, geez, I don’t know; I have a lot of feelings.

“Who’re you here to see?” he said, and the small crowd (myself included) immediately answered back with “Paul!!” 

He was smiling– he was smiling a lot.  I have encountered Paul prior on Kruises and I’d honestly never seen him look nearly that happy at those.  Maybe it’s because he’s really a mermaid and is really bitter every time KISS goes out to sea, but honestly, it’s probably mostly because he gets seasick and getting stuck on a ship for five days with a couple thousand rabid fans is probably not his idea of a good time. 

Dinner with about 20-30 rabid fans apparently was right up his alley, though!

We had been told prior to Paul’s arrival that we were third in line for him.  I had brought Mandate but this was more something I’d feel out– I’d said to Cynthia way beforehand that if it didn’t get signed/didn’t feel right to try to get signed, that was fine because after all, I was there as a plus-one.  I will honestly admit that seeing him look like he felt that good made me feel like maybe the magazine would ruin his demeanor– anyway, while we could’ve watched any and all of the other meet and greets, I really wanted to let everyone else have their space/time– I did not want to be creeping around trying to get extra shots of him or anything. 

I was also just extremely nervous.  I think we both were! 

We were called up around maybe 7:10 or 7:15.  I wanted to make sure I didn’t cut into Cynthia’s time and also make sure I was not weird, either.  Paul was great. He immediately complimented Cynthia’s star dress, which she said she’d worn in his honor and curtsied very cutely.  She introduced herself and shook his hand; then I introduced myself and shook his hand, and then she talked to him about seeing the last MSG show and about Evan being there and how cool that was (to have him opening for KISS’ last show); he said it wouldn’t be the last time (for Evan).  He said something about how MSG was special (paraphrase) or that it was a special time, something like that.

Then he said he guessed it was time to take some pictures– they brought out first the Starchild picture, took a picture of us (one of my feet was shaking by this point so I didn’t stand too close to him), and then he said to the photographer, “I blinked” (he did not) and said quietly to Cynthia, “You get two.” 

Next was the Gene picture. Cynthia said she liked the crystals on it and he said that they were Swarovski and that they were hard to put on or took a long time to do, something along those lines. Once the photos were over, he wrote her dedication (“Cynthia, Make life a work of art, Paul Stanley”) on a black sheet of paper– I noticed as he was writing it that he went back to fix one of the letters) and Cynthia seized the chance to ask him to sign her copy of his autobiography. He was really quick about it– “Yeah, I’ll sign that,” and immediately signed the front cover.  (I told Cynthia afterwards that of course he signed the front– it had his face on it; he couldn’t help himself!)  As either this or the paper-signing was going on, the photographer handed me Cynthia’s phone back and I was so dumbstruck by everything that I just kind of looked at the phone in sheer confusion for a second or two– I think a part of me somehow thought there was something he wanted me to do with it, when in actuality he was just giving it back!  He said he’d see us soon and Cynthia corrected that we’d see him at dinner. 

“Three points,” I said as we exited (to the main area of the gallery). (I don’t usually give him any points. I have a lot of conflicting feelings about Paul, but had promised Cynthia I would not say anything disparaging about him during the duration of our time together.) We were both in a state of giddiness mixed with that feeling of it being all over mixed with anticipation. It was really the sort of feeling I’ve only had at meet and greets, but the night wasn’t over.  We stuck around the gallery, still talking to other KISS fans (one guy had the most amazing KISS shoes with the RARO cover art on them that either he or his boyfriend had painted, can’t remember– he said that Paul wanted them and he wouldn’t let him have them!).  Heather said that Eric had moved his timeslot down to the very end, but there were people that came in way later than everyone else, so I’m not sure if he actually got the last timeslot or not.  And as we were waiting, we got another meet and greet.  

This one was not so good and it was my fault.

This one was Doc McGhee’s would-be meet and greet. 

I had met Doc on a couple occasions, the last one being most memorable even if we didn’t speak.  I had a very good seat at the next-to-last MSG concert and as Doc walked down to his own seat before the show started (or possibly a song or so in– might’ve been as I was standing up!) he reached over and quickly pressed something into my hand: I opened my hand and found it was a guitar pick (I couldn’t see whose it was at that point), and immediately closed my hand and held onto it for dear life for the next two hours, only sticking it in my purse when I felt certain I wouldn’t lose it.  It’s a (worn) Paul pick– a good omen. 

Anyway, Doc just wandered in the main entrance, as Doc is wont to, and spoke to a couple people. Doc not being anywhere near as intimidating as Paul, I told Cynthia, “I’m gonna say hi to Doc” and walked over to him.

“Hey, Doc! You gave me a pick at Madison Square Garden!” 

“I did!” (I don’t think he remembered. Maybe he did.)

“Thank you!” and I shook his hand. 

Then he stood there. And stood there. He thought I had more to say to him or that I’d ask him for a selfie.  He did not expect that that was all I had to say to him. 

Doc slunk off into the shadows of the art gallery. Sorry, Doc.

Around about 9:30 or so was the dinner.  We were seated and then Paul walked in, giving a couple fistbumps on the way to our table.  There were three tables, each with 10 or less people there, and he’d be seated at the middle for each.  We were first, so we ate Caesar salad and a charcuterie board full of appetizers (salami, cheese, those little stick things, etc.) with Paul.  Paul was catty-corner to me which was insanely intimidating.  He looked me in the eye twice that I was aware of (without saying anything) and I just dove into the salami like a girl that got stood up for senior prom devouring the refreshment table.  My nerves were killing me.  Paul still looked… intimidating. I was riddled with the wounds of past experiences and the knowledge that I could say absolutely nothing to him that he had not heard before.  I couldn’t think. I could only mindlessly eat and wince as Cynthia excitedly kicked me under the table when Paul began to eat himself.  It was pretty funny, because the first couple times she kicked me, I thought that there was something she wanted me to say to Paul, but she just wanted to point out that he was eating!  

I ran out of salami and the waiter refilled my glass of water (I didn’t order any alcohol) about four times while I tried not to pay too much attention to Paul Stanley being that close to me.  That is to say, I was paying attention, but trying not to be a creep.  He was talking to a dark-haired lady sitting next to him and due to how loud it was in the restaurant, I could hear less than half of what he was saying (and only because I was straining) and basically none of what she said (he did say something about Soul Station, but as Cynthia said, we heard entirely different things regarding that particular venture, which says a lot for the amount of noise in the restaurant!).  After a point, he looked over our side of the table with an expression that was a bit “well?” i.e. “you can talk to me” without actually coming out and saying it.  He was pretty well aware that nobody on our side had really said anything to him as he consumed Caesar salad, various cheeses, etc. at our table, and he did want to give everyone the opportunity.  I was, apparently, incapable of taking said opportunity. 

Enter Patrick, who was sitting directly across from me/on the other side of Paul and whom (along with his wife, Nicole, sitting next to him) Cynthia and I had been talking with from the time we got seated on.  He had made small talk with us on the typical topic (KISS) and the two of them had been collecting Paul’s artwork since he started around ‘08 or so– this wasn’t their first rodeo.  Patrick had a loud voice that carried well.  Patrick did something that he really didn’t have to do at all, that I dearly appreciated– after talking briefly to Paul himself, he gave me the floor.

“I think you need to talk to your youngest fan (at the table).”  

Paul looked at me again.  I did not die. 

“I’m not all that young…”

I can’t remember if Paul actually asked me how old I was or not, but I said I was thirty-four.  Paul said “what?” (he didn’t hear me).  I held up my fingers in a 3 and a 4.  Paul did not understand. (I cannot overstate how hard it was to hear in that restaurant.)  Finally, I got my volume up loud enough.  “I’m thirty-four!” 

I want to say he looked surprised, but that might be wishful thinking.  I’m of mixed Asian and white descent and am very short and small.  Anyway, he responded with, “I have shoes older than you.” 

My incredibly brilliant response was “I know. … My mom’s your age so it’s fine.” (What’s fine? His 35+ year old shoes?)  Paul found this witty repartee hard to answer.  Probably because he likely couldn’t hear it.  

Patrick made an additional extremely kind effort just a second later.  I think he must’ve known how much I wanted to say something and how paralyzed/starstruck I had ended up.  It was exceptionally nice– he could’ve monopolized Paul easily, and he chose not to.  He didn’t have to go out of his way like that. 

“She’s been on the Kruises!”

“Oh?”

“Y-yeah I’ve been on the last three (technically four, I did both the back to back Kruises)--” Inspiration. Stupid inspiration. “I was the one that asked you– no, actually I asked Gene– about Dark Shadows.” 

Great, now Mr. Paul Stanley thinks I have an undying fascination with Dark Shadows. Okay, I do, but my life’s goal definitely wasn’t to ask him about that at dinner. 

“I remember that (show).  Barnabus…. It came on in the afternoons. (I think he said he watched it. … So did almost every baby boomer in the mid/late-sixties)”  He actually looked like he might’ve been contemplating the show, but he might’ve actually been contemplating whether the salad he spilt on his lap made a stain on his pants; I don’t really know. 

Patrick is the true hero of this entire story.  If Paul got three points, Patrick gets thirty. Patrick somehow kept introducing the stuff I had just told him to Paul (i.e. my first KISS record was “Rock and Roll Over,” and said something about “Hard Luck Woman”) and I manage to spill several things I am not sure that Paul heard at all (because I could barely hear myself) including (quickly) that I had only gotten my mom to come with me to a KISS show during EOTR, and that when she finally did she’d wished she’d gone to see them sooner. Paul was looking at us, nodding, and was trying to follow the general convo but honestly, if I was only getting a little over half of what Paul said, he was getting a fourth of what I said in general, best case scenario.  I don’t fault him.  Cynthia told him something about Phantom of the Park, but I could barely understand her! 

Probably a couple minutes after that, he went to the next table for the main course (he spent roughly half an hour at our table). He waved as he left and we remained with a surprisingly good vantage spot to see the back of Paul’s head and occasionally his profile.  Also his phone, which he never got out at our table but did get out for the main course’s.  It has a pink case. 

We saw him move to the final table– I think he may not have gotten dessert, but I could be wrong there.  (I had veal parmesan as a main course and split tiramisu with Cynthia. I only had about four bites of the veal due to having eaten every piece of salami on our charcuterie board, but it was pretty good. The tiramisu was also great.)  After that, he left, but he waved as he went and he still looked happy.  That meant a good bit to me.  I gripe about Paul a lot but I do want him to be happy.  I want them all to be happy.  

Cynthia thanked the art gallery director (not sure of his title) prior to us leaving the restaurant and we were told she could pick up her painting tomorrow morning at ten. It was very late at night at that point– not sure when we got back to our hotel, but I do know we were talking until two about everything that had transpired and the whole rest of the weekend was filled with talk of Paul. 

The verdict: Very good event.  Paul was sweet, engaged and definitely wanted to be here.  The only real negative I have is how loud that restaurant was!  It was something else to be that close to him– I had tempered my expectations due to my own cynicism and wariness, but he was great.  Really incredible time that I’m going to remember. 

Paul, if I see you again, I promise not to bother you about Dark Shadows. 

We’ll move on to Bonanza or Match Game or something.

#kiss the band #paul stanley

[white-collar-cannibal]

i get so jealous of euthanized dogs

(do you ever think too much about the implications of a plastic skeleton. i do.) genloss fic about the death — and it's subsequent consequences — of frank, last name unknown. gl!sneeg/gl!frank, title from the poem of the same name by june gehringer, heavily inspired by the locked tomb series, word count: 4,004, contains: suicidal ideation, canon-typical violence, descriptions of decomposition

Frank was not in his room. This was — mostly — expected, given his sorry state the last time Sneeg had seen him. Each morning, when Sneeg rose and he snuck out of the Cabin and down to that cramped corridor to unhook Niki from a great mess of wires and shake her gingerly awake, he also picked the lock of the room two doors down, and they would look to see that empty cot and those dark monitors which did not show any vital sign or brain activity. As they stared into that unfilled space, Sneeg thought, meanly, that this was probably what they got for being so used to walking the back rooms and the far corridors of the mall that they had forgotten the dangers of the Heart.

If it was any consolation, Frank was dead before he could realize the whole plan was going to shit. Niki had bolted in the first available direction, and Sneeg had not followed her, too busy holding the disparate bits of Frank’s skull together. He did not know where Niki had gone, only that she had not made it out. She was, after three days time, in her little room, sleeping so deeply as to be three-quarters dead, powered-down and completely unharmed. The two of them had not been very productive in the following days, and by the fifth day that Niki had been returned and Frank had not, they had begun to absolutely lose it, and they had split up to walk the parasitized mall and worry where the other could not sense it. 

On the seventh day, Sneeg encountered a strange sight: an open door that had not been open the day before. Sneeg did not recognize the door, but he recognized the hallway, and he recalled the third door from this end downward having been marked on their map with an inverted dagger: locked, keycard access. The door was clearly not supposed to be open. A sheet of laminated paper found itself caught between the body of the door and the mechanism of the lock, the little black keycard reader gleaming a welcoming LED green. A thin, pale fog rolled in half-formed locks out of the room, and it was making the hallway a little cold to stand in. The room beyond the door was cramped as any recycled Showfall room, stuffed to the gills with a series of large steel drawers, like lockers turned over onto their side so the shortest edge faced forward. All but one were closed, the source of that milky, breathy fog, and a metal slab had been shunted or rolled out of the drawer, which a single figure lay on top of. Approaching the thing was a miserable endeavor: laid as still as stillness over the slab was Frank — or at least, his body.

The body appeared very similar at first glance to its living counterpart, but at the moment’s close examination, the whole thing fell apart. It carried the same heavy-set brow, the same hawkish nose, the same worried marks at the corners of the mouth and eyes, but the whole lovely face had no blood in it at all, rendering it the tone of some anemic cornflower. It lay more still than Frank ever had, even in sleep, and it was a cold to the touch that made his fingers numb. Only the soft give of the skin and the flesh underneath convinced him that it was not a well done marble replacement by some singlely Pygmalion-minded sculptor. It was all very confusing. Sneeg held a deep, uncomfortable familiarity with death, but it all seemed off now. He could assume the purpose of the cold room with the inset drawers, but someone had, with precision if not care, dressed the body well and laid its hair flat and its hands in a kindly manner over its chest — they had put his face back together, for God’s sake — but the body was still dead. It was like dressing up a piece of plywood. What was the point?

Sneeg stared for a moment longer, at the remnant shell of the first person who had known him to the core of his misery and loved him anyway, and his eyes watered. Something was wrong. Something was awfully wrong. A body like this had been dead a longer time than Showfall had ever let them have between shows. He was in cold storage and not laid on the threadbare cot of his talent cubicle, waiting in pristine unaltered condition for whatever next taping Showfall had in mind. There was nothing good that would come from them leaving a cast member like this for so long, long enough for the body to pass into and out from rigor mortis. It betrayed a nearly unthinkable idea, something Sneeg could barely string together the words to comprehend: Frank was dead, and Showfall never intended to bring him back. This was it. The thought was like a bullet through his own brain, and he stood there, white-knuckling the edge of the mortuary drawer and breathing quite heavily.

Reaching into the pocket of that wrinkle-less jacket, he retrieved the silver Showfall-branded lighter, marked over in pen and marker and paint. It was a familiar weight, and found a familiar home in his own pocket. There was nothing else to do. He did not know how a real person was supposed to face a loss like this. He did not know how to say goodbye, and to mean it forever. 

It was with a childish, fairytale desperation mingled with his shock and his tragedy, that, in almost a dreaming haze, he pressed his lips to the pretty, bloodless mouth of the body. It did nothing so pedestrian as wake or speak. It did not flutter long, frosted eyelashes, open pearly clouded-over eyes and smile at him. It merely lay there, cold and still. Sneeg did not know what he had expected. He watched the body for a moment longer, to ensure it drew no hidden breath, nor twitched any surreptitious muscle — and then he ran from it.

In the cage of the Cabin — the safest place he had, given its having four walls and a door he could close and lock — Sneeg had tried very hard to tar over the raw wound of the loss with the thick denial that only a child of Showfall could feel. Frank was coming back. He was coming back because everyone came back. That was how it worked. That was how it always worked. It was nigh unthinkable that it wouldn’t now, for him, but oh God, would Showfall decide to pull their fingers from their own hand only to spite him, only to plant their dagger between his third and fourth rib. They would because they hated him. They had always hated him, ever since they first took him, for all the terrible things at the heart of his being, for his inability to work to standard, or live to standard, or look to standard. He tried very hard not to think about the possibility. He tried very hard not to think of anything at all. He tried very hard to focus on the shapes the path of his breath took through his body, the stucco texture hastily plastered over the walls and the floor, the hum of the tungsten day lights. He pulled his knees tight to his chest, and tried not to cry, because it would be real if he cried.

