#But if that's the case what's the smoke pipe for?

[sturnsdarling]

She's the coolest person I know.

fratboy!matt tries to play it cool about him and smartand'mean'!reader spending alot of time together, but fratboy!chris and Nate aren't convinced

vibe check: chris and nate being idiots, nate not knowing what an emo is lol, fratboy!matts version of fluff

1k words

A/N: this concept was born from and is my take on the wonderful, amazing and ridiculously talented @sturnioz fratboy!matt and fratboy!chrisxshy!reader au. THANKYOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE LOVE ON MY TOUGH GIRL FIC OMFG. this is a lil blurb I cooked up as a finishing touch to my contribution to cas' au. also I just love this pairing so much it makes me unwell PSA REGARDING PART 2

love and cigs, merc

Matt quietly shuffled into the front door of his frat house, tucking his car keys in his pocket with as little jingle as possible in hopes of sneaking past Chris and Nate on the sofa. He clicked the door shut and the boys’ ears perked up. 

“Fuck” Matt whispered. 

“Matty boy! You’re back! Where the fuck have you been” Nate craned his neck round, a canon joint hanging from his mouth. 

“He’s been at y/ns house” Chris answered for Matt, turning to smirk at the boy as he shifted his weight between his feet by the entrance of the living room. 

“Y/n? Isn’t that the emo chick that’s best friends with your girl?” Nate asked, pointing to Chris. 

“She’s not emo dickhead, she’s just a bit… grungy” Matt piped up at your defence immediately, knowing Nate meant it as an insult.

“and s!r/n is not my girl” Chris responded to Nate’s accusation 

“She’s totally fuckin emo dude she wears fishnets and walks around lookin’ like she’s gonna kill someone” Nate snickered, “and, she’s definitely your girl” he looked back to Chris who was rolling his eyes. 

“You’re with her like everyday, kid” Matt folded his arms over his chest, taking this perfect opportunity to get the subject off of himself. 

“And you get all gushy over her like she’s some little pretty flower whenever she’s around” Nate laughed, looking to Matt who was nodding his head and joining in the laughter.

“Okay, both of you shut the fuck up, yeah? When did this become about me? Matt's the one sneaking in after spending the last three days with his little pet emo” Chris scoffed, leaning forward to ash his joint in the glass tray before taking a long drag. 

“She’s not fuckin—“ Matt gritted his teeth, “she’s not my pet you freak, we’re just hangin’ out” He shrugged. 

“That’s not what it sounded like the other night” Nate raised his brows at Matt, a childlike laugh erupting from his mouth as he blew weed smoke into the air. 

“UH! FUCK! MATT! YOU’RE SO BIG! UH” Chris moaned, making fake orgasm faces as he shifted his weight so it looked like he was getting fucked. Nate curled over in laughter, slapping his knee with his free hand. 

Arms folded over his chest and eyes firmly rolled to the back of his head in annoyance, Matt felt a vibrating in his pocket, ‘Arabella' by the Arctic Monkeys blared from his phone as he pulled it from his pocket. 

“Both a’you shut the fuck up before I break your fuckin’ jaws” Matt said before quickly answering the phone, your voice like honey on the other end. 

“Hi Matthew” you said, sweetly

“Hey angel, what’s up?” He said, turning away from the boys. 

The sound of the sofa shifting against the floor grabbed his attention back to them, he was met with the sight of Chris pretending to fuck the side of the couch, slapping the leather arm as if it’s an ass and Nate, pretending to give a blowjob to the end of his dying joint.

“You uh, you left your english lit book here, thought you’d wanna know in case you think you lost it or somethin”

“Oh, shit, did I?” Matt asked, leaning down and taking his shoe off, throwing it full force at his idiot brother and best friend making obscene gestures and noises only a few feet away from him, “I’ll come get it now, sweetheart, m’gonna need it” Matt said, his words focused on you but his gaze firmly on the boys as they curled over in laughter, dodging Matts flying trainer. 

“Okay, text me when you’re here, I’ll buzz you in” You responded. 

“Alright angel, I won’t be long” He said, ending the phone and shoving it into his pocket. 

“BYE Y/N” Nate screamed across the living room, giggling and rolling into Chris like a child 

“Are you two finished?” Matt said, kicking off his other shoe and humming it at them, they ducked out the way and their laughter continued, not yet tired of the bit they were doing. 

“You just got home from hers and you’re going back? Kids pussy whipped” Chris said, shaking his head. 

“Y’know what Chris, I think our boy likes her” Nate said, raising his eyebrows a couple times. 

“oh you definitely fuckin’ do! you actually like this girl” Chris responded, turning to Matt who’s cheeks had flushed a bright red 

“So what if I do? Is that a problem?” Matt said, near enough squaring up to the boys. 

“Nah man, it’s cool, she’s cool” Nate shrugged, sensing they may have struck a nerve. 

“Yeah she is fuckin’ cool, she’s cool as fuck actually, probably the smartest person I’ve ever met, on top of being unbelievably fuckin' hot and she’s easy to be around, unlike you two shit talkin' idiots” Matt sounded off, throwing an arm up in frustration. 

“Kids in love” Chris scoffed, cocking his head towards Matt as he looked at Nate 

“For real, he’s obsessed” Nate chuckled, “fuck baby keep doing that, you’re so sexy oh my fucking god” Nate mocked Matt, laying back on the sofa and holding his hands over his crotch, pretending to be holding a girls head there as she sucks him off. 

Chris laughed and smacked Nate’s hands away from his dick, slapping his palm and dapping him up in agreement. 

Matt rolled his eyes and tensed his jaw, shaking his head as he turned to walk towards the front door. 

“When I get back m’gonna kick the shit out’a both of you” Matt said, pushing his feet into his sliders and opening the door in a huff, slamming it behind him, making the whole front room shake. 

“Whatever you say, angel!” Chris said, mimicking Matts nickname for you. 

Matt strode down the path towards his car in a huff, almost ripping his car door off its hinges as he slammed down into the passenger seat, taking a deep and fast breath. After a few short seconds of sitting with closed eyes to ground himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called you.

"how the fuck did you get here so fast?" your voice a soothing balm to his anger on the other end of the phone.

He chuckled, "I haven't even left my driveway yet, angel, just wanted to call you and let you know i'm staying at yours again tonight" he said, putting his keys into the ignition and starting his car.

"okay, s'fine. any particular reason or?" You drew out your final word

"jus' rather be with you than at mine" Matt said, shrugging.

"Awh, Matthew, you're so cringe" your cadence was insulting but Matt could feel your cheesy smile through the phone.

"watch your mouth, tough girl, or i'll fill it" his threatening tone sent a jolt up your spine

"Is that a promise?" you asked, seductively, a quick change in demeanour that Matt adored.

"you're a deviant, y'know that right?" Matt shook his head as he smiled at your response, it was like he built you in a lab.

"Just shut up and get here, I miss you, idiot" you hung up the phone before he could respond, not wanting to face the teasing that would inevitably follow admitting you miss him after barely an hour of being apart.

Matt opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the sound of you hanging up, a grin crawled its way onto his face and he couldn't help but relish in the way you made him feel. He meant what he said to his brother and Nate, you really were the coolest person he knew.

[julienbakerstreet]

Ranking Sherlock Holmes Adaptations by the Quality of Their Dressing Gowns

First, my qualifications: I'm a flamboyant fashion-forward femme who frequently wears dressing gowns.

Rubric: I am scoring based on color, pattern, textural intrigue, garment construction, and fit. In cases where there are multiple dressing gowns per adaptation, I picked my favorite one.

#12 The Seven-Percent Solution (1976)

I hate this one. It's so beige, and the corded details + drop waist ultimately make it look like a monk's tunic. The only redeeming value I can find in this is the slight angled detail with the cording on the sleeves.

#11 Mr. Holmes (2015)

Similar to the last robe with some slight improvements. For one, it has pockets! The pockets have a corded decorative applique, and if you zoom in on a higher-def image you can see that the fabric has an interesting textured weave. I could definitely see it styled well. This robe is ugly, too thin to keep him warm, and fits worse than a burlap sack, but this Holmes is retired and deserves to put comfort and practicality first.

#10 Granada (1984)

This dressing gown is BAD!!! Before you accuse me of being biased against mouse-colored dressing gowns (I am) let me assure you that color is not my only issue with this dressing gown. It commits the ultimate fashion sin- boring. The texture looks decidedly un-cozy. I even hate the construction! There's no belt, or even belt loops, and the pocket is sewn onto the outside of the gown! Nothing wrong with patch pockets per se, but on this robe it looks shabby. This is made all the more painful by the fact that Watson wears multiple colorful and well-textured dressing gowns in this show. I love Granada, but I can't excuse this.

#9 Cushing Holmes (1968)

I really wish I liked this dressing gown more, because I think that Cushing is one of the best-dressed Holmeses we've ever seen. But I simply cannot get behind this. I applaud the bold use of color and how on theme this gown is for The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, but the red cording and blue looks odd together. In other shots, you can see buttons, but I think a dressing gown should have a nice belt, and I think the buttons are just a bit too formal for what should be a comfortable piece. I love that this is a Holmes who's willing to take a fashion risk, but in this case it did not pay off. 

#8 Soviet Holmes (1979)

While this dressing gown is boring, the fabric looks nice and heavy, perfect for curling up cozily in front of the fire on a cold night. Contrary to the Granada plain brown dressing gown, this one has a belt and pockets sewn into the gown. There’s nothing interesting about this gown, but it isn't offensive.

#7 Ritchie Holmes (2009)

Agh! This dressing gown is in tatters! As befits action-hero Holmes, I suppose. It might deserve the lowest spot on the list for its condition, but looking beyond that, I really enjoy the colors and the paisley pattern. It reminds me of a nice Persian rug. The hints of blue set off the reds and oranges nicely, and at one point it must have been a very nice robe. I like that the state of the robe tells us something about the personality of the wearer, but points are deducted because the texture looks a tad rough and it's in an unbelievably rough state.

#6 Basil of Baker Street (1986)

Now we're getting to the good stuff! The magenta dressing gown is set off nicely by the black cuffs, collar, and belt. Extra points for styling it with a green cravat, and because it nearly matches Dr. Dawson's vest. Great character design, and it makes Basil look like a snazzy little rodent.

#5 Rathbone Holmes (1939)

It's harder to judge in black and white, but I really like this dressing gown! The fabric looks like a thick cotton velvet, and the cording gives it a lovely contrast. It's distinguished, but it still manages to look comfortable for smoking a pipe next to Watson.

#4 The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970)

Now this is nice! The velvet is very shiny, slightly green, and I love the quilted collar and pocket. However, upon further inspection, it's not quite a dressing gown, but more like a long smoking jacket, for which it loses points. Still, it's the closest he comes to wearing a dressing gown and perfect for this urbane and fashionable Holmes.

#3 Enola Holmes (2020)

Dare I say fabulous? I love the cerulean on this one! The fabric looks like a soft silk, which isn't exactly the warmest, but very comfortable. The pattern on the collar is very intricate as well. It's definitely not the dressing gown I would pick for a classic Holmes, but it suits this untraditional Holmes perfectly.

#2 William Gillette (1899)

For the man who popularized the deerstalker/Inverness combo, he can certainly rock a dressing gown. Definitely the most authentic on the list (this picture was taken in 1916), I love the quilted collar, pockets, and cuffs. The silky fabric and decorative pattern make for a very stylish sleuth. I particularly enjoy the shape of the pockets and cuffs. Points deducted for an awkward fit and the lack of a belt.

#1 Star Trek: The Next Generation (1988)

"But this isn't an adaptation, it's just an episode of Star Trek!" I don't care! It counts in my heart. And Data has my favorite Holmes dressing gown. Let's break it down. This looks like a velvet gown with a classically Victorian damask pattern. The velvet texture contrasts really well with the quilted silk collar. The twisted cord belt even has a tassel at the end! And to top it off, it's fully lined with bright red silk. It looks comfortable for lounging in, the fabric has a nice heft without being stiff, and the aesthetic is perfect. This is, to me, the ultimate Holmes dressing gown.

Let me know which ones I missed and what your favorite dressing gowns are!

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[cherryclxud]

Catch me if you can Lord Holmes pt2

(ENOLA HOLMES)!Sherlock x BRIDGERTON! reader

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Description: a writer by the name of Marcus Bradford has taken the Ton by storm with his weekly edition chapter of a crime story, Sherlock is tasked with finding Marcus Bradford and solving the case of the abominable bride. but what if meeting a certain Bridgerton girl distracts him from the case?

Word count: 5.8k

Warnings: none

Taglist <3 : @frost-queen @siannaplmn @annesunlight @jolixtreesunn @probabydeadbynow @chloepluto1306 @gayandfairycore @queenfairyfangirl @viylikescats @hipsternerd9 @delusional-4-fake-people

read below for credits.

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SLEEPING AT 221B BAKER STREET USUALLY came easy to Enola. Seeing as there was quite literally very little for her to do, however, for the past 2 nights it has become increasingly difficult for her not to get out of bed and shout at her brother to put the violin down. 

Sherlock was stuck, and Enola could tell by his incessant playing of the violin, the notes he was playing were all gloomy grey. With a sigh, she put her head under the pillow and slammed her hand over it to cover her ears in the hope of respite from the sound. Of course, for the first 4 hours he was playing Enola felt sympathy, but when his playing started to get in the way of her sleep that's when her sympathy towards Sherlock turned to contempt towards the violin. 

She had reached the point where she imagined scenarios of her grabbing scissors and cutting the strings, or of her taking the violin and throwing it out the window.

Somehow the music playing seemed to penetrate through the pillow, making the girl move the pillow, turn to her back and glare at the ceiling. She got up and stomped the the drawing room where her brother sat there playing the insipid instrument. 

“SHERLOCK” she shouted over the music causing her brother to play a wrong note before stopping and turning to her. “Enola? Shouldn't you be asleep by now?” he looked out the window and saw the moon still high in the sky.

Enola crossed her arms while rolling her eyes, “geez Sherlock that's a great idea, i was getting quite tired and had no idea how to remedy it, you have truly opened my eyes” Her voice was full of sarcasm yet Sherlock paid no mind to it as he was distracted.

“Hmm yes well I suppose you should get to it”.

Enola scoffed as she saw her brother pick up the violin about to resume his playing once more “Sherlock! I can't if you insist on playing at this time.” she pointed to the instrument as the older Holmes looked down at it with a sigh.

“Ah, I see, my apologies sister I seemed to have gotten carried away” he places the instrument on its stand before slamming it down on the settee with a sigh and closes his eyes as he continues to think. 

Enola turns around, happy that the peace and quiet has finally infiltrated the home, she goes on her way to her room and just as she was about to go in she stops. She turns to look to her brother, she really felt pity for him at this point, losing sleep over looking for this man who could quite literally be anywhere in England.