Sneeg spent three such nights in the cage, only moving on the fourth to the too-short couch in the living room when the bones of his back protested too much to ignore. He did not want to go back to the softer, better fitting mattress of his own room in the attic, to sit in the cold dark where Frank had laid his head on his chest in secret. Sneeg had done nearly everything in secret then, and now he was doing nothing, and he was doing it quite openly. He waited around, doing a great deal of nothing in the living room, or sometimes the kitchen, or the basement, and tried to be nothing in his wait for the next taping. This was the model of the perfect Showfall student, someone who wanted nothing and did nothing, and only lived to work their fingers to the bone, and then work the bones off their hand. It was almost strange to think that Management had tried for nearly twenty years, through varying cruel and unusual means, to turn Sneeg into this, when all it had taken was the maybe-death of one cosmically disposable cast member, and the maybe-shredding of that piece of Sneeg that was convinced he knew what the warmth of the Sun felt like.

The next taping arrived, as it would even if Hell froze over. Sneeg fell into the ephemeral grasp of the Showfall filter, and he forgot his grief wholly and entirely as Sneegsnag, first son of Showfall Media, first Taken, and despair of the Founder, disappeared. He melted away like so much candle wax, and someone picked him up and turned him over and over until he was the shape of whichever character they demanded of him.

The show did not matter, only that Sneeg’s part in it ended with a bullet stuck in his second lumbar vertebra. The moment Sneeg hit the ground, he began to remember again, and when each of the actors had peeled out of the room and the cameras were turned away from him, the loss had snuck its way back into his body in lung-shaking fingers of cold. It was there, bleeding onto that tiled faux-floor, that Sneeg realized that he recognized the prop corpse in the corner, the one that the prop department would have carefully set down and fiddled with before the actors were even on set. He propped himself up on his elbows, raising himself out of that scarlet puddle which had already ruined the nice shirt he had been dressed in, and he looked at it again, just to be sure.

He hated to look at it. He hated that they had not given him the mercy of smashing that pretty face into unrecognizable mush. He hated that the body was dead, and it was not moving, and Showfall had conscripted it for such purpose. The body was dead, and this was its job now, and Showfall had gotten sick of it and was not bringing him back. Sneeg wanted to scream, and he wanted to vomit, and he wanted to go home, even though he didn’t know at all what that meant anymore. He laid back down, getting his hair wet and black with fresh blood, and he had repeated, “No, no, no, no, no,” very quietly, nothing more than a breath, until two of the well-dressed employees grabbed each of his arms and sides of his thorax, bodily hauled him with their unthinking, programmed movement onto a stretcher, and caught him in the neck with the syringe.

Later that night was the first time the ghost of Frank revealed itself to him, sat beside him in the dark, and laid its hand which carried no weight over his own hand. There was no honest sensation that came from it, as was the want of a ghost or a trick of the mind, but it had left behind the pins-and-needles feeling of a limb left too long without blood. Sneeg had finally wept then, for his lost, far away family, for his dead lover, for his damned escape plan, and for his own sorry state. He hated to weep. He hated how incapable it made him feel, how it crushed his lungs and his throat. He felt like a small child again, or more accurately, like a worm. He did not know what to do, and now there was no one around to tell him. Easily, without spoken prompt, the ghost tried its stupid, spectral best to hold Sneeg. It did not succeed a great amount in this, but Sneeg’s starving want made the paresthetic touch a good enough comfort for him to lay still and try to sleep, rather than walking out of the Cabin and throwing himself over the third-story railing.

Sometimes, each night that followed, the ghost appeared to him alive, and at other times, as freshly dead as he had been the first time Sneeg saw him. Only once had he appeared in unrestrained decomposition, and Sneeg prayed it never happen again. He had been waxen, swell with rot, a deep, lush violet where the blood had been allowed to pool, leaking a dark fluid from his nose he wiped at in intermittent intervals. Sneeg had looked upon him in desperation and hunger, and the remains of his own putrefying affection, and he had still reached out to touch the apparition — but Frank smiled, and his mouth was full of maggots, and the palm that Sneeg had reached to touch him was seized with the conviction of ten thousand worms beneath its own skin, roiling and squirming. He had screamed for only one moment, but the ghost still vanished, and his brother still appeared with a quickness and a pitying concern, both of which Sneeg disdained.

Sometimes the ghost did not speak, only lay beside him in a familiar stillness, side against side, as Sneeg tried his damnedest to make himself hear Frank breathe into the dark. Most days it did speak, and often it was to needle him about how long it had been since Sneeg had eaten, or showered, or drank water. It was difficult to remember to do so those days. Sneeg spent much of his time asleep, finding it favorable in nearly every way to waking. There was very little want in his body to do much of anything, except to lie there on his mattress on the floor until God felt it right to snatch him away. 

His brother had not bothered him for one week, and then had been struck with what Sneeg could only assume was a crushing fear that God would indeed take Sneeg away, and Sneeg would be in no hurry and of no power to stop Him. He had begun placing bowls of cold porridge and glasses of room temperature water just beyond the doorway to the attic, and checking whenever he thought Sneeg was asleep to see if they had been disturbed, as if attempting to care for a stray cat. One night, in some kind of fit, Charlie had burst into the room, taken one of Sneeg’s hands between his own, between the hands that had drowned and bled and choked and killed and killed him so many times, and prayed intercessions to every saint he thought fit, and then some extra for surety: Anastasia, Raphael, Rita and Juliana and Teresa, Camillus and Christina Mirabilis, and on and on until his throat was hoarse. Sneeg watched him, and felt much like a compass that had broken somehow, no longer able to spin to point in the direction of God.

The ghost had taken this plea as sign and signal to redouble its efforts, and where God had not delivered Sneeg from his sorrows, the ghost delivered him from the IV drip and the padded room of the hunger strike. Showfall had never cared if he lived or died, but for him to waste away spoke unfortunately about how well they were paying him. They weren’t paying him, mind you, but it was about the optics of it. To this effect, Sneeg developed an unerring routine which got three nutrient rations and two and a half glasses of water into his body a day, and for his success the ghost would lay beside him at night, and leave that pins-and-needles feeling against his hands, and his neck, and his mouth. When the ghost did not appear, Sneeg comforted himself by imagining what it would be like to walk far beyond where Showfall’s patrol lines would ever find him, to break boarded windows and curl up on the floor of the condemned wing of the mall, and die like a bird which had flown in accidentally and could not get out. It was not a great comfort, and he knew dimly it was not a healthy one either, but it was enough to dull his heart and brain enough for him to sleep. In his dreams, each time he saw Frank, he felt very sick, and he would turn to Niki or Charlie or anyone that was there and ask, sorrily, “Is he there? Can you see him?” and they would look at him like a particularly sad piece of roadkill.

His brother kept praying, and sometimes he screamed into a pillow or an old shirt. Charlie knew that if Sneeg died, he would too, and Charlie did not want to die. He did not know what to do either, and vacillated between an overbearing care, as if Sneeg was a piece of glass or old china, — which Sneeg hated — and a snapping fury at Sneeg’s inability to do much of anything — which Sneeg also hated, but hated in an acute way that made him feel half a percent more alive. At those, Sneeg snapped back, and the two would fight with the familiar contempt that only grew from living together against your will for the better part of two decades. Sometimes it devolved, and ended with teeth in flesh and hands around neck and blood on the floor. Sometimes Sneeg cried — this was an arresting notion for even the most boiling over Charlie, and it made everything very strange and sad and awkward. He would place his hand on Sneeg’s shoulder, then take it away, and flap his mouth open and closed a couple times, but no noise would come out. Only once did he manage a blank “I’m sorry,” and Sneeg had just cried worse for it.

When it was clear that Sneeg was set on the rituals of self-maintenance, the ghost shunted its efforts towards convincing Sneeg to wake up Niki, and to get back on the wagon of planning their escape. He tried to convince Sneeg of this first by saying that Niki would be upset if Sneeg left her there alone much longer, which was not very effective, since he was sure she would be upset already, and then by saying that it would be good for Sneeg to get out of the house, which was not very effective, since Sneeg had nearly given up on doing things that were good for him. Then, he tried to tell Sneeg that the plan was not off yet, that there was still a chance for them to make it out, if they got together and threw themselves into it. 

The problem with this was that Sneeg and Niki had no fucking clue what they would do if they got out, on account of Niki having nearly no recollection of the details of her life before Showfall had kidnapped her, and of Sneeg's having been seven at the time. As integral to the plan as Niki’s steadfast internal map and Sneeg’s memory of the timetables and the pathing of the wandering guards had been Frank’s insistence that he could hunt down the names and the contacts of those who were close to him, who he remembered with a greater clarity. But that was all gone now. Sneeg had not known it, so the ghost would not whisper it to him. Niki did not know it, despite her constant bothering Frank to tell her all he knew, so they would have one less point of failure. He had never told her, not because he did not want to, but because he only knew it in a subconscious, animal way, and not in a way that he could tell her, and now none of them knew. Each new detail, each elaboration on the loss, made the whole thing interminably worse. They were alone, and they were damned, and there was no way out.

At this thought, the ghost jabbed at him and set off the strange nerve at the point of his elbow. “Fuck off,” it had said. “You’re better than this. You need instructions? You need an order? Survive me. Finish the job.” It had looked so close to living, breathing, pressure-bomb Frank then, sharp eyes like so much burnt-up copper, teeth at fascinating and contradicting angles, that he would have done anything it asked.

Sneeg slept, and he woke, and he ate, and he told his brother, “I’m going to go talk to Niki,” and then, at Charlie’s expression, “Give me three hours before you start to worry.” Charlie turned his face up at this, but he nodded, and Sneeg retraced, in dismally slow footsteps, that familiar back alley path from the Cabin’s panel door to the dingy hallway of the cast cubicles. Niki was lying in the abyssal, dreamless sleep of the power-down as Sneeg clacked the well-worn key combination into the console, and pulled away a lot of electrodes and finger-traps. The first thing Niki did was scream, and then she thought better of it, and just sat at the edge of the cot and hyperventilated. When Sneeg had tried to speak, she got up and pushed past him, brusquely, and left the room. Half an hour later, he started looking for her, and when he did find her in one of the many uncared for corners of the mall, she was sat, knees to chest, beneath a whole herd of quite miserable chalk-drawing horses across the wall. Her hands were bunched in her hair, and she was looking somewhere far away. Her eyes were rotten, needle ice over dark water. She had a very small voice when she spoke. 

“What are we going to do?” In the dark, it was clear to them both that Niki was still a teenager, and Sneeg was still as stunted as he had ever been. They sat there, two kicked, abandoned dogs, which had been cut free of leash and of collar for the first time, and were liable to start running into traffic. There was a length between them that felt like a missing molar. 

“Okay. Okay.” Niki rose with a fervor that nearly toppled her over, and she grabbed each of his shoulders with vile intensity. “Sneeg. I am not dying in this hole. Get up.”

Sneeg got up. He never could ignore a direct order. Sneeg got up and got up and got up, and his heart kept beating, and his lungs kept drawing in breath. Hours fell into days fell into weeks, sets fell into sets fell into moldy corridors where Niki tried to transcribe the paths of guards with too many dashed lines and corresponding sigils. They chipped at the work in short, fervid bursts, then couldn't touch it for days. Niki never prayed, but she would hold Sneeg's hands when he did, and sometimes, thinking she was alone, she would pace in languid, looping circles and speak as if Frank could still hear her.

They spent so much time working at this dreadfully slow pace that it became very hard to tell just how long it had been. Sneeg lost count of the days since he had last asked God to just kill him and get it over with, and he thought it a success, and stopped keeping track — only to end up awake in the kitchen in the middle of the night, staring longingly at the wood-paneled knife block. Time fell through his hands like it wasn't even there, and he only realized that it had been a very long while when he went to wake Niki up, and spotted, at the edge of the hall, a new temporary label on one of the previously empty rooms. It was the same mechanized handwriting as every other label, and Niki read it out, clear and crisp: T-8: HERO.

#genloss #generation loss #gl!sneegsnag #gl!sneeg #gl!frank

[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

You're Trouble

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes - anon (i luv u, truly)

Prompt: You’re the girl during the Trouble performance who gets her face smushed by Elivs. When you run into each other at the police station after the fight breaks out, you give him your info. He shows up later looking worse for wear, and it’s your job to fix him up. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Blood (just a little, nothing too graphic), cops, I don't think anything else but lmk if you see something!

Rating: Pg-13    ||     Word Count: 3941

A/N: oh man...i love this i have to say. getting to rewatch this scene in slow motion??? yes pls. also the second gif @ the bottom is from the shannara chronicles (thanks efc for the link lol) + that's is how you should imagine him during the one scene. you'll see what i mean ;)

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

“Turn that racket down!” your mom yells from downstairs. “And you’d better hurry up or you’ll be late!”

“We’re comin, ma!” you yell back, reaching to turn the volume down on your record player.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doin this!” says your best friend, Jocelyn. She’s pulling a sweater down over the top of her dress while trying not to ruin her freshly applied makeup.

“I know! I’m so excited I could scream!” you say back, and grab the album cover for the record. You hold it up in the light and sigh. “Oh look at ‘im, Jocelyn. He’s just perfect.”

Jocelyn folds her hands on your shoulder, resting her chin on it and sighing.

“Oh Elvis…”

“Girls! If I have to-”

“We’re comin, ma!” you yell back, slightly more angry this time around. “I can’t take her screamin at us one more time. You go on down. I’m just gonna tidy up a bit.”

Jocelyn nods and leaves to go downstairs while you stop the record player and place the vinyl carefully back into the cover. You hold it out one more time and press a small peck to the image. When you pull back, you see that you’ve left a big red kiss mark on his cheek and you chuckle. As you put it back, your eyes track a small piece of paper resting on your dresser. On it you’d written your full name, address, and phone number. It’s a stupid idea, but you think maybe…just maybe if you could somehow slip it into his pocket…

You shake your head and put the note down, glancing in the mirror one last time before leaving, just to make sure that your parents won’t be able to see what you’ve got on underneath. Your eyes flick down to the piece of paper one last time and you snatch it up, stuffing it in your pocket and wincing with embarrassment. Then, you hop down the stairs two at a time.

After a few minutes of yelling from your mother and backtalking from you, your older brother, Johnny, finally gets you out the door and into the car. You ride mostly in silence, other than the sounds of you and Jocelyn squealing with excitement every few minutes. You can hear the crowd before you can even see it. As Johnny pulls up to Russwood Park, you and Jocelyn press your faces agains the glass of the windows. Jocelyn is practically bouncing out of her seat, and you aren’t far behind her. Johnny pulls to a stop.

“Be careful tonight, girls. I’ve heard bout some pretty crazy things happenin at these Elvin concerts,” he said.

“Elvis, James,” you say dryly.

“Well he’s a troublemaker, whatever his name is. Be careful, and be ready to go home by ten o’clock. Deal?”

You both nod, your smiles ready to burst off your faces.

“Aright, have fun.”

You lean over the seat to hug him.

“Thanks, Johnny. Love ya!”

As soon as you and Jocelyn have hopped out of the car, you both jump up and down, squealing and shrieking. The crowd gathered is already much larger than you expected, and they’re loud, too. Once you’re sure Johnny is out of sight, you both rip your sweaters off to reveal tops that your parents were never approve of. Your skirt is a deep red which perfectly compliments the black sweetheart neck top you’d bought. The whole top half is sheer and puts your shoulders and neck proudly on display. Your parents would probably combust if they could see you.

“Oh no,” Jocelyn whines. “Look at the size of that crowd! We’ll never see him from way back here.”

You grab hold of her hand, interlocking your fingers, and look at her determined.

“Oh yes we will,” you respond. “Cause we’re gonna make it to the front of that crowd.”

You start dragging Jocelyn behind you, elbowing and sneaking your way through the crowd and around all the standing bodies. As you near the front of the group it gets hard to navigate through the people, who really don’t want to give up their places.

“Move over, ya prude!” you shout to a young girl in a red and white striped dress.

You barely hear her protest as you weave through the crowd. Finally, you slap your hand on top of the makeshift stage with a satisfied smile. You yank Jocelyn up next to you and shrug.

“Told ya!” you have to shout now, with the crowd screaming and a line of American-themed women dancing.

As you peer over some of the fans’ heads, you notice a merchandise table with Elvis’ name and face on everything you could think of. You also see tons of police officers lining the sides of the crowd. You point and laugh with Jocelyn. Suddenly, screams erupt from behind you. You jump to try and see above the heads, but it’s no use.

“What’s happenin??” you ask, and Jocelyn shrugs.

“He’s here!!” someone shouts. You turn and grab Jocelyn’s hands, smiling so hard your face aches.

They must be right because the female dancers scurry off the stage and a man in a white suit jacket takes hold of the microphone. He starts yelling, trying to get the crowd hyped up, but you can’t hear what he’s saying. You’re far too busy trying to get one glance of the King himself. The heads in the crowd bob up and down and shift like a thousand fish in the sea, but you just need to catch one tiny fish. You are peering through a small hole in the group when someone shifts. Your mouth drops open. There he is.

“Elvis Presley!!” the announcer yells, and screams erupt all around you.

You clamp a hand over your mouth as he walks onto the stage. He makes his way toward the center, and you bite onto your fingers. He is so much more handsome in person. And the way he walks. It’s like he owns the world. His black hair lays floppy in his eyes, and he peers out into the crowd with dark eyes. Suddenly, he’s looking right at you, and your hand falls from your face, leaving you gawking with an open mouth. He smirks and winks. You grab onto Jocelyn’s hand, but neither of you can move.

“Did you see that?” you shout, and Jocelyn clenches her teeth together with a vigorous nod.

“He looked right at ya!” she says.

As he centers himself to the mic, the crowd starts to grow quiet.

“There’s been a lotta talk bout the new Elvis,” he starts, and the crowd erupts into a chorus of boos. “Course, there’s that other guy.”

He lifts his hand into the air and wiggles his pinky finger. You aren’t sure what it means, but the way he flaunts it makes you think maybe he isn’t supposed to be doing it.

“You ain’t nothin but a hound dog, cryin all the time,” he sings, and you feel your heart skip about a million beats. The crowd cheers around you. You can’t tear your eyes away as he grips onto the microphone and glances around, as if he’s thinking about something important. You and Jocelyn clutch each others fingers hard.

“There’s a lotta people sayin a lotta things,” he continues. “Course you gotta listen to the people that ya love. But in the end you gotta listen to yourself.”

The crowd erupts into cheers again, and you squeeze Jocelyn’s hand.

“And I want you to know those New York people ain’t gonna change me none,” he shouts.

You bite your lip, practically buzzing from excitement. He rips the guitar off and hands it to a bandmate. When he returns to center stage, it’s like someone’s lit a fire in his eyes.

“I’m gonna show you what the real Elvis is like tonight!” he shouts, holding up his arm.

The band starts to play, and he belts out his song. Your favorite of his songs.

“If you’re lookin for trouble, you came to the right place. If you’re looking for trouble, then look right in my face,” he sang in that deep southern voice that you’d learned every variation of. “I was born standin up, and talkin back. My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack.”

Your heart literally thumps against your chest as he sings raspily. It sounds so much more intense in person than it does on your radio at home. Jocelyn starts to scream, bouncing up and down. You throw your hand over your mouth again, trying to breathe in and out slowly as he tosses his head around like a ragdoll. You can’t help but shriek when he seductively twists the microphone stand with one hand.

He wanders over to where you and Jocelyn are standing and gazes into the crowd. You’re gripping each other so tightly you aren’t sure you’ll ever use your fingers again. One of the girls near you is literally crawling onto the stage, and Elvis is standing so close that she probably could touch him if she tries. The way he holds the microphone as if it’s a dance partner makes your chest heave. Your eyes hungrily trail down his body and latch onto his fingers on the top of the microphone. He starts to wiggle his body like you’ve watched him do so many times on television, and you join Jocelyn in jumping.

Suddenly, he throws his body up and crashes down onto his knees. Right in front of your face. Jocelyn rips her hand free from yours to cup it around her mouth and scream. Your fingernails latch onto your hair and pull at it, as he pushes his pelvis up directly toward you. His eyes turn upward, dark and dangerous, and he looks right at you. Smirking a little, he leans down and curls his fingers around your jaw, forcing you to face him and only him. His fingers dig into your skin, and your hands grasp at his sleeves. He sings right to you, and you can feel all the blood being drained from your body. You don’t even have the self control to scream. He winks before dragging his fingers along your jawline and releasing your face. He smiles smugly and walks backward to center stage. Your chest is heaving, and you can barely move enough to blink.

He drops the mic stand from one hand and smoothly catches it with the other, leaning over it to sing as if it he was dipping a dancing partner. You are still heaving with deep breaths as Jocelyn grabs hold of your shoulders.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!” she shouts over and over and over again.

You can’t take your eyes off of him as he dances and moves around on stage. He falls onto the ground, bent over and screaming into the mic. When he rolls onto his back, the feeling in your body starts to come back to you, and you laugh loudly. He is wild, out of control, illegal. And you can’t get enough. Everything starts to move too quickly. At some point you think you see him laying in the middle of the crowd and then crawling back onto the stage, screaming.

The next think you know, Elvis is being hauled offstage by some police officers and people are screaming and running. As they drag him away, the crowd starts pushing and everyone sprints frantically in different directions, not knowing what to do. You grab for Jocelyn’s hand but she slips from your sweaty grasp. As you stumble around, someone grabs hold of your arm. You wriggle free of his grasp, turn, and slug him square in the face.

“You don’t touch me!” you shout. You turn and push people away as they try to run around or straight into you. “Jocelyn!!! Jocelyn!!”

Someone else grabs your hand, and you turn to punch them. This time, it’s a police officer and he snags your wrist with a handcuff.

“What the hell’s your problem?!” you scream, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “Let me go! I didn’t do nothin!”

“Y/N!” you hear Jocelyn’s voice, but you can’t move around to find her. The officer lifts you up and practically drags you into the police car, even though you kick and beat on his back the whole way there.

Once you’re in the cop car, you run your fingers through your hair and try to bring your breathing down to normal. As soon as you come to terms with the fact that you’ve been arrested, you start panicking about what your parents will think. And how you’ll get out of jail without them finding out. Then, you worry about Jocelyn and whether she’s alright. By the time you get to the police station, you’re hands are shaking ever so slightly and you’re exhausted.

The officers guide you out of the car and into the police station, sitting you down in a room while they process your papers. You pick at your nails but hold your head high. You hadn’t done anything wrong, and you’d swear to it in court. You sit for what feels like hours before someone comes into the room. It’s your brother, Johnny, who enters with a solemn face.

“Johnny!”

You try to stand up, but the handcuffs prevent you from moving. You crash back down into the seat and stare at your brother.

“What in the Sam Hill is goin on here?”

You shake your head.

“Johnny, I didn’t do nothin wrong! A fight broke out and some man grabbed me! I mean, I guess I punched him in the face pretty good, but he deserved it! He was tryin to hurt me! I-”

Johnny holds up a hand and just shakes his head.

“Get in the car,” he says.

“Well wait, where’s Jocelyn?” you ask, feeling guilty for forgetting about your friend.

“She’s already home. She said she ran as soon as it got violent. She’s the one who called me. Get in the car. We’re going home. And Mom is not to hear about this, you understand?”

You are speechless, so all you do is nod and stand still for the officer to unlock your handcuffs. You feel so reassured to know that Jocelyn is safe. You rub your wrists as you follow your brother out into the waiting room, a tiny smile of relief plastered on your face. 

When you enter the lobby, you happen to glance over at the waiting area to see none other than Elvis Presley himself sitting there. He’s slouched back in the chair, his legs spread wide and his head tilted all the way back. He looks very inviting. While Johnny deals with some paperwork at the front desk, you nervously pad in Elvis’ direction.

“Y’alright?” you ask quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself. His eyes open and head tilts down ever so slightly. A small smile graces his lips.

“Yeah, baby, I’m just fine,” he responds, his voice hoarse.

You can hear Johnny wrapping up and suddenly remember the piece of paper in your pocket. You shove your hand down to see if it’s still there and feel it crumpled up. You finger it for a few seconds trying to decide whether to mortify yourself or not. Realizing that you may never get the chance again, you clutch onto it and frantically step forward to hand it to him. He slowly reaches up and takes it from you.

“In case y’ever need anything,” you whisper. Just as he’s about to respond, Johnny harshly yells your name.

You turn immediately and follow him outside and into the car. Your car ride home is silent, and you can tell that your brother is disappointed. Not upset or angry, thank god, just disappointed. Disappointment you can deal with. You’ve dealt with it before, thanks to your rebellious streak.

When you get home, it’s very late. Definitely later than your curfew of ten o’clock. You quietly go upstairs and immediately climb into bed, pulling the covers over your face. Tossing and turning, you swear you’ll never go to bed. You can’t stop smiling. Now that you are safe and sound, images of the wild night start to resurface in your mind. You see Elvis, a smirk on that beautiful face of his. You feel his fingers around your jaw. You hear the roar of the crowd and his raspy voice echoing all around you…

You jolt awake. Something is tapping on your window. You sit up, rubbing your eyes and trying to see better, as if seeing would help you hear better. The tapping continues. It sounds like someone is trying to unlock the door to your tiny balcony. With wide eyes, you carefully swing your toes out of bed and frantically look around for something to protect yourself with. You sigh, frustrated, and grab a pair of scissors.

Your feet move slower than death as you approach the door. You gently grab ahold of the curtains and take a deep breath before flinging them open and holding the scissors out defensively. Once you realize who it is, you quickly put the scissors down and unlock the door.

“...Elvis?” you ask in a whisper. He stumbles into your room with a breathless smile.

“Hey baby doll,” he says, and your heart thuds.

“What are you doin here?”

“You said if I ever needed help,” he replies, holding out the scrap of paper.

You take it from him to ensure it’s the paper you’d given him at the police station. Your eyes widen when you realize it is the very same.

You’re about to respond when you notice a little bit of blood dripping from his side. Your breath falls flat and you reach out to put your arms underneath him and support him.

“Oh my god!” you hiss. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Police roughed me up real good,” he responds with a chuckle that quickly turns into a groan.

He leans on you and groans as you drag him to your bed. You pull the blanket taut and lay him on top of it. Yanking the curtains open for more light, you run to the bathroom for some water and a towel. When you return, he’s holding a photo from the bedside table. You examine his wound in the moonlight. It looks like a small cut on his stomach. You thank the stars for the darkness to hide your embarrassment as you speak.

“You’re gonna hafta take your shirt off,” you say.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds, sitting up. He tries to lift it off himself but winces at the pain. You quickly move to help, grasping the fabric to gently lift it off his frame. You avoid staring at his naked torso as you pour water from a cup onto the towel. You gently press the towel to his wound.

“Ouch, fuck,” he says, and your hand imemdiately covers his mouth.

Your eyes nervously fly to the door, but you don’t see any light shining underneath. You could feel him chuckling underneath your fingers. You remove your hand.

“Be quiet!”

“Why? Am I not supposed to be here or somethin?”

“Well I ain’t supposed to have no boys up here in my bedroom. Plus, it’s the middle of the night, and we’re we’re up here…alone…”

He says nothing, smirking and glancing down at his crotch. You once again thank the stars that it’s too dark for him to notice your embarrassment.

You shake your head and press the towel deeper into the cut. He hisses and grabs onto your arm with his hand. Your eyes immediately move to his fingers digging into your bare skin. You release a shaky breath and carefully pour more water on the towel.

“I like what you’re wearin,” he says, breathless. You ignore him even though your entire body is screaming.

“Thanks, I wore it just for you,” you respond without skipping a beat. You aren’t looking at him but still catch his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. You lean to get a better angle on his wound, not realizing how close to him you are.

“I don’t think I have anything to co-”

You stop in your tracks when you look up and make direct eye contact with his lips, pink and swollen. He has a small cut on the bottom one with a little dried blood. But they still look like the most kissable things in the world. You steady yourself and gently raise the towel to his lips. He catches your wrist.

“What are ya doin?”

“You have some blood there,” you respond, unable to tear your eyes away from his lips. He releases your hand, and you gently dab the towel against his mouth. You reach up to hold his face still, placing your hand on the side of his jaw. You slowly pull back the towel and look at the cut, all cleaned up. For a few seconds, you just stare at each other, both of your eyes travleing everywhere. You start to drop your head but he catches your face with his hand. His fingers curl around your jaw like they had at the concert, and you audibly gasp. He smirks.

“I knew I recognized you,” he mumbles. “You were at my concert tonight, weren’t ya?”

You nod, frozen in his grasp.

“Yeah…,” his eyes trace around your face and body. “I saw you punch the shit outta some asshole, too. Is that why you were in jail?”

You nod sheepishly. He smirks.

“I picked you on purpose, you know. Outta all those girls,” he says, his eyes tracing around your face again. “You wanna know why?”

“Why?” you breathe out.

He strokes your cheek with his thumb and then drags it across your bottom lip.

“I could see the fire in your eyes,” he replies, his eyes glancing between your eyes and lips. “I could tell you were trouble.”

You smirk and lean over, closing your eyes. He pulls your face to him and just barely ghosts his lips over yours. You shudder, clutching onto the towel in your fingers. He brushes his lips against yours again, and you gasp. You feel his mouth curl up into a sinister smile.

“What are you waitin for?” you whisper against his lips.

“For you to tell me what you want.”

“Kiss me.”

He obeys immediately, capturing your upper lip between his. He kisses you hard, gripping your jawbone. Your hand meanders up to his chest, resting on the smooth skin near his heart. He pulls back slowly, painfully slowly. You flutter your eyes open and gaze up into his blue ones. He’s still holding onto your jaw, but more gently now. You lean forward again, pressing your lips to his. You gently push him down onto the bed with the hand you laid on his chest. His fingers leave your jaw to wind around the back of your neck and thread themselves through your hair. His other hand sneaks onto your waist, gripping you and pulling you on top of him. As soon as you start to put pressure on his body, he groans and accidentally bites your bottom lip. You pull back with a finger flying up to the skin.

“Ah,” he winces. “Sorry, lil mama. I didn’t mean to bite ya. Not yet, anyway.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” you reply, giggling. You touch your lip and seductively drag your fingers across your lips and down your neck. His grin spreads into a smile, and he strokes your cheek.

“You are trouble.”

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

**If you notice any triggers or grammatical errors that I missed, please let me know! :)

#elvis #elvis 2022 #milasfics #milaselvisfics #milasthings #milaselviscontent #austin butler #elvis imagine #elvis fic

[peter-pantomime]

Stranger Things Fic Recs, Part 3

Part 2 (Steddie and various polyamories), Part 1 (Jonanceve)

Steve/Eddie

let it roll into the night

Steve hates the spring. Spring means allergies and rain jackets. Spring means he tracks mud into his car, means he's waiting for warmer days. Spring means it's not quite summer. The only bright side right now, in this particular spring of 1988, is Eddie. (It takes one year for Steve to fall in love.)

make me aware of being alive

“So, I’ve found God,” Eddie announced. It was more than a little inaccurate, but he didn’t know how else to bring up the subject. “Oh yeah,” Jonathan prompted. “Where?” Eddie chuckled. “Nah, man, I mean. I want to be more, like, observant, maybe,” he hedged. Jonathan raised his eyebrows, playful rather than mocking. “Look at you, ba’al teshuva.” Or: After the end of the world, Eddie starts building his Jewish home, and finds the people he wants to build it with

like a heartbeat drives you mad

Steve doesn’t have any tattoos. If he’s honest, he never really thought about getting one before. At least not before he knew Eddie.

ain't it exciting you?

Three days after saving the world, Eddie moves his black bandana to the other pocket. 

all the missing girls are hanging out without us

“Here is a riddle: the answer is one.” Eddie Munson lives, and dies, and lives again.

light my way

Eddie doesn’t like showing it when he’s scared. Wayne always knows, though. He knew every time Eddie appeared on his doorstep with no warning, small and trembling with a dirty, oversized backpack packed with snacks and worn stuffed animals. He knew when Eddie was taller, a little bit too skinny and too tough for his age, when his dad finally ended up in prison and the government finally let Wayne's kid be his kid. He knew when Eddie was in middle school, friendless and angry and paranoid, when Wayne stumbled upon a stash of porno mags while he was looking for drugs.XSo he knows now. {in which Wayne doesn't meet Steve until quite a while after he and Eddie start dating}

brutalist masterpieces

He turns, scooping up his sneakers as he goes, and climbs back over the rocks. Fifteen feet between them now, and their eyes meet. Steve’s got a paper bag of groceries under one arm, balanced on his hip like a sassy single mom, and he doesn’t drop them but he pales, looks like he wants to. Eddie sees his shoulders stiffen and he asks, hoarse, “Who died?” “You did,” Eddie tells him. Ten years on, in a town in Nova Scotia, on the edge of the Atlantic, Eddie finds Steve again, and also maybe himself.