“Sherlock, what's wrong?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and lifts his head to look at his sister. “Nothing Enola you should go to bed, I promise I won't play anymore”

He watches as his sister walks across the room only stopping at the coffee table to pick up his tobacco pipe and hold it in between her lips in thought. “Oh look at me I'm Sherlock and I must find out everything about everyone yet never let anyone find out anything about me” she spoke in a mock deep voice as she sat next to him.

HE leaned forward and snatched the pipe from her mouth before wiping the mouthpiece with his shirt. Enola watched as he lit the pipe with a match and smoked in silence, a frown etched on his face. She decided to change the subject hoping it would get her brother to open up more about what was bothering him.

“Y/n and i have been writing to each other”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow “y/n Bridgerton? The viscount's sister?” Enola nodded 

“Yes we have been speaking since we met Nonestop, she is actually quite amusing.” Enola smiled recounting the letters they both shared. Sherlock rolled his eyes but deep inside was happy that his sister had found someone to be friends with. He was worried that his taking care of her had caused his disinterest in forging real connections with people had spread to her. He didn't want her to lean on him and not connect with anyone else. 

He found himself grateful for y/n's sudden but effective presence in his sister's life.

“She's quite like you, you know?” Enola spoke looking nowhere in particular. This caught Sherlock's attention as he looked back to his sister, “How so?”

“Well for starters she's smart…well not as smart as you, no one as smart as you” Enola rolled her eyes before grabbing a small rubber ball she found lying on the floor and bounced it up and down a few times, “She reads a lot, she told me when her brother would return from oxford for the summer she would take the books he'd read and read and study his essays and annotations” 

Sherlock, who was staring at the floor where the ball was bouncing, chuckled quietly remembering one year at Oxford when Anthony had returned from his stay with his family missing the book he was meant to be studying for the semester and sheets of essays he had worked on during the time off, and how frazzled he was trying to rewrite what he could from memory, only to have it delivered to him with a letter of apology from his sister later that night.

“You know she even read that boring book you wrote on like the two hundred and forty types of tobacco” she offhandedly spoke not noticing her brother's smile dropped “Two hundred and forty-three”

“I believe that that was the only copy sold brother mine,” she smirked

“I'll have you know I sold three copies” he grumbled looking away.

Enola laughed “That's because Mycroft and I each bought a copy in support of you”

Sherlock scoffed and stood up walking to the window and looked outside pretending to be angry at his sister. 

“Oh don't sulk brother you know that doesn't work on me, the print shop refused to print any more copies of your books in advance, that's how bad it did.” She leaned back in her seat with a smirk, “She invited me to breakfast  at Bridgerton house tomorrow, can you take me there?” 

Sherlock turned with a nod “I can drop you off and th-” he stopped mid-sentence as an idea struck him, “what did you just say?”

Enola looked at her brother worried that he was too busy to take her “She invited me for breakfast tomorrow and I wish for you to take me there. If you are busy I can take a carriage so no worri-”

“No no before that”

Enola tried to replay the conversation “I told you not to sulk, then that the book you wrote won't get printed in advance any longer”

Sherlock then turned to face away and walked to his desk that was placed in the drawing room and picked up one of the many newspapers that were turned to page 4, turned to the back of the paper and read down the page till he reached what he was looking for. 

‘Tibalt's Printing Press

5th Northumberland street

London’

Sherlock smiled looking down at the paper, “Of course, Minnie always ends up in the kitchen when she's hungry.”

Enolas eyes turn the the left as she racks her brain trying to think what in the world her brother is going on about, “pardon?”

She watched as her brother scribbled some writing on a piece of paper before marching to his pin board on the wall and sticking a pin through the newspaper set on the last page. He stepped back with a smile, Enola stood up from her seat and walked to her brother's side.

“Sherlock, is everything alright?”

The brother looked at her and nodded “It's perfect, all back on track thanks to your friend,” Enola raised an eyebrow.

“Y/n? How did she help? Wait where are you going this late?” She watched as her brother picked up his coat and the paper he scribbled on. He walked up to her and gave her a kiss on the top of her head.

“Don't worry dear sister, assuming all goes to plan I'll be back in time to take you to break your fast with the Bridgertons, sleep well!” And with that, he walked out of the flat door closing it behind him leaving Enola alone in the drawing room.

With a sigh she blew out the remaining candle that illuminated the room, her eyes stopped at the violin that stood defenceless in the room. A smirk found its way on her face as she looked back at the door making sure her brother wouldn't be back.

………….

THE CANDLE BURNED  LIGHTING ONE corner of y/n's bed-chamber, her eyes fled over words on the page of the book she was reading, a new author writing under the title ‘A Lady’ had written a book named ‘Pride and Prejudice’, y/n was completely infatuated with the idea that the author had so boldly revealed that whoever she was, she was a woman.

Unlike Lady Whistledown, this writer resorted to writing harmless fiction that was incredible to read, and unlike y/n she was courageous enough to reveal she was a female, and yet it was a complete shame in y/n's eyes to see that the books didn't do as well as she thought it deserved. 

She pulled her knees to her chest as she relaxed against the window, sitting on the window seat to be able to look outside easily. It had become her routine to sit at the window every night, therefore to anyone else seeing her wouldn't warrant any suspicion, but y/n wouldn't sleep until something in the scenery outside her window changed.

She just about turns to a new page when from the corner of her eye she sees a light flickering outside her window facing the garden, turning to look outside, she sees the figure of the personal valet of Anthony walking in the garden with a candlelit lantern, stopping mid-walk he turns to her window direction and then blows out his candle.

Y/n gave a smile and blew out her own candle, drowning out the last shred of light in her room, and stood up from her seat, shutting the book and placed it on her dresser. And with that, the valet walked back into the house leaving the girl to go to sleep peacefully.

…….

THE CARRIAGE WHEELS STOPPED IN FRONT OF THE printing shop letting Sherlock step out before paying the driver. The windows were illuminated by the candles inside the print shop, he watched as two men worked on the printing of the weekly newspaper. 

Sherlock walked over to the door of the print shop and tried to push it open only to find it was locked closed, however, the attempt to open it had gained him the attention of the two men who looked at each other before turning to Sherlock.

The older one of the two motioned to the younger man to go deal with him as he went back to work. The younger man rolled his eye as he walked to the door and unlocked it before stepping out to stand face to face with the detective, “You know we don't get many people coming here that don't know how to read, this being a print shop and all”

Sherlock stared blankly, the man then pointed at the sign hanging in the window “It says closed, there I read it for you, come back in the morning” he then walked back inside but as he went to shut the door Sherlock stopped it with his foot causing the man to turn back to him.

“I'm here to find out about Marcus Bradford!”

The man tried to push Sherlock back “If you're a fan then you have no luck here, we only print what we get given.” managing to push Sherlock's foot out he went to slam the door only to once again get stopped but this time by his hand. Once the door was open again then holmes pulled his hand back in pain, shaking it to relieve the soreness.

“I'm a detective, I just have a few questions regarding Mr Bradford and I'll be on my way.”

The printshop employee scratched his chin before motioning for Holmes to follow him inside, he took him to the older man who had previously sent him to deal with the problem.

“Theo? I thought I told you to deal with it” the old man spoke, Theo, however, sighed “yeah well he's a detective, won't leave”

The old man's hands stopped working on the press as he turned to meet Sherlock Holmes’ eye, “Aye, yes I recognise you, you're that Holmes guy, to what do I owe the honour?”

Theo spoke up before Sherlock could “he says he's looking for Bradford, Mr Tibalt.”

“You a fan Mr. Holmes?” Tibalt spoke, prompting Sherlock to glare in his direction.

“I assure you quite the contrary, I have been just tasked with looking into him and his background” Sherlock made sure to walk up to the elder man and stand about a foot away from him, standing taller than him he was trying to add an intimidation factor “I would appreciate your cooperation”

Tibalt stood staring at Sherlock for a good 10 seconds before speaking “I'm not sure if I can actually be of help, I haven't met the man, and neither has Theo, he doesn't deliver the stories himself”

“Then who does?”

“It really depends.”

“On?”

“4 men rotate in delivering the story every week, each one wears a mask so I don't see their faces. They don't say a word, all I get is the story and a letter with instructions on what to do along with the payment.”

Dead end. 

“And when was the last time one of the men?” Sherlock asked.

“About an hour before you graced us with your own presence. He'd be long gone. All I can tell you is I have never met mr Bradford or had any personal contact with him.”

Sherlock nodded in thought, his only chance of unveiling Mr. Bradford had quite literally beat him to the chase. Tibalt turned and faced away from Sherlock grabbing a freshly printed newspaper copy, “I can't help you much about Bradford but I can tell you this” he handed Sherlock the new concept that was due for release in the morning, “Something has changed, he's introducing new characters in the midst of the story, and it's clear that this chapter has shifted it all to focus on this character. I assumed it would interest you seeing as for the past couple of copies he had been facing what I assume is a dry spell of ideas” 

Sherlock looked at Tibalt before opening the paper to page 4, his eyes skimmed over the paper and suddenly stopped in his tracks, “Detective Sherrinford?” He looked up to the print shopkeeper who shrugged his shoulders and turned to get back to printing the rest of the papers.

Understanding that he most likely wouldn't be able to get more information, he left his address and told them to let him know if there were any updates, then thanked them and left to go home.

……..

LONDON WAS BUSTLING THAT MORNING, the weekly paper distribution brought by an onslaught of arguments and opinions about the new chapter in the story. The introduction of the character Detective Sherrinford had brought about mixed feelings.

Some believed that Bradford was losing his touch and was doing what he could to keep the story going, others believed that this was just a long-winded way of Marcus telling them that the real story was about to begin, especially with the way he ended off this week's chapter.

“The game is afoot?” Enola put down the newspaper against her lap, she looked towards Sherlock who sat across from her in the carriage on the way to the Bridgertons. He shrugged his shoulders as he moved the curtains to gauge how far along they were until the house, “A change I presume, seems Marcus Bradford has decided to take the story in a different direction” he replied, there was a tinge of frustration in his voice.

The carriage stopped in front of the Bridgerton house and Sherlock stepped out before helping Enola out next, the footman took them into the house where they were allowed into the drawing room where Anthony, Benedict, Eloise, Gregory and Violet sat. 

Anthony being the first to see them stood up in surprise when he saw the Holmes sibling there, “Lord Holmes what a pleasant surprise this morning” he stood up and walked to them and shook their hands before inviting them further into the drawing room in the direction of his family, “this is my mother.” Violet stood from her seat with a smile, as Sherlock took her hand and placed a light kiss on it, then Anthony introduced the rest of his siblings in the room before turning to Sherlock “To what do I owe this fine visit to Holmes?”

“I invited Enola for breakfast brother” y/n who had just walked into the room spoke as she approached the group. Sherlock watched as she and Enola hugged, then as she turned to him and shook his hand, “Good morning Lord Holmes, it's very nice to see you again”

“Likewise Miss Bridgerton” he nodded to her. “I presume you have read the new chapter out today lord holmes, He added a new character what was his name” y/n put her hand the her chin as she pretended to have forgotten the name which Sherlock could of course detect however decided not to call her out on her actions and played along “detective Sherrinford i presume is the name you are trying to remember miss Bridgerton”

“Ahh yes, you are quite right lord holmes, I'm quite forgetful when it comes to these things” she lied jokingly as she spoke, making a small smile play on Sherlock's own lips.

“It's a shame seeing as the author has now added this character, who is a recluse detective who will possibly that forever to solve a case with already many plotholes, the only way the story can go is down.”

y/ns smile fell for a second but she made sure to replace it quickly enough to not be noticeable, “I don't know, I have come to take quite the liking to Detective Sherrinford, I think he will do great to solve this case, I think this story is getting better” she spoke with a smile.

As Sherlock and y/n spoke no one really paid any mind to them. Anthony and Benedict were busy talking, Enola had struck up a conversation with Eloise and Gregory was reading the story in the paper, and no one was paying them any mind…

But violet, she could see it.

Her daughter never took the time to talk to a man for this long about anything, not even about books or stories there was something there. And she was adamant about helping it grow.

“I don't know lord holmes, I would have thought you’d like the character, I think Sherrinford is exactly like you.” y/n’s words caused Enola and Eloise to look towards them in shock, “y/n! You are completely right, how could I not make that connection earlier myself “Enola spoke as she walked to the pair quickly.

“What are you two on about, the man is nothing like me”

And there stood the three arguing about why Sherrinford is or isn't like Sherlock until inevitably, a maid walked into the drawing room and called out that breakfast was ready.

“I guess this means I should take my leave not, Enola ill pick you up in 3 hours” Just as Sherlock was speaking about leaving, Violet interrupted his farewells “Lord Holmes please do join us for breakfast”

Sherlock just about shook his head and was about to decline before Violet spoke again “I had the cook prepare extra just for you” and with that, he couldn't refuse, no matter how much he wanted to.

….

The family and the Holmes siblings filtered into the dining area, Enola and y/n sat next to each other, and just about when Gregory was about to sit next to y/n on her other side, his mother motioned for him to sit elsewhere leaving Sherlock no other seat but that one, not that it really bothered him.

The families started eating and exchanging conversation, the atmosphere was delightful, and Enola was aglow, it had been a long while since she sat down for breakfast with a family seeing as usually she and Sherlock wake up at different times and end up eating anything.

“Lord Sherlock, it really is a pleasure having you and your sister here, I must say I'm surprised I havent seen you in the ton more often, no soirees nor balls” Violet spoke as she cut another piece of the omelette in her plate. Sherlock swallowed the food in his mouth before nodding to Violet “That is indeed true viscountess Bridgerton, I simply haven't found the time to integrate into society, there's too much work and research and clients. In fact it is my fault Enola has yet to debut, I had been meaning to help her this season however i got sidetracked.” 

Violet nodded her face full of sympathy towards the two siblings, it was a known fact around the ton that the Holmes family had lost not one but both parents in the same year, their father had been taken ill for months before suffering through an unfortunately painful exit and their mother had been so in love with him and followed him mere months after due to a broken heart. 

Since then little has been known about the Holmes family, they had become reclusive and barely interacted with the rest of the ton. Sherlock and Enola, who were 9 and 2 at the time, were put under the care and sanction of their older brother Viscount Mycroft who himself was 15. It was like the Holmeses ceased to exist any longer, that was until a few years ago when Viscount Mycroft got married and Sherlock moved out to a flat in Central London, it was widely believed that Sherlock found the Viscount Holmes’ new wife to be unappealing to share a mansion with, sooner or later in a visit back home he decided he would take his younger sister to live with him.

“Well better late than never I say” Violet spoke softly with a smile targeted at Sherlock. Her eyes flicker to y/n who was eating her food quietly while listening to the conversation then back to Sherlock. “you know, there is a soiree tomorrow night at the Dunphrees,”

Anthony stared at his mother in shock understanding what she was doing “Mother!”

Violet of course ignored him knowing Anthony really is only good for ruining her plans. “We shall be attending, I say you should come”

Enola looked up from her plate excited “Oh can we brother, it sounds like so much fun” y/n snorted quickly while holding back a laugh. Sherlock glanced at her before looking to his sister whose eyes was practically begging him, “ Enola you don't had a dress for the occasion and I doubt one can be made in time” 

Y/n smirked as she looked at him, “That is no worry at all lord holmes i have 4 daughters surely I have a couple of dresses to spare that will be her size.” Violet interjected. y/n and Enola looked at each other excitedly, Sherlock's lips pressed together in a semi-frustrated smile before looking at his sister and y/n. Enola looked very excited as she shared a hug with y/n, and for a moment his eyes lingered on the Bridgerton girl, he was thankful for her existence in his sister's life, she was in fact a very interesting person to talk to, and maybe having her around would make him feel less guilty over not always being there for his sister. The said Bridgerton girl turned to face Sherlock awaiting his decision, only to be met with his own eyes looking at her, he quickly looked away while clearing his throat embarrassed at having been caught staring at her, but this action did not elude Violet’s eyee, she smiled softly at the bashfulness of sherlock.

With a sigh, he nodded albeit quite a bit reluctantly but part of him knew that Enola needed this, and in fact he needed a break, so maybe he needed this too. “I don't see why not, God knows we require a chance for respite.” Enola gleamed at the thought of attending her first soiree tomorrow.

The families continued their breakfast and their endless conversations, many topics including the breach of secrecy of Anthony and Sherlock Oxford days, they even told stories of the Duke of Hastings from their days living together. Enola revealed quite a bit of her childhood activities, and the two siblings shared their distaste for their sister in law, hyacinth chatted about how their elder sister Daphne would have almost been married to the prince of Prussia had it not been for her love for the duke, this conversation managed to segway into Eloise talking about Lady Whistledown and who she may be.

“Speaking of hidden writers,” y/n spoke as she turned to look at Sherlock “How has your hunt for Mr Bradford lord homles, someone of your calibre must have reached some conclusion.”

Sherlock nearly choked on the tea he was drinking, everyone at the table went quiet actually quite curious about his findings. “Lord Sherlock you found Mr. Marcus Bradford?” Gregory exclaimed, having been quite a fan of the writer's weekly updates. 

Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief the detective shook his head “I'm afraid I'm still looking, he has proven to be quite a difficult man to find. I went to the printing shop that prints and distributes the weekly paper, unfortunately, they have no clue who he is either, seems he doesn't deliver the chapters himself for all I know he is on the other side of England.”

y/n’s eyes moved to the side in thought as everyone sighed in frustration expressing their disappointment in the possibility of not knowing the writer behind the book. 

“Well that would make no sense” y/n spoke up causing all eyes to move to her.

“It makes perfect sense miss Bridgerton, there are other places in England a man can live other than Mayfair” Sherlock spoke sarcastically, confused as to why y/n would find such a simple ordeal strange, his words caused both Anthony and Benedict to chuckle.

y/n glared at her brothers then directed her glare to Sherlock “Laugh all you want men, I have a point to make. Tell me Lord Holmes why would a man on the other side of England write a story only for it to be published in Mayfair only? Surely he wants to see the fruits of his labour in person, even if he doesn't take the credit for it.”

“What makes you so sure that the man only has it published in Mayfair and not all over England?” Sherlock spoke, now completely serious, of course, he was quite upset that a point like this could have fled his mind. He had been too busy looking for the man himself when the actual paper held most of the clues he would need anyway. He thought it would be best to listen to y/n seeing as it was her words that triggered him to find the first clue in the first place.

Something told him that she knew much more than she let on about this case.

“Simple. We receive two different newspapers per week, one is the English paper, and the other is the Mayfair weekly paper, and yet the story only appears in the Mayfair weekly. That means your elusive writer is either an idiot-” Violet scolded her daughter for her use of an insult, however y/n brushed it off with an apologetic look aimed at her, before facing Sherlock again “-and is sending a copy of his writing to every separate town and city in England rather than just placing it in the English paper that goes all over England, or he is walking among us here in Mayfair”

The two stared eye to eye for a good 10 seconds in silence that even Colin had to clear his throat to almost ease the tension. Sherlock was the first to speak, “Well deduced Miss Bridgerton, you seemed to have caught on to a point I seemed to have missed” he smirked, “This is the second time, one more time and I may just have to engage you.” y/n’s smile dropped at his words and her face heated up as violet and Enola let out a quiet gasp. Sherlock cleared up his throat and quickly went to fix his wording.

“Engage you in other cases i mean, sometimes I could use an outsider's eye on the matter” he spoke while avoiding y/n’s eyes, his fingers tracing the rim of the teacup in his hands. y/n was in a similar situation but had a small smile that danced on her lips.

“Holmes doesn't jest” y/ns smiled as her eyes shot up to look at Anthony who had made a habit of ruining the moment “Y/n is a young lady and shouldn’t really be exposed to some of the cases you deal with, don't you agree” she glared at him. “And what of it brother? What does my being a lady have to do with a case? It’s not like crime stops when I walk in the room just because I'm a lady.” she spoke while rolling her eyes, she knew her brother meant well but sometimes he was overbearing. 

“y/n-”

“Actually viscount Bridgerton, I completely understand your argument” Sherlock's words caused y/n to look at him disappointed “However as Miss Bridgerton has worded it wonderfully, crime doesn't stop because the fairer sex exists. I truly believe there is no such thing as protecting them from the truth, only hiding the truth. I think Miss Bridgerton would benefit from being challenged by a few questions, no need to see a crime scene herself. I do this with Enola all the time, and she doesn't seem to mind at all.”

Enola quickly nodded at her brother's words in agreement “It's true Lord Bridgerton, it’s quite fun, like solving puzzles, it keeps me occupied and gives me the ability to spend time with Sherlock.”

Violet interjected before Anthony could speak again,” These are quite bold ideas you share lord holmes, not many men would agree with you.”

“And not many women too” Eloise muttered with an eye roll.

But Sherlock kept his resolve and looked to y/n and his sister before looking back to Violet, “Well viscountess Bridgeton, I am quite a fanatic of what many may call strange ideals. I believe that a day will come, when a war will break out,” the whole table gasped in shock at his words, “one half of the human race against the other, the invisible army always standing by the men's shoulder, there has to come a day where us men stand back and view women as equals who deserve respect and demand to be heard”

 “I think it's a wonderful idea lord holmes, you letting y/n help out in your cases that is.” Violet broke the silence as she clasped her two hands together, she met eyes with y/n who smiled at her, she smiled back and gave her daughter a wink.

If he were to be the man her daughter would love, then she would rather back her up than be against her and cause her daughter to abstain from the thought of love or marriage in general.

Gregory sat up excitedly “Lord Holmes! When you do find Mr. Bradford do you think you can get him to sign a copy of his books for me?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a smile at the excitement in his voice “Thats IF, but I don't see why not”

“No, it’s WHEN, Lord Holmes, I’m sure you are much closer to the man than you think” y/n spoke while motioning to Anthony valet to fetch her more tea with a smile. Sherlock looked at the teacup in y/n’s hands in confusion “I’m not sure im any closer to finding him, no one in the ton knows him”

The valet held the teacup as he poured tea for y/n as she spoke “Who says Marcus Bradford is the writer's real name?” it was like clockwork, Sherlock looked at y/n as she spoke, and the teacup slipped out of the valet's hands dropping some of the contents of the cup straight into y/ns lap. Sherlock quickly grabbed a tablecloth from in front of him and started dabbing the tea on her lap, them action caused her eyes to widen and for her to stand up quickly and move away, Anthony and Benedict stood up, both rushing to their sister, countless apologies were spewed from the valet's mouth. It was actually quite chaotic.

“It’s fine, I'm fine” y/n spoke with a nervous smile. “ one of the downsides of being a girl is wearing many layers, though I suppose in this case it is an upside” she let out a giggle while looking at everyone, her eyes moved to the valet who was still apologising “no harm no foul Hudson, I'm fine” 

“I may have to get changed though, Enola,” she turned to face her friend, “Why don't you join me, we can look for a dress for you to wear for tomorrow's soiree”

The younger Holmes got up with a smile and joined her as the two rushed off to y/n’s room.

Everyone returned to their seats and slowly continued on with their conversation, however, Sherlock felt uneasy now in his seat, looking up in front of him his eyes met with Anthony’s eyes, who almost seemed to be glaring back at him.  The eldest Bridgerton brother hadn't missed how Sherlock reacted to the tea dropped on his sister, he wanted to diminish any feelings that may be growing from y/n towards Holmes as fast as possible, to him Sherlock wasn't right for his sister.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: First of all I am absolutely blown away by the number of likes and requests for tags I have gotten, I love you all, literally thought this story was going to flop. I'm sorry it took a while for the second chapter to come out hopefully next chapter won't take as long. TRULY LIKE WOW.

This chapter has so many easter eggs feel free to let me know which ones you found out through my ask box or comments, and if there is smth you would like me to add in any upcoming chapters let me know too<3

----------------------------------------------------------------

I do not own Bridgerton

I do not own Sherlock or Enola Holmes

and I most certainly don't own the abominable bride story

I do not own Sherrinford

they belong to their rightful owners

I only own the fic idea.

[flkwh0re]

Casual

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol/ Drug consumption, Basic sex, Angst, Fighting.

A/n: Based on the song Casual by Chappell Roan, linked below this.

Word Count: 1.1k

Part two

Casual sex. That's what Natasha called it, though nothing about it seemed casual. The way she held you after, the longing looks she gave you. It was all full of love. She'd always invite you over, mostly for sex, but sometimes she wanted nothing more than to just love you.

Natasha and you were sat next to one another, around a table that her friends were gathered around. You didn't much care for them, you liked Wanda and Bucky though. Wanda was the sweetest, always truly interested in your life. Bucky was quiet, but also sweet which you liked in a person. The rest were loud, obnoxious, and just straight up assholes.

Natasha's arm held tightly around your waist, pulling you close to her as her legs rested on the table. A burning cigarette held between her fingers, occasionally pulling it up to her lips. You'd watch her as she's tilt her head back, blowing the smoke into the air.

On the table was an array of different alcoholic beverages, playing cards, and ash trays. You didn't know why she had even invited you to something like this, it was just a group of her and her friends hanging out.

"Whatcha thinkin' about in that pretty li'l head of yours?" Nat asked, looking deep into your eyes. A drunken smirk plastered across her face, how you loved that look she gave you. "Nothin much."

She hummed, turning her attention back to the game of rummy she was playing. Slamming the cards down on the table, all four aces lined up. Everyone groaned, even though they knew they didn't stand a chance against her.

She hopped up and cheered loudly, pulling you to stand. Playfully dancing around with you, your shared laughter filled the air. Natasha pulled your flush face to hers, smiling proudly and kissed you with the most love she ever had.

You knew nothing she gave was real, it broke your heart. You had spent nights thinking about her, crying because you just want her to love you back. To see you as more than just sex.

Natasha pulled away, a guilted look of panic on her face. You never understood why she would even try to show that she loved you, you figured it was some issue with some past partner, maybe her parents. She wouldn’t dare open up to you, or anyone.

“Natasha come sit back down, bring your girlfriend too.” Tony yelled from the room. Natasha let go of you, and walked back. “She’s not my girlfriend Tony.” Nat scoffed at the man. “Doesn’t see like that’s the case, especially the way you talk about her.” He snapped back. “How does she talk about me?” You piped up. Before you could get your answer, Natasha pulled out a plastic bag.

“Who wants to smoke?” She asked, sounds of excitement erupted from the group. Not you though, you just wanted your answer. “You want?” Natasha asked, handing the blunt to you. “Oh, you know I’m not really into smoking.” She chuckled, “C’mon doll, just one time? For me?” She begged, a faux pout on her lip.

You sighed and agreed, wrapping your lips around the blunt breathing in the smoke. You released it from your lungs onto Natasha’s face, her coughing. “Hey, what the fuck?!” You giggled, “That’s what you get.” Natasha stood upright, grabbing you and pulling you to the bathroom. “Nat what are you doing?” She bit her lip, “Getting pay back.”

Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of your jeans, her lips pressed against yours. Passion ignited between you two once again, tongues tangled with one another. Her hand slipped past the band of your panties, her rough fingertips grazing your clit.

Moans slip past your lips, as her fingers pumped in and out of you. Cum quickly coated her fingers, and she slipped her hand out of your pants. Natasha sucked her fingers clean of your arousal, “God I love-“ Your heart rate sped up, “The way you taste.” Oh.

Nat dropped to her knees, pulling your pants down with her. Her mouth attached to your pussy, tongue expertly pleasing you. Her hand intertwined with yours, holding you tightly like she’d loose you.

You had never cried during sex until now, tears welled up in your eyes. She loved you, you knew she loved you so much. Why would she just not allow herself to love you how she wanted to?

Her free hand gripped softly on your hip, her thumb caressing your hip bone trying to sooth your shaking body. With a final push you came undone in her tongue, body almost giving away but she held you up.

She helped you calm down, and clean yourself up. Sharing loving looks with you, soft kisses here and there in your face. “You okay?” She questioned.

“Nat, what are we?” You asked, looking up at her with red eyes and tears spilling down your face.

“What? We’re friends I guess.” She shrugged, more tears spilled. “No Nat, this. What we have going on. The sex, the way you look at me.” She shook her head, “I don’t look at you any differently than I do all the others, this is nothing more than just sex Y/n. Nothing more.”

Your lips quivered as she raised her voice at you. “I told you Y/n, no attachments, just casual sex.” You shook your head, “No Nat! What the fuck are we?! This is not just casual sex! It’s not casual when I hang out with all your best friends, when you look at me like you love me, when you hold my hand when you fuck me. I tried to distance myself but you insisted I don’t! What two people that have casual sex do that!?”

Your voice raised at the final sentence, Natasha’s face contorted to a shocked expression. Her mouth held open, bottom lip quivered as she fought back her own tears. “No, you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s all in your head, none of that exist!” She shouted back.

“You’re so fucking unbelievable Nat, I thought you thought of me better!” You snapped. “No you just can’t fucking do anything without thinking it has to mean something! Do not ever come around me again.” She yelled, then ripped the bathroom door open.

“Natasha stop it!” You shouted after her, “Please don’t go!” All her friends now rushing to the two of you, Wanda catching up to you first. She gave you a soft sympathetic look. “Goodbye Y/n, please don’t try snd contact me.” Tears slipped from her eyes.