Transfiguration's gonna come for me at last

“So, like, what’s up with your mailbox?” Trust Steve Harrington to waltz into your house, sprawl out on your armchair, and hit you with a whammy like that. Eddie pauses, midway through locking the door behind them. “What?” “Your.” Steve fumbles. He gestures to nothing, lips pursed. “Y’know, the thing on the wall outside. You always touch it when you walk by. I thought it was maybe, like, a tiny mailbox? But now that I’m saying it out loud, that sounds… really stupid.” (or, Eddie Munson and Judaism.)

thirty days

"Okay, you should probably leave.” Eddie says quietly, hand slipping underneath the blanket. His other hand reaches for the remote and he pauses the movie. “Why?” "Cause I’m going to jerk off.” Steve's mouth is dry. His body is heavy. “I don’t want to go.” “Fine." Eddie leans his head back against the wall, reveals the column of his throat. "Stay.” (Robin and Steve make a bet. Eddie is... unhelpful.)

Heavy Metal

Eddie’s gaze turns from limpid, innocent curiosity to something wolfish, gears turning in his head, “What if it was the other way around?” Steve blinks at him, stupefied, “What?” Eddie shifts his weight so he can bring his hand up, thumb stroking over Steve’s nipple through the soft cotton of his shirt. He’s wearing his blue and white polo, the stripe around his chest showing off the swell of his pecs. Eddie licks his lips, “If it was hot doing it, what if you were the one receiving?”

Lick It Up

Eddie lay flat where he was and took a drag. The tip was still wet where it had been in Steve’s mouth. Eddie felt like his body was sinking into something soft and comfortable, his limbs heavy, his head fuzzy. “We’re still not watching Crocodile Dundee,” he said, to the ceiling.

Blooms of the Darkest Garden

Steve is going to die. And because this is Hawkins, a town with an alternate dimension right up its asscrack, he isn't going to die in a normal way. No, instead he's going to die because he can't stop coughing up the most disgusting combination of Upside Down gunk and...flower petals? What the fuck is happening to him?

Play it Right

As much as he loves to play the cynic, Eddie has to admit that everything does mostly turn out okay, in the end.

Up the Punks

“What the fuck just happened there?” “I could ask you the same thing, Harrington,” Eddie hisses, jabs a finger into Steve’s chest. “Did you honestly bring me along as your plus one? To a date? With a guy who really thinks the Sex Pistols were on to something?” “What,” a date? Plus one? Steve doesn’t even know where to start. “What is a sex pistol?” “What,” Eddie says, parroting Steve’s confused tone back at him in a way that sounds unfairly boneheaded, “am I doing here, Steve?” (Or: Steve has good intentions, but does not realize that punks and metalheads are natural enemies)

the boys of summer

“Steve,” Wayne echoes. “This is my home. Eddie’s my boy.” And then he ruffles his hair with one large hand, coarse from years of working with them, in an action that reminds Steve of Hopper. “I’m gonna go down there and get my boy back. You’re gonna be my tour guide.” He holds his hand out for the final gun Steve has stashed, which he gives over reluctantly. He finds Wayne remarkably difficult to argue with—wonders if Eddie found the same. “Tour guides don’t need guns. You point at somethin’, I shoot it. Got it, Steve?” (Steve knows Eddie’s alive. Wayne’s the only one who believes him. So they team up to save him.)

Americana's Crusade

The third day in a row he sees expletives graffitied over an image of his own face—the post office bulletin board, this time, and there’s another errand Uncle Wayne won’t want him running anymore—Eddie waltzes into the Family Video and sprawls his whole torso across the counter. “I’ve decided I’m gonna live to a hundred,” he proclaims. “Why?” Robin asks, at the same time Steve says “How?” and Eddie grins, showing all his teeth. He’s taken to checking his brakes haven’t been cut every time he starts the van.  “Pure spite, baby. They wanna kill me, they’ve gotta get through me first.”

Rock of Ages

"Eddie's having a love affair with my stereo." "Don't make it sound so tawdry, Harrington. We're well on our way to a committed relationship." "Oh yeah? How's your guitar feel about that?" Eddie gasps in outrage. "Don't bring her into this."

#stranger things #stranger things fic recs #steddie #steddie fic recs #steve harrington #eddie munson #myficrecs

[twyam-if]

trigger warnings: 17+ for depictions of violence, gore, strong language, mild sexual themes, death, and mature themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

in the world of Romaen, it was prophesied that four, otherworldly warriors shall descend upon the world to combat against the forces of evil.

one will possess the disposition of a true monarch.

one will possess the strength of the true matriarch of Romaen.

one will possess the memories of a traitorous god.

one will possess the heart of a mourning world.

you are NOT one of these warriors.

As a regular college student, you are fully aware of how everything works in the world...somewhat. You have student loans to repay, research papers to turn in before midnight, classes that aren't significant to your actual degree, and professors to speak with regarding your future careers. It's stressful, but luckily, your best friends are there to help you ride out the college experience.

That is, until you were dragged through some wormhole, and found yourself face-to-face with a cat-eared man who jovially exclaims, "Welcome to Romaen, brave heroes!"

You were most definitely surprised to be dragged in a different universe, but hey! This means that you'll finally be able to take a break from your schoolwork, homework--whatever! There's even the chance that you'll be able to save everyone, wield a powerful weapon, and--uh. Or not.

According to the cat-eared man, you are NOT one of the chosen heroes. Your friends are.

And the only way to even leave this world is to help your friends destroy said forces of evil...as their impromptu bodyguard.

You're pretty sure the universe as chosen you as their residential punching bag and you don't like it.

To Which You're a Martyr is an in-progress interactive fictional novel that will be made in Twine about close friendships, evolution, and the desire for a happy ending. To Which You're a Martyr will be a tentative trilogy.

To Which You're a Martyr includes:

-Play not as one of the chosen heroes of prophecy, but as their defender instead!

-Pursue a romance with not only your best friends, but with more additions! However, if you wish to pursue/continue with a platonic relationship, that option is also there as well!

-Have a wide, range of options to choose from for your character creation!

-Interchangeable POV’s between characters!

-Your actions will have consequences. Be prepared for the decisions that you will make!

These are the main ROs that can be revealed now without spoilers, but there will be more to come soon! This will be updated accordingly once newer additions arrive. But for now, please enjoy these characters!

MasterList of All Characters (Including New Ones) // Character Images

"Babe, I love you so much! You're the one I've been batting for this entire time! Get it? Batting? Cause I play baseball? W-Wait, why do you look so done? Babe? Babe?! Babe, come baaaack!"

Lana "Lemon" Corchat (she/her, 22); One of the romantic options/deurtagonists, she carries the entire package: beauty, brawn, and smarts. Her rambunctious, jocky personality, mixed with a scowl that accentuates her beauty whenever she's approached for a 'date' from someone else, is what gave her the nickname, "Lemon" from others. She's known you since Middle School.

Her personality changes whenever she's with you, and whenever she's with the group, she becomes a bit flighty, but a very, very physically strong, young lady with clumsy tendencies.

Appearance: Long, locks of blonde hair tied into a high ponytail by a red ribbon, bright red-colored eyes that shines like rubies. She wears red, hoop earrings and often wears a sleeveless, white-collared shirt with a collar and a red tie. She wears a red, plaid skirt with black, tight shorts underneath with red and black tennis shoes. She also wears a set of black, fingerless gloves. She has tanned in some areas, but otherwise has ivory skin. She is 5′6′‘.

"What on earth are you talking about? You were already by my side this entire time. For what use is there to say it out-loud, when you can see it as clear as day in my eyes? Are we not childhood friends for nothing!? Apologize for your incompetence!"

William "King" Pillars (he/him, 23): One of the romantic options/deurtagonists, he's arrogant, egotistical, a complete jackass, and believes the world is 'his' to control. This is not that far off, as he had already captured the hearts of the staff members, professors, university board members, and even the Headmaster of Dormira University--no doubt, thanks to his status, influence, wealth, and endless charisma.

He is a childhood friend of yours, and he often brings (read: drags) you around in his usual antics. Underneath that arrogant behavior lies a wise man who truly believes that the world has 'stagnated', and wishes to revolutionize it.

Appearance: Long, teal hair that ends at his shoulder blades, some of it is tied up into a ponytail that reaches his neck. His eyes have a magenta-pink hue, and he wears a red ribbon around his neck. He typically wears a white dress-shirt over a dark green shirt, black business slacks with black dress shoes. On his ears, he has some small, helix piercings on his ear. He has porcelain skin. He is 6′1′‘.

"I love you. I'll say it as many times as I want because it's you. I love you so much that it hurts."

Rin "Sun" Flanhen (they/them, 24); One of the romantic options/deurtagonists, their aloof nature and mysterious aura makes them both approachable and un-approachable. Despite how passive they can be whenever they're swept in your group's shenanigans, they usually act as the mediator...or they'll add more fuel to the fire. You sometimes wonder if they do this on purpose, but it's hard to really decipher what they're really like at times.

Despite being a newer member of your friend group, you feel as if you knew them longer than that.

Appearance: Short, black hair that nearly covers their red eyes, they will always wears sunglasses over them. They have two, red diamond-shaped accessories in thier hair. They will often wear a black, skin-tight turtleneck with a grey coat over them, with a pair of black pants and black, tennis shoes. There are some splotches of paint on their coat, with a brush or two in their pockets. They have warm, golden skin. They are 5′9′‘.

“You sure you want to be with an old man like me?”

Hanami “Red” Hex (he/him, ???); A laid back warrior who fights like a 'wolf', in accordance to his legend. He often makes jokes and calls himself an 'old man' when compared to the other kids, and he often gives you and the college students some candy as a reward.

Despite how he is, he's the legendary warrior that shook the gods and goddesses by storm, and was their champion until his dying breath. He was known as The Witch's Wolf.

Appearance: Bright, red hair pulled back into long, red waves that reaches his lower back. Deep, blue eyes with black slits. A scar on the right side of his cheek, diagonally placed along his chin. Large, red wolf ears and a large, red fluffy tail on his lower backside. He bears a strong physique and wears a tight, sleeveless turtleneck shirt with a white coat. He has on a silver gauntlet that reaches his elbow with red and silver decorations, and on his other arm is a vambrace that’s fully red with red, patches of fur surrounding it. He wears a pair of dark pants with belts around his thighs, and wears a pair of black shoes. He has ivory skin. He is 6′6′‘.

Demo: TBA

#interactive fiction #twine game #cyoa #indie game #interactive novel #twine #twyam #twyam if #dev log #if game #if wip #twine wip #twine if

[jakeyt]

Covet: Chapter 5 (Sneak Peek)

Unfortunately, the store was way busier than it usually ever was on a Saturday night.

Of fucking course, you thought, going about cleaning up after the customers who put records in the wrong bins. Afterwards, you would check them out, with their massive collections, to leave.

And the cycle went on and on.

Around 6:30, something snapped you out of the process of ringing someone up at the register. The girl you were bagging the records up for raked her eyes over someone who’d just rung the bell of the shop, which signified the arrival of new customers.

You looked over, ready to welcome in your new guest when you saw who it was.

Jake was frozen next to the door, his big brown eyes only on your body as the girl nudged her friend. Your skin grew hot at his gaze. It felt validating that he couldn’t take his stare off of you. Your outfit had done exactly what you’d wanted it to.

You heard the girl say something under her breath about ‘the sexy guy at the door.’

And dammit if she wasn’t right. He looked particularly fine tonight.

It didn’t help that seeing him brought Elsie’s plan back to the forefront of your mind. You could only think about how badly you wanted to cross the line and fuck him. You knew you’d be thinking about that every time you were around him until you acted on it. And at that moment, it was all you wanted to do.

His arms were covered by a black blazer with pinstripes, a black button down underneath. His shirt was open, all the way down to the top of his abdomen. The skin was beautifully bronzed, per usual, and glistened the slightest bit from him walking in long sleeves in the summer sun.

And his thighs. . .God damn, they filled the black jeans he was wearing so well.

Your customer’s voice asking for the total snapped you out of your trance, and your eyes landed back on her young, freckled face.

When you got them finished checking out, they continued to stand there, ogling Jake. You were annoyed at their ridiculous behavior, and decided for all parties involved, it was best to get him out of the store.

You clicked your heels right on over to him. And like always, his cologne infiltrated your senses and made your knees weak. You ignored it.

“What are you doing here, Jacob?” You challenged his presence, putting your hands on your hips. You were trying to act tough like you hadn’t just been fucking him with your eyes.

His eyes darted to where your hands went, and then he grazed his eyes from your hands all the way to your blushing face. He licked his lips, and messed with a sheet he had folded in his right hand.

He cleared his throat, “I just wanted you to have a setlist for tonight. Also, Elsie’s already there,” you weren’t surprised. She was always one to show up way earlier than she needed to. “And she mentioned you were stuck at work, so I came here to give it to you.”

He handed you the piece of paper he’d been holding, and you reached to get it. Your hands met briefly. It sent shockwaves into the pit of your stomach.

You nodded, trying to ignore the feeling. You bashfully replied, “Thanks,” peering briefly at the paper in your hands. “Why?”

“Just important to me that you had a copy,” he told you, stepping closer to you. His body was just centimeters away from your own. It set you aflame. You looked up at him through your lashes. “Also, I don’t know what the fuck happened last night, but please don’t let it be the reason you don’t come tonight,” he reached a hand up to tuck a curl behind your ear. “I really want you there.”

Your stomach swarmed with butterflies at him being so blatantly open with you. You were not used to this behavior from him. He was usually so closed off, you were fine with taking the bare minimum. But right now, after being so vulnerable last night, and after having you reject him, he was still standing in front of you, asking you to come see him perform.

“Okay,” was all you could breathe out, looking between your bodies at how close they were.

After that, he gave you a fleeting smirk.

And, as soon as he’d appeared, he was gone, out the door.

All you wanted was to follow him. The store be damned, even if it continued to be busy, you refused to miss too much of the night’s show.

-🌼🌼🌼-

To be continued on 06/28…

——

And, as promised, the playlist!

And just a little note, most of the songs are from Jake’s pov — so do with that information what you will. ;) I think it’s perfect that her pov is in written word, and his is in musical form.

I’m sure more will be added to the playlist, and some of these are for meant to line up with future happenings in the story. So, again, do with that what you will lol

Speaking of pov, how would we feel about some Jake pov in the future?…

#covet #covet sp #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #my fics #jake fic

[spockandawe]

So! Binderary! I don't recall how much I said on here, but I sent out a couple packages to a couple authors after that all wrapped up. Some fun trivia about me is that I am shy to a hilariously useless degree, and by the end of all these packages, I was too embarrassed(???) to double check if old addresses were still good. And in one case, it wasn't! I remade the books, naturally, because that's completely my mistake and also the typesetting was done, and with books quarto and smaller, material costs go way down. And now this package is safely delivered to the correct hands, and I can share!

These are the books where I hadn't posted photos of then originals yet, because titling spoilers, and the design choices are a pure repeat, so I'm not going to be redundant about things. Just imagine these books x2 in my records, and you'll have it right! We've got a fun smattering of mdzs fics here, first two remakes of Ameliarating's work that I did WAY back when, but I'm much better at small books now, so I had to give them the luxury treatment!

Check out Restoration for some yi city reincarnation fun, and lover to your nightmare for some sexy xuexiao delirious sickfic! That one has always appealed to me from a design perspective, really capturing that delirium tag in the binding of the story. These two books were what SOLD me on the use of low contrast titling choices this year, which was a whole lot of fun. And then in addition, I also bound A Wiser Fool, which is more xuexiao, but in a setting Xue Yang is blind and Xiao Xingchen is not. I don't remember if the tags there are first place I read the phrase 'xue yang's feather-light conscience', but it's sure stuck with me ever since! And I am so pleased with that pairing of the quiet purples and pinks in the cover fabric, foil, and endpapers.