It wrecked you, seeing her like this. You choked back your cried, trying to keep your composure together. The moment she was gone though, you broke down. Wanda tried to console you, allowing you to cry in her arms.

All her friends were shocked, even they knew Natasha had something more for you.

Masterlist

[slasherscream]

my girl can wear whatever she wants tiers please for crazy ass boys gang!!!

CRAZY ASS BOYS GANG + MY GIRL CAN WEAR WHATEVER SHE WANTS TIERS

❥ my girl can wear whatever she want cause I can fight ❥

Billy Loomis - When you look particularly good his arm might as well be glued to your waist. He's both possessive and protective. He hates the way everyone's eyes devour you, but can't help how prideful it makes him either. Yeah, you want her. Of course you want her. Everyone does. But only I have her. God help the idiot that's stupid enough to open their mouth and not just look.

Jordan Li - They love watching you put your outfits together. They make suggestions from your bed, glancing up at you every few minutes. They can't help it. Their eyes are drawn to you permanently. No matter how crowded the room they can find you in a second. Whenever there's a party Jordan loves watching everyone try to sneak quick glances at you. They jump like rabbits when they wind up meeting Jordan's eyes and watch that smile that Jordan only wears around you fall back into the usual scowl. No one wants to be caught staring at Jordan's girl.

Arvin Russell - It's not possible for you to feel fear in public when you're with Arvin. You could be wearing straight lingerie in the most dangerous city in the world at 2 am and be safe. He's not just ready to protect you but hungry for it. Every time he proves he'll fight till his knuckles are bloody and bruised over you he watches you walk a little more confidently. Shine a little brighter. Knowing that he's there to protect you has only made you more yourself every day. And Arvin? He's obsessed with the transformation that the safety net of his fierce protection has ignited within you.

Jason Dean/JD - You wish he'd only fight people over what you're wearing. Unfortunately, this is not the case. JD pulls out a gun. Not every time, granted. Just a large majority of the time. In his defense, how is he supposed to act when someone has the audacity to cat call you? Do you expect him to just watch and not care as you experience that brief shiver of fear that runs up your spine when a man whistles at you before following it up with even more salacious words? If you feel fear, he'll make them feel fear. Simple.

Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves - If someone is stupid enough to not recognize him before they say anything to you about what you're wearing they will quickly recognize the tentacle wrapped around their throat. "Apologize." He hisses through gritted teeth, increasing the pressure, knowing just how much strength he can use before it would break their neck. How he ever expects anyone to apologize to you with a giant tentacle wrapped around their wind pipe you don't know. This is the second time this month. You're running out of night clubs you're not banned from.

David Mccall - You walk out of the house with the confidence that only someone who's done 12 tours over seas should have. But no, you just have a boyfriend who is incredibly scary. You've watched him almost break a man's hand for brushing it against yours at a crowded bar while he reached for his drink. You don't even think before you throw on an outfit anymore.

❥ my girl can wear whatever she want because she a hoe and I knew that before we started dating ❥

Josh Washington - Could he fuck someone up if needed? Yes, but he feels no need to. As long as you're not in danger or being disrespected Josh loves the way you express yourself through your look. You're hot and beautiful, of course you wear stuff that's short or tight, or both. If he looked like you he'd do the same thing. People don't usually say anything to you anyways, since he's always pressed to you like a second skin. He's not a jealous guy, but he is a chronic clinger.

Stu Macher - Is probably the person wolf whistling you in the first place. Points at you from across the room when you're talking to other people and says, "That's my girl right there. She's smoking, right?" He will always be smug he pulled you and NEVER shut up about it. The more wild you dress the more smug he gets. People can look all they want. But you only want him. What's there not to brag about?

Kevin Khatchadourian - Kevin above anyone else would thoroughly understand your psyche before dating you. He's involved with you because, somehow, you intrigued him against all odds. He already expected and predicted with near perfect accuracy every step of the relationship. Skimpy outfits are not throwing him. Can he fight? Yes. But, frankly, if someone pisses him off by hitting on you swinging on them is not gonna satisfy him. He's more of a "put their fingerprints at a crime scene so their life is ruined" type of get back. If he decides not to kill them.

Sebastian Valmont - Sebastian is the one buying you more hoe clothes. He loves your style and is not insecure. If either of you wanted someone else, you could go get them. But you two were practically made for each other. He wants to show you off. Is never going to be the type to try and dull your shine. He wants to walk into a room with you and have jaws drop from the deadly combination of the way you look together. He thrives off of seeing how much people want you. Knowing how futile it is. How hopeless. He pulls you tight into his side and grins like the devil himself (also, and this knowledge is of utmost importance, he cannot fight for shit.)

❥ my girl can wear whatever she want cus I’m scared of her ❥

Nathan Prescott - Is possessive, jealous and insecure enough to absolutely want you to change what you're wearing. With anyone else he'd even be bold enough to tell them to change. You are not anyone else, though. You are you. Considering every other behavior you tolerate from Nathan on a monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly basis you would snap on him like a twig if he tried to bring one more red flag on board. He knows this. You know this. When you slide on your low rise jeans and the tiniest crop top known to man, you make eye contact with one another in the mirror. He looks away first. You go back to peacefully fixing up your hair. Upside, no one is crazy enough to actually hit on you when you're at parties held on campus together. Which means Nathan won't have the cops called on him. Hooray!

[moon1833]

“Ask me Tomorrow” -Megumi Fushiguro

Part 2

“Then I’ll ask you tomorrow.” He says, hurriedly. “I’ll ask you tomorrow because I’m loosing all sense of my self control around you.”

Contains: Mentions of weed, very drunk Megumi, mentions of alcohol

If he had to choose, Megumi Fushiguro would prefer to smoke over drink any day. He was fond of the warmth surrounding a joint, his near skilled fingers flicking his black lighter as he inhaled the smoothness.

There was no expectations, whether he was packing a bowl for the two of you in his dorm, or passing a pipe between a large circle of eager potheads at a party.

Regardless, no one blamed him when he stopped talking, falling back into silence and focusing on whatever came to mind.

Unless of course, he was with you. In that case he’d focus every ounce of attention on his best friend, mesmerized but the smoke exhaling from your throat.

So, to find Megumi drunk was out of the ordinary, to say the least.

Especially when he was stumbling into your dorm room, missing a jacket that you swore he left with in the cold winter weather and a hazy look on his face.

“Megumi what’s-” He slides into you, greeting you with an uncharacteristically warm hug. You freeze up in confusion, wrapping your arms around his waist anyway.

You pull back, your hands resting on the skin of his biceps just below where the sleeve of his tee shirt ends. You try not to think about the heat of his muscle, or how small your hands feel on them.

“Oh, you’re shitfaced.” You conclude once you look at his eyes, which are half lidded and flickering around your face. There’s a small smile of contentment on his lips, as if walking in the cold and up the three staircase to your room was a form of bliss.

“No..” His voice is playful as his grin widens.

You pull him inside gently, a small pang of worry in your stomach. He had a mission the other day, and while you knew it was bothering him you didn’t push him to talk. You were starting to think it was bothering him more than you originally believed.

“Megumi,-” You can barely utter his name before he interrupts you, groaning loudly as he throws himself back onto your bed.

It’s almost flustering, how different he is. His hair was always a bit erratic, but now it covered his eyes slightly as he shamelessly gazes at you. The dark strands cast a gleam in his stare, and you suddenly feel very vulnerable.

“I thought you were meeting up with Yuji.” You cross your arms, standing over him.

“Well, he was at the bar.” He says, rolling his eyes in defense.

“And where’s he now?”

“Probably still there.”

“Megumi!” You scold him, attempting to pull him up next to you.

“What?” He frowns at you, not budging from his spot on your bed. “He was with the rest of the group.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just get up and leave.” You retort, already typing a message on your phone to the school group chat.

“Yuji’s almost twenty years old.” Megumi’s practically pouting at your disapproval. “I’m sure he’s okay.”

“Yes, but I was the one who told him to look after you.” You begin to untie his shoes before sliding them off.

“Aw, you care about me.” The words are attempted to be sarcastic, but they sound eager when they leave his lips.

“Of course I do, dipshit.” You force him to sit up slightly, wrapping a blanket around him.

Megumi still has a soft smile on his face as he crosses his legs, sitting up completely. Your knees are touching, and you have to fight the urge to lean in.

A little too abruptly, you stand up, heading to the mini fridge in your dorm. With your back turned, you furiously tried to regain your composure, attempting to force your heart to slow.

After giving a rather sad looking Megumi a water bottle, you open your covers, allowing him to further sink in to your bed.

“What?” You ask softly, placing a pillow under his head.

“I missed you.” He admits, holding your wrist gently.

“We trained together this morning.” You hold back a laugh.

“Okay?” He rolls his eyes, pushing himself further under your comforter.

“You know, you act a lot like Gojo whenever you drink.”

“Please don’t ever say that again.” He says seriously.

You laugh while beginning to stand, making Megumi’s grip on your wrist slide off. His touch lingers on your skin, but you try not to think about it as you excuse yourself to shower.

You respected your space. If any other person stumbled into your dorm at 12am while plastered, the absolute most you would do is walk them to their own room. You absolutely would not invite them in, and you absolutely would not let them sleep in your bed, especially with their outside clothes on.

But Megumi was different. He had always been different.

He was your best friend, maybe a little bit more than that. After all, you weren’t blind to just how comfortable he was around you. He barely let anyone else touch you, and there he was, cuddled up in your bed.

Patting your hair dry, you reamerge from the bathroom, expecting to see him fast asleep on your bed. Instead, he’s propped up, his shirt halfway off, the sleeve stuck on his head.

“Megumi,” You sigh, trying not to laugh. “what the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s too hot.” He mutters, finally managing to get his head through the hole.

“I’m not sleeping next to you when you don’t have a shirt on.” You reply.

“You’re sleeping with me?”

“I’m sleeping next to you, dumbass.” If you knew Megumi drunk was this much of a hassle, you would’ve made him stay home.

Reluctantly, he tries to put his top back on, somehow ending up with it on inside out and backwards.

Rolling your eyes, you sit across from him, balancing on your knees. “Arms up.” You instruct, pulling his shirt off and putting it back on the right way.

While you try to avoid his face, Megumi stares at you, as if there was nothing else in the room as interesting as your face. You make the mistake of making eye contact with him, your breath catching in your throat.

There’s a moment of silence before Megumi presses into you, kissing you softer than you imagined any drunk could. It’s sweet and tender, too tender for it to be written off in your brain as a drunk mistake.

Instinctively, you kiss back, but before he can wrap his arms around you, you pull back.

“You’re drunk, Meg.” Your voice cracks.

“But I mean it.” There’s a sense of seriousness in his tone, and it almost sounds like a moment of sobriety.

“You need to rest-”

“I mean it, y/n.” He cuts you off, grasping your shoulders.

“Megumi, I can’t. It’s not right-”

“Then I’ll ask you tomorrow.” He says, hurriedly. “I’ll ask you tomorrow because I’m loosing all sense of my self control around you.”

You’re at a loss for words. The indescribable feeling of want overcomes you, but you stay in your stance, not daring to move forward.

“Ask me tomorrow.” You agree. “Please.”

He nods, and you throw your arms around him. Megumi falls slightly, but holds onto you just as tightly as he lays across your sheets.

A few minutes later, you go to speak, but your thoughts are cut off by a soft snore leaving his mouth, making you grin.

You’ll wait until tomorrow.

[hottpinkpenguin]

Nighttime

Tommy Shelby X Fem!Reader WC: 1380 Content warnings: PTSD, drug use, alcohol use, mentions of war Summary: When your brother, Daniel "Danny Whizz-bang" Owens, comes back a broken man from WWI, Tommy Shelby is the only one who seems able to put him back together. And the more Tommy helps your brother, the more you realize he's helping you, too. Author's Note: First time writing for the incomparable Tommy Shelby and the PB boys! Thoughts on a part 2, anyone??

Nights like these made the dark parts of you wish that Daniel hadn’t come home from the War. Nights when he couldn’t remember your face, when he got so lost in the bottom of a bottle or the smoke of his pipe that even you couldn’t find him anymore. The brother Daniel was when he’d left in ‘14 hadn’t come home four years later. Most times, sunlight and a hard day’s work help him hide that fact well enough. Nighttimes were the hardest. Especially starless, rainy nights like this one. Something about the rain reminded Danny of the dark tunnels where his innocence had died. It’s always night in the tunnels, he told you. The sounds of his pathetic whimpering from the room next door fractured the ice you’d been forced to pack around your heart to keep life together. 

Yet, nights like these were the only times you saw Thomas Shelby. So, in some ways, nights like these made the darker parts of you grateful that Daniel was as broken a man as he was. You were certain that, if it weren’t for the destructive acts of “Danny Whizz-bang”, you wouldn’t be fortunate enough to have the second-eldest Shelby brother sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea. 

“You’re good to ‘im, you know.” 

You met Tommy’s eyes over the lip of your teacup as you took a sip of the bitter, bitingly hot liquid. His eyes were strikingly blue and steady. He regarded you evenly from the other side of your table, his expression guarded but not unkind. 

You smiled softly and sadly as you swallowed the hot tea, focusing on the way it seemed to melt through your chest.

“He’s my brother,” you replied matter-of-factly. “I love him. He’s not the same, but I won’t turn him out.”

You knew that’s what Tommy was getting at. You were good to Danny because you hadn’t turned your back on him, despite his broken parts. Most men who’d come back from the War with cases of shell-shock as bad as Danny’s had been turned out by their families. In some cases, it was because of embarrassment. Sometimes it was purely for safety. In your case, you were both ashamed and afraid of Danny’s fits, so you couldn’t say for sure why you hadn’t told him to leave. You wanted to believe that it was because of compassion, as you were happy to let Tommy believe. But there was a gnawing guilt deep in your gut that suggested other, more self-serving motives. 

The sound of Tommy’s teacup clinking into the saucer dragged you out of the downward spiral of your own thoughts. 

“More tea?” you asked, wondering if Tommy could hear the hopeful edge in your voice. He nodded gratefully, and you poured him another serving. He pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it, the glow from the match casting his handsome face in sharp shadows. You busied yourself with pouring yourself a second cup as well, if only to distract yourself from staring. 

A particularly sharp yelp of terror from Danny’s bedroom set your nerves clanging. You nearly dropped the kettle on the floor as you stood, reflexively, and hurried towards the barely ajar bedroom door. You heard Tommy’s strong, sure footsteps behind you. 

From the other side of the door, you could hear Danny sobbing in his bed. You’d left all the lamps burning brightly in his room to dispel the darkness that tormented him. He was curled under the covers, laying on his side and rigid. 

“Danny?” you called quietly. He jumped at the sound. You pushed open the door, gently so as not to slam it against the wall. 

“Danny, it’s me. It’s your sister. You’re alright, Danny. You’re home.”

It never mattered what you said. It was the sound of another voice that dragged Danny out of his reveries. Surely, as the words kept flowing, you saw Danny’s tight muscles begin to unwind. 

“It’s OK, Danny. You’re safe. Home in Birmingham. This is your room. And Mr. Shelby is here, too.” 

Tommy was no stranger to the scene before him, and he picked up on your cue easily. He stood behind you, so close you could smell his cigarette and the twang of whiskey on his breath as he spoke. 

“They’re gone, Danny. No more tunnels. No more Germans. The War is over.”

Danny rolled over in his bed, his eyes wide but focused. He honed in on Tommy like a moth to a flame. You could hardly blame him: the deep tone and firm, unhurried cadence of Tommy’s voice reminded you of ocean waves. Undeniable, strong, and magnetic. 

“Mr. Shelby-”

“It’s alright, Danny. Just rest now.” 

Tommy never let Danny talk to him when he was like this. You had never asked him why - you didn’t dare to - but you suspected it was because Thomas Shelby didn’t want to be reminded of the things that haunted Daniel Owen’s nights. In fact, if you’d been a betting woman, you’d have guessed that the same horrors stalked Tommy’s dreams. There were dark pools in the back of Tommy’s eyes sometimes that reminded you of the way Danny looked when he got like this. 

“Yes, Mr. Shelby.”

Danny nuzzled down under the covers, his eyes darting to you in questioning. Finally convinced of his lucidity, you stepped forward to tuck your brother into bed. You bent over and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, dabbing away the sweat that had beaded there with the hem of your sleeve. 

“Rest now, Danny Boy,” you whispered, using the name your mother had called him. Danny’s eyes drifted shut, and exhaustion took him quickly. He didn’t sleep well these days, and as the clock in your kitchen heralded the arrival of 3am, tonight was quickly shaping up to be a similarly wasted venture. 

With Danny calmed, for the moment at least, you followed Tommy’s retreat out of the bedroom. The lamps still burned merrily, burning through the precious oil you struggled to purchase at a rate comparable to the demand generated by Danny’s nightmares. Once his bedroom door had been pulled almost shut, only a sliver ajar, Tommy spoke again. 

“I should be off, y/n. It’s quite late.” 

You hated nights like these, and most of all this part of the night. The part when Thomas Shelby left. 

You didn’t trust yourself not to beg him to stay, so you bit down on your lip and said nothing. You watched as Tommy gathered his hat and wool coat from the coat rack next to your apartment door. He turned back to you, his eyes shining like pools of clear springwater. 

“Thank you for the tea,” he offered with a gracious, half-bow. So genteel and gallant. 

“Tommy, this bitter excuse for tea is the least I can offer, and you know that. Please stop thanking me for it.” It sounded bitter and outside of convention, but you meant every word. Thomas Shelby had saved your brother’s life in the War, and he continued to save it on a daily basis. The work that Tommy supplied to Danny through the Peaky Blinders gave your brother the only sense of purpose that he’d found after coming home. And Tommy’s steadfast guidance on nights like these was no small feat. You knew Danny loved you, and after almost 3 years, you’d learned how to handle your brother’s shell-shock, but Tommy had an effect on him that even booze and opium couldn’t replicate. Tommy grounded Danny. To say nothing of the effect Tommy had on you. 

As if to underscore the point, Tommy let out as close to a smile as you’d ever seen as he donned his hat. The sight made your heart twirl between your ribs like a little girl around a maypole. 

“It’s never a bad thing to express gratitude, even for humble gifts,” he replied easily. “And I am grateful.” The sincerity with which he delivered these last words silenced any retort you might have had. You could only smile back as he turned and showed himself out your front door into the dingy hallway. You didn’t close the door fully until Thomas Shelby’s footsteps had fully faded in the stairwell and down the cobbled street outside… 

**if I write a p.2 and you want to be tagged, shoot me a message!

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere! Sugar daddy x "pure"! Reader

EEEEEEEEE Time to write my baby, the fruit of my dark rofan loins (jk) Basically, this yandere is my first yandere OC and when I gave life (lol) to him in Char/ai yesterday, I just knew he had to be next.

Also, I contemplated what title to give him since he's also a mafia boss, but I decided to go with Sugar daddy since it's the most integral part of his story.

Also, "pure" just means that you dress light, really. But in Rowan's eyes, you were like an angel, a pure being that he needs to taint (oops spoiler)

Yandere! Sugar daddy name: Rowan Silas (Yes, he even has a last name)

notes: Rowan is not old, OLD. He's not a Dilf/Gilf level sugar daddy. In his lore with my other OC (his love interest), he's older by five years. Also, reader has a womb, due to mentions of pregnancy (why did I do this pregnancy shit twice? Dunno really.)

TW: noncon pregnancy, trackers, nsfw stuff

ALSO, REQUESTS ARE OPEN <3 (I don't even know if people will request but LOL just in case.)

The man only knew pain and crime all his life.

He never experienced anything good, apart from gunning down his enemies alive if that even means the same as what people deem as "good".

His life of crime was because of his adoptive father, who picked him up from the slums to become one of his personnel.

He was only seven by then. But his hands stained with blood as he killed the other kid who drowned his precious pet kitten in the lake. That's where his father knew that Rowan is not normal.

I mean, who would sport a smile while choking his fellow kid alive?

All Rowan said was "He deserved it though."

"He took what's precious from me."

That was enough to make his father set him straight to become the heir of the mafia family.

He grew up battered and bruised yet the vices he only knew is his smoking from his precious churchwarden pipe, and violence.

He told his father that it was enough for him.

Yet his body raged on, wanting more and more as greed consumed him for more.

Yes, he's a greedy man who wants more.

After all, he had nothing, then had one precious thing, then lost that thing. And then, when he eliminated the person who stole his precious thing, he got everything.

Did that make sense? To Rowan, it didn't.

He already got everything, but why does he want more?

So with a clean shot to the head, he killed his father and immediately inherited the family.

Now, he can spend the money and the resources as much as he wants. So he did. He went to casinos, brothels, luxury hotels and cruises. Everything he thinks that he needs.

But he still wants more. He still needs more.

And by god, he did get more.

He bumped into you one day, with you in your soft outfit of creams and pastels. Your pure, clean eyes made his heart skip a beat as you said sorry to him.

His greed triggered.

He wanted you so bad.

When he learned you needed a job when he saw your folder filled with resumes, he felt like he won the lottery.

"How about becoming my sugar baby? Don't worry, I won't ask anything. Much."

And as your cute figure pondered what to do, he smirked. You, in the middle of his dim office, in light clothing and an innocent face, was such a contrast in the dark office filled with his smoke from his beloved churchwarden pipe. You stuck out like a sore thumb, and he liked it.

He loved it.

And as your lips dropped the answer he wanted to hear, he shivered and gave you a lopsided smile.

"Good. Now, what do you want, love?"

Rowan sat down on his office chair, he cracked his neck and sighed.

He was bone tired. He just finished a cartel mission that he himself as the boss had to interfere. It was annoying because it was due to his incompetent new recruits.

At least they're sleeping with the "fishies", as what you call the finned sea creatures.

He grabbed something from his pocket and brought it up to his face. It was an intricate jeweled choker with a lot of rose gold arcs, jewels that match your eyes, and a diamond encrusted opal centerpiece.

He imagined you wearing it. Wrapping the choker on your neck himself, seeing your eyes flash in wonder and amazement. He imagined you also getting shy and saying that it was too expensive, and him saying that it was okay, and he wanted to give you this entirely by his own volition. And he got excited.

...In one way or another.

He chuckled and shook his head, swinging on his swivel chair as he dialed your number.

After two rings, you picked up.

"Love, come here. I got a gift for you."

You whined, getting shy again. He chuckled.

"You know what I say, I don't want to hear you say no. So come here now."

So you did.

Once you got there, he smiled and kissed your lips softly, bringing you close to him by your waist and lifting you up easily with his tatted arms.

"Come, I'll give you the present myself."

You got curious naturally.

He settled you in front of the floor length mirror which also saw... Much more intimate and sensual things you both did other than this gift giving thing he's doing.

Rowan slowly grabbed your hair and raised it, making you shiver with goosebumps from the action. He smirked, seeing you so flustered from the simple act of him grabbing your hair.

Well, that, and he also liked to grab your hair a lot while fucking you senselessly. There's that too.

You closed your eyes when he told you too, and you felt the familiar cold sensation of jewelry resting on your neck. But this time, it hugged it, making you open your eyes. It was the beautiful choker he was admiring earlier.

"Do you love it?" Rowan asked, looking at you through the mirror as he rested his chin on your shoulder. You nodded enthusiastically and said yes. He smirked.

This was the first time you didn't say to take the gift back with such a flustered apprehensive look. You're starting to get greedy.

He loved that. A lot.

"Now, how about you kiss me in return, hmm?" You rolled your eyes and gently kissed him. You know this day is not just going to end in a kiss.

But you didn't mind.

And he knows that.

You went home that day with Rowan driving you. He gave you more gifts that you shyly accepted once more, making Rowan shiver in glee. Again, you didn't reject them at all.

You're slowly getting tainted by his greediness.

And hopefully, you will be greedy enough to bring up your relationship to him, and tell him that you wanted more to this.

That you wanted his love.

Oh, he trembles at the thought.

It's not a question of if, but when, after all.

But now, he's just slowly moving forward with your relationship. Slow and steady wins the race, after all. Despite him living such a fast paced life, he knows he's patient enough to wait for you.

But if you backtracked and got out of his tight grasp...

Let's just say that the tracker he planted on your laptop, your phone, and now your precious choker will help him find you if you ran away.

You were the light to his dark, dreary life.

He'll be crazy enough to let you go.

And he's already crazy about you.

That's why he's making you addicted to him also. Showering you with gifts and love. Praising your body, worshipping it, pleasing it until you reach the heavens like the angel you are.

And if you still didn't want him... Let's just say the condoms with holes in them that he himself poked will do the trick.

It was a dirty tactic. But who cares? He's a mafia boss for god's sake. Dirty tactics aren't new to him.

And if you still somehow didn't end up pregnant and got to run away, he'll use his influence to find you.

You got no escape.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

You were his love. His greed.

With a drag of his churchwarden pipe, he drove off to plan your wedding.

You were going to be his after all.

No matter what.

I don't know if I did my baby Rowan justice i'm going crazY FUCK.

Can you guys tell I have favoritism? Because I do LOL

[fastafeijoa]

Post-canon Vivec be upon ye!

Some headcanons: •He had a few potions prepared just in case so he doesn't really age for now and won't get infected with some serious illness.

•Was absolutely mentally wrecked from losing his divinity (as if the return of his old friend that he had murdered wasn't enough) but surprisingly it helped him deal with some other mental problems in the end.

•Travels Tamriel with Sotha Sil (yes I couldn't just put up with his death), who is now a big dwemer-ish quadruped mecha thanks to the Clockwork City and his past experiments. Sil's soul is the same but his body is now very different, although he doesn't seem to mind. Vivec doesn't mind as well, using Sil as transport :D

•Smokes a hookah or a pipe 24/7, the only reason he didn't damage his voice yet is probably Azura not wanting him to screech like a cliff racer cuz Vivi definitely isn't giving up singing under no circumstances.

•Made up an insane backstory for himself and Sotha Sil, pretends to be one of those heroes who once were prisoners, tells everyone he found mecha-Sil in a dwemer ruin and managed to repair him.

•Shows off for a living. Sings, tells stories (mostly made up and about himself), occasionally sells trinkets.

•Avoids sleep until passing out, has bad dreams quite often and blames Sharmat on it (it's just consequences of his tough life). Additionally doesn't really like staying tet-a-tet with his thoughts for long.

•He and Sotha Sil try their best to care for each other, although Vivi doesn't always understand what a big mecha might need and often doesn't let Sil know about how he feels cuz he's too proud and cool to be sad or scared. But they slowly open up more to each other. Overall they get along really well.

•Used to be quite skinny as a god but it's chubby Vivi era now.

[esmedelacroix]

Coffee Shop Love Pt.1

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

summary: He's as stern and cold as the snow falling from the sky blanketing the bustling streets of Nueva York, Miguel O'Hara stumbles upon a hidden gem of a coffee shop just around the corner from Alchemax. Only problem is the annoying-as-shit smiley-ass barista.

contents: slow burn, no use of y/n, fluff, fluff, and more fluff

author's note: Hi lovies, this is the very first part of my first series. I hope you enjoy it! I suggest you listen to "Bittersweet Faith" by Bitter:Sweet on loop while reading this. It does a nice job setting the vibe I'm going for. Enjoy...

word count: 1.1k

Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt. 5, Pt.6, Pt.7, Sequel: Sweet Tooth

Yet another slow night at the Mug & Muffin Coffee House, to no one's surprise, not a single soul drinks coffee at night. You always keep the shop open in case someone wants to swing by and get some baked goods for the night. The rest usually goes to the homeless shelter five blocks away. You sit by the counter chin propped up on your hand, as fatigue droops your head down, and Peter Pan sprinkles fairy dust on your eyelids dragging them down.

The lethargic vibe of the shop with slow jazz playing in the background is suddenly disrupted by the frantic ring of the doorbells. Your head shoots up immediately with the sudden burst of noise. The cool winter air bites at your skin until the door is closed and you are back in the embrace of the blasting heater. Your eyes readjust to the warm lights bringing you back into your shop surrounded by the endless coffee beans, leafy green plants, books, and the myriad of photos framed in rusting gold Victorian frames. The shop is completely empty, snapping yourself back into reality, you direct your focus to the customer who had just walked in.

Your lips parted slightly as a little gasp left your mouth. He was a middle-aged man, with golden skin the color of black coffee with a bit of creamer, his mahogany hair was slicked back in a perfect disaster, with wisps of stray gelled hair strands framing his face perfectly. He had the sharpest and highest cheekbones, a cleanly shaved face, and pearly white teeth. He stood at almost seven feet and struggled with getting the mistletoe above the door out of his hair.

Holy smokes he's hot. Where did this man come from? you asked yourself.

He huffed as he finally freed himself from the clutches of the mistletoe. "What a low doorframe," he mumbled to himself in annoyance.

"Or maybe you're just wicked tall," you answered offering him a bright smile.

He quirked a brow at your playful comment. His face gave no gateway to his thoughts.

"Welcome to Mug & Muffin, what can I make you tonight?" you asked looking up at him to meet his gaze.

"I'll have a hot black coffee please," he replied as he took his wallet out.