After that, we've got some veliseraptor fic that I had never tackled before. I say this is a collection of mdzs fics, but really, the most specific throughline here is Xue Yang 😂 First of all, on a narrow road, which is 34k of fabulous songxuexiao amnesia road trip romance. I've had this cover fabric for years without knowing where to use it, but it just felt right here, especially with subdued titling on top. And then we have this world is gonna break your heart, which is Xue Yang/Jiang Yanli, and look I swear just give it a look, it's so compelling and works SO well! I bound that in faux suede (my beloved) and titled it with black foil for a nice lush effect, and it's hard to see with the reflections, but that t character in the title has branching roots extending underneath it, which felt like such a fun touch for a story about demonicn cultivation. And for both these books, I was able to break into a stash of chiyogami paper I bought to experiment with, bringing in some flowers and metallics for a nice bit of maximalist polish that I thought played well with the covers without overwhelming them. Less is more is never a philosophy that clicked with me, haha

#crafts #bookbinding #binderary #technically

[the-nosy-neighbor]

Black Stuff in Staff Only

Potential spoilers, read at your own risk (though most of this is from the July 2023 update).

Welcome home

Black stuff

What is the black stuff?  I think we first encountered it in either the original document that is a storybook page featuring Julie and siblings, or in the space underneath home.  The original and a lightened copy are below, and definitely has paint smeared on top of it as well as some of the black stuff. 

“All of the paper materials tucked away inside the envelopes we have received are usually crammed together and covered in paint and ink. Despite this, volunteers have both restored and recreated most of what was found on the documents. Below is an example of our work as we extract information from the original document and translate it into a digital state.”—(emphasis mine) About Us

Information about the black stuff from Staff Only:

We know not to touch the black stuff, based on information from W, written to the QA.(interestingly, it seems to say that the QA got all of the stuff that they had to this point, but the information given by W in awayfrompryingeyes seems to indicate that W was holding the weird stuff back)  In the photo we have of the original document (Julie and sibs) they already know or have an instinct to wear gloves when handling the stuff. 

In the letter below, the QA approaches W to let them curate the items, aka clean and preserve them in a way that won’t damage the items, and is told no in no uncertain terms. 

The response to this seemed a bit over the top, but as we have seen, the WHRP members (maybe just W) have reported some kind of influence from the items.  The insinuation here is that the black stuff has lead to a number of symptoms and they are bad symptoms:

“It means it is inside of you too, then, this urge to find it. Our efforts won’t be in vain.”—About us

The statement, “it is inside you too, then,” is an interesting one, because I have always taken it to mean that some mysterious force or unknown evil is spread by touching these things.  It hasn’t been specifically linked to the black stuff, but it seems the obvious choice in “being infected” with Welcome Home.

“To be honest, we were drawn in unexpectedly. All of the information found on this website was extracted from documents that had been uncovered in brightly colored envelopes. We are thankful to be the first to jump start this exciting journey! But it hurts.”—About us

As we have seen above, items received have black stuff on them.  It is after exposure that they become obsessed with solving the mystery of this show (have we been exposed?)  The person above is using gloves, and there are notes in Staff Only about wearing gloves and they are available.  There are also dirty gloves on the table.  I would assume that means that they are taking the necessary precautions. But, these are far more dirty than the exhibit items. (Maybe the gloves were used with the paint roller? At least some of the black stuff appears to have been spread by fingers and hands, based on look.  In addition, you can see two paint cans in the bottom corner of the image. Is this where the paint comes from? It would seem less mysterious with the paint cans there, unless this is the black stuff controlling the QA and staff and making them paint.)  

To begin with, I assumed that people had become lax and were handling them directly, but it is possible that whatever influence is spread, it isn’t through direct touch.  They are asked to return any items with black stuff on them:

“We are overjoyed you have received all of the work we have so far uncovered!  Please take care of it while it is in your possession, but under no circumstances should it be touched with your bare hands.  Please wear gloves:  If a substance begins to grow on anything delivered (?), please place it back in the box it was shipped in and return it to us at your leisure.  If you or anyone on your team experience nausea, dizziness, or fatigue, please don’t be alarmed!”—Staff Only

You can see in the picture below that they have gloves for this purpose.  The letter instructs them to return anything that has growth on it, though they don’t specify what it would look like.  It says not to be alarmed if any of them experience dizziness and fatigue.  I don’t know why the QA would take the risk of the black stuff, and it seems that W knows it is there, potentially there, or that it grows quickly and unexpectedly. 

This particular email has always captured my interest for two reasons:  the content, but also, you can see the black stuff in its physical form.  Where on the paper and walls it looks like ink, this stuff looks/acts more like kudzu (for those that aren’t familiar, an invasive species of ivy native to Japan and other Asian countries that massively took over the American south, also known as “mile a minute” or “the vine that ate the South” from Wikipedia).

In these pictures, you can see instances of the creeping black stuff.  It is all over the staff only room, and on the ceiling in the exhibit space/or back room (I think it is exhibit space).  We can see that this stuff has gotten out of hand and is creeping along. Is this what happens after the inky stuff starts to spread? Or when staff members touch the inky stuff and then touch something else?

As previously discussed, there is a roller on the table, and in some shots you can see what looks like paint cans. This could mean that the roller on the table and the black stuff on the walls are related and it’s just paint.  There are some gloves close by covered in the black stuff as well.  The QA believes someone is punking them, so this could be evidence of that, but who would know enough about this stuff to play that particular prank?

Known symptoms of contact are headache, dizziness, and nausea, and while WHRP says it isn’t anything to worry about, we know that the QA was sick for quite a while, and whether that is physically, mentally, or both is not stated.  I believe paranoia is listed as a symptom as well, with both W and QA experiencing this (as evidenced by their written concerns that someone is tricking them..)

It appears that the QA didn’t take that advice in the email (or is subject to another force), leading to the spread of black stuff.  Given the state of things in the Staff Only room, it would appear that the black stuff has arrived.  This leads me to wonder, can they see it?

What we can extrapolate from all this, is that the black stuff could account for the behavior of the individuals we have seen so far.  The ick, which can be seen underneath Home, and has grown in size during the last year, has stringy bits that reach further and further out. 

(Could this explain why Eddie has his moments of paranoia during the Commercials?  All his increased heartbeat and strange faces, the sweating and feeling disoriented?)

W doesn’t mention the black stuff.  The curator only mentions “more of that stuff is on the walls.”

There is more of that stuff on the walls.  I keep hearing phones ringing.—Staff only, QA’s notes

The association of the black stuff and the ringing has stuck with me as we have progressed. 

It’s probably a not so common reference, but it reminds me of Red vs. Blue, where Tucker keeps getting volunteered to go through the portal.  Tucker comes out covered in black stuff (which I believe he says is carbon.)

I don’t believe it gives Tucker any special powers, just a lot of armor cleaning.  But he is pushed to be the one to go through it, because those kinds of portals have potential consequences.  The rocks they test it with come out black, and they make Tucker do it anyway. (bowchickawowow?)

But the direct reference to more black stuff and the phone is ringing reminded me of W as well.  They hear the phone ringing.  They hear Wally talking sometimes.  W finds themselves seeing things on a TV that they shouldn’t be seeing (hmm…but Eddie specifically), and the QA has a note on the TV that says to replace it ASAP if it gets broken. I can see two different ideas here:  either the QA thinks the TV is broken when it starts playing things it shouldn’t, but also could be a note to have it fixed ASAP, because like W, they are seeing things in the TV that they aren’t supposed to be able to see.  W, in particular, knows that there is weird stuff going on in the website, going as far to test Wally’s response.  They don’t seem to be willing or able to make the connection to Wally specifically. 

What if  all the stuff on the website is for W specifically?  Wally could be talking directly to W.

I think it is very possible that touching the black stuff not only opens you up to symptoms/not feeling well, but also infects you with something that allows you to hear or see Wally and Home.  Those are the only two that have spoken to us directly.  There is an argument for Eddie speaking to us, but I don’t think he is aware of us.  I’m not sure where the video comes from, in universe.

But we do know that Wally has stated we draw eyes, and that allows him to see through us (or W and their team.)  We have seen eyes littered throughout.  On the website, all the eyes in the borders are presumably from W, since they are still on the site.  In Staff Only, there are post-its with eyes littered around, including one that says “who are you” and eyes on the WHRP folder as well (in addition to the background being upside down eyes.  With upside down text.  OK, maybe upside down eyes.)

We are all drawing his eyes, but does he know about us?  I don’t think we have communicated back in a way that is specifically identifiable as us.  It could be that Wally/Home are trying to desperately break down barriers through contact with individuals in W’s universe. 

That would make for a good explanation of why the show disappeared.  If the black stuff started to spread in our reality, any of those kids would see the show for what it is.  I don’t think we have a full idea of what it is yet, but we haven’t touched the black stuff.  If kids started to act weird, and people started to notice black stuff around, they would have avoided it.

I can really see something like that coming through in a toy or other merch, and begin to spread, leading to strange behavior in the kids, leading to parents thinking it is black mold or something and pushing the series away for that reason. 

This concept art portraying Sunny seems to lay out the plan a bit more (though it could have been a former plan, not the current plan for the story).  “Children have seen it and now they know what to do!”  It’s really creepy and shows Wally as an oppressive force.

“Everything is so disgusting to touch.  Sometimes the mail doesn’t come for weeks.  I want to rip into everything I have.  My head feels so muddled, too.  Ever since I opened that envelope.”

This interview/questions for the website are asked by WHRP and answered by QA in the email above.  The note discovered by using blacklight is presumably the QA, either answering in some kind of invisible ink, or maybe they don’t remember, leading them to think it is another part of the supposed “prank.”  I suppose it could be an actual prank, but I don’t think that fits the story very well.

I haven’t ever really understood the use of the blacklight/invisible ink.  The messages are of the type that Wally leaves, but there is no expectation that it is Wally who wrote them.  It could be the QA or another of their staff, as well.  But the QA leaves instructions to use blacklight on everything.  I assumed in the beginning that maybe the blacklight catches the black stuff, but given the use of ink, maybe the QA is looking for the messages from Wally.  I don’t think there is enough information at this point to know the answer to that, but am open to hearing some, if anyone has theories about it. 

The important thing about the black stuff, especially as experience in the Staff Only page, is a visible type of infection into our world.  If we can see this stuff, either we are able to see it because we haven’t been infected, or because we have.  Either way, in the realm of Staff Only, we see a physical manifestation of the influence of Welcome Home on people who come into contact with it, even now.  

As we see more of it, I will try to adjust my theories, but the black stuff is an important part of the explanation of what is exactly happening to people in the direct sphere of influence of Welcome Home.

#welcome home #welcome home theories #welcome home arg #the question answerer #staff only

[cinnamonspicewritingroom]

More Than Diamonds

Pairing: Prince Friedrich x Princess! Reader Description: Britain has gained themselves a new royalty nearing the debutante ball of 1813. Princess Amelia of Siam was sent as the new Ambassador of Siam. In Britain Princess Amelia was able to find her family, but will that be all? Tags: Slow burn, Coming of age, Time-Travel, Back to the past, Friends to Lovers, Royalties, Oblivious!FLxObvious!ML, Jealous! Friedrich, Slightly Possessive! Friedrich, Black cat gf, Golden retriever bf Timeline: S1&S2

Chapter 9: Three Is A Party

As promised, Lady Danbury’s ball was the first one to be held during the season and Amelia just received her invitation. She stared at the paper in her hand, contemplating her life choices. Next time, she really should be careful with what she said, promising to vacate a spot in her schedule, but now that she did, her introvertedness is hitting the maximum after back-to-back meetings. 

“Fuck-” One glare from Lynn was all it takes for Amelia to swallow down the curses about to escape her throat. 

“Sorry.” Lynn sighed as Hugo shook his head at the two. 

“The ball is in a week. There is still time. We will make you a new dress for the ball.” Lynn’s word about her wardrobe is absolute, so Amelia just nodded her head. It is no use trying to go against Lynn when she is fully capable of decapitating someone. 

***

She was late, Violet noted as she scanned the room trying to search for her niece. In fact Amelia was late by an hour and a half. Even the Queen arrived half an hour ago. 

“She is late, your niece.” Lady Danbury noted. 

“Just like her mother, that one.” Even her grin is just like her mother. 

“I know, I apologised. She is usually punctual-” Then they heard murmurs coming from guests. My was it a scandalous sight, for someone to wear such a gaudy coloured dress. However, nobody can say the 3 foreigners do not look attractive, because each one is truly an eye candy, together? They are a spectacle. 

(Left: Attire, Middle: Makeup, Right: Hair)

The princess herself was wearing a golden sequin tube dress that formed a straight skirt. To cover her bare shoulder, she wore an emerald coloured silk cape that went all the way to the floor. On the cape, there were markings in colours. She looked regal and expensive.

(Left: Hair, jewelleries and makeup, Right: The Dress and gloves)

The lady-in-waiting went for a more Great Britain style, but with a twist. Instead of the Empire waistline, the cuts were made on her natural waistline. Her hair was twirled and tied in a low ponytail. It was feminine and less extravagant than the Princess, but truly fitting for her. 

Ladies of Great Britain did not know an exotic man could be so attractive. The Princess of Siam’s Lord-in-Waiting is not only wealthy, but also has a great build. They could see the outline of his muscles, all firm underneath the modern suit. He also has great features and his sharp eyes just made him look mischievous and mysterious. 

“My, they made such a ruckus.” Lady Danbury chuckled, watching the Princess of Siam walk confidently despite the amount of whispers coming her way. 

“Lady Danbury,” Both Amelia and Lynn curtsy at the host, while Hugo bowed his head. 

“We apologise for our tardiness. Unfortunately there was an emergency at the embassy that I needed to settle quite urgently.” Lady Danbury frowned a bit.

“Well, I hope nothing bad happened.” Amelia chuckled a bit. 

“Fortunately it was quickly settled.” The old lady nodded with a smile. 

“Well, go around then, maybe you will catch a gentleman.” This made Amelia laugh sincerely. 

“I do not have the time to pursue such a relationship, but maybe you can introduce Hugo to several ladies?” Lady Danbury looked downright predatory while Hugo looked alarmed as Lynn held a laugh. 

“No- Princess, I am fine-” Lynn elbowed his ribs, shutting him up. 

“He will turn 26 years old this year, as a friend I am afraid of him possibly not marrying due to the amount of workload I have,” Amelia and Lynn perfectly played the guilty and caring friends. 

“Well, alright. Come on, boy. I have several ladies in mind.” Amelia and Lynn giggled as Hugo was dragged away by Lady Danbury. 

“Oh my, poor Lord Hugo.” Violet giggled along with the younger women watching Hugo bow his head to several young ladies, his face looking uncomfortable. 

“Yes, well. I am… Quite serious when I say I am worried.” Amelia looked at Hugo as she grabbed 2 champagne from a waiter’s tray, passing one to Lynn. 

“His father is on his deathbed and to succeed in the title he will need to marry. That is written on the will and I want- no I need him to succeed instead of his older brother.” Amelia shuddered as she remembered what kind of person was Hugo’s older brother. 

“Sometimes I wonder, why has he not found anybody… He is not a rake-” Lynn furrowed her brows as she sipped her champagne. 

“He is polite-” Amelia continued as she was judging the lady he was talking with from top to bottom and reversed with a raised eyebrow.

 “Good looking, at least enough to charm whoever that is.” Lynn noted. 

“Smart enough to work for me, and that is saying something” Amelia nodded.

“Rich-” “Then why not one of you marry him,” Benedict interrupted, making both girls turn to him looking all disgusted. 

“No. Aside from that would make a morganatic match, that is like… Marrying my own brother. That is disgusting.” Amelia cringed and took a huge gulp of the champagne, shocking Benedict. 

“I am engaged.” Lynn simply laid her concluding argument. Benedict only shrugged at this before dragging both of them to group with Daphne and Anthony. 

***

Amelia was laughing with Anthony, Daphne and Benedict as they gossiped about the men who were trying to court Daphne. They were truly a hilarious bunch. It was not long when a familiar man in the swarms of young girls caught her eyes, which at first she tried to ignore, but her brain told her it was not a wise decision. 

“Ah,” Amelia said with a bored tone, making all the 3 siblings follow her line of sight. “Damn, I was hoping to not meet him until next week.” Amelia sighed and sipped her 2nd glass of champagne.

“You know him?” Daphne asked Amelia, surprised. 