Your facial naturally contorted at this odd request. You checked your watch to make sure you weren't going crazy. Yep, 9 pm, why is this psycho getting coffee? You looked back up at his unbothered face.

That perfectly chiseled unbothered face. Fuck you for being so perfect mystery man. You thought to yourself as you started to type the order into the machine.

"Would you like any cream or sugar with that sir?" she inquired as their eyes met briefly.

"Nope just black coffee," he responded in a passive-aggressive tone.

"Okay, and can I get a name with this order?" you chirped, to which he replied, "Miguel O'Hara,"

You hummed as you printed his receipt out and handed it to him after he had paid. He chose to get a seat facing the counter. Lucky me, you thought to yourself. You were quite content that you had some eye candy to feast on tonight.

You quickly made his black coffee while sneaking little peeks at him. A pair of reading glasses adorned the bridge of his nose as he taped away at his laptop. You brought his piping hot black coffee to him, and he thanked you with a little head nod, eyes still glued to his computer screen before he looked up at you.

"Would you like coffee cake or some kind of muffin with your coffee? I have a bunch of extras, it'd be on the house," you suggested.

"No thank you, I don't like sweets," he answered. You exaggeratedly gasped at his sudden revelation.

"You don't like sweets," you demanded as you placed your hands on your hips, trying your hardest to give him an angry face. He found your efforts to look angry cute rather than intimidating. He stifled laughter as he answered, "No, I do not," cooly.

"Are you even real?" you grumbled to yourself as you shook your head and ticked your tongue. You sashayed back behind the counter to pack up the sweets to drop off at the Nueva Hope Homeless Shelter. You watched Miguel sip his coffee from the corner of your eye, surprisingly he didn't burn his tongue. His head shot up and surprise marked his eyes as he looked down at his drink and then back at you, before letting out a satisfied hum of approval. He quickly finished his mug while doing his work.

Truthfully the shop closed 15 minutes ago but Miguel sat there too lost in his emails, documents, and reports to realize that you had shut the light off at the counter and put up every chair but the one he was sitting in. He only came back to earth after you had 'accidentally' dropped your keys on the ground next to him. As cliche as the night already was, you both went to pick them up, both your hands grazing each other. He quickly retreated his hand and looked around realizing that it was beyond time for him to go.

He packed his work bag as you loaded the back of your car with boxes upon boxes of extra baked goods. Closing the trunk of the car, you peeped back into the shop to see Miguel placing money in the tip jar. You chuckled to yourself as he stepped out walking up to you. "That was the best coffee I have ever tasted," he started. You crossed your arms and smiled warmly looking up at him.

"I never got your name though," he trailed off.

"And you'll never get it," you teased

"Everyone in the area calls me Baby though," you explained.

"Yeah I'm not calling you that," Miguel said flatly. You laughed at his response as you locked up.

"You have a good night Miguel!" you called out as you opened your car door.

He gave you a lazy wave and you drove away. Night fell on Nueva York along with the snow. When you finished your delivery, you entered your apartment right above the shop with the tip jar in hand. You had emptied it before but Miguel had put something in it. When you opened it your eyes widened at the several twenty dollar bills. There was a small sticky note folded in the jar. You pick it up and unfold it. The sticky note read, "You are way too energetic at nine o'clock at night, but that was the best coffee I've ever had, will be coming again,"

Next... Pt.2

a/n: should i make a tag list?

[youthereader]

Near Zero part 1.

pairing: cillian murphy as j. robert oppenheimer x fem!reader

summary: 2.8k words. Brought on as part of the Manhattan Project, your old physics professor sees you in a new light.

rating: eventually E (no smut in this part); age gap (10+ years), infidelity, period-typical sexism

a/n: Though based on real life characters, this is J. Robert Oppenheimer as played by Cillian Murphy, a fictional character. This is not intended to be historically accurate, merely written as entertainment. This is my first reader fic ever, so please be kind! Many thanks to @indulgence-be-thy-name for encouraging me and helping iron out wrinkled ideas.

part 2. 3.* 4. 5. 6.* 7.*

When you see him now, he’s so different to the last time, but he’s unmistakably the same man. Now, he wears a broad hat and carries a pipe as he approaches you in the empty room.

“I was wondering when you would show up,” he says, and his smile opens him up completely.

He extends a hand as you rise to meet him. Your things are being sorted thoroughly somewhere out back, but you still hold onto your coat and matching pocketbook. Los Alamos feels like another world, so remote that you hadn’t expected the town to be built here, with roads and people swarming. It is a living, breathing thing you’ve somehow managed to stumble into, it feels.

“Dr. Oppenheimer,” you reply, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know if you were meeting me.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss it,” he replies, though he sounds distracted. “What do you know?”

Hardly any pleasantries, which you expected. In the years of knowing him, Dr. Oppenheimer didn’t get to know you as your professor, and certainly not as anything else outside of the classroom. You had not subscribed to the Cult of Oppie, and not necessarily out of choice.

Though there were women studying theoretical and experimental physics, they were few and far between. Since leaving high school, you had understood that to be taken seriously, you could not act like a man. The few friends you had in high school often teased you about your lack of grace, your ability to be covered in chalk dust at any given time, and your unwavering standoffish nature.

You belong in a think tank, not on a podium proclaiming these theories. You could work in a team, which was why you supposed your name came up for this.

“My country needs me,” you reply.

He smiles again, somewhat smaller. His eyes survey you a beat longer and you swallow, picturing your hair windswept and unruly from the train journey. You might smell of sweat, you hadn’t showered since yesterday and came straight here when you let yourself known to security.

“And your country will be glad to have you. Have a seat.”

He gestures to a desk and chair, waiting for you to sit. The silence stretches and you feel his eyes on you. You’re wearing your best dress and your nails match your lipstick. Though you were given little context about being summoned here, it felt like a job interview from the telegram you received a few days ago.

The last time he saw you, you dressed like someone that didn’t care about making a good impression.

To stamp down any nerves, you pluck your cigarettes case from your pocketbook, fishing one out. A lit match appears as you put a cigarette between your lips, Dr. Oppenheimer’s hand cupping the flame as you lean in.

“Mm, thank you,” you murmur. You exhale, watching as he pulls back, extinguishing it with a short puff of air.

He stares down at the burnt-out match for a couple seconds before he looks back at you again, his brows furrowing.

“This opportunity means reaching beyond what we have before scientifically,” he says, and you take another pull from your cigarette.

You speak around your smoke. “This is to do with Nazi weapons, isn’t it.”

“They split the atom,” he replies, and you nod. “And since you’re here, it means you’ve been cleared to be part of our great endeavour.”

The ‘our’ would be ‘his’ to a lot of people. You know better, having seen the hundreds of people outside.

“I need like-minded people,” he says.

You rub the tip of your thumb and forefinger together absently, frowning. You were the first to admit that you had very little in your life besides your work, and that hadn’t been plentiful since war broke out. Belatedly, it occurs to you that he’s referring to your intelligence.

“What could I contribute? I wasn’t one of your best.”

“You were,” he amends, lowering his voice a little. “You just didn’t participate outside of a school building. You were invited.”

Your eyes swing to meet his and you recall that Oppie reputation, that he was a womanizer underneath the genius. It never meant to be aimed towards you, that charm. Or so you assumed.

“I’m not the type to enjoy crowds,” you reply. “It’s a character flaw of mine.”

You were speaking just like your parents, the ones that had not encouraged you to pursue academia. Being a homemaker, someone with a reliable husband was what they wanted for you.

“Would you have come, if I asked you to, personally?” he asks.

His question throws you, and you stammer out: “N-now, or back then?”

“I asked for you both times,” he says.

For the first time, you blush. Hoping he ignores this, you smoke some more to clear your head. You had almost forgotten about his ability to make you flustered.

“If you asked me to come to a class party personally, I would have said yes,” you admit.

You dare to glance his way again, stomach flipping. So much for being a more polished version of yourself, you’re back to being mousey and strange under those intense eyes.

“That’s a pity,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

-

In the days and weeks to follow, it’s quickly made clear that there’s no leaving Los Alamos. Your residence is between a series of identical houses. The house itself is barely larger than your living quarters you remember from college. A cramped bedroom, a washroom, and a kitchenette. Nowhere to entertain to speak of, but it was still a privilege to have your own space. Your neighbors to your left are a young family of three, and to your right, there are two secretaries related to fellow scientists.

You keep to yourself. You opt for a long letter to your parents explaining very little about the new role here. You’re certain your letters are read by someone along the way for obvious reasons, and explaining it all tires you anyway.

Being a part of something as insular as this takes some adjusting to say the least. There is no escaping without being noticed, as there are guards all over. You overhear town gossip without meaning to; the tiny bubble you circle over and over is both thrilling and stifling. Everything feels pressurized in those first couple days in your new home especially. You sit on your new bed with your hands in your lap, cigarette perpetually lit in times like these.

You leave early the morning you’re expected in the department, unable to delay the inevitable any longer. You’re not the only one with this drive, walking into the main laboratory (a wide room with desks in rows with a blackboard at the back) to find several men already seated, chatting with one another.

You pause, waiting as their attention diverts to you. You recognize a few of them from professional acquaintance, whereas others you’ve only known by reputation. The air shifts, and you feel very out of place.

“Good morning,” you say, voice soft, controlled.

You wish to be invisible, which was why your clothes were far demurer than what you arrived in earlier that week. Admittedly, you did agonize over your hair for perhaps longer than necessary, but you’re glad you haven’t done childish braids or nothing at all. There’s a fine line to tread with these men; being attractive but not ostentatious is usually the aim. From what you’ve learned over the years, not caring about your appearance tends to backfire in terms of being taken seriously.

You don’t agree with any of this, of course. No-one should be judged on their appearance in terms of their intelligence or whether they’re worth listening to. Unfortunately, this is just the game you must play, especially in academia.

Your eyes catch various reactions, some eyes lighting up with recognition, others perplexed. Some might not have seen you in years and don’t remember you at all, which is fair. You never strove to be known; your work is what mattered.

A couple men come forward to shake your hand, pleased to see you. You ignore the way a few pairs of eyes dip to your exposed ankles. You’re scanned and assessed, and whether you’re found wanting is forgotten, for you feel the touch of someone’s hand on your arm and turn your head towards the source.

“Oppie. Back in one piece!” someone calls out.

You stare at the side of Dr. Oppenheimer’s face, your arm burning from where he touched you to slip past. Had he been that close behind you on your way there? You don’t think you could have missed him, though you were preoccupied with your thoughts.

“Yes. Well rested and ready to get back to work,” he replies, striding towards the front.

He doesn’t look your way, doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest, which is fine. It’s not out of the ordinary, and so you sit down on the edge of the group, ankles together under your desk.

“Oppie the Rancher, I don’t see it.”

You can. His hat reminds you of a frontiersman. You can picture him staring out across the desert on his horse, reins in hand.

“A night under the stars can do wonders for your mind, Richard,” Oppenheimer retorts, pointing with his pipe. “You should try it sometime.”

The men banter and you sink into your observer role with ease. At least they’re not acting that differently with a woman present. As more people fill the room, you relax into your chair with your notebook and pen at the ready.

You stand as Dr. Bethe enters, shaking his hand. You will report to him, the head of the theoretical division. Once he takes a seat, the noise dissipates, and Oppenheimer launches into the meeting.

You will have to play catch-up for some time, but it’s not altogether intimidating. You know you can dedicate all your time to this, since you have no family staying here.

-

Days are spent with your head full of equations. You drink cups of drip coffee over and over, and ashtrays are filled and emptied. You are among a team of theorists assigned to a specific task by Bethe, whose own intellect is dedicated to your cause.

The goal is to solve the issue of nitrogen fusing into magnesium, or, to understand the probability of the nitrogen atoms fusing. There isn’t data on this, and so you must calculate for this occurring every time a fission bomb would detonate. Every time, there is a chance that the bomb would cause a chain reaction.

You write out the calculations like everyone else, and each conclusion is the same. There is a chance that the atmosphere itself may ignite.

Everyone else begs for rest, but your mind won’t give you relief. You chain smoke, standing in front of the blackboard with your chalk aloft, as the world darkens around you. You ignore your rumbling stomach, finishing the calculation again with a short sigh. Stepping back, you hear:

“What are you doing here?”

You turn your head to see Oppenheimer standing by the doorway, lips parting at the sight of your face, his hat in his hand. He walks over, glancing at the board behind you.

“It’s the same,” he says, eyes darting left to right.

“I’ve done this ten times,” you murmur. “Theory always leaves near zero chance of catastrophe.”

“Near zero,” he repeats, pulling in a breath. “Yes, I know.”

The weight of this is as much a reality to you as a theory, since this isn’t a classroom back in California, but a laboratory equipped with hundreds of scientific minds all working to build the same weapon. There are marbles representing very real plutonium in the fishbowl six feet away from you.

“I don’t wish to be an alarmist,” you add.

He looks at you again, eyes dipping to your mouth, and you feel a stir beneath your navel. To your surprise, he gives a small smile, but it’s not condescending. You’ve seen him give those out plenty before but have yet to receive one yourself.

“Your fears are valid, though not entirely necessary,” he murmurs. “I just got back from Michigan. I left in a panic about theory. But theory can only take you so far.”

You recall not seeing him for a couple days, though you are prone to missing others when you’re stuck in your own head. Oppenheimer is the exception, always.

He moves to lean against the desk beside you and you follow him, perching yourself at the edge as he looks down at his hat.

“I needed to speak to Compton about the potential chain reaction, of course there’s no possibility of speaking about it on the telephone-”

“So, you took a train all the way to see him?” you ask, and he nods. “But now you seem calm.”

“Not calm,” he says, though his voice is level. “More understanding that there’s a 3-in-a-million chance of total apocalypse.”

Those chances, though conceptually low, are not non-existent. You watch as he glances up at you once more, the air leaving the room. His eyes implore you.

“Near zero.”

“Near zero,” he echoes, his voice a near whisper. He places his hat back on his head.

You push off the desk and pick up the eraser, beginning to wipe the board clean of your calculations. When you finish, you look over at him again, frowning.

“If you’re more understanding, why are you here?”

It’s possible he didn’t go home because he needed to work this all out, like you. He keeps staring back at you, intimidating you as always, causing heat to rise at the back of your neck. In the low light, you hope it’s undetectable.

“The light was on. I saw you through the window.”

You swallow, ducking your head. “Oh.”

You place the eraser back on the ledge, and the space between you seems to shrink though neither of you move. You might be imagining the way he takes you in. He’s the director, and he has valid concerns for his staff.

But you’re no fool. His gaze is too familiar, especially when he nods at you, saying:

“Grab your things. I’ll work you out.”

You obey, following him out, switching off the light along the way. As you walk together down the halls, your footsteps echoing, you smell him beside you. He is tobacco, and body odour. Nothing sharp or unpleasant, but intimate, a semi-sweet musk. You smell the dust on his jacket and think of him sitting astride his horse with that thousand-yard stare.

You exit the building with nods to the guards, bringing you back to the present. You don’t want to leave him there in the street, but his residence is nowhere near yours as far as you know. You think of his wife, not for the first time, and wonder what he tells her about what they’re doing here.

“I’m this way,” you murmur.

Oppenheimer doesn’t respond how you expect, walking beside you for a few minutes instead of leaving you to find your way home alone. The silence between you in companionable, not strained, which feels like a miracle to you. From memory, he has never been someone you had a poor encounter with. It feels like a fluke, but statistically, it makes sense.

Your head still reels with equations, probabilities, and dire consequences. The chances of sleeping are so low, but you still wish him goodnight when you arrive at your residence.

There are people in the street, some glancing your way, seeing him and wave. He lifts a hand but doesn’t greet them further. He waits, watching you try to figure out how to leave him.

“Try to sleep.”

“I don’t know how likely that is,” you admit, turning back to him.

His hands are on his hips, and he smiles knowingly.

“I need you sharp tomorrow.”

You stand so close to one another now that his voice is low, the intimacy of the moment spreading over you.

“You’re no longer Sisyphus, you can rest.”

You think about pointing out the hypocrisy of this. You doubt he finds it easy to sleep at night, under the stars or otherwise.

“I think it’s more like the incy wincy spider,” you say, emboldened by his proximity to you. “Not quite as tragic.”

He chuckles and you smile back at him. He steps back, nodding a little. “Have a good night.”

He waits for you to go to your door, and you open it, glancing back at him for a moment. His smile returns, an understanding shade to his eyes.

“Remember the sun comes out again,” he calls.

He takes off, and you shut the front door behind you, leaning your forehead against it as you exhale.

Thank you for reading! 🖤 Likes, reblogs and replies are always appreciated and genuinely motivate me. 🥺

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: 5 Symbols

for your next poem/story (pt. 2)

BA

For the Ancient Egyptians, the Ba was the symbolic representation of the soul.

It takes the form of a small bird with the head of a human being.

Could fly between its owner and the Gods for as long as the body was intact.

The Ba is twinned with the Ka.

If the Ba represented the soul, then the Ka was the “life-force,” the spark of life that animated the body and whose departure resulted in death.

The Ka was sustained with offerings of food and drink, although it was the “ka” or spirit of the food and drink that was consumed.

In the Afterlife, the Ba and the Ka would be reunited to form one single entity.

BECKONING CAT

A friendly little statuette with a warm welcome found all over Japan and China.

What the cat is doing with his paws carries a secret message.

The cute little Maneki Neko or beckoning cat is ubiquitous in Japan and China where he appears in both homes and offices.

Can be seen in Oriental restaurants all over the world and is for many people the ultimate symbol of prosperity and good luck.

Comes in different colors, each of which signifies a different meaning:

For example, a red cat will protect from illness, and

a black one will ward off evil.

The position of the paws also carries a message:

With the right paw raised the cat will bring money and happiness to home and workplace.

A cat raising its left paw will attract new customers for a business.

And a cat with both paws raised hits the jackpot; both home and business will be happy and profitable, attracting good luck, friends, prosperity, and new clients.

This cat is also the symbol of the small Buddhist temple in Tokyo, where the original incident that shot the cat to fame is said to have happened:

Originally the temple was a lowly place, whose impoverished priest would regularly share what little food he had with his pet cat.

One day some Samurai were passing and noticed this cat, who had one paw raised as though to say hello. The warriors stopped, intrigued by the beckoning cat, and went into the temple just as a horrendous rain storm started.

They believed that paying attention to the cat’s invitation had prevented them being struck by lightning. Thereafter, the fortunes of the priest, the temple, and of course the cat, started to change for the better.

BULLA

This is a special charm or amulet that was given to Roman children when they were born.

A sealed locket, the bulla (“bubble” or “knob”) contained magical spells specific to the child in question, such as symbols of protection, or wishes for wealth.

Was constructed of different materials depending on the wealth of the family:

leather for the poorest families and gold or

other precious metals for the wealthiest.

Roman boys put aside their bullae when they reached puberty, and the object was offered to the Gods. Girls wore theirs until the eve of their wedding.

In either case it was considered that the bulla belonged to the child, as part and parcel of their personality.

It is the origin of the name of the Papal Bull, the special edict that hails from the Vatican, which is fastened with an oval seal of the same shape as the bulla.

CALUMET

For the Plains Indians, the pipe, also called the calumet, is one of the most important and recognizable symbols.

Although it is sometimes referred to as the Peace Pipe, shared ceremonially as part of a unifying ritual, the pipe was just as valid a symbol during times of war.

The tobacco used in the pipe is also a powerful magical substance originally intended for ritual use only.

The smoke rising from the pipe signifies a prayer traveling toward the Gods and symbolizes the sacred breath, source of all life.

The fire that lights the pipe symbolizes the Sun and the male element.

The pipe itself is equivalent to the prayer that is offered up from it.

Considered so important that in Native American tradition it is described as though it were a person, and each of its components has the name of a body part.

In addition, the bowl is described as an altar, and the stem, the passage of the breath extending from the human body.

CANDLE

Symbolizes light in the darkness in a way that a light bulb simply cannot do.

It represents the element of fire as a benevolent force.

Made even more powerful if the candle is made of wax, a substance made by a magical creature, the bee.

The colors of candles are significant in magical practices:

For example, pink is said to attract love.

Black candles are used in dark magic.

Source More: On Symbols

[clockwork-ashes]

Out of the Shadows

Summary: Azriel wants to know what Eris is doing on the night of the Winter Solstice.

Note: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this azris one-shot!!!

Azriel kept his gaze on Eris, watched carefully as the other male leaned comfortably into the armchair by the open window. It was the longest night of the year, and where snow had just been falling gently to coat the streets of Velaris, the Autumn Court remained the same. 

Leaves the colour of expensive jewels danced in the light of the setting sun, the sky could barely be seen between the thick canopy of trees. The steady glow of the fireplace cast long shadows on the carpeted floors and stone walls of the study, perfect for Azriel to remain hidden. 

Eris untied the fabric around his neck with practiced fingers, revealing a triangle of pale skin. He folded the square neatly before placing it onto the smooth wooden surface of his desk. Azriel watched curiously as he rummaged through one of the drawers and carelessly tossed a carved case onto it. 

Eris ran a hand through his hair, tugging once on the strands at the nape of his neck. He must have been frustrated, Azriel realised, noticing for the first time how the other male’s lips were pressed together tightly. 

Eris opened the lid of the case with a loud click, pulling out a pipe made of birch. He licked his lips, placing it between them in a gesture that seemed surprisingly familiar. Azriel could only look on as the High Lord’s heir dropped a pinch of leaves into the chamber, tension leaving his broad shoulders with every action. 

The smallest flame came to life on Eris’s fingers, just enough so as to light the dry leaves. Holding onto the pipe lazily with a beringed hand, he sucked in gently, keeping the smoke in his mouth for a moment before he spoke. 

“Will you be staying in the shadows all night?” Eris offered into the small space, tilting his head back to rest on the chair as his eyes fluttered shut. 

Azriel paused, tracking the smooth column of the prince’s throat. He was surprised and he tried to hide deeper into the darkness, pressing himself more fully against the wall. 

Eris sighed, keeping the pipe in his mouth as he stood up and turned to grab two glasses from their place on a bar. He placed them onto his desk, stopping only to smoke briefly before he picked up a bottle of whiskey, pouring two fingers into each glass. Eris sat on his desk, long legs stretched out in front of him, booted feet crossed at the angle. 

Azriel was unable to tear away his gaze as Eris set down the pipe, taking a sip from his glass. “Care for a drink, shadowsinger?” 

Azriel could have groaned at how easily Eris had sensed his presence. He stepped out of the darkness, shaking his head, loose curls falling into his line of sight. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to want company.” 

Eris shrugged elegantly, his smile was sharp as the blade of any knife. “I suppose it depends on my mood.” He offered the glass to Azriel, who moved closer in order to take it with a gloved hand. 

Azriel tilted his head, glancing around the rest of the study. It was cozy in a way he had not been expecting. “You turned down an invitation to the Hewn City to spend your night like this?” 

“Kier annoys me,” Eris said simply, draining the rest of his glass and dragging the sleeve of his white shirt across his face. “What brings you here?” There was slight amusement in his tone, as though he had correctly guessed that Rhysand and Feyre were curious as to why he would have refused to join them for Starfall. 

Azriel ignored the question to ask one of his own, wings flaring. “No solstice celebrations tonight?” 

Eris snorted, tilting his chin in the window’s direction. “Does this look like the Winter Court?” 

Azriel did not know what to say, choosing instead to remain silent and drink from his glass. Eris raised a brow, expecting a response. “I thought all of Prythian did something for the solstice.” 

Eris clicked his tongue, looking at Azriel through his auburn lashes. “Some of us care very little for the longest night of the year and prefer the Autumn Equinox.” He took the pipe back into his hands, slowly placing it between his lips. In a gesture perhaps meant to rattle Azriel, he hollowed out his cheeks as he gently sucked the smoke into his mouth. 

Azriel felt a blush rise to his cheeks, and he was grateful for the lack of light in the room. His wings moved, the only outward sign of any attraction he might have felt for the male sitting in front of him. “Is this how you spend all your nights?” Azriel heard the raspiness in his own voice, a whisper of desire. 

Eris blew a circle of smoke at Azriel, the golden hoops going up the arch of his pointed ear flashing as he tilted his head like a wolf. “Tonight I think perhaps my plans have changed,” he leaned off of the desk, setting the pipe aside, only to walk closer to where Azriel was standing. 

They were about the same height, and Azriel saw as flames danced in the prince’s amber eyes. Eris breathed in deeply, a wicked smile on his full lips, and Azriel knew that the scent of his own arousal lingered in the small space. “What would you say, shadowsinger, have my plans changed?” 

Azriel wanted to grab the other male by the throat, wanted to leave a mark. He swallowed, heavy gaze never leaving Eris. “I think they have,” he said, voice low, suggestive. 

Before Azriel could reconsider the reckless decision he had made, Eris had already winnowed them both from the study. 

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

When the bones are good

My third fic for @painlandweek is partially a belated fill for the domestic AU prompt, with a hint of a case fic. You can find it here on AO3 or read it below!

Prompt: Domestic AU/Casefic

Words: Approx. 3K

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Summary: Agents Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland of the Ministry of Supernatural Investigations have been sent to a quaint suburb to investigate a potential witch snatching little girls. It would be a straightforward undercover assignment, if only Edwin weren’t battling his entirely unprofessional feelings for his partner and friend.

***

In his nearly a decade working for the Ministry of Supernatural Investigations, Agent Edwin Payne has been led to all manner of unsavory places by cases: vampire dens, run-down old castles overrun with poltergeists, decadent Fae courts where human captives were treated as circus animals, slaughterhouses where it wasn’t just pigs and cows hanging from the hooks. Somehow, none of those gruesome cases left him feeling half as off-kilter as this one.

Director Nurse had told him that it would practically be a vacation. After all, Port Townsend, the quaint seaside town where little girls have been going missing for decades, is charming, as is the house where he’s staying with his partner. In the month he’s been undercover here, no one has tried to kill him once. It probably is the closest thing to a vacation Edwin has taken in years.

But he’s never had a case where he had to pretend to be married to Charles Rowland before and he’s finding that more terrifying than ravenous vampires or poltergeists.

“Love, I’m home!” Charles’s voice echoes from downstairs.

“Up here!” Edwin doesn’t know why Charles insists on keeping up the act when it’s just the two of them alone in the house. He says he’s just keeping in character, making sure their facade doesn’t slip when they’re in public. Edwin is wondering if Director Nurse has finally grown tired of him and if this is part of some kind of prolonged psychological torture.

He doesn’t turn around as he hears Charles’s footsteps striding into the office, watching the house across the street through the lens of a camera. Esther Finch—possible serial killer, probable witch, and definite piece of work—stands on her front porch, smoking her pipe and surveying the street with the lazy interest of a housecat deciding if it’s worth leaving its patch of sun to stalk an unsuspecting songbird. The Aspens’ little girl, Becky, is playing in her front yard, and Edwin doesn’t think he’s imagining how often Esther’s attention strays to her.

“Anything of interest happen today, mate?” Charles props his hips on the edge of the desk, leaning into Edwin’s space.

Edwin can’t help but look up at him. His partner looks every bit the part of Charles Raymond, a blissfully happy newlywed in his mid-to-late twenties with the kind of ordinary office job that does not involve investigating supernatural crimes. His tie is undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and he’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his button-up shirt, giving him a rakish look that is far more affecting than it should be. He looks perfectly at ease here, as if he was born for this life.

Remembering that Charles asked him a question, Edwin clears his throat. “She has unfortunately not erected a gingerbread house in her front yard or taken to the skies on her broomstick. We need to get into that house, Charles. That’s the only way we’re going to prove she’s behind the disappearances.”

The Finches’ front door opens and Monty, Esther’s son, sticks his head outside. The two exchange words before Esther waves Monty away like one would an errant fly. With an eye roll, he vanishes back into the house.

“Monty asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime,” Edwin adds. “Perhaps I can get him to invite me into his house afterwards.”

“He did what?” Far from being relieved at a potential breakthrough,  Charles looks outraged.

“Coffee, Charles,” Edwin says. “It is a brown beverage one can consume if they can ignore the taste. If I remember correctly, you’re overly fond of it.”

His partner isn’t mollified. “Doesn’t he know you’re married?”

“We aren’t actually married.”

“But he doesn’t know that, does he? Cheeky little prat.” Charles shakes his head. “No, you shouldn’t go anywhere alone with him. For all you know, he’s in on whatever Esther’s doing to those girls.”

“We don’t know if Monty knows of Esther’s activities.” Edwin rather likes Monty, who is sweet, even if his interest in astrology is a bit fanciful for his tastes. He has trouble picturing him as an accessory to multiple murders. Besides, he can’t be older than his early twenties, so the disappearances started decades before he was born.

“Can’t imagine he hasn’t noticed her ritually murdering little girls in the living room.”

“We don’t know for certain if she’s ritually murdering little girls at all. And if she is, it might not be in her house.” Edwin sighs, exasperated. “Besides, I’m not a girl under the age of twelve. I’m far from Esther’s usual victim, so I should be quite safe.”

“I’d rather not take any chances, yeah?”