“Yes, Simon Basset. The new Duke of Hastings. We work together. It was one of Prince Edward’s projects and I hopped in. It was done in his land.” She turned toward Daphne who was staring at the Duke. 

“I better greet him then-” Shocking the Bridgerton siblings, she downed the champagne. 

“Oh, ask him about the last report.” Lynn chirped, making Amelia groan. 

“Right- I forgot about that one. Perfect timing then.” Amelia turned to the Bridgertons. 

“I am off to work then,” She blew them a kiss and with that, she disappeared. 

***

Young girls were being shoved to Simon’s face here and there by their mamas. It was unfortunate no matter how much effort they give, the new Duke of Hastings is not interested in marriage. He was searching for a way to escape the crowd when a voice familiar to him called out. 

“Good evening, ladies. May I borrow the Duke for a while?” Amelia said with a smile, however, to all the ladies present she looked absolutely terrifying, not only was she an Ambassador and guest to their country, she is the Princess of Siam. They have heard that the Queen has taken a liking towards her and if anyone offended the guest from Siam, the Queen will deal with them right away. 

“Good evening, your Royal Highness.” The girls performed curtsies to Amelia and as much as they did not want to let Simon go, there was nothing they could do. 

“Absolutely, Princess Amelia. Shall we further our conversation somewhere else?” Simon quickly took the opportunity and placed a hand on the small of her back, leading her away from the crowds. Hugo and Lynn who saw this quickly break free from their crowds and follow them. 

“Hugo and Lynn are following, let’s go to the balcony.” Simon glanced at her, a joking grin formed on his face. “Please tell me you are not interested in me.” Amelia looked up at him disgusted, before eyeing him from top to bottom judgmentally. 

“I’m tipsy, not blind. Fortunately for you, I am not a debutante nor am I looking for marriage prospects. I truly have something to discuss with you.” Simon smiled and nodded as they entered the balcony, Hugo and Lynn joining them. 

“Good evening, your grace.” Lynn curtsy at Simon and Hugo bowed his head at him. “Lady Lynn, Lord Hugo.” Simon noted with a head bow of his own. 

“What is this, something you need to discuss?” Simon leaned on the railings. 

“Your receding hairline” Simon blinked at Amelia’s serious grave tone before she sighed “Just joking. I will be frank with you. How often do you check the finance report given to you by your accountant?” Ah, so she did not lie. Simon straightens up as he tries to find an answer. 

“I… must admit, not as much…” Amelia and Hugo’s eyes met before they sighed in unison. 

“Not to be rude, but we anticipate that one.” Hugo crossed his arms. 

“We found… Uh- some discrepancies in the report for the fiscal quarters.” Simon started to get serious and focus. Hugo looked at Amelia, urging her to tell the Duke. 

“We found that the quarterly report using the dukedom’s funds and the calculated numbers written in the report to request the donation funds are far-off from each other…” Amelia could see how his jaw tightens. 

“Truthfully… I would even say the content of the report was abysmal.” Amelia clasped both of her arms on the front part of her body, directly on top of her navel.

“And how would you know that the discrepancy is not the real number?” Simon’s hand clenched on the railing. 

“No matter how ridiculous that would be, we considered that… And it is still a possibility until you or the accountant check it. However, from what we found- we even triple checked the numbers, there may be a possible corruption going on.” Simon looked downright murderous. This might be a tough reality to swallow, especially for a new Duke, after all it seemed like it has been going on since the previous Duke’s ruling. 

“Lord Simon, if you are still in London this week, any time you are ready; you can send a letter to the embassy and set up a time for when you are available. Hugo and Princess Amelia will be available to show you their findings.” Lynn suggested with a smile as Simon nodded, rubbing his face with his palm in frustration. 

“I think I need a drink-” “Or three-” Amelia chirped as Simon cleared his throat as the 3 Siamese nodded their heads. 

“Alright. Let’s end the discussion here… As Lynn said, do send a letter to the embassy so we can schedule it if you want us to explain our findings, or we can send you the reports with pointers on the discrepancies.” Simon nodded at Amelia’s words. As the Siamese were about to leave, he stopped them. 

“Princess Amelia.” Amelia turned around to see his crestfallen form. 

“Sincerely, I thank you for telling me about this.” Amelia hummed. 

“You do not have to, I did it for me, not you. The discrepancies shown could be the pitfall of our project after all.” Simon chuckled at Amelia’s haughty look.

Words: 1872 Words

More Than Diamond's Master List

IMPORTANT NOTES A/N: Hello, how are you guys? I hope you are well. Regarding this story that is following Julia Quinn's hit series, Bridgerton, I would start by saying I read the book first before I watch the Netflix series, thus I apologize if there are some differences with the Netflix version, but I will try to make it as similar as possible. I would also ask the readers to be kind when criticizing this story as this is my first time to actually publishing my work in the open. For the story, as you can see there is a time-travel tag. Our reader was sent back to the past with all the knowledge from the future. If you are also confused with Davika's education, I actually based her using Spencer Reid, a character from Criminal Minds. I also made Friedrich to be a year younger than Benedict when in actuality, he was born in 1794, 2 years younger than Daphne. If you are not interested or felt like those 2 themes ruined a historical romance story, then please do not leave any bad comments as you can just stop reading this story. Thank you for waiting this story to update, I am currently busy with work and post-graduate school application, so I am really grateful for waiting. Thank You Very Much! Much Love, Cinnamon Meilleure's Writing Room

#bridgerton #prince friedrich #lisa #lalisa #thailand #prussia #writing prompt #historical romance #history #romance #friedrich of prussia #freddie stroma #queen charlotte #daphne bridgerton #simon basset #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #time travel #back to the past #historical #regency era #prince frederick #colin bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #kit connor #eloise bridgerton #hyacinth bridgerton #francesca bridgerton #gregory bridgerton #violet bridgerton

[kyufessions]

pastel box

synopsis: you take an evening stroll with your boyfriend, jooyeon, when he ends up surprising you with a little something

pairings: idol, boyfriend! jooyeon x g.n. reader

genre: fluff >:(

word count: 0.8k

a/n: literally got this idea as i scrolled on tumblr during work 😭 shoutout to my jooyeon brain rot. also i’m sorry if this isn’t that good, i’m trying to get better at mushy gushy romantic writing 💀

general taglist: @jwnghyuns @eaudenana @soobin-chois @jungsusvillain

“sit! sit!” your boyfriend instructs loudly, his excitement booming off the walls with the brightest smile you’ve seen him had in a while.

you couldn’t help but laugh at his antics, wondering what exactly he was up to. following behind him as he pulled you towards an unoccupied park bench. as you sat down next to jooyeon on the bench overlooking han river, you watched him pull out a small pastel yellow box from a tote bag he had been carrying around with him all afternoon. the sun was shining brightly in the mid-afternoon sky, no clouds in sight as you enjoyed a carefree afternoon with him. jooyeon had noticed how secluded you seemed to be lately, the end of the spring semester making you stressed and overworked on top of maintaining a full time job at the music store down the road from your local college. when he noticed you both had the day off, it took quite a bit to convince you to get you out of your tiny yet cozy studio apartment but he has succeeded nonetheless.

“is that my tote bag?” you asked him as he placed the box on your thighs, eyes darting back and forth between him and the seemingly familiar tote bag.

“that’s not important.” he replies, his smile never faltering for even a moment. “now open it, please!”

you laugh between ‘okay’’s as you open the box, noticing how he decorated it in cute little stickers with your name written beautifully on the box. “A+ for presentation.” you joke, sending him a small smile before opening up the box to find multiple random items. you were confused, looking up at him with a grateful yet confused state. “what’s all this?”

he took your one hand in his, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. “i started doing this thing where if i saw something that reminded me of you, i’d buy it! you see,” he turns the box around, fishing out a pompompurin keychain and holding it in his free hand to show you. “i know you love pompompurin, so whenever i saw anything related to him i would buy it! along with some other things.” he turned the box back around to allow you to look through it properly, his eyes sparkling as he watched you look through it.

he watched you squeal with excitement with each new item you saw, half being pompompurin while the other half were items you remembered seeing online or in store. as you rummaged through it for a few minutes, there sat jooyeon with his bottom lip between his teeth as you got closer to the bottom. at the bottom sat a black velvet box, worries filling your head as you saw it. he wasn’t proposing, right? i mean, you loved the man and all but it’s barely been a year. regardless, you slowly opened the box and noticed a familiar looking necklace. it was simplistic yet eye catching, the yellow rhinestones on the chain glistening under the spring sun. running your thumb over the metal paper airplane, you noticed a small engravement on one of the flaps and squinted your eyes to make it clearer.

jooyeon chuckled at the sight, admiring your utter confusion. “it’s my initials with our date engraved underneath. i got us matching ones but mine has your initials.” he dug his hand under the neck of his shirt, pulling out the necklace you’ve seen him wearing religiously for the last few weeks.

“how long have you had this?” you questioned, unable to contain your smile and subtle tears poking at the corner of your eyes.

your boyfriend noticed this, taking his one hand and swiping away any tears before they could fall. with a chaste kiss to your forehead, he finally responds. “a few months, i think i hid it well.”

“where’d you hide it at?” you ask as he grabs the necklace from your hands, helping you put on the necklace as you turn around to make it easier for him.

“you know the third drawer down with the socks and underwear?” seeing your eyes widen as you turned around made him let out a laugh. “no no, it didn’t touch them. it was in a separate baggie in the very bottom below everything.”

you nodded, fiddling with the necklace between your fingers as you pecked his lips softly. “that’s smart because you know i’d never go in there.” you smile at him, staring down at the box of goodies once again. “why a paper airplane?”

slipping his hand into yours once more, he brings his lips to back of your hand and places a gentle kiss to it. “so whenever i travel, i’ll always be with you!”

you had never felt more lucky to have someone like jooyeon in your life, let alone someone so thoughtful and caring. maybe saying yes to being his significant other in that random record store almost a year ago wasn’t the worst idea.

#kyufessions xdh #xdh #xdinary heroes fluff #xdinary heroes drabble #xdinary heroes #xdinary heroes jooyeon #jooyeon fluff #jooyeon #lee jooyeon #xd jooyeon #xh jooyeon #jooyeon xh #xh fluff #o.de xdinary heroes #xdinary heroes o.de #xdinary heroes gunil #xdinary heroes jungsu #xdinary heroes seungmin #jiseok xdinary heroes #xdinary heroes junhan #xh junhan #junhan xh #xh jungsu

[immabethehero]

A Jolly Holiday (WDTAJN - Song)

Finally have them all done! Here’s my last entry for @wdtajn! The song? Jolly Holiday from Mary Poppins!

(So a bit of context: I made a boyfriend for Bruno. His name is Matias, he’s an inventor who showed up in the Encanto after the events of the movie. His inventions are unpredictable, to say the least. They don’t always work and often end with an explosion. Think Dr. Doofenshmirtz, but if his parents were actually supportive and loving. He was kicked out of his hometown when his parents died, and has been hopping from town to town since. Until he ended up in the Encanto.)

PS. he also owns a grey cat named Alegria ^u^

*******

Bruno spends an extra hour in the bathroom this morning, washing his hair and shaving as much as he can. Thirty minutes are spent on teeth alone. He throws on his prettiest ruana (with extra embroidery by Mirabel) over a new green and white striped shirt and purple pants. A corsage tucked over his heart, he dashes downstairs.

His cheerful presence is not lost on the family, who watch him intently.

“Wonder what’s got him all cleaned up,” Camilo says.

“Matias is coming over,” Isabela answers as she walks out. Camilo blanches.

“Not with a new machine, right?” he whispers to his sister. Dolores simply stares at him.

“Not with a new machine, right?” Camilo squeaks.

Dolores rolls her eyes and strains her head to listen. “It’s definitely not his typical machine… it does sound awfully loud. Sort of like… instruments crashing together.” Camilo weakly whimpers.

“Don’t worry, Papá and I have been teaching him to play,” Mirabel says as she passes.

“Play?!”

Mirabel ignores her primo and runs out. “I’m going for a walk, see ya!”

Bruno picks up a small parcel wrapped up in a custom wrapping paper with little drawn gears shaped like hearts on them. He approaches his sobrinos and twirls. 

“How do I look?”

“Better than usual,” Camilo admits. “I can’t even smell your breath from here.”

“You look muy guapo,” Dolores says. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s our anniversary today!” Bruno squeals. “A whole year! I can’t wait to show Matias my gift-”

Bang! Crash! Bang! Crash! True to what Dolores said, whatever invention Matias has brought this time, it’s going to be a very musical, albeit noisy one.

“That’s definitely not what I had in mind when he said he would surprise me today,” Bruno says. “Camilo, what do you see out there?”

Camilo peers out the window. Matias has put on a lovely suit, no doubt tailored by Agustín. His black dreadlocks have been tied up into a bun. However, his silver vest and new purple shirt hide underneath a shield of musical instruments. A horn hangs across his chest, a trumpet is strapped to his chest, an accordion is fastened to his belt, and on his back is a large bass drum, with crash cymbals on top of it. When he moves, a mallet bangs on the drum and the cymbals crash together. Mirabel stands beside him, trying to suppress her amused smile.

Camilo turns back to Bruno. “Do you remember that movie we watched together? The one with the magical nanny?”

Bruno nods. “Yeah?”

“That’s your surprise-”

Bruno dashes out before Camilo can finish his sentence.

“Good morning, hermoso! Happy anniversary!” Matias yells over his instruments banging together.

“Hey Matias! I heard you were coming,” Bruno says. “Literally. What are you wearing? What is all this?”

The inventor twirls around. “Do you like it? I thought I’d take a page out of the moving picture you showed us the other day.” He picks up the accordion and begins to play.

“You didn’t strike me as an accordion player,” Bruno admits as he listens to Matias. He’s actually holding the instrument correctly! And not butchering any notes! It’s a miracle!

“That’s because I’m not. Mirabel had to teach me,” Matias admits. 

“I did offer to play with him, but he wanted to do the whole act,” Mirabel adds.

“I’m dating an actual soap opera star. I need to have some credibility to my name,” Matias says. He takes a deep breath and begins to sing.

Ain't it a glorious day?

Right as a morning in May

I feel like I could fly

“Isn’t this from Mary Poppins?” Bruno asks.

“Shut up and please let me do this.”

Have you ever seen the grass

So green, or a bluer sky?

Oh it's a jolly holiday with Bruno

Bruno makes your heart so light!

“You have too much faith in me, mi vida,” Bruno says with a laugh.

When the day is gray and you feel low

The sky suddenly darkens before the sun breaks through once more.

Bruno makes the sun shine bright!

Bruno spies Pepa peeking out from behind a tree. How many Madrigals did Matias plan this with?!

Oh, happiness is blooming all around him,

The daffodils are smiling at the dove

Right on cue, daffodil petals shower Bruno. He catches Isabela high–fiving his sister.

When Bruno holds your hand

You feel so grand

Your heart starts beating like a big brass band!

Matias jumps to the beat, the instruments a rhythmic discord. Mirabel winces, but Bruno laughs.

It's a jolly holiday with Bruno

No wonder that it's Bruno that we love!

Matias grabs Bruno’s hand and pulls him through the town. Isabela showers flowers in their direction and Antonio stands by a fence with animals lined up. Matias joins them.

“We practiced on this all week! Take it away guys!”

“Baaaaa!” an older ram sings. Interesting.

“Baa! Baa!” a trio of lambs respond.

A horse whinnies the next part, followed by a cow mooing. Are the animals supposed to sing along? Bruno raises an eyebrow.

“You know this part sounded better in my head,” Matias admits. Bruno snorts. “Antonio said they sounded like a choir.”

“They do!” Antonio exclaims.

Donkeys bray the next line, and a large pig finishes the verse with two loud snorts. Mirabel and Antonio sing the translation, hoping to save the last verse of the song.

When Bruno holds your hand

You feel so grand

Your heart starts beating like a big brass band!

It's a jolly holiday with Bruno

No wonder that it's Bruno that we love!

Bruno applauds the “musician” and the animals (who honestly did their best). “Asombroso! Wonderful playing!”

Matias attempts to bow, the accordion pushing into his stomach. “Note to self: it’s hard to bend over when you have instruments strapped to you.”

“Need help getting all that off?” Bruno asks, gently knocking on the drum.

“Yes, actually, the local band needs all of these back before their next gig.”

Bruno freezes. “Seriously? How did you even get them to give you these instruments?”

“Your sobrina is a very persistent young lady,” Matias answers, nodding to Mirabel. She winks.

“He’s my best pupil! I’ve never seen anyone learn the accordion so quickly before,” Mirabel says. “Other than me, of course.”

“Your whole family is quite musical, so I thought it would be smart if I joined in,” Matias explains.

Bruno’s eyes widen. “Oh! I’m actually not that musical myself, you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“Really? I always took you for a pianist, especially with those hands of yours.”

Bruno’s cheeks burn hotter than the sun. He shoves Matias playfully. “Come on, let’s get these instruments off you. That way I can show you the gift I got you…”

*

If Camilo hears the discordant cymbal crashing as he walks through town, he does not acknowledge it. He doesn’t hear the drum occasionally going thump. And he certainly doesn’t hear the rhythmic squeezing of a dying accordion squashed between two people. No. He won’t acknowledge the sound of the One (well, Two) Man Band!

*

Matias holds up his new notebook, running his hands over the pretty cover. Illustrated rats play with kittens, no doubt inspired by Alegria, Matias’ grey cat. “This is a wonderful gift! I definitely needed a new sketchbook! You have no idea how many new ideas I’ve got.”

“The last one looked like it was bursting at the seams. And look-” Bruno flips through the pages. Little sketches of cats appear, along with encouraging messages in Bruno’s handwriting. Matias freezes.

“My writing looks more like chicken scratches, so I hope you can actually read them,” Bruno rambles. “I did try looking for inspirational quotes from the future… but I don’t think you’d get any references, so I just stuck to basic stuff. Cheesy, right?” He stops when he sees Matias wiping away tears. Bruno winces.

“It’s bad, isn’t it? You can always rip those out or draw over them or-”

“My first notebook was a lot like this. Full of little motivational quotes written by my parents.” That catches Bruno off guard. In all their time together, Matias had never really mentioned his own family. Hell, he even arrived in Encanto alone!

“I think it’s still in my green toolbox. I always keep the most important stuff in that toolbox,” Matias says.

Bruno moves closer to Matias, motioning him to talk. From what he knows from the small tidbits Matias has told him, the inventor hopped from town to town, never settling in one place. He doesn’t think Matias has ever lived in a town for a whole year.

“After my first few ‘village incidents’, I started to keep all my precious things, stuff I didn’t want to lose, in that toolbox. Just in case I ever needed to get out of town quickly. I didn’t need to worry about a heavy suitcase.”

Bruno fidgets with his ruana, struggling to think up any comforting words. He finally decides to just put his hand on Matias’.

Matias turns to Bruno, smile slowly returning. He grasps Bruno’s hands. “But this time, I… I think I want to stay. I’ve never felt so welcome here! Everyone is so welcoming and encouraging. I’ve never felt more at home! So, if you’ll allow it, I want to live in Encanto permanently.”

No sooner has Matias finished his sentence does Bruno shower him with kisses. Matias chuckles. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course! You’ll always have a home here!”

#apparently i can write #oc #encanto oc #bruno madrigal #disney encanto #wdtajn #immabethehero #encanto fanfiction

[babsvibes]

Bob's Burgers Fic Rec

Most of these are completed or completed pieces of an ongoing series. All are from ao3 because that's where my little freak heart lives. A few are explicit, so mind the tags on those stories. Also, feel free to drop your recs in the replies! If the spirit moves you, I would love to see more people make their own lists!

My Top 5 - Ship-Focused

Flowers, Birthdays, and Soulmates: by Vintage Madame. Rated T. The Belcher children knew the importance of turning 18. For Tina, 18 was the beginning of her own fairy tale romance. For Gene, 18 was the beginning of a new adventure. For Louise, 18 was the beginning of the end. A Bob's Burgers Soulmate AU, more details inside

summer slipped us underneath her tongue: by TullyBlue. Rated Mature. In an effort to help gather evidence on a story she's building a case for, Tina takes an assignment that has her writing some empty, fluff piece on some black tie party. Eventually, her eyes begin to wander away from her work for other possible distractions. Like the cute bartender, maybe.

through the grapevine.: by avatraang. Rated Mature. Louise hears about him through the grapevine. Different people drop different pieces of information, each one stumbling across it the way only people can —social media, attending the same event, a friend of a friend, or just plain old eavesdropping. However it happens, Louise finds the information always reaches her.

Denial: by lanan26. Rated T. Four times that Louise and Logan were in denial, and one time that they decided to do something about it.

sweet dream, saccharine: by addendum. Rated Explicit. Jimmy gets to know his neighbors in an unconventional, rather intimate way.

My Top 5 - Not-Ship-Focused

Breaking and Centering: by puff22_2001. Rated G. Linda takes Louise to the dump and Louise has no idea why. When she learns the reason, her love for her mother skyrockets.

Burger People Drabbles: by Prawnperson. Rated G. A series of drabbles centred around the burger people. Some canon-compliant, some not.

I'd Do Anything for Loaf: by puff22_2001. Rated G. Teddy makes the Belchers a meatloaf. It does NOT go to waste.

Nighttime Routines: by galacticfoxes. Rated G. Linda didn't have a nightly routine. She didn't wash her face, take a shower, meditate, read a book, or do whatever nice, clean people did. But there was still one thing she did every night without fail. Because if she didn't three kids would definitely not let her hear the end of it the next morning.

The Happiest Boy: by Prawnperson. Rated G. “Uh, Tina, you really made me the happiest boy today.” * Jimmy Jr. never wants to imagine a world without Zeke.

More ships!!

Boblin - I like shiny things but I'd marry you with paper rings: by addendum

BLT (Bob/Linda/Teddy) - Nicknames Aren't All the Same by puff22_2001

Louigan - Push and Pull: by abby_the_fox

Louisica - guess you're lucky that it's dark now: by TullyBlue

Mort/Teddy - A Little Bit Gay: by bloodstonepentagram

Tinimmy - Bits and Pieces: by eroticfriendfictions

Tina/Becky Krespe - Read Across America Day: by IncurablePeppermint

Zekina - Things You Said While You Were Sick: by HatterRed. theangrypomeranian also has a lot of good zekina

#bob's burgers #fanfiction #fic recs #babsbles #so many good ones in here and some I probably missed but I love too I swear!!

[honey-climb]

It'll be a Ball

Characters: Hettie Cutburn (Healing Coven Head)/Vitimir (Potions Coven Head)

Rating: Teen and Up

Tags: Requited love, Idiots in love, Crushes, Mild Gore (in reference to the vague description of a cadaver in the third bit), but that's what romance is really all about: unethical experiments with the girl you crush on, also non-sexual putting your fingers in someone's mouth

Word count: 5k

Description:

The royal ball looms close as Vitimir struggles to ask Hettie out.

Read on AO3!

So absorbed in his work sitting at his desk, Vitimir found it easier than usual to block out all external stimulus. He focused on his piles of papers and notes and his various tubes and beakers, all displaying different colours. As he scanned an ancient text, the margins rotten and frayed, he ignored the consistent knocking at his office door.

If it were a real emergency, his unwanted guest would soon give up and find a more readily available headwitch. Vitimir exchanged the text for a small tin, which he carefully unscrewed the cap of. Beautifully fragrant dried herbs greeted him.

Beyond him, the office door opened. Sturdy footsteps entered, annoying Vitimir, but not enough to make him glance up.

“Headwitch Vitimir? Coven Scout Captain reporting, by direct order of Emperor Belos.”

Heavy boots crossed the floor, kicking and crinkling papers as they went.

Vitimir stayed focused on his work. He pinched a thimbleful of the herbs between two black painted nails. He assessed his selection with narrowed eyes, before bringing them over the lip of a tall beaker holding bright blue liquid.

A soft parcel dropped on the desk. His focus broken at last, Vitimir paused and glanced up.

“...Whassthis?” Vitimir mumbled, hardly offering the Captain his entire attention.

The Captain crossed their arms. They glared down at Vitimir with an almost bored distaste behind their mask.

“A formal invitation from Emperor Belos. He’s hosting a ball and inviting the Isles.”

That caught more of Vitimir’s attention. He pinched his brows together, snarling softly underneath his scarf and wide brimmed hat. He retracted his hand and returned the herbs to their tin. Only a small portion of a leaf fell into the beaker.

“I don’t have time for this. No one does.” Vitimir huffed. As the herb collided with the liquid, the potion boiled and exploded with a puff of bitter smelling smoke. Unfazed, Vitimir grumbled, “At least those of us who do work around here, anyway.”

The Captain coughed and waved their hand in front of their mask. Once the air cleared, they leaned forward to tap the envelope on Vitimir’s desk.

“Read the invite. You’ll find that attendance is mandatory, Headwitch. Failure to comply will lead to punishment at Emperor Belos’ discretion.”

The practiced, almost monotonous edge to the Captain’s voice lead Vitimir to believe that they’d already recited this part a few different times. Vitimir wondered how many headwitches also expressed a similar distaste to the frivolity.

Annoyed as he was, Vitimir still snatched the envelope from his desk. He hooked his nail under the seal and ripped it methodically open.

“What a waste of time...” Vitimir uttered.

The Captain shrugged. They cleared their throat loudly. “You said it, not me. But he wants all the headwitches there to leave a good impression.”

Vitimir scanned the text of the letter. Fancily typed on crisp paper, with a golden boarder and the Emperor’s Coven sigil stamped on it. All Vitimir saw in it, despite its beauty, was a shitty work party chock-full of awkward, unavoidable social interactions and small talk. If Vitimir wanted to endure such torture, he’d check himself into the dungeon with Warden Wrath, or head to Terra’s for high tea.

“...If you want my opinion,” the Captain said, having dropped the more formal edge to their voice. Vitimir casted them a curious, narrowed eye glance. “Treat it like a day off. Drink. Be merry. Invite a date to share it with.” The Captain shrugged again. “Why not? If the old fart is forcing you to be there, you might as well make the most of it.”

“Rrrrr,” Vitimir mumbled. Under his scarf, his cheeks flushed a hot teal. “I got it. Yer dismissed.”

The Captain gave a half-hearted stance and salute to Vitimir, before they turned and left.

A quick glance to the clock, and Vitimir grumbled to himself again. “Rrrrr.” Clearing his desk entirely was not an option; Vitimir arranged everything important into a pile and swept them up. Awkwardly he balanced a fine collection of papers and glass potion bottles in his arms. Then he exited his office, crinkling the same discarded papers that the Captain had on the way in.

Vitimir crept through the halls, accompanied only by the sound of his clicking talons and his thoughts.

Invite a date... The thought made Vitimir’s mouth dry. What was he, a schoolboy? There was no time for dating or social mingling while you were the headwitch of a coven. He had more important things to worry about, and beside—who would lower themself enough to want to go with him, anyway?

Vitimir would say that his friends were few and far between. His rough exterior and lack of social skills often left him isolated, which was fine, Vitimir enjoyed that mostly. He was close with a handful of witches under him in the Potions coven, but nothing like that . He wasn’t even sure if that would be allowed. As far as people outside the coven, that was a bust, same for the other covenheads.

But then again, there was Hettie Cutburn.

Vitimir flushed thinking about her.

They were... Close. Close enough, anyway. They spoke before and after meetings quite often, and Hettie had recruited Vitimir’s help on a personal project she worked on during their downtime. Could he consider her a friend? He’d hesitate to say it aloud first, but inside he felt it.

Maybe he even felt something a little bit more than just ‘friendship’, too.

Vitimir couldn’t entirely explain it. Hettie was beautiful, but the word didn’t seem to do her enough justice. Maybe it was the juxtaposition of her being. She was tall, broad, impossibly strong—yet graceful and precise while holding a scalpel and forceps. She had an unexpectedly light and melodic voice, even when reading off the clinical symptoms of Chlamydia. Her smile , so bright and brazen while she worked at stitching up a fellow’s massive abdominal cavity wound.

The halls Vitimir crept opened up into a large lobby of sorts. A group of witches stood by chatting. However, lost deep in thought, Vitimir saw little except the carpeted floor in front of him.

The word ‘love’ felt like an iron weight tugging Vitimir’s tongue down into his stomach. What he experienced towards Hettie had to be different—admiration, probably. Infatuation most certainly. But how could you not be completely absorbed in her while she commanded a roomful of surgeons like an army general with her squadron—

Vitimir’s talon caught on the slightly ruffled rug underfoot. He stumbled and pitched forward with a startled yelp.

Reality came crashing back then as hard and violent as the castle floor. Vitimir’s knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall, graciously saving his long nose. However, the scrolls bounded everywhere and the potions shattered as they evaded Vitimir’s grasp. A thick cloud of noxious smoke arose from the broken jars, enveloping him.

Disoriented, Vitimir coughed. The fumes, though he tried not to breathe them in, made his head spin. Above the cloud rose the sound of snickering laughter from various voices. Vitimir’s heart sunk, embarrassment lighting inside him.

Suddenly he truly did feel like a schoolboy again, lost in the halls, desperately trying to find his way while the popular kids laughed at him. Strange, awkward Vitimir, who fell flat on his face.

With his mind rushing, Vitimir dug into his pocket for a potion of invisibility; at least then he could escape with some dignity.

Then a voice—a beautiful, light, familiar voice—scolded, “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

A hand parted through the potion smoke. It stretched out towards Vitimir, clad in a white disposable glove. Vitimir almost choked on his breath.

Hettie’s face came shortly into view, emerging through the smoke as though she were an angelic vision. She pursed her lips together into a worried frown, the only part of her expression visible through her uniform.

“Are you alright, Vit?”

Faced with this towering beauty, Vitimir eloquently responded with a noise as though the air was being let out of him. “Aaarrg.”

“Excuse me?” Hettie asked, tilting her head.

Vitimir’s face exploded into a bright teal blush.

The potion cloud dissipated. Hettie stared confused and worried at Vitimir, thinking perhaps that he’d hit his head. Vitimir stared back like it was his first time seeing another witch. Beyond them, the small gaggle of previously-scolded Healing Coven witches stared just as baffled, sporting various degrees of amusement.

Words continued to evade Vitimir. “Er,” was the only sound he could make. Though, in an act of mercy from the Titan, Vitimir’s body moved. He reached out and gingerly took Hettie’s gloved hand. Nerves sparked through him as her fingers clasped around his. She pulled him back up onto his feet like he weighed nothing; Vitimir feared that his weak knees might give out under him. Thankfully, they stayed intact.

“Err... Thank you.” Vitimir finally managed to mumble.

For a long second their hands stayed clasped. When Vitimir realized, he flushed even hotter and quickly took his hand back.

“You’re welcome.” Hettie replied. She gave a smile—that big, beautiful smile that made Vitimir want to melt. “Be more careful next time. You could hurt yourself being so clumsy.”

Hettie reached out. Vitimir flinched on instinct; she gently took the brim of Vitimir’s crooked hat and adjusted it. Satisfied, she grinned wider.

“I don’t want to see you in my office with a broken nose any time soon. Especially not before Belos’ ball.”

The ball. Oh, damn, the ball. Vitimir’s head spun.

Hettie was right here, he could invite her now. It could be so easy. He just needed to move his lips, and say the words.

But he stayed silent. No sound would escape. Even when Hettie knelt down and began collecting his discarded things, Vitimir couldn’t move. He was petrified in place. Chewing on sand would have been more pleasant than how he felt now.

“Speaking of,” Hettie continued. She placed the scrolls into Vitimir’s arms. “Are you planning to invite anyone with you?”

Vitimir’s heart rate spiked into full-on panic. Sweat poured down his ashy skin.

Say the words! Now! Now, Vitimir! Say them!

“I’mnotsure,” is what Vitimir said instead. He hesitated. “Ihavetogo. Goodbye.”

Vitimir hightailed it out of there before the embarrassment could get any worse. Hettie didn’t try to stop him—perhaps too stunned to speak then—and only watched as Vitimir ran, followed by the giggles of the Healing Coven behind him.

Once he was far enough away, Vitimir found a secure supply closet, locked himself inside, and screamed into his scarf until his voice was hoarse.

—30—

It took a fair amount of internal back and forth, but eventually Vitimir decided that he would try to ask Hettie out again. With more preparation this time, surely he could do it.

Slinking through the Healing Coven sector of the castle, Vitimir followed closely behind the Healer who greeted him at the front. The walls were a sanitized white tile all around and smelled faintly of bleach. Vitimir needed to squint to tolerate the bright lights.

“Headwitch Cutburn has mentioned you,” the Healer said. She walked with her hands suspended at her chest and lightly clasped. She had a sharp, unnerving smile. “You come up in conversation every now and again, I mean. I reckon it’s about time that you came to see us.”

“Rrr.” Vitimir mumbled. He tugged down the brim of his hat, hoping to block out the worst of the light. “Only good things, I hope.”

The Healer tilted her head back and forth slightly, then she turned her wide smile to Vitimir. With her eyes covered, her smile had no warmth; if anything, she looked like a snake that was preparing to swallow its prey whole. Vitimir bristled slightly.

“Good things? Yes. Yes, you could say that.”

Then she turned away again, leaving Vitimir with more questions than answers. Before he could ask any of them, the Healer swept up to a door. She knocked thrice in rapid succession, then let herself in.

“Headwitch Cutburn?” She practically sang. “I brought your next patient for his physical, the Potions headwitch.”

Vitimir poked around the Healer like a child peeking through his mother’s legs.

Hettie’s office was meticulous, the polar opposite to his own. The floors sparkled; the walls were clean and sparse with a few framed documents. Cabinets were lined with floating organs and specimens in murky jars, all neatly labelled. Her desk was tidy with decorative models displaying the inner workings of a witch’s anatomy.

And then behind it all sat Hettie. She glanced up at the Healer’s words, her square shoulders jumping. A pause, and then she grinned widely.

“Excellent. Thank you, Viridiana.”

The Healer flashed Hettie a thumbs-up, then disappeared again through the door, leaving Vitimir suspended there awkwardly. He jolted as the door slammed shut behind him.

Hettie swept her hand out, motioning Vitimir in.

“Hello, Vit. Come in. Don’t be shy.” She flashed him a smile. “I don’t bite.”

Vitimir’s weak knees shuffled forward. He deposited himself into a stiff plastic chair across from the desk.

“Did you forget that your physical was today, Vitimir?” Hettie flipped open a file. She scanned it briefly, tracing her fingers over the pages.

“Err, not exactly—”

“I hope you weren’t trying to avoid me.”

Hettie gave him a teasing smile. To it, Vitimir’s heart skipped a beat. He thought he might choke on his tongue as his cheeks went aflame.

He buried his face into his scarf and curled up slightly in the uncomfortable chair. “No. No. Busy, busy, always busy—”

“You work too hard.” Hettie commented. She snapped the file shut, before setting it aside. “You need to slow down once in a while. What good is a coven without their headwitch?”

She rose and came around the desk.

Sweat pooled on Vitimir’s brow and his palms. Hettie towered over him normally, and now sitting he felt positively puny. Frozen in place, all he could do was stare.

“Could you remove your hat for me?”

Vitimir swallowed the words stuck in his throat. With a shaking hand, he pulled off his hat and laid it across his lap. Hettie snapped her gloves on, then descended upon Vitimir. She smiled with all her teeth—a beautiful sight as far as Vitimir was concerned. His heart thundered like a storm.

“Thank you,” Hettie said. She leaned in, Vitimir held his breath. Her hands slid over his jaw, cupping it. Her fingers were so cold that they practically burned against his hot skin. “You’re my favourite patient, Vit. Don’t tell anyone.”

She gently squeezed his jaw and the side of his neck. Vitimir let out a pathetic, trailing breath. “I won’t.”

Hettie chuckled, and it made Vitimir want to melt. She slipped her hands down Vitimir’s throat, pressing gently, to feel his pulse. Under his touch, Vitimir could literally feel his nerve slipping away. He couldn’t ask Hettie to the ball. There was no way. She’d laugh and spit on him, or worse, he’d ruin everything. He’d make things weird. She’d never want to be seen with him again.

“...Vit?”

Vitimir offered a strangled noise hardly audible through his dry mouth. “Errrryes?”

“Your heart rate is spiked. Are you feeling alright?”

This type of closeness was one seldom experienced. Actually, Vitimir felt like he’d die if Hettie ever took her hands off him. He wished he could crawl into her arms and never leave.

Instead, Vitimir said, “YesI’mfine.”

Hettie hummed. She pursed her lips together. “Alright. Let me know if you’re uncomfortable. Open your mouth for me, please?”

Quivering, Vitimir pulled down his face covering. He tilted his head back and unfurled his jaw.

“Good. Beautiful.” Hettie said approvingly.

Vitimir’s heart slammed. He squeezed his eyes shut as Hettie examined his mouth. The taste of latex lay heavy on his tongue. He couldn’t do this. He would have to risk petrification from Belos and miss the ball, he couldn’t invite Hettie. Unless she could miraculously read his mind now as she methodically counted each of his teeth, he couldn’t do it.

“Everything looks good so far,” Hettie hummed, obliviously examining his sharp teeth. “I’m impressed.”

“Th’nk yew.” Vitimir slurred around Hettie’s fingers.

“But I have to ask again if something’s wrong,” Hettie continued. She moved further into Vitimir’s mouth. Vitimir locked his jaw as to not bite her on instinct. “You’re sure you’re feeling alright? No new illness or symptoms?” Hettie pried Vitimir’s jaw open wider, earning a moan of discomfort. “It doesn’t hurt to come visit me before self-medicating with your potions.”

Vitimir could barely think over his racing heart. Feelings boiled under his skin and through his throat as though he were going to explode. Or vomit. Even then that might be less embarrassing than what he was about to do. If he could just put his mind to it, say the words, move his mouth—

“Achsually,” Vitimir slurred around Hettie’s fingers. He couldn’t believe he managed to do it. Holy shit. His stomach churned itself into knots. “I’s won’ring— about th’ ball—”

In that same moment of bravery, Hettie’s office door flew open. The Healer from before appeared in the doorway. Both Vitimir and Hettie flicked their eyes to her.

Dark stains stretched across her robes and gloves. She seemed noticeably more dishevelled than before, her strange smile more strained.

“Headwitch Cutburn— I’m sorry,” the Healer said in a rush. “We’re having kind of an issue out here—”

A scream rang out, followed by a crash and clamouring. Alarmed voices cried out.

Hettie scowled. She removed her fingers from Vitimir’s mouth and leaned back.

“You all can’t be on your own for five minutes.” Hettie sighed. She snapped off her gloves and discarded them aside. “I’m sorry, Vit. I need to deal with this.”

Vitimir almost curled up in a ball on the chair. Any nerve and bravery seeped out of his pores and pooled on the floor beneath him. His voice tumbled out of his mouth like an overfilled cup, “‘Sokay.”

“You don’t need to stay. We’ll reschedule and pick up where we left off later.”

As Hettie went to leave, Vitimir sadly unravelled his gangly limbs. He slumped off the chair, feeling utterly defeated. Then Hettie paused suddenly by the door, turning back to look at him.

“...What were you going to say, by the way?”

Vitimir’s skin crawled with gooseflesh. He shivered from the base of his skull down to his tailbone.

“Nothing. Nothing important.” Vitimir squeaked.

Hettie looked at him for an agonizingly long moment. Vitimir wished he could see her eyes, and discern what she was thinking; based on her lips set in a straight line, Vitimir imagined that she didn’t believe him for a moment. Or she found him revolting and insane.

Instead of voicing any of these concerns, Hettie frowned briefly, then forced a more neutral expression.

“Well. Okay. I’ll see you again before long, won’t I?”

She quirked her lips into a half smile, which Vitimir imagined would suffice as a wink. It had the same effect on him; a hot wave washed over him as he nodded dumbly.

“As always.”

Once Hettie disappeared, leaving Vitimir alone in the office, he bit down on his tongue and did everything in his power not to scream.

—30—

There’s only so much that one witch can withstand. After multiple failed attempts at asking Hettie to the ball, Vitimir had relinquished to the fact that he might never succeed. He would risk either a horrific night at the ball or a petrification. Whatever. As is Vitimir’s miserable life.

At least sitting in the small hut on the outskirts of the Emperor’s castle, Vitimir could forget his troubles. Instead he was able to put his focus on Hettie, her project, and the dead, partially dissected body stretched out on an examination table. By the low light he forgot himself, and his plight, and cared only for his task of administering an adrenaline potion into a cadaver while Hettie carefully stimulated the heart and lungs.

“...So the emperor’s ball is in a few days,” Hettie commented. She was dressed down in only her robes, missing her face covering. Vitimir hardly ever saw her murky white eyes and her exposed, towering horns, but he tried not to draw attention to it. 

Vitimir nodded sagely. Perspiration collected on his brow just below the brim of his hat. He didn’t need that reminder. “So it is.”

“What do you make of that?”

Only Hettie Cutburn could make small talk while she was wrist deep in the chest cavity of a cadaver.

Vitimir tilted his head side to side. Carefully he pressed down on a button which administered a slow drip of potion into the cadaver.

“...It’s a waste of time and resources,” Vitimir finally said. As his thumb reached the applicator, he waited a moment, before switching out the tube with a fresh one. “I became a headwitch to do something with myself, not waste my time at... Rr...”

Vitimir snapped his free fingers as he struggled to find the right word. Without looking up from her methodical massages, Hettie offered, “A glorified office party?”

“Ah. Precisely.”

“Maybe we ought to spike the punch. Make things more interesting.”

Vitimir’s heart skipped a little beat. His thumb almost slipped on the applicator, though he quickly restrained himself. The presence of the ‘we’ in that sentence implied that he and Hettie would be there together, right? Or maybe Hettie meant the general, royal ‘we’. After all, they were colleagues. Nothing else. He shouldn’t make those types of assumptions, least he disappoint himself down the line.

Hettie sunk her hands deeper into the cadaver. Vitimir watched with almost envy; he wished Hettie would reach into his own chest and massage his heart as tenderly as she did with the corpse. Metaphorically or literally. He would trust her with any of his important organs.

“You know, Vit, speaking of—”

The corpse jostled.

Vitimir jolted in his seat, snapping back to full attention. For a moment he assumed that they were making progress, but then came a hissing sound from inside the body.

Hettie gasped and wretched back. Sizzling green acid bubbled across her hand.

“Balls. Shit. Fuck.”

The short, downy feathers on the back of Vitimir’s neck stood straight. A shudder pricked through his body as he leapt up from his stool.

“Hettie? What happened?”

Hettie shook her head as she quickly peeled off her steaming rubber gloves. “Damn. Damn.” She flung the offending gloves into a corner, where they proceeded to melt into the floor. She rushed for a sink on the other side of the operating table. “I thought I got all the acid sack out before. Sloppy.” She stuck her hand under the running faucet and hissed.

“Rinse it and let me see.”

“I told you, I’m fine. It doesn’t feel deep—”

“With all due respect,” Vitimir said firmly, surprising even himself. “You wash yer hands about a thousand times a day. You can’t feel almost anything. It could be worse than you think. Please, Hettie. Let me check it.”

Hettie paused to that. So used to wearing her Healing Coven face covering perhaps, she offered little to no outward expression. She stared at Vitimir, giving only a small twitch to her brow. But after a long moment she scoffed and smiled.

“Fine. Come here.”

Vitimir shivered again from head to talon. He slunk around the table to Hettie. Part of him wanted to apologize for being so stern with Hettie just then, but the other part knew that her stubbornness wouldn’t respond to anything else.

Hettie sucked in a breath as she held out her hand. Vitimir took it with all the care he had in his body.

Any other time, he would be thrilled for the opportunity to touch and hold Hettie’s hand; now, all he could focus on was her well-being. He turned her hand over, presenting her palm. Vitimir frowned. Hettie hissed.

A large acid burn ate up the majority of Hettie’s palm. Her white skin had been turned an angry red, fit with forming raw blisters.

“Ugh,” Hettie uttered.

Vitimir shook his head in grim agreement. “No good.”

Cupping her hand in one, Vitimir dug into his pocket with the other. Hettie tipped her head to the side as he produced and uncorked a potion. He shook a generous glob of thick, viscous liquid out onto Hettie’s open and waiting palm.

Immediately on contact, she jumped and hissed, “Ah! Fuck!”

“Sorry. Stings.”

“No shit.” Hettie laughed tensely.

Vitimir flushed teal at the sound. Oh, Titan, her laugh was so beautiful it hurt. He pocketed the bottle again, and carefully worked the tincture into her wound 

Hettie watched as though transfixed.

“You know, I’m grateful to have you, Vitimir. Really.”

He shivered. “Rrr. It’s nothing, really. An aloe-mineral-witch hazel mixture... With a twist not yet approved by the Potions Coven.”

Hettie cracked a smile, even laughed a bit. Vitimir rubbed slow methodical circles into her palm.

“But it should help. It’ll moisturize the burnt skin and promote healing in the tissues.”

Hettie cleared her throat. “Vitimir...”

“If you left this, it would’ve gotten infected. Ya never know what type of bacteria’s gotta live in the acid sack.”

“Listen, Vit...”

“Yer a doctor and you take care of others, but you gotta take care of yourself too, yaknow—”

“Will you go to the ball with me?” Hettie blurted out.

Vitimir responded initially with stunned silence. He paused full bodily and stared at Hettie bewildered. Then he muttered, “Errrrwhat.”

Hettie exhaled heavily. A grin overtook her lips. “Oh, Titan, I’ve been trying to get that out for days .” She laughed, then, so casually. Too casually. Vitimir meanwhile felt like he was going to explode.

“What.” Vitimir said again.

“There’s never been a good time, and you’re so busy—”

“Youwanttogototheballwithme.”

Hettie grinned wider, displaying all of her straight teeth. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Vitimir short-circuited. His brain became a collapsing supernova inside his skull. So blindsided by this statement that he actually forgot he was holding Hettie’s hand so tenderly in his own, gently clasping her palm. He forgot to think about how cold her hands were, yet so incredibly comforting and soft. He actually forgot to blink, too, leaving him only to stare blankly at Hettie.

“I. Rrr.”

Hettie’s smile faltered. It edged closer to worry than relief.

“Oh. It’s alright if you don’t want to go. Together, I mean. I just thought, well...” Hettie’s fingers flexed in Vitimir’s hand. “I guess you know what they say about assuming—”

Vitimir’s heart leapt up into his throat. He thought he’d choke, but it squeezed out a string of words instead.

“I’dlovetogowithyou.” Vitimir said in a rush. Then, after a pitiful inhale, he clarified, “To the ball. If you’d have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you, you silly bird man.”

Hettie did the unthinkable. She leaned in over their clasped hands, ignorant to how Vitimir flinched out of habit.

She laid a soft kiss on his cheek. Her lips were cold, though quickly Vitimir’s face turned ablaze up to his ears.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while, too.” She admitted.

Vitimir stammered nonsense for a long moment as his stunned tongue tried to remember how to move. Hettie looked at him with her murky white eyes, waiting and smiling patiently.

“So you... I... Err... Have I been missing something?”

“Yes. You have.” Hettie found a piece of Vitimir’s long hair and twirled it around her finger. “You’re painfully oblivious.”

“Oh.” Vitimir hesitated. “I’ve been. This past week. I. Have also been trying to... Ask you out.”

Hettie stopped. Her lips parted. “You’re kidding.”

Vitimir shook his head.

“Oh my Titan...” Her lips split with a grin. “We’re both oblivious.”

Something clicked to Vitimir then. He realized—he didn’t understand. He thought that everything was so black and white, that he knew exactly how the world worked and spun. But it wasn’t true. Vitimir had gotten in his own way believing that Hettie was above him, too good to even consider dating his weird, awkward self, when this entire time she had been trying to ask him the same thing. The thought rocked him, incomprehensible, bubbling up through his stomach and his throat...

Vitimir laughed. A chuckle at first, scratchy and strange, as though the sound was foreign to him. Then he lost control of it, and it got louder, until he was laughing like he’d been told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

At it, Hettie’s expression lit up. She raised her brows, eyes bright, and grinned. She laughed with him.

“Whaddya say we sew this fellow back up an’ retire for the night?” Vitimir’s own brashness shocked him. But fuelled by Hettie’s beautiful smile and her eyes, he felt like he could do anything.

“Let’s.” Hettie stood straight, grabbing a roll of gauze from her collection of things from the sink to wrap her hand. “Can we go get some food? I’m starving.”

Vitimir’s heart lay full and bright inside his chest, and he couldn’t stop his crooked smile. He knew then that he’d follow Hettie Cutburn to the end of the world if she asked him to.

“I’d love that.”

#the owl house #toh #toh fanfic #hettie cutburn #Vitimir toh #this one was written for my bestie for his birthday slash christmas #and the mother fucker had me convinced that this was a popular ship beforehand #Hettimir