Edwin rolls his eyes at the ceiling. Most of the time, he finds Charles’s protective nature charming. Occasionally, it’s infuriating. “Then you’ll need to find another way into Esther’s house, because I am at a loss.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Charles reaches down to squeeze his shoulders. “We always do, don’t we?”

Edwin resists the urge to lean into the touch. He and Charles have always made a good team, ever since the first case they were assigned together, only a few years before. Before Charles, Edwin consistently had trouble keeping a partner. He’d been through so many that Director Nurse was threatening to saddle him with a lifetime of desk duty. He didn’t expect the cheery, doe-eyed rookie agent to be any different, but Charles instantly proved him wrong.

The problem was that Edwin was always an odd duck, even before he was dragged into another dimension for nearly a century of torture and escaped into a strange new world without having aged a day. He has never been particularly good with people, has never been able to build the effortless rapport with strangers and colleagues alike that people like Charles are so adept with. But strangely enough, Charles has always seemed to find his prickly nature and sharp tongue charming rather than irritating. He’s become not just Edwin’s partner at the MSI, but the best friend he’s ever had.

Now, if only Edwin wouldn’t threaten it all with his inconvenient, childish feelings.

His eyes travel down to the thin gold band on his left ring finger. Of course, Charles made a big production of slipping it onto Edwin’s finger in the middle of the MSI offices while down on one knee, drawing claps and cheers from the watching agents, especially Crystal and Niko. Afterwards, Director Nurse gave them a sharp talking to about taking the case seriously, but even that hadn’t been able to dull the grin on Charles’s face.

“We should get a dog,” Charles says.

Edwin puts down the camera. “Why on earth would we do that?”

“Would give us an excuse to walk around the neighborhood, right? And we could, like, train it to run into Esther’s yard so we could chase it and poke around a bit.”

“Yes,” Edwin says slowly. “That all sounds much easier than me going out to coffee with Monty. We should certainly hinge the success of the mission on whether Fido listens to us and goes into Esther’s yard, or is distracted by a squirrel.”

“Come on, mate.” Charles grins that devastating grin of his, the smile that makes witnesses want to talk and puts frightened victims at ease. “Getting a dog is the kind of thing newlyweds do, isn’t it? We have to sell it.”

“We’re living together, wearing wedding rings, and introducing ourselves as husbands. I believe we’re selling it, as you say.” Not that Edwin knows what it’s like to sell a marriage. Two men couldn’t even get married before his kidnapping; he’d always assumed either a loveless marriage or a life of loneliness was his future, if he even survived the Great War.

However, Charles is constantly preoccupied with successfully convincing their neighbors that they’re a married couple. From Edwin’s observations, he doesn’t think any of their married neighbors are half as openly affectionate with each other as Charles is with him. But perhaps Charles knows what Edwin does—that no one will truly believe that beautiful, kind, charismatic Charles belongs with prickly, bookish, awkward Edwin. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned with whether their neighbors buy them as Charles and Edwin Raymond, a blissfully married couple.

Charles’s smile widens, growing truly heart-stopping. He should need a permit for it, Edwin thinks grimly. Surely it counts as a compulsion of some kind.

Edwin sighs. “We can discuss the dog after I see if I can ingratiate myself with Monty. If that fails, Fido can be Plan B.”

“Cheers, mate.” Charles squeezes his shoulder, his thumb brushing Edwin’s collarbone in a way that makes his insides feel fluttery. “How do you feel about curry for dinner?”

***

As usual, Charles manages to dirty every pan in the kitchen while preparing dinner, but Edwin can’t really complain, because his curry is exceptional. Edwin cleans the kitchen while Charles plays the music from the 1980s he’s so fond of. It’s the kind of warm, domestic scene Edwin never had as a child. When he was brought down from the nursery to join his parents for dinner, he was expected to sit silently while his parents conversed. There was no easy conversation, no laughter, no squabbling over the last piece of naan.

Edwin doesn’t know for sure, but he doubts this was the kind of dinner Charles had growing up either. Charles doesn’t like to talk about his life before coming to the MSI, beyond vague allusions to his father not having been a particularly warm, loving presence in his life. But Edwin has seen the scars on his back, the ones that look like they were left there by a belt. He can fill in the rest of the details. Perhaps that’s why Charles has thrown himself into this lie with such gusto, to give himself the illusion of the quiet, domestic life he never had.

Over the running water, he can hear Charles singing along to the music, loud and off-key. It fills Edwin’s chest with something warm and unbearably tender. It would be so easy to let himself sink into the fantasy that this is their real home and that it’s his real husband butchering Bohemian Rhapsody in the other room. But if Edwin gets too comfortable, he could lose the only person who has ever truly loved him. He can’t risk that.

A hand touches his hip and he startles, sloshing soapy water all over the counter. “Charles!”

“Sorry, love.” Charles loops his arm around Edwin’s waist, nuzzling the back of his neck in a way that makes Edwin’s knees feel a bit wobbly. “We’ve got an audience.”

While he puts a pan in the dish drainer, Edwin flicks his gaze out the big window in the breakfast nook. Across the street, Esther Finch’s house is lit up bright, like she’s turned on every single light. He can see the shape of her standing in her bay window, her blond hair glowing gold. She’s facing the street and while Edwin can’t make out her features from here, he can’t shake the disconcerting feeling that she’s staring right at them.

A shudder travels up his spine and Charles’s grip tightens on his waist. “I see.”

“Dance with me,” Charles says in his ear as the song changes to something low and crooning.

“I’m cleaning up.”

“The dishes can wait. Dance with me, love. Got to sell it, don’t we?”

Of course they do. Reluctantly, Edwin turns off the water, takes off his rubber gloves, and turns to face Charles. His partner is smiling softly at him, looking warm and far too touchable in the soft lights of the kitchen. It makes Edwin shiver for a whole new reason. He steps into Charles’s arms, putting his hands on his shoulders, and sways with him.

Edwin didn’t particularly care for dancing before he was taken, but this is nothing like the dancing he learned as a child. Instead of rigid steps and rules, it’s just bodies moving together, his cheek pressed to Charles’s and Charles’s arms around him, holding him close like he’s something precious. Edwin closes his eyes and gives into the fantasy for one, blissful moment. 

This is real. His name is Edwin Raymond, Charles is his husband, and they met three years ago on the tube when Charles asked him what he was reading, then fumbled his way through pretending he’d read it too, making such an ass of himself that Edwin was charmed despite his better judgment. Charles knew right away it was love, while Edwin didn’t realize the depth of his feelings for months. They eloped in the spring, a small ceremony with just them and their officiant.

“Edwin,” Charles whispers and Edwin opens his eyes, feeling almost drunk on the dream of this being real. “She’s still watching.”

Right, because they’re doing this for a reason. Edwin blinks and nods. Slowly, Charles turns them, so that his body is between Edwin’s and the window. It’s such a small, instinctual moment of protectiveness that it makes Edwin’s throat feel a little tight. Charles never seems to think twice about putting himself between Edwin and potential danger. He has no doubt that if he’d had Charles Rowland in his life in 1916, he’d never have been dragged off by an abomination that fed on his pain and terror for decades.

“Still watching?” Charles asks in a low voice and Edwin flicks a glance over his shoulder to see Esther still standing at the window.

He nods into Charles’s shoulder. “Do you think she suspects something?”

“Don’t know how she could. She might just be being creepy. Seems to do that a lot, doesn’t she?” Charles presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of Edwin’s mouth. “I have a plan.”

“And what’s—” But Edwin is cut off when Charles kisses him, full on the mouth. They’ve kissed a handful of times during this charade, dry, chaste brushes of lips when Edwin says goodbye to Charles in the morning. There’s nothing chaste about this kiss; it’s all lips, tongue, and hunger. Edwin can count on one hand the number of times he’s been kissed before and none of those times have been like this, like the other person would sooner stop breathing than stop kissing him. 

There’s a soft, moaning noise and Edwin realizes belatedly that he’s the one making it. He should pull away, but instead his hands are fisting in the front of Charles’s shirt, pulling him closer, and Charles’s hands are running over his shoulders, down his chest and arms, like he wants to memorize every inch of Edwin. There are quite a few inches of Edwin that desperately want Charles’s hands on them; the front of Edwin’s trousers is becoming painfully tight.

“Edwin,” Charles whispers against his mouth and somehow, it’s the sound of his name that jerks Edwin back to reality.

This is not real. This is an undercover assignment, and Edwin is seconds away from climbing his partner—his friend—like a tree.

His eyes snap open and he finds the window across the street empty, Esther Finch nowhere to be found.

Edwin pulls back, breathing heavily. “She’s gone.”

Charles blinks at him, mouth puffy and red and eyes hazy with something that Edwin wishes was want. “What?”

“Esther Finch.” With every ounce of self-control Edwin has, he steps back, out of Charles’s embrace. “She’s no longer watching. Excellent plan, Charles.”

Charles blinks several times, then his usual irrepressible grin spreads across his face. “Right, aces. Think we really sold it.”

“I would say.” Edwin smooths down the front of his shirt. “That was very… convincing.”

Charles nods. “Course it was. We’re professionals, aren’t we?”

“Entirely professional.” Edwin clears his throat. “Which is really why I should finish cleaning this kitchen. I cannot leave it like this overnight.”

“You know Nursie’s not going to show up and check to make sure we’re making our beds and keeping our desks tidy?”

With an exasperated huff, Edwin turns back to the sink, hoping Charles hasn’t noticed the continuing tightness of his pants. He’s not a horny teenager making out with Thomas King in the file room; he needs to get a hold of himself.

“Right,” Charles says. “I’m going to go… yeah.”

Edwin hears his footsteps retreat, a shade too quickly to be casual. He stands at the sink, heart still pounding and face still flushed. He’s imagined kissing Charles a thousand times and that was everything he ever hoped for and more. And it was all so they could convince their possibly homicidal neighbor that they're nothing but a canoodling couple in love.

Charles is an excellent agent, one of MSI’s best. He gives every case his all. Of course this case wouldn’t be any different. If Edwin is getting tangled up in his own feelings, that’s entirely his fault, not Charles’s.

They’ll wrap up this case. If Esther Finch is the one who has been kidnapping and most likely killing little girls, they’ll bring her to justice. If they’re wrong and there’s another culprit, they’ll find them. And then, they’ll leave this house to go back to their real lives in London and this will just be a funny story that they tell in the future. The time Charles and Edwin pretended to be a married couple for a month and Edwin was certainly able to not lose his head about it.

Because Charles is right, they’re professionals. Edwin can be professional, even if it bloody kills him.

***

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving comments and/or kudos on AO3! I'm considering turning this into an expanded fic where these boys finally get their shit together if there's enough interest.

[welcomingdisaster]

(ao3) Let it not be said that the Lord of Himring is cruel, or unjust. Odd in his manner? Certainly. Temperamental and biting as the wind? Undeniably, and quite as cold. Trying, at times, and demanding in both his bearing and his expectations? Assuredly so; none at Himring castle would speak otherwise. Still is there is no cruelty in him towards his servants, and in that way he is unlike Curufin the Crafty, unlike those wild, fey twins that have gone eastwards, unlike most of all Celegorm, whose courts at once are merry and bitter, whose favored is a fickle, many-toothed thing. They say Celegorm is dangerous as a hound that has been beat for growling, for lunging; he gives no warning before he bites. 

In that case—though let this not be spoken by the maidservants of Himring, who are not only punctual but endlessly proper and respectful in their manner, naturally—the Long of Himring might be a mastiff-bitch that whines and grunts and growls pacing the perimeter of the house, that stops now and then to sneak restless sleep by the fire, snorting and snoring, that scratches at the door first to be let outside and then immediately back in. 

During the day, given one purpose or another, he does well enough. Certainly he pokes into the work of his men quite a bit more than is welcome; wishes to know for what purpose they have purchased this or that, what the final destination is for one package or another, who among them possesses what skill. But for the most part he is tolerable, and at times even kind. It is not unusual that he should lend his hand to something or other in the stables, or take over the management of some household task; he hates to sit idle, and will make work for himself when there is none to come by naturally. 

The trouble comes mostly when retires to his chambers. He sleeps, at most, some two or three hours nightly, and in those two or three hours none in the castle know rest. The sound of bell by his bed they have all come to know well, and curse, for it rings unceasing and gives them no rest. 

Water, he asks for. Brandy. Smoke. To be told their thoughts of the weather tomorrow. To come and see that the moths have eaten his blanket. Another pipe. More brandy. To speculate upon whether his dream—here one begins to wonder how he had time to dream at all—is a only a dream or some vision of foresight, stoke his fire or to put it out, to help him search again and see if a little mouse has not made its way into his bed (a mouse has not, even once, made its way into his bed. Mice are largely disinterested in the beds of elven-lords, preferring instead to nest near grain stores and kitchens. Himring’s housekeeper is happy to point this out for the eighty-ninth time, if she is asked). 

When he falls asleep it is around dawn, for short snatches at a time, and then the bell begins to ring again. By that time there is often no reason—dreams, he will say, and refuse to elaborate, and bother the servants with idle conversation for some time before letting them free again. 

That state of affairs can, now and again, be remedied, though rarely to the satisfaction of all involved. Once one of the maidservants isbeen quite tardy in cleaning the chambers, and worse yet, spills her bucket, sending dirty water all over the floor, just as the lord of the castle enters. She is horrified—she offers to make him a different bed, to hurry in her task as much as she might. He, however, is not upset; he tells her to keep at her work, and not mind him, goes to bed with wet socks, and sleeps quite soundly, never once ringing the damned bell, while she works. Likewise he is better if for some reason his doors and windows are left open, and someone might find some occasion or other to make noise outside. 

The housekeeper of Himring is quite as stubborn as her lord, and, it is said, more exacting, and in her own ways more clever. She has a niece—an orphaned child, some two decades short of her coming-of-age, a sullen, withdrawn girl who is equally passionate about embroidery and awful at it. Keeping in the tradition of Queen Míriel, she refuses to wear a thimble, but has no dexterity for it. The housekeeper brings her up to the tallest tower of Himring, where the Lord makes his chambers, and begs his forgiveness, asking if her dear fosterling might sit in his windowsills to sew by the moonlight. There is no other good light in this castle, she says, knowing her words flimsy, and it is too cold to sit outside. She will be quiet as a mouse, the Housekeeper promises. 

Certainly he must see through her—whatever else might said about the lord of Himring, he is not stupid—but he acquiesces, gesturing for them to enter. The housekeeper’s niece clambers up into his windowsill and sits, embroidery balanced on her knees. Now and then she drives the needle into her fingers, and hisses out a curse. Does not have the sense to leave it there; each time she curses she apologizes, and is unable to decide if she means for those words to be whispered or spoken, so they fall awkward into the quiet of the room. 

The lord of Himring lies still, waking now and then from uneasy sleep, and does not ring the bell